Books have always been a part of my life; there were always books at home, and as a kid I went to the library almost weekly. I’d check out twenty books, read them all, bring them back, and check out another twenty. I remember, when I was maybe 12 years old, drawing up a floor plan of my dream house. The biggest room was the library. For those who know me, this probably won’t come as a shock.
Last year, I bought a house, and after some time working on getting everything squared away – floors redone, bookshelves all in place, books all in place – I was getting pretty close to having everything in place. All that was missing were some comfortable chairs.
I went to a rummage sale at my grandmother’s church a couple of weeks ago, and came across three chairs that were perfect for the room – they honestly looked like they could have come from a library or reading room somewhere. Some very helpful people helped me get them home (my poor little subcompact car couldn’t fit them), I got them upstairs and situated, and…well, I finally have a perfect reading room. It’s everything I hoped it would be.
My only complaint is that I don’t get to use the chairs near as much as I’d like. I blame the cats.