Library books have a distinct, musty smell. It’s a scent I’ve come to adore.
I’ve always been an active member of one library or another. As a kid, I proudly carried my library card (and a frequent frozen-yogurt-buyer punchcard) every day to school in my pink wallet. As a teenager, I’d circle dates on a calendar to remind me when to return the mysteries sloppily piled on my bedside table. As a college student, I’d find time to borrow some “for-fun fiction” from the university library, along with the high-brow literature required of an English major.
But after college, something happened. Perhaps I was burned out on reading. Perhaps I’d felt that I’d heard every story there was to tell. Perhaps I simply had less time.
Once I entered the professional workforce, I found myself less enamored with books. I favored slim magazines on plane rides. I’d entertain myself before bed with “whodunit” crime television. And my bedside table held little but an alarm clock. Slowly but surely, books slipped away from me.
Then I became a mom.
Like most parents of toddlers, I’ve been determined to instill a love of reading in my son. We read multiple books a day, delighting at the antics of Curious George and giggling at the silliness of Amelia Bedelia. But it didn’t take long to tire of the titles on his nursery bookshelf. With his imagination outdoing my budget, it was time to turn back to the library.
I have a familiarity with libraries that comforts me. As I brought my son into the Norwich Public Library, I was immediately transported back to my hometown library in New Jersey. The quiet murmur of whispers. The shelf maze of neatly filed titles. The reading chairs propped next to windows. Within seconds, I felt at home among the books once again.
The children’s section of the library was delightful. It was watched over by the perfect smiley librarian who (unbelievably) knew every child’s name. But it would have been impossible to leave with only children’s books. After allowing my son to play in the children’s area, I held his hand and led him to the memoir and biography section. My fingers skipped along in a single line, feeling each book while contemplating its readability. At the end of our visit, we checked out nine books: six books for him, three for me. We both went home with a smile, anticipating our new treasures just waiting to be opened.
Today, I’m a regular visitor to our public library. In an age when nearly everything has a cost, I’m grateful that a library card is still free. My son attends Word Play Storytime with other toddlers once a week. I’ve devoured dozens of library memoirs, mysteries and thrillers. And I’m currently contemplating borrowing their outdoor slack-line toy for summer backyard kid parties. (Who knew that libraries had exercise and outdoor equipment to loan?) In many ways, the library has become an integral and celebrated member of our family.
Of course, the Upper Valley is filled with many other affordable options for book lovers. At my local town dump, an entire structure is dedicated to finding new homes for gently used books. The brightly painted, birdhouse-esque “Little Free Libraries” populate many Upper Valley towns, including Enfield, Grantham, Hanover, South Royalton and Woodstock. Plus, there always seems to be a good book sale around the corner. April’s Five Colleges Book Sale is a biggie. And this year, I was incredibly impressed with the volume, selection and quality of the Marion Cross School children’s book sale.
Of course, there will always be people who prefer a brand-new edition. My husband is one of these people. He likes to crack open the spine, smell the new paper, and scribble whatever he’d like in the margins. While I’m happy thumbing through books on a church basement card table, he’d prefer lingering around the local bookstore, sipping a cup of coffee while considering the books on the “New Best-Seller” list. It’s his prerogative. He’s never brought home a book he didn’t read from cover to cover.
Regardless of where we find them, I’m happy books have found their way back into my life. I don’t mind a mess of books on the floor of my son’s nursery or the pile of new nonfiction under my husband’s side of the bed. A book-filled house is a happy house. And while I can’t promise that books have completely taken the place of my whodunit television, I can tell you that my bedside table is once again cluttered. And it’s a whole lot better that way.
Becky Munsterer Sabky lives in Norwich.