Early in spring I see snow-drop flowers perking up through the damp earth, and there is the smell of little boys and girls playing in the mud, shrieking with laughter and hilarity, then, stepping inside, a careful washing of the hands and toning of the voice, a hushed honor and respect for the jewels and treasures, the thrill of a childhood love for reading.

The leafy maple leaves dance greenly in the summer sunshine, skipping with me on the way to the summer’s greatest joy, the time to ponder and play with friends from foreign lands and adventures too dangerous for your mother to let you go on in real life, sitting in the warm glow and grass on the library lawn or benches.

Swish, swoosh, crackle! A step, a hop, just to see how many you can step on to hear their autumn sounds and release those sweet smells that only come from the delicious crunching of leaves. This is a perfect time to walk and read and discover the mysteries of things you never knew and never imagined, back and forth from my house to the library as often as I can.

Briskly stepping, each print left behind in a row with others and then the warm room full of impossible choices, I must chose the right one, the perfect book for a long dark evening snuggled at home with fleece and earl grey tea with sugar, barred against the cold and beautiful snow with places to go, old stories to revisit, all held in the dear and precious friends we call books, held for us in a house of prized warmth, smells, and memories.