What is it about our little town library that excites me? It perches on a side street, a throwback to simpler times. Once I enter its doors, piglike tendencies take over. It’s as though I’m in one of my favorite restaurants with a 3-dessert sampler in front of me, my spoon poised in anticipation. All these books! I’m ravenous for words, starving for stories, my voyeuristic urges eager to peer into other peoples’ lives, real or imaginary.
The woman at the front desk greets me with a smile. I’m well known for my frequent forays into the stacks. And it’s all there waiting for me, free for the gathering. Truth in fiction, treasures in fantasy. Human folly revealed, stripped bare of pretensions. Information in bold, pre-electronic print, mine to hold in my hands. Real pages waiting to be turned. An abundance of endless gifts.
I don’t even mind the woman at the reference desk, whose cheery sign reads “Interrupt me”. Her body language makes me wonder. But I smile at this hint of irony and interrupt her anyway, only to have my suspicions confirmed as she looks up irritably. But I press on. Yes! This is a battle I can win. She warms to my inquiries about G.K. Chesterton as she picks up on my excitement. She can’t resist; her librarian soul has been awakened! She emerges from behind her desk and trots eagerly off in the direction of the book I am seeking. “Come here – I’ll show you just where to find it!”
I love her for the orderly quiet she imposes on this place. I love her for her hissings of “Ssh!” when those two teenagers at that table over there start to giggle. I love the way she reminds me, “You realize that the fine for late DVD’s is a dollar a day”. She revels in her power over me, but who cares?
I wander through the quietness, savoring the dusty smell of old books. How long has it been since anyone checked some of them out? Henry F. MacGregor, town father and library patron, looks down in august splendor from his portrait hanging over the 93-year old stone fireplace. The fire spreads its blanket of warmth over me as I nestle into a chair with a real, genuine book. The stained -glass window shuts out New Hampshire’s pelting winter rain. Pages turn. My imagination soars, caught up in Chesterton’s metaphors. The feast is on!
