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.

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