I used to be drawn to the summer reading club at the Broad Ripple Library like a moth to a flame. With my library card in hand, I could barely wait to get to the library to reserve my marker (usually a tree or another such graphic used to record books read on a big poster listing all participants). Then the reading race began. Competition played into the experience, too. Staying ahead of the pack on getting markers and being among the first to complete the quota of books read was a really big deal.

I always remember my first library visit each summer. I would stack up as many books as allowed, take them to the desk where the children's librarian would methodically ink her rubber date stamp and precisely imprint the due date. Checking out summer reading books was kind of a religious experience for me, somewhat like a benediction: "All is in order; go forth and read!"

Each trip down the steps to the children's room in the library (then located across the street from Kroger's) was a momentous event. I was totally fulfilled in returning books read to get more. Such satisfaction there was to be derived in standing before the patient librarians, giving a summary book report and then seeing my tally mount.

Each book was a conquest. I loved pioneer books, adventure books, and the orange biographies of great men and women. Tucked under my sheet with a flashlight at night, I would read until caught by the inevitable "It's bedtime, turn out the lights now!" The next day I would pick up where I left off as soon as possible.

Those summer reading programs fueled my lifetime passion for leisure reading, and I sometimes wonder today as I see others engrossed in books if libraries were their catalysts as well.