I loved the library in my home town. The cornerstone on the building read 1865. There was never a movement to modernize. The aisles are narrow, kind of like one way streets. We had to wait for someone to exit an aisle before we could enter. But we practiced small town courtesy. Who rushes in a library?
Of all the things I miss from my old home, the library is on the top of my list. True, it didn't get a lot of the newest releases. Low budget and all that. But the books we had were like the building: classics.
I visited the local library here as soon as I came to town. Strange. You don't see books when you walk in. There are displays. Brochures. Computer terminals. You have to walk into another room to actually see a book.
The first time I went, I left almost immediately. The library felt more like a store than a place to peruse books. My old librarian, Mrs. Weeks, would nod as we walked in. And then she would mind her own business. In this library, I can't sort the librarians from the clerks. And the noise. Foot traffic. Doors opening and closing. People huddled and whispering.
I came back today because there's an old newspaper article I can't find on the Internet. The librarian was nice, I have to admit. Helpful. And here it is. The article. Just what I need.
It's quiet now. No whispers. My research desk is nestled behind book shelves. As I look around, it doesn't look that strange anymore. The musty odor is gone, but the books are still here. The beautiful wooden shelves are gone. Metal doesn't do it for me. On the other hand, there are so many shelves. So many books.
There will never be a replacement for my old library. It wasn't just about books. It was about community and history. It was about all the experiences I had there since I was a child.
It hit me. There is nothing wrong with my new library, in my new community. It's just not home. Not yet, anyway. But I'm sure, if I give time, it will be.