So anyway, the school had a library full of children's books and the first and second graders had a library period once a week where we went, picked a book to check out, read it and returned it (or renewed it more often then returning it) the next week. Well, one book I returned was lost in the shuffle and no one believe I returned it no matter how much I protested. Eventually my parents gave me a few bucks and forced me to pay for a book I told everyone I returned. I lost my library privilege for lying about returning the book.
For a month or so I just sat fuming at a table in that little library while the rest of the class picked their books. Then one day I was taken out of class by the Nun who ran the library. She found my book, I had returned it like I said all along, and she was very apologetic.
I didn't want my library privilege back by that time, and I told them I wasn't going to check any more books out of the library. About two or three weeks after the Nun apologized, out of pressure from both the Nuns and my parents, I started checking out books again, but I never read those books. I just returned them the next week and grabbed something else off one of the shelves to return unread. To this day, prefer to buy my books rather than use a library.
Actually, from all the books I have bought over the years, I basically have a small library of my own now. Every once in a while I make an effort to catalog and/or record exactly what books I have, but that never gets very far before I quit.
Strange the memories that can be dragged up by reading an account that is only superficially similar to something that happened in a person's life.