*Me - circa 1982, with the castle to my right.*

I tucked the book into my hoodie, peering into the dark alley. Locking the door behind me, I slipped the keys into my jeans pocket.

The keys were given to me. The book hiding under my bra was not.

On my short walk home, my guilt was covered only by the dark of the night. Sneaking up the stairs to my bedroom, I pulled out the book and stared at the title: The Best Baby Name Book in the Whole Wide World. An seemingly odd choice for a fifteen-year-old girl. It intrigued me enough to read, but the choice was embarrassing enough that I hid it.

Checking it out may have led to questions I didn’t want to answer. Avoiding a formal checkout was easier. No library card was needed that night - I had the keys to the castle.

I gained private access to my favorite hometown sanctuary - our public library - through a short-term cleaning gig in 1982. I was an avid reader and a sophomore in high school. My grandma, Marie Wagner, was the library’s beloved cleaning lady, and I was to serve as her substitute.

Grandma handed over the keys just weeks before, after a detailed walk-through of the library. She carefully listed the duties I was to perform—emptying the trash, vacuuming the carpets, wiping down the sinks. Stealing books was not one of them.

After a lifetime of blustery Midwest winters, Grandma and Grandpa had become sunbirds. For Iowa residents and former farmers, this annual excursion into the sunny desert of Arizona was a luxury.

Each year, they escaped west. Rerouting their mail and lining up someone to watch the house came with ease. Finding a trustworthy replacement for Grandma’s coveted library job was another matter.

When I began peeking into pubescent maturity at fifteen, Grandma deemed me the perfect substitute. Proud of her work, she showed me the ropes in the weeks leading up to her flight out of town, making sure I knew exactly how the library was meant to be cared for.

Grandma loved her side hustle. Like many women of her generation, she hadn’t graduated from high school. Girls in the family were expected to help on the farm or marry—paths that rarely aligned with schooling through eighteen. Grandma never spoke of what she missed. Instead, she became an avid reader with impeccable penmanship. Working at the library was a feather in her cap.

The librarian, Jeri Ann Grant, adored Grandma—and the feeling was mutual. Throughout my childhood, I often tagged along as Grandma worked, crossing paths with Jeri Ann as she locked up for the night. There was always conversation and a shared affection.

Our town was small, and the public library sat at its center—our community hub. Adults came and went, kids drifted in after school, and no one seemed out of place.

I was a frequent visitor, sometimes alone, sometimes with my brothers or friends. We would browse shelves or settle into a quiet corner. When we finished with the books, we’d slip into the soundproof listening rooms and play vinyl records we didn’t own at home.

The 1980s were long before e-books and big-box bookstores. In Remsen, there were no bookshop to wander through. It was our library that stretched our young minds beyond the physical edges of town—and ours was anchored by a librarian who knew the people and the rhythms of the community far better than any card catalog.

Jeri Ann knew us all by name. She asked about our families and paid attention to what we checked out and brought back. I’d slide my stack onto the counter, eager for her reaction, and she’d offer a few thoughtful comments before sending me on my way.

Our summers were filled with reading contests to keep our minds fresh. Long days at the town pool often ended with stops by the library. Returned books meant a check on our reading challenge card to collect a well-earned prize later.

When offered to become an official library employee, I was thrilled. And my stint did start out innocently enough. Like Grandma, I would carefully unlock the large double wooden front doors. The keys jingled with the many varieties needed to open closets, bathrooms, side doors, and the library conference room used for community gatherings.

I cleaned in the off-hours, when the library held an eerie silence, so different from the disciplined quiet during the daytime. I welcomed this new silence, knowing I had the library all to myself.

I soon found distractions to my cleaning routine - magazines marketed to married housewives had me lingering over the edgy adult articles. Romance novels caught my eye, drawing me in to read the final pages where I thought the juiciest excerpts would live.

In those glorious days before constant camera surveillance, I would shuffle through drawers in back rooms typically off-limits to patrons. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I did it because I could.

Dusting quickly became a chore, with so many shelves to cover and books to move. I was easily distracted by whatever caught my eye—a photo section tucked inside an actress’s memoir, a passage that begged me read.

I made up for my halfhearted dusting with enthusiastic vacuuming. I would carefully pull the machine back to create perfect lines in the thick carpet, admiring my work when I later locked the door behind me.

Vacuuming was also a favorite because of my teenage vanity. With so many glassed areas, I was constantly checking my reflection. I made sure my permed layers were sprayed to perfection, and my high-waisted jeans didn’t look too snug. There were plenty of butt checks as I glanced over my shoulder, dragging the vacuum across the carpet.

While dusting wasn’t my favorite, the bathrooms were my true nemesis. I left them for last, often doing the bare minimum and convincing myself I’d make up for it next time. Lacking Grandma’s attention to detail didn’t go unnoticed.

Jeri Ann began leaving me kind notes.

Thanks for your hard work, Sandy. We’re having a big meeting in the conference room tonight. Could you please take just a few more minutes in the bathroom area? So many people… I would so appreciate it! - Jeri Ann

I always responded and did better—for a while. But it never lasted long. My nights at the library slowly became more about the experience than the responsibility. Unlike Grandma, my sense of adventure outpaced my sense of duty.

With spring came the end of winter—and the return of my grandparents. My nights at the library were coming to a close. As daylight savings gave us back more light, I, too, was ready for more time in my nights. I gladly returned the keys to my thankful grandma.

Then I remembered the borrowed baby name book, buried beneath a mound of discarded papers in my room. A sense of responsibility set in. I may not have cleaned as well as Grandma, but I wasn’t a thief.

Returning the book wouldn’t be as easy as taking it. The keys to the castle were back with Grandma, their rightful keeper.

I needed a plan that wouldn’t invite questions—or assumptions—about why a fifteen-year-old might be interested in baby names or how the book left the library. So just as I had slipped it out, I decided to return it the same way.

Hidden under my sweatshirt, I walked into the library to a smiling Jeri Ann. I hoped she’d be busy with other patrons or tucked away in a back room. Instead, it was just the two of us, front and center. She flashed her signature smile, offering no acknowledgment of the recent handoff of the cleaning responsibilities. There would be no feedback from Jeri Ann or from Grandma—only the quiet understanding when I wasn’t asked to fill in again.

As Jeri Ann turned to tend to a stack of books behind her, I stealthily slipped The Best Baby Name Book onto the return cart. My name wasn’t recorded on the pocket, and there was no date stamp inside. Evidence of my time in possession was as unmemorable as my cleaning stint.

My secrets stayed with me, along with a clean criminal record.

Jeri Ann simply looked up as I reached the door and flashed me her signature smile.

“Thank you, Sandy.”

Ending my time as a library employee, I walked back into the daylight, pleased to be a regular library cardholder once again.