In 1955, when I was ten, we moved 70 miles south along the river to Clinton. I was already a voracious reader, but in Clinton I was old enough to go to the public library on my own. At the time, patrons weren’t allowed to check out books from the adult section till they were 13, but the library staff made an exception for me. When I went into the library on my 12th birthday, they presented me with an adult card.
When I returned to the library on October 10, 2003, I found a considerable collection of my books with Clinton author neatly pencilled into the front of them. One of the ladies who’d been on the desk in 1960 was still there as a volunteer; she remembered me vividly. (She said I haven’t changed. That’s not true, but the comment was flattering.)