On Libraries, Curiosity, and a First Card That Changed Everything

Some memories stay with you not because they were dramatic, but because they quietly opened a door.

My first trip to a library did exactly that.

It was a chilly, rainy October evening, and I was eight years old. We had just moved to a growing suburb outside St. Louis, and I was newly settled into third grade at a brand-new school. Earlier that afternoon, our teacher announced an assignment — a report on dinosaurs.

DINOSAURS!

That was all it took.

After dinner that evening, my father put on his overcoat, settled his fedora on his head, and took me to the local library. I had never been inside one before. I remember the way the doors opened into a space that felt larger than it needed to be — aisle after aisle of tall shelves, all of them filled with books that reached far above my head.

It felt like I had crossed over a threshold into a new world and was standing inside a promise.

A few minutes later I was issued my very first library card. It had my name on it. And with it, for an eight-year-old,  came feelings of recognition, trust, and responsibility. I was now a certified, card-carrying member of society. We checked out several books on dinosaurs, and I carried them home like treasure. That night, reading and racing from one dinosaur illustration to the next, something quietly and permanently took root.

February happens to be National Library Lover’s Month, a fact many people pass right by without ever noticing. But it feels like one worth pausing for — not with fanfare or banners, but with a simple remembering of what libraries have quietly meant to so many of us. And why they are still so vital in a community.

I have never been without an active library card since that first one years ago.

Over the years, there would be countless return trips — later with my own children in tow, watching them wander those same kinds of aisles, eyes wide, hands trailing along the spines of books they did not yet know they needed.

Libraries have a way of doing that.

They ask nothing of you when you walk in.
They do not demand you know what you are looking for.
They simply offer the world — patiently — one shelf at a time.

A library card is a small thing. Lightweight. Easily tucked into a wallet. But it carries remarkable power. It is permission to be curious. To wander. To follow a question wherever it leads. To sit quietly with an idea until it begins to make sense.

In a noisy world, libraries remain some of the quietest places where the loudest adventures still begin.

Some of the very best journeys still begin with a library card.

‘Til next time . . . .

— Jim  (and Red!)

P.S. from Little Red Bear — Red has always believed that some of the finest adventures happen with a book nearby. If you’d like to spend a few quiet minutes reading with him sometime, we’ve left a small trail below.

“The Adventures of Little Red Bear: The First Holler!”

These illustrations were created with the assistance of AI.