I went to the library the other day. (No, this is not an uncommon occurrence… but nevertheless worth mentioning for the goal of this post.)

From a quite young age I’ve loved the library — my mother has raised me really nicely in this. She’d take my sister and I practically weekly. The 3 of us would pile into our auto, bags filled with stories  prepared to return so we could gather a new stack of adventures.

After inside, I’d usually rush straight to the children’s section. Often they’d host entertaining small shows exactly where a magician or juggler would arrive, but largely it was silent, and I’d be surrounded by thousands of colorful books.

I was a cover judger. (and nevertheless may be… oops.) But it tends to make sense for my younger self — if I could not web page via the book and study snippets of the story… alternatively it was the art and the photographs and the fairly font that created me verify it out. Small me would rush via the rows and wooden compartments, shoving new reads into my kid-sized tote.

Or I’d return to old favorites: The Berestein Bears, any sort of fairytale, Franklin, Curious George… and when I entered the planet of chapter books, series like Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, and the Boxcar Youngsters.

The 3 of us would line up in front of the desk, giggling at how our bags overflowed and the appears of shock other people gave us. We stacked the books into piles, watching as the librarian began the lengthy course of action of checking them out. My sister and I stood on our tiptoes, eyes just above the counter, waiting to see if we went more than the book limit.

Ahh, the dreaded book limit. The crusher of a bookworm’s soul. The sort of monster that hid in my closet and beneath my bed as a youngster. (am I exaggerating slightly? possibly. BUT Nonetheless.)

Our library declared a limit of 1 hundred books, which might sound like a lot, but not to this family members — to our family members. We utilized to have every day reading sessions exactly where we would spread 15+ image books across our carpet. My sister and I took turns operating to choose out a book ahead of jumping back on the couch to snuggle on either side of our mother. That couch was exactly where my really like and passion for stories started, and under no circumstances went away.

After the librarian completed scanning the books — I watched her do this so quite a few instances that my six-year-old self could’ve almost certainly performed it myself — we’d load up our bags once again. My mom with her giant, striped red 1, and mine with my identical 1… just a kid-sized version. Even my younger sister carried her personal bag, matching ours but with blue stripes alternatively of red.
my mother’s old library tote. OH THE MEMORIES <3

I am shocked the seams under no circumstances broke with how these bags bulged. I recall how challenging it was for hobbit-sized Katie to lug her tiny, but quite heavy tote to the librarian’s desk. Typically Mom would have to come to the rescue. 🙂

These are my old, nostalgic, library memories. I’ve moved on from the image books, and even from the normal library we utilized to go to. I’ve outgrown the worry of the book limit. Now the libraries are all automated self-checkouts — which is bitter-sweet since there is no chance to speak to an additional bookish soul. *sniff*

I do miss it — I miss the memories of becoming young, but then once again, there are items that my younger self could not possibly fully grasp. I did not fully grasp the excitement of browsing the YA shelves! And Small Katie did not but hold the dream of possessing her own book on these rows of stories. <3

I will treasure these moments, and it really is so cool to see how far back my really like for stories has spread.

katie grace

what about you? any library/bookish memories from when you had been younger? I’d really like to hear them!

(and pleased birthday to my quite beautiful sister who turns fifteen now! <3)