A Love Letter to my Library

Dear Libraries of Medicine Hat, Ottawa, Westminster, DC, and Montgomery County,

You are the libraries of my adult life, the ones I've joined and frequented when my children were babies, then toddlers, now teens.

You are always one of the very first errands I run when we move to a new city. Once we have our library cards, we have tickets and keys to new worlds; we have a connection to our community and an escape from (and within) our new home.

You are a refuge on rainy days, a lifesaver on days with cranky kids, and a silly, fun place for storytimes and crafts, and for meeting new friends. Your summer reading challenges never stood a chance with my kids: six books by September? How about six by Friday! They're teenagers now, and no longer participate, but we sure had a good run.

You gave me a quiet chair in which to sit and nurse a baby, while I reread Bunnicula. (The baby, of course fell asleep, and I sat there long enough to read the whole book in one sitting.) (It holds up.)

You are still the place we visit the day before a road trip or a holiday, to load up the Backseat Book Bag.

You are the cause of one of our strictest House Rules: even if you've read everything else in the house, you may not read someone else's library book until they have. Once you've read it, it's fair game to everyone else. Another rule: you may only take out three books at a time: one of them has to be big and juicy, one of them has to be in French (when available in the city, of course). And no more than one manga or graphic novel each.

You used to let me (somewhat) assuage my guilt at late returns by charging me for my delinquence. (At one time, I felt that I was funding an entire library, and was grateful.) Now, you have all updated your policies; there are no more fees, and I have to live with my guilt. I hate myself... but I make a donation to your used book section instead.

Speaking of used books, your racks are a treasure trove: without them, we certainly wouldn't own the Unicorn Cookbook, or the Complete Party Planner. This year, I found (and bought) almost the entire list of recommended summer reading for Grades seven through ten, to bring with us on summer roadtrips. (I stuffed extra into your honour box, because you wouldn't let me pay for returning Artemis six weeks late, but I still feel shame.)

Your librarians are always absolutely and consistently wonderful for book recommendations, from six-year-olds seeking adventures with sea serpents, to my quietly constant love of pioneer/frontier novels and nonfiction, both American and Canadian.

When left on my own to roam, your shelves are my gateway to new discoveries, alphabetically, of course. When you were out of Goldman, I discovered Golding. When I'd read all your Binchy, I picked up Bingham. In London, I found out that I am a complete sucker for Agatha Christie. In DC, I'm reading American authors.

And finally, you are all wonderful for the support you've shown this nomadic "local" author.

The librarians that know me through my children were the most excited when I asked them to carry my book. "I've just ordered it," they said, and even put it on the front display. I always check "my shelf" when I go; when my book's not there, I check online, and celebrate when it's been checked out. (I didn't even ask the DC library to carry a copy, but when I saw that they'd ordered two, I danced for three days.)

So, this Library Lovers Month, let me say that I love you. I love you for providing a welcoming, safe space for my kids to sit and read, wherever it is we live in the world. I love you for everything you've done to help my family develop, to nourish their love of reading (even one whom we are dragging back into the fold with a sneakily-crafted selection), and to fulfill my dream of seeing my books on your shelves.

And yes, this love letter is even more overdue than any book I've brought back late. I'm sorry.

Tell you what: I'll buy a gently-used cookbook from you tomorrow.