Monday marks the beginning of National Library Week (are the libraries trying to steal the thunder from National Poetry Month?). These days, I tend to be more of a haunter of bookstores than of libraries. It’s very American of me – I want to own my books, not borrow them.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have very fond memories of libraries and don’t respect and value (and am willing to pay additional taxes to finance) them.

As a young child, we lived in Scottsdale, Arizona. At the time, I was too young to realize that Scottsdale was an overgrown, soulless, suburban strip mall. But  was not too young to love going to the library – mostly because they had these enormous (or so they seemed at the time) white sculptures you could climb on.

Later, I loved the Dunedin Library. They spent what seemed like a long time building a wonderful new building, but it was well worth it. It’s not a huge library, but it’s comfortable and inviting and hosts some wonderful events (I remember attending a performance of an artist and scholar dressed as Zora Neale Hurston).

Even later, there was the Gulfport Public Library. A short walk from my apartment, it was a cozy place. A satisfying if not overwhelmingly comprehensive collection. Mostly, I went there to read both daily papers and numerous magazines. It was a daily ritual that I treasured.