Last night I had the pleasure of doing a book talk at Littleton’s Bemis Public Library…and was pleasantly surprised by a room full of early, engaged, and extremely bookish women who spanned 15 and 85 or so.  They listened intently, asked killer questions, and were altogether lovely to spend an evening speaking with.

As usual, I learned much more from them than they did from me.

One of the women told me that she’s a member of Friends of the Library and that she derives great pleasure knowing that her contributions of time and money keep the library open. She remarked that even in an age of Kindles and closing book stores, it means a lot to her to have a library where she can meet with likeminded people, check out books, and contribute to her community.

Her comments really made me remember what I love about libraries.  Libraries are our gathering places, our public spaces, our portals to something that is bigger than us but part of us. Libraries are run by gracious, hardworking, often underpaid staff members who must remain invariably patient and tolerant of their patrons, their budget restrictions, and the challenges that come with their ever-changing profession.  They’re patronized by people of all ages, ethnicities, gender identifications, religions, and political persuasions.  They belong to us, and they’re here because of us…reluctant readers and friends of the library alike.

Maybe it’s because it’s National Library Week, but I find myself getting verklempt just thinking about it.  Truly, madly, deeply — I love libraries.

Mrs. Walton:  When I was very small, my mom and I would walk to the Oak Park public library in San Diego to get my weekly dose of books.  Mrs. Gloria Walton (mother of the epic basketball star Bill Walton) was really tall and really friendly and really, really helpful.  She’s the woman who led me to the shelves with Laura Ingalls Wilder and Beverly Cleary books on them, and she’s one of the people I credit with the love of reading that has sustained and saved me my whole life long.

The Summer Suck:  The library in the suburban San Diego community where I spent my teenage years, frankly, sucked.  It was one room with a scanty selection of books, but I still visited it religiously, walking a mile or so to get there, loading up my backpack with as many books as it would hold, taking time to peek into the trashy novels I knew I wasn’t supposed to be reading, and walking home, often reading the entire time.  It was a humble place, but I still remember it fondly because it felt like home.

The Coven:  When I was in college, I worked at the Sophia Smith Collection, an incredible archive housed in the former Smith College Gymnasium building where the first women’s basketball game ever was played, home of the collections of the papers of people like Margaret Sanger and Agnes deMille.  As I toiled over the painstaking work of preserving and cataloging the papers of Judith Raskin and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey, I was consistently amazed by the collegiality, good humor, and grace of what my boss there called “the archival coven,” women who had devoted their entire lives to the preservation of women’s history and who patiently helped legions of students and researchers make their way through their impressive collection.  I am oh so jealous and oh so encouraged that Smith now has an entire archival concentration to offer students, and I can honestly say that the time spent in that library is among the happiest I can recall.

What about you?  What are your favorite library memories?