I have lived in many places in my life and a Library card has always been a part of my wallet. Like my health card and driver's license, it is a part of who I am. Beginning in the late 60s, as a 10 year old, I remember my mom taking me to get my first card, and the date stamp of 1972 was so far away, there were so many books to read, I was practically vibrating!
I remember treasuring the responsibility of taking this very precious cargo home and making sure I returned on time. In the meantime, they were all mine. I don't remember any of the books I first signed out, but I do remember the Library book that graduated me out of children's literature. It was a rainy weekend, nothing going on in a houseful of 8 people. Or maybe there was too much going on and I needed my retreat. I opened the pages to The Diary of Anne Frank, and except for sleep, I spent the next 48 hours on my mother's suburban scratchy couch. I consider reading that book more integral to moving into adulthood than any other pubescent right of passage. My eyes were suddenly opened to the world outside our Catholic Scarborough upbringing, and the Library had brought it to me.
My elementary school was St. Kevin's Catholic School, a small, uniformed 300-student school, where we raced through the schoolyard chasing boys, playing jumprope, handball, went to confession, celebrated the feasts, walked in straight, quiet lines and learned our religious lessons. We were a rowdy class, friends for life, all walking to and from school, living close by in our neighbourhood, going home for lunch, seeing each other at Church on Sundays and Church functions on any other day of the week. 
At my youngest, the nuns still wore their black habits and I remember being sent to the office for only using black crayons. Perhaps it was a sometimes gloomy place for a small person, but it had a Library. And in the Library was Mrs. Kells. And Mrs. Kells wore regular clothes, a hint of lipstick and sometimes earrings that I imagined were diamonds. She took a liking to me and brought me under her wing. I spent a few proud years as very much her assistant to the assistant of the assistant. I got to shelve books - Dewey gave me order. I got to decorate displays using scissors, construction paper and glue, helping her decide on seasonal themes and finding the books to match the display.
Our new books required new cards to be made for the card catalogue, a daunting list of every single book housed in our small library. As I grew out into the world, these card catalogues just got bigger and bigger, and I loved the feel of the oak casing, the beautiful brass place cards on each drawer, the sometimes calligraphic writing indicating which realm of literature was locatable according to this drawer.I loved the smell of these drawers, somewhat musty with typewriter ribbon, dried cardboard and dust mixed in. I sometimes stood and read the cards, just to see where 800 PN would take me. I would be astonished at some of the titles, imagining all sorts of scenarios where I would be taken.
Between our school Library and the public Library, I had my hands full with signing out books, getting my DATE DUE stamp and handing in my card to be filed alphabetically under "S". Even the sign-out cards told a story, who had read it before me, when they had read it, whether they'd renewed it, whether this was a busy book or whether it had been left to languish on the shelf like a forgotten toy. Handwriting told an equally intriguing tale - after all, penmanship class happened every Wednesday, with homework! And getting the date stamp right, I'm not sure if Mrs. Kells ever entrusted me with that job. It seemed very important.
High school graduated me to a large public school, not just us Catholics, so trepidation abounded in all sorts of unlikely places. The Library turned out to be one of them. Counting on it to be my haven in a turned-upside-down-teenage-world, it didn't often offer the respite I sought. I don't even remember the Librarian, and being qualified as the assistant to the assistant of the assistant, I ended up adrift with no anchor place to welcome me. And it was full of flirting, something I was more than awkward at.
A big event in 1977 got my mother and I onto the bus and subway to downtown Toronto, something usually reserved for solo Christmas shopping trips by my mother. It was the grand opening of the Toronto Reference Library, a design of the time, fresh, sweeping balconies, open with skylights, an architectural marvel. We walked in with our mouths open, glorying in the beauty of the air and space around us. We spent hours there that day exploring the shelves, and I returned many times in the years following to recapture that moment with my mother.University Libraries have always welcomed me with their stained glass windows, carved staircases, plaques of history, sculptures, collected texts, the potential for higher learning enclosed within those walls. Study carrels were not a part of my time there for they turned the library's purpose into one of hard work instead of learning. There is a difference.
My children have grown up in Libraries, our 20 books every 3 weeks filled their souls with wonder and information, led them down paths they never thought they'd trod, the books they opened helped define who they are and who they wanted to be. My travels have led me into Libraries
In 2013, a global study of collections, use, digital strategies and community outreach ranked Vancouver's Public Library and Montreal's Public Library as the BEST in the WORLD.
Your public Library is built for you. Use it. Support it. Buy their discards for $0.10. Pay your fines. Ask for your Librarian's help. S/He is a human Google, as are the bricks and mortar that surround them. You can surf their shelves using your hands instead of your fingertips. And there is a difference. Not better. Not worse. Just different. Its a place of peace, a place of quiet, a place to contemplate and think, to giggle, to be shusshed, to bring children, to get lost in thought. Your Library.