At my place books pile up of their own accord, stack themselves on counters, tables and shelves. How can I not read when they are so close to hand. I have been a library enthusiast my entire life.
When I was very young, our nearest public library closed for the summer but we were allowed to sign out as many books as we liked for the duration. Mom dragged home cartons, and boxes, and bags of books for us but there were never enough.
I was charmed by that little library; it was actually a small house, with bookshelves lining the tiny kitchen, living room and bedroom. The two librarians were retired ladies, one plump and one quite thin.
While we were politely perusing the book stacks, they made themselves tea and gossiped.
During elementary school, I spent many lunch breaks lost in the library. I quickly discovered I enjoyed much more than fiction. Our school's library held many fascinating biographies, histories and sports stories. I read everything.
As I grew older I added historical fiction, mysteries (preferably British), pastoral tales: the list grew.
One good thing about moving to a new town was new literary experiences.
Everywhere that I have lived I immediately joined the public library. In Peace River I finally found it in the dingy basement of the town office, a cramped space often damp and always unattractive.
Soon the entire stock and staff were shuffled across town, into the former health unit building: much roomier, very bright, full of plants and music and children's chatter.
I was fortunate to be employed there for six years. I learned all the likes and dislikes of our regulars patrons and soon knew what to recommend and to whom.
When I finally returned to Olds, unable to find employment immediately, I volunteered at the library. I worked there for over a year as a clerk, learning many new faces and becoming reacquainted with old friends. I still haunt the stacks, inhaling that special aroma.
Books have a hold on me, calling my name and rustling their pages. But my time is important. I won't readjust anything. If I'm not enticed by the first two or three chapters or if I stumble onto something offensive, which happens all too often, I put the book aside and pick up the next one.
For a time I read a great deal of non-fiction. I was deeply moved by the telling of a journey through Alzheimer's disease, The Long Good Night, by Daphne Simpkins.
I was transported to sunny Italy with Frances Mayes in Under the Tuscan Sun and Bella Tuscany. I crammed my brain with health information from magazines, journals and the like. Whenever I have to sit and wait, I'm reaching for the nearest book or magazine.
I'm always looking for a new favourite author or an intriguing series of mysteries.
But there are still two books on my nightstand, four on the kitchen cupboard and an overflow of magazines on the dining room table.
