As a child I spent many summer hours in the fabulous public library in my hometown. After I was old enough to be left alone for a short time, Mom would drop me off at the children's entrance and then go about her grocery shopping. From my perspective it was a jackpot situation: having time to poke around the enticing collection of books and NOT having to endure the grocery store. (I wish I had that same option today!)
I do not remember much about how I selected particular books, but I do recall having a strong preference for those without dust jackets. Something about the exotic geometric prints on the buckram covers must have triggered a subconscious "here lies a story" reaction; a bare book was also a reliable predictor of pages whose edges had acquired a downy softness, almost to the point of being frayed. Those pages turned with a pronounced gentleness, each one floating to meet the cushion of the others. Said books also possessed that peculiar "old library book" smell, which to me was as alluring as the scent of a fresh Christmas tree. Both the tree and the book promised unknown treasures.
I did not gravitate toward books with colorful cellophane-covered dust jackets; I did not like the crinkly sound they made, I did not care for their crisp pages and hard edges. They appeared sterile, cold, and unwelcoming. Their full-color cover illustrations seemed to rob me of my right to imagine the characters as I saw them. I passed over them and sought the comfort of books softened by age and use.
After what seemed like two or more delicious hours in the library, but which was probably closer to 45 minutes, Mom would reappear, and together we would carry that week's selection of mellowed jewel-toned treasures to the checkout desk. I felt the promise of their pages.
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