Love Story

I grew up in a small Vermont town. In the early 1960s it boasted few retail establishments, but there was a drug store with a soda fountain and a handful of tiny neighborhood stores that sold bread and other “sundries.” (In those days milk was delivered to the doorstep in glass quart bottles.) I regularly visited the store in our neighborhood by going cross lots through the back yards of four neighbors, along a path of my own devising that brought me to a set of creaking wooden steps and a screen door. The store was actually just a room on the back of the proprietor’s house, a room crammed with shelves of canned goods and racks of candy.

Because the town didn’t have a grocery, hardware or department store, we made weekly family trips to the nearest city, eleven miles away. With a population of about 18,000 at that time, Rutland had a bustling shopping district, featuring several turn-of-the-century four and five story buildings. There we bought groceries, clothes, hardware and other things we might need for the coming week. We also stopped in to see my aunt and uncle and cousins who lived there. It was an all-day visit and it was pretty much mandatory. Though there came a time when I resisted, and claimed I preferred to stay home, my memory is that it was a largely pleasant excursion and an enjoyable break in the weekly routine. It widened my horizons the tiniest big and imprinted images in my psyche that still crop up in my dreams.

For me, the high point of these trips was the family visit to the Rutland Free Library. The brick and stone building was situated on a hill that was sometimes treacherous to navigate in winter, but once inside, I felt as if I’d entered a sanctuary.

Though our town was justly proud of its small library and I spent many of my high-school-age hours volunteering there, the Rutland Library was a three-story wonderland. The high Victorian interior – dimly lit and appointed with heavy, dark furniture, reading tables and massive lamps – contained shelves and shelves of books - more books than I could ever read. I loved nothing better than to browse the stacks in search of treasures, opening any book that caught my eye and sampling a page or two. I stayed as long as I could, as long as my family had patience, and I checked out the maximum number of books allowed. To this day I vividly recall coming out of the library and walking down the front steps carrying a stack of books that reached from my waist to my neck. I felt contented and happy, anticipating the hours of reading that lay ahead. In my arms I held unexplored worlds, pages and pages of experiences, a magic doorway to other places and times of my choosing.

I sometimes sampled no more than a few chapters before putting a book aside and trying another. When I found a book that drew me in, that insistently called me to turn page after page, I devoured it. The next week I was back in the library, looking for more.

I no longer live in small-town Vermont but my library habit lives on. Though my home is filled with books, I still regularly check books out of local and area libraries. I still browse the stacks, sampling a few pages, looking for treasures. I still take home more books than I can possibly read. But the truth is I’m hopelessly addicted. My habit is long-standing and compulsive. I fell in love with books early and the romance has lasted a lifetime.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.