L is for Library.
Which has more words than I can muster this evening.
Added on Friday:
My story goes that I have been going to libraries from before I was born. My mother loved to read, and libraries were her refuge as much as mine. She read sea stories, Great Lake's shipwrecks, polar explorers, preferring factual stories over fiction, and classic fiction over pure fantasy. She never made a point of directing what I read. Although I knew if I brought anything home of a lascivious nature there would be trouble, so I read those books at the library. She read the books I brought home quite often. Which was good, but carried the implication of censure. So I knew any book that gave me a hot burn in my stomach, I needed to memorize the Dewey number, and read it on subsequent visits.
Shelved for many intermittent years at local libraries, while going to school, making ends meet. Campbell Branch, Burton Hysterical Collection, Salt Lake City Main Library, gathering bookdust and papercuts along the way. Reading anything that caught my eye. Nursing school wore away my ability to read with such pleasure, but it's slowly growing back.
We have a library of our own now. It's largely come with us, over the last five years of too many moves, dropping leaves along the way, mostly intact.
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