Borrowed or Bought, I Can't Get Enough

by C.J. Jackson

It’s cliché to say, but I love to read. I have both a library card and hundreds and hundreds of books of my own.

Each book I purchase is another world I can step into by myself and explore as I wish—without rules, without a deadline for finishing, without having to share it with anyone else—because it’s MINE.

I’m neither a collector (I buy paperbacks as well as first editions) nor a hoarder. I’m just a reader who wants to know that the words in her hands are hers to savor, to return to in the future if she wishes, to cherish and admire.

I have my parents and my hometown library to thank for this selfishness and habitual spending. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

As a child, I had few books to call my own. But every Saturday morning, my father forfeited his time with his business buddies and took me out for breakfast, then accompanied me to the Danville (Illinois) Public Library.

Pure magic unfolded there. Better than the newest Harry Potter movie or a trip to Disney World.

The Danville Public Library of my childhood stood atop a slight elevation and was built in 1903 with funding from Andrew Carnegie. Its brick-and-limestone walls housed creaky hardwood floors, grand unused fireplaces, and stained-glass windows that rivaled those of any church. To my eye, it was a uniquely valuable and majestic edifice—unlike any architecture I was accustomed to. More astonishing, I was welcome to explore it.

Children’s books were shelved in the basement, which could be entered from a side door at the base of the hill. There were three rooms of books and one exceptional librarian who (dare I expose her?) broke all the rules. She allowed me to borrow twice the maximum number of books every week. It was our secret. She didn’t have much to worry about, though. I treated books well, read quickly, and returned all the books the following Saturday because I could hardly wait to get new ones. The more books I borrowed, the more I loved books.

As I turned older, I visited the children’s library each weekend to read Winnie-the-Pooh to tots in front of the fireplace. They, too, became enchanted with the books and the building—the very spirit of the place.

Years later, I pursued a word-centric career and landed in the publishing industry. Today, I still go to the library, but not necessarily for books. Now it’s films and special presentations and neighborhood forums.

I will always be grateful to my parents and my hometown library for initiating and nurturing my passion for books and information and words. Yet I worry our society is losing sight of the significance libraries hold for us. I hope everyone who has entered this essay contest, and anyone who reads or watches the submissions, will endeavor to spread the word about an institution that connects people to their communities, teaches them about their world, holds their heritage safe, and entertains them to boot. We must be evangelists for the library magic I experienced as a child and the range of possibilities—both personal and professional—it can lead to.