LIBRARY MEMORIES

I went to the library the other day. (No, this isn't an unusual occurrence... but still worth mentioning for the purpose of this post.)

From a very young age I've loved the library -- my mother has raised me quite well in this. She'd take my sister and I almost weekly. The three of us would pile into our car, bags filled with stories  ready to return so we could collect a new stack of adventures.

Once inside, I'd always rush straight to the children's section. Sometimes they'd host fun little shows where a magician or juggler would arrive, but mostly it was silent, and I'd be surrounded by thousands of colorful books.

I was a cover judger. (and still might be... oops.) But it makes sense for my younger self -- if I couldn't page through the book and read snippets of the story... instead it was the art and the pictures and the pretty font that made me check it out. Little me would rush through the rows and wooden compartments, shoving new reads into my kid-sized tote.

Or I'd return to old favorites: The Berestein Bears, any sort of fairytale, Franklin, Curious George... and when I entered the world of chapter books, series like Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, and the Boxcar Children.

The three of us would line up in front of the desk, giggling at how our bags overflowed and the looks of shock others gave us. We stacked the books into piles, watching as the librarian started the long process of checking them out. My sister and I stood on our tiptoes, eyes just above the counter, waiting to see if we went over the book limit.

Ahh, the dreaded book limit. The crusher of a bookworm's soul. The kind of monster that hid in my closet and under my bed as a child. (am I exaggerating slightly? maybe. BUT STILL.)

Our library declared a limit of one hundred books, which may sound like a lot, but not to this family -- to our family. We used to have daily reading sessions where we would spread 15+ picture books across our carpet. My sister and I took turns running to pick out a book before jumping back on the couch to snuggle on either side of our mother. That couch was where my love and passion for stories began, and never went away.

Once the librarian finished scanning the books -- I watched her do this so many times that my six-year-old self could've probably done it myself -- we'd load up our bags again. My mom with her giant, striped red one, and mine with my identical one... just a kid-sized version. Even my younger sister carried her own bag, matching ours but with blue stripes instead of red.

my mother's old library tote. OH THE MEMORIES <3

I'm surprised the seams never broke with how those bags bulged. I remember how hard it was for hobbit-sized Katie to lug her tiny, yet very heavy tote to the librarian's desk. Often Mom would have to come to the rescue. :)

These are my old, nostalgic, library memories. I've moved on from the picture books, and even from the regular library we used to go to. I've outgrown the fear of the book limit. Now the libraries are all automated self-checkouts -- which is bitter-sweet because there's no opportunity to talk to another bookish soul. *sniff*

I do miss it -- I miss the memories of being young, but then again, there are things that my younger self couldn't possibly understand. I didn't understand the excitement of browsing the YA shelves! And Little Katie didn't yet hold the dream of having her own book on those rows of stories. <3

I'll treasure those moments, and it's so cool to see how far back my love for stories has spread.

<3
katie grace

what about you? any library/bookish memories from when you were younger? I'd love to hear them!

(and happy birthday to my very lovely sister who turns fifteen today! <3)