This month I made an exciting discovery on my family history quest and it all began by wandering through the open stacks of a public library. And that got me thinking…

Some libraries and archives have closed stacks, like the Glenbow in Calgary. In the case of rare and fragile documents that must be preserved for researchers in generations yet to come, I guess it makes sense to restrict access to them. Besides, there is something special in the ritual of seeing a trolley wind its way through the studied hush, between the heavy oak library tables toward you, and having your little slip of request paper returned to you atop a dusty tome, which is presented to you with a pair of white cotton gloves that you must don before handling the precious volume. It’s kind of like high tea with the Queen, but with the more modest cost of city centre parking.

But recently, there seems to be a trend toward fewer accessible books in libraries elsewhere. For example, the University of Calgary closed most of their stacks, and that saddens me and seems counter to the purpose of an institution of higher education, which should strive to foster learning, as far as I’m concerned. You never know what you will come upon while looking for the book you thought you wanted. Sometimes it is the volume of your dreams located farther down the shelf and you wonder how you missed finding that in the catalogue, chalking it up to the mysteries of the dewey decimal system. Sometimes it is a book you spy as you meander your way through the maze of shelves, searching for the proper aisle. I still recall bringing home a book I just happened upon while wandering through the university library, to show to my parents when I was a naive freshman undergraduate; it was an account written by Stanley of his search for Dr. Livingston in the wilds of Africa and was printed in 1905. At the time it was the oldest book I had ever seen, let alone held, and the reality that they had actually let me sign it out of the library and bring it home so I could read about the mythical ‘Dr. Livingston, I presume,’ filled me with awe.

Then last month I visited a high school library, or what used to be the library: I was informed that it was now a ‘Learning Commons’ and the Librarian (or whatever her new title was) patiently explained to me that most of the books had been removed to make way in the centre of the room for more tables where students could gather and yet more of the ‘books that were too old’ had been replaced by a wall-mounted video screen to allow video conferencing. The new forms of learning may be all well and good, and electronic books may take up no room on a shelf, but what of the precious printed books themselves?

What of feeling the knowledge of the ages looking down upon you from dusty resting places, of finding an ancient author had anticipated your need to understand some detail you only just discovered, of picking up a book you didn’t know you wanted until you saw it waiting on a library shelf?

And so I say – ‘Love Your Public Library!’ It is the last bastion of true learning, where one can find volumes of all descriptions: massive, diminutive, filled with erudition, or folios devoid of words and composed only of provoking imagery. It is the place where your flicker of interest can be ignited and where you can experience the pleasure of discovering a treasure waiting just for you, whenever you should happen by.

This article was originally printed in the Bergen News and is being reprinted with permission.