The Library Where It All Began

“How is it possible that you’ve never been in here before?” Tabitha yelled, in the way she always did, as she dragged me into the dusty bookstore. “You’re the biggest bookworm I’ve ever met, yet you’ve never ventured into what could be the cutest bookstore in New York?”

I roll my eyes at her as I’m dragged farther and farther into the shop. Inside, it smells like one of those cinnamon-scented brooms you buy at the grocery store in the fall. Each wall is covered with shelves and shelves of books with peeling spines, most of them completely indecipherable at first glance.

“Yeah, that’s because Barnes and Noble is more my style,” I say with a shrug as Tabitha finally gives up her relentless grip on my hand.

“Oh, so it’s not that you dislike bookstores,” Tabitha raises an eyebrow at me, “you just dislike supporting small businesses.”

I shake my head at her accusatory tone. “I just really like the trains they have in the kids’ section. It soothes me.” She laughs at that.

The old woman at the register takes no notice of us brushing the snow off our thick coats in the entryway, despite the antique bell that chimes as the door closes behind us. A fat orange cat sitting on the counter, however, gives us her attention—blinking slowly in our direction before setting its head back down on folded paws.

There are, regrettably, no train sets to be seen in the little, hole-in-the-wall shop, but it has a cozy feeling to it—like the relief of a coffee shop in the middle of a snowstorm.

Tabitha shows me to her favorite section—the Classics—and begins thumbing through the a’s to see what new Jane Austen books the store had acquired since her last visit. I skim the shelf, looking for something easily-digestible—to me, the range began with Of Mice and Men and ended with Moby Dick. My attention span had turned to complete crap lately, and I doubted I could keep up with Herman Melville at the moment; I blamed Twitter.

Finding a well-worn, but sturdy, copy of Little Women, I went to thumb through the first few pages to see if it was my speed—although I adored the newest adaptation starring Saoirse Ronan, I wasn’t sure if I could make it through the original text without nodding off.

That’s when the smell hit me, rifling through the first chapter: thin, faded, and yellowed pages. The classic smell of an old book. It was a smell that meant the book was probably coated with dust, but you didn’t mind because it meant the story you were about to crack open was a good, time-tested one.

It instantly took me back to the library. In an instant, a picture of the tiny young adult section in between the magazines and the computers came to mind. It couldn’t have been more than 10 feet long and half as wide, but I practically lived there growing up. The small section had a miniature table and chairs, a few beanbags—which were so worn out, beans would puff out of holes you didn’t see until you moved them—and all the books I could ever want.

I must have spent days-worth of my elementary and middle school days there, devouring books one after the other. Each week, after my mother insisted on returning home so she could start dinner, I’d check out half a dozen novels and return the next week having read all of them—almost nearly forgetting to take out my handmade bookmark before delicately dumping them in the return slot.

Each book I opened was a new adventure, whether it was with the likes of Percy Jackson or finding my way around embarrassing moments and boy troubles in the Princess Diaries series. And each book I cracked open had that distinct old-book smell. A smell that meant the book had seen a long life before it ever wound up in my hands.

Even there in the old bookshop, hundreds of miles away from my hometown and that first library, the smell brought a few tears to my eyes. I was reminded of that scared little girl who was friendless and too afraid to stand up to the bullies on the bus. The girl who found her escape from life’s hardships—hardships even at the ripe, old age of 10—buried in books at the library. The girl who took the books home with her, on the bus with her, to class with her. The girl who found protection in the heroes she read about each week, knowledge in the lessons protagonists learned the hard way, and a love for words that she carried with her into every new stage of her life.

It was that early adoration for the library and hunger for anything I could get my hands on that turned me into a writer later in life—at least that’s what I thought. Although it wasn’t until my love for words evolved from just reading them to writing them that the pieces all fell together.

Standing there, in the bookshop that smelled like Autumn and Tabitha quietly debating with herself whether or not she wanted to pick up another copy of Emma—"because this one looks like a collector’s edition, which would be way nicer than the one I have at home”—I was reminded of the very beginning of my obsession with fiction, with reading, with books and bookstores, and with writing.

Tabitha must have finally taken notice that I wasn’t as invested in finding a new read and turned around to see my far-off gaze and watery eyes. “Are you alright? Am I talking about Emma too much?” Tabitha gently elbows me, although her tone sounds more concerned.

“You’re definitely talking about Emma too much,” I finally unfix my gaze from outer space and look at Tabitha for the first time since my trip down memory lane. “I was just reminded of the library I grew up in—I used to spend hours there reading.”

Tabitha looks relieved as she tucks the possible collector’s copy of Emma under her arm. “I used to do the same thing. I was definitely the youngest person in Michigan to ever venture into the ‘Classic Literature’ section,” Tabitha jokes. “I’m convinced the librarians thought I wandered there every day and just stuck in that section because it was always empty—I probably could have gotten away with a nap or two.”

I laugh, making a snap decision to buy the old copy of Little Women—I could always use more Jo in my life anyway.

“Well then, it appears as if some things never change, considering all the times I’ve caught you dozing at your desk—or in the middle of a movie you promised me you would pay attention to.” She laughs at my gripe, far too loudly for the little shop—I blankly wondered if it was enough to wake up the old woman at the counter.

“So, what’s the verdict? Will you be taking the lovely Emma home tonight?” I gesture at the book tucked under her arm.

Tabitha nods. “I think so. I know I already have a copy-”

“Or two,” I interject.

She rolls her eyes. “Or two. But this one is different, and there’s always room for more. My living room walls are basically all bookshelves at this point, so what’s the harm?”

I briefly picture Tabitha buried under a pile of books that could put Mount Everest to shame because “what’s the harm?” before shooing the thought away. I’d stage an intervention before that ever happened—and it wasn’t quite that bad yet.

“Shall we check out then?” I loop my arm in hers. “I think our lunch break is just about over.”

“We shall.”

We march to the counter to find that we had woken up the woman at the counter. She begrudgingly rings up our purchases and we each give the cat a few good pets before securely wrapping up our books and stowing them in our purses to protect them from the torrent of snow outside. The bell rings again as we step out into the New York winter.

Maybe it’s time I give somewhere other than Barnes and Noble a try, I think blankly, trains or no trains.