Kate, I couldn't resist sharing this as the Featured Post! It brought a smile to my face (thank you):
I always used to smell library books. I wouldn't exactly recommend it, because they don't smell good. But as a seven year old, I would walk into the magical childrens wing of our little Elyria public library, which had walls transformed into trees, and cases full of people's collections (Pez dispensers, trolls, Babushka Russian nesting dolls, etc.). I would find a branch on which to sit as I poured over my favorites. I would pull books from bins and smell the crease in the spine, the smellier the better. That meant more hands, more people who had read the same words.With new books, I would turn the pages carefully, but make sure to touch each one and leave a bit of myself for the next person. Even at seven, reading meant community for me. It meant escaping into another world that I could share with other book worms. My mom made fun of my dad for telling me, "Books are your friends" after I had tried to deface my copy of the Velveteen Rabbit. But I think I believed it.
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