I love the smell of old books. It smells like grandmother’s
attic. It smells what I would imagine Sherlock Holmes’ house to smell like. Or
the 1800’s in general. I grab one and inhale. Inhale again, sigh, a musty
story-lovers high.
Where I am? The library. It may be a slowing fading modern
relic to some but not for me. There is nowhere else in the world where I get the same
feeling as I do when pass through city hall’s courtyard and walk through those
doors. So many books! So many smells!
And then? The treasure hunt begins. I go to a magic portal.
I type in a few words about a story I want to know more about and wah lah!
A code pops out! I know where to find it. I write down my coordinates on a
scrap piece of paper with a small eraser-less pencil and I am off. Moving
through rows and rows of other treasures. Passing by fellow treasure seekers
until I get to THE row. I slow down my gait and creep forward wanting to extend
the search just a little bit more. I kneel down to look and, oh no! It’s not
there! I look down again and re-check, breathing a sigh of relief. I was looking
at the 3 when it says 9. I creep forward, looking again and… X marks the spot!
Tablets don’t give you a treasure hunt. Kindles don’t smell
like grandma’s attic. Technology just doesn’t do it for me. Maybe its because I
am just so tried of staring at a screen all the time. I stare at work, my
computer, at Netflix, on my phone. My frenemy phone.
Where else can I go and walk into a room weighted with
action packed silence? Where else can I walk by that antiquated cabinet full of
local high school memorabilia? (Or in my case growing up, visiting the back
corner where the headdress and arrowheads were kept.) Where else can I wonder why
exactly does that person need the private soundproof see-through study room?
Where else can I see people from all walks of life?
And tonight there is much to see. A gentleman wearing
sunglasses with a side missing while indoors. Two ladies with funky hats
giggling in a corner. A man designing a beautiful geometric construction on the
computer with a large suitcase at his side. The lady at the desk with the white
blinged-out nails. A man with tattoos flipping through pages. An artist working furiously with his
pastels. I creep closer pretending to look at tax forms. He is drawing a
Picasso-like sea creature. His case is almost as old as my book.
My book. Not my treasure. This is something I picked up
along the way. I grabbed the oldest book I could find. Partly to assure it that
it still matters. This one is called “For the Children’s’ Hour.” It was written
by two women kindergarten teachers published in 1917. Copyright 1906. Who were
these women? Why did they write the book? What happened to them?
This is why I love the library. I get to be alone and quiet
without really being alone. I am surrounded by thousands stories and the people
who wrote them. All treasures to someone.
I open a page to bonus treasure and do what many have done. Open in the middle and read the first
line I see. “I wish I were a prince. I want to ride in a carriage with a golden
umbrella held over my head.” I smile and close the book, lifting it to my nose.
I continue walking through the rows of treasure, the golden umbrella over my
head.
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