Editor’s Note: ‘Reading Alive’ columnist Sarah Corson’s love of libraries inspired her to write a fictional piece about a 12-year-old Maine girl’s library outing as a tribute to these much-used, but often underappreciated institutions.

Every February, my Great-Aunt Edna flies north from New Orleans for a blast of winter weather. She stays at our house in Maine for 10 days and shakes us out of our routines. Two winters ago, she insisted we spend the night up north in St. Agatha; she even had us cross the river into Canada. Last year, we drove to Portland to visit the art museum.

But this year, when Aunt Edna came we were maxed out: my brother with basketball and me with drama rehearsals, Dad with nighttime plowing jobs and Mom working overtime at the market, not to mention all the usual stuff. For two days, Aunt Edna watched us coming and going. For two days, she contented herself with the snow shovel and snowshoes. Then she issued a decree. “I have come all the way from New Orleans for an expedition with you and you have no time. But I insist that we continue our annual tradition of an outing for the whole family.”

We exchanged glances. How could we possibly fit in a trip with Aunt Edna? “After studying your schedules and the weather,” she announced, “I have determined that we can, and we will, all go to the library together on Wednesday evening for one hour, 6:30 to 7:30 p.m.”

She would hear none of our protests. “No excuses,” she declared. She had it all figured out. Mom would take the truck that day for her shift at the market. Afterward, she would pick up my brother, Dylan, 14, and his best friend, also 14, at basketball practice and meet the rest of us at the library. Dad would use the van to drive Aunt Edna, Grandma, me, I’m 12, my sister, Hannah, she’s 10, and my brother, Benjy, who’s 4. Aunt Edna volunteered to cook supper ahead of time and reheat it when we got back from the library. We could eat while doing our homework if necessary. And we’d tuck Benjy into bed straight away, after his bedtime bowl of Cheerios.

Wednesday came. As we bundled up for our expedition to the library, I remembered Karen, the woman who lives with us part time while taking courses. She’d arrive home and wonder where we were. I wrote her a note saying, “We’re ALL at the library; supper when we get back at 7:45 – Aunt Edna’s lasagna.” We piled into the van for the short ride to town. When we arrived at the library, we saw the truck and found Mom just inside the door with Dylan and his buddy, still sweaty from basketball practice.

Aunt Edna gathered us into a huddle and gave us our marching orders. “No looking in the card catalog, no using the computers, no chatting. Browse for something new to you. Then sit down and enjoy yourself.” She would take Benjy to the children’s room, while the rest of us were to spread out to different areas of the library.

Hannah and I went straight to the Young Adult section. She picked up David McCauley’s book “Building” from a display and sat down to study the drawings, page by page. I passed by the books of some of my favorite authors such as Sharon Creech and Lois Lowry and found a book I’d been meaning to read for ages – “Shabanu, Daughter of the Wind,” by Suzanne Fisher Staples. It’s about two sisters in a family of nomads who raise camels in the desert in Pakistan. Right away, I became engrossed in the story. Both girls are close to my age; the older one is preparing for her wedding, even though she is only 13! The younger sister is terrified of being forced into an arranged marriage when her turn comes. I was deep in the book when my sister Hannah started talking to me. I put my finger to my lips. She moved on to another David McCauley book, “Mosques,” and I went back to my reading.

It seemed like 7:30 came way too soon. Aunt Edna, with Benjy in tow, stood in the hall. She reported that Benjy had insisted on his favorite book, “Big Wheels” by Anne Rockwell, but then he had snuggled contentedly while she read aloud three other books – “Maine Marmalade” by Ethel Pochocki, “The Missing Mitten Mystery” by Steven Kellogg, and “Sam and the Tigers” by Julius Lester with cool illustrations by Jerry Pinckney. Benjy clutched all four books. I plucked “Haveli” – the sequel to my book – from the shelf. I knew I’d want to read that next. Hannah decided to take home the book on mosques.

On the window seat near the checkout counter, I was surprised to see Karen. “I found your note,” she said, “and I didn’t want to miss out on the fun.” She’d been reading Anita Shreve’s “Light on Snow” from the New Fiction shelf. She showed me the cover picture. It was a girl my age looking into snowy woods. “It’s refreshing to read a good novel after the endless hours of required reading for my courses,” she said.

Grandma, always punctual, walked toward us from the back of the building. She was carrying a thick, green book with big, white letters on the spine. “I’ve been in the biography section, reading about a famous anthropologist,” she said. “‘Blackberry Winter’ by Margaret Mead. 1972.” The author was pictured on the book’s cover standing beside models of huts and boats that didn’t look anything like the ones we have in Maine.

The boys showed up, each with a magazine. My brother Dylan is a car fanatic, so I wasn’t surprised to see him with “Automobile.” “I’ve been reading about hybrids versus diesels. The article is in the August issue – ancient history – so I can take it out of the library. At home I’m going to read the article on the Porsche 911,” he said. “After my homework,” he added for Grandma’s benefit.

It was no surprise that his best friend carried an issue of Scientific American. He’d been reading about computers that can learn the working priorities of individual users. “You wouldn’t believe what computers can do,” he told us. He’s like that. A tech brain.

My parents were nowhere to be seen. I found Mom in the State of Maine room. She brought three books out with her: “The Maine Sporting Camp Cookbook” by Alice Arlen, a book of poetry titled “Views From the Island” by Charles Wadsworth, and “The Art of Winter in Maine” by Carl Little and Arnold Skolnick. “I never took time before to explore the Maine collection,” she said.

We were ready to go, and Dad still hadn’t shown up. While the rest of us checked out our books, my brother searched the building, finally spotting Dad in a back alcove of the mysteries section. He’d totally lost track of time. He was reading a small red book he’d discovered among the fat, glossy-covered mysteries. “‘The Thirty-Nine Steps’ by John Buchan,” he said, as the scanner entered the slender volume into the circulation records.

“Not far into the book, a man who’d untangled a conspiracy leading up to World War I – exposing his prejudices along the way, I might add – is assassinated,” Dad told us. “His death catapults the narrator of the book into a series of narrow escapes from both the police and the conspirators. The book was published in MCMXV. When was that?” he quizzed us.

“MCMXV is Roman numerals for 1915,” blurted Dylan. “That book is almost a hundred years old!”

I saw Aunt Edna looking at us. She didn’t say anything, but she was smiling. We stepped outside under a sky of twinkling stars and climbed into our vehicles for the trip home.

After Benjy was tucked into bed, the rest of us dined on Aunt Edna’s lasagna. Hannah asked, “Can we please do another library expedition?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Mom. “I had a minivacation in the State of Maine collection tonight.”

After supper, Dad stole away to the couch, carrying “The Thirty-Nine Steps.” Aunt Edna insisted it was her night to do everything in the kitchen, including the cleanup. Our house felt peaceful for the first time in months.

Sarah Corson can be reached at slc@acadia.net.