“Your library millage at work,” announces the ink stamp at the bottom of the book. It’s hidden unless the book is lying on its side. The message repeats in the stack on the dining table.
I’m happy looking at it, seeing that the tax I voted on myself is buying interesting books. Even when I was a kid, I thought of the county library as an extension of the small collection at home.
My current local library is similar in floor space to my childhood one, but it seems smaller. Computers take precedence, including a glass-walled room with rows of tables topped with monitors. But those same computers enable the library’s lending system to tap a broader, deeper collection.
The five books stacked on the table – the result of bibliomanic period – illustrate my point. Two are from the library in a neighboring town, two from the city north of that. They range in age; a haiku anthology published in 1958 rests on last year’s Story Trumps Structure by Steven James.
I don’t have a lot of time for reading at the moment, spring having arrived – and left – and come back again. But it’s nice to read a little after dinner and again before bed.