by Joe Miller,
Director of Development
Books have always been my happy place.
In elementary school, I would race through my assignments so that I could get a book from the classroom library. In sixth grade, my teacher read a single chapter of a book aloud to us each day. By around the third day, I’d been to the library and finished the book. I mean, who could wait four whole weeks to see how things turned out?
In the fall of my seventh-grade year, my English teacher asked us to read The Hobbit for class. At Christmas a few months later, I eagerly unwrapped a boxed set of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. By the time Christmas vacation ended, I had nearly finished a second read-through. That now-battered and taped-together set of paperbacks has endured a dozen or more readings since and still occupies a place on my shelves.
As I grew older, I developed favorite places for reading.
I’d retreat to my bedroom where I’d set up shop on Dad’s cast-off office chair, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a big glass of chocolate milk and a novel in hand. By the time I finished high school, I’d been through the entire science fiction section of the Ravenswood branch of the Jackson County Public Library. Tom Clancy thrillers and James A. Michener’s place-based family sagas were other high school favorites.
Many of those books never made it to my house, though. The reference room at the library was a great spot for reading. That was the room at the back of the library, with the big table and all the encyclopedias and dictionaries and atlases—the books that have mostly been replaced by the internet.
That was also where we met up to complete school projects. It was a great solution—a space where the teenagers could be loud (as teenagers are wont to do) without bothering the other patrons.
The basement of Morton Hall was my favorite college reading spot. I worked as a tutor in Hampden-Sydney College’s writing center, which was tucked away in the corner. I worked the Sunday afternoon shift every fall. I rarely saw anyone. The writing center is poor competition for the NFL’s late game. Instead, I spent those three hours curled up on a sofa with a book.
The philosophy department at the University of Virginia allowed graduate students to propose and teach introductory courses. Mine was called Metaphysics and Science Fiction and it paired short stories with philosophy essays on topics like artificial intelligence, personal identity and the nature of time.
My carrel desk in Alderson Library was equal parts John Stuart Mill—the subject of my PhD work—and collections of science fiction short stories, because, hey, that’s research for class and definitely not me goofing off!
Earlier this week, I saw a fellow Gen-Xer on social media reminiscing about the bookstores and coffee shops of our youth—independent places with comfortable seats where young people could gather to read, socialize and generally just be. There was much lamenting that young people today lack such places.
I can’t say that I relate to that particular bit of nostalgia.
Late 1980s Ravenswood, West Virginia, had about 4,000 residents, but it was in some ways smaller than Marlinton. The town had a single traffic light and exactly zero bookstores, coffee shops or local restaurants.
But we did have a library, one that was within walking distance of both the middle and high school. That was our third space—a place that wasn’t home or school, that welcomed us to gather in groups or as individuals, to read or just to talk.
And you know what? Those haven’t gone anywhere.
They may not be within walking distance of the high school. But there is a branch relatively near everyone.
We have spaces for curling up with a good book. For listening to your favorite podcast. For gathering around a board game with friends. For working on a school project. Or for just getting together with friends.
We even have rooms where you can gather if you want to get a little louder than some of our older patrons prefer.
