Earlier this summer, we completed one of our most dragged-out projects – assembling our very own Little Free Library – charmingly painted to match our garden shed and with a living roof to allow beautiful blooms all summer long. I’d read my steward’s guide, and I understood my responsibilities. Soon enough, my books would be flying off the shelves!

I awoke early the next day, a beautiful Sunday morning, and started on some yard work while the temperatures were still cool. As I stood at the end of our driveway, a middle-aged woman and her dog made their way toward me down the sidewalk.

“Good morning!” I beamed, expecting an equally enthusiastic response. The woman said nothing. She approached our library, then stopped and squinted for a moment. “Ugh! That thing is ugly!” she scoffed, then yanked her dog across the road and fled from our unsightly bibliothèque.

This was exactly twelve hours after our metaphoric ribbon-cutting – this audacious woman slandering our project with no remorse. Before long, I had consulted a few neighbors about this mystery woman, one long-time resident eventually cracking the case. “Oh, she’s kind of a grump,” she assured me. “She never says hi to anyone.”

I decided to take the high road – the harder but more noble road – rather than finding the woman’s house and flinging dog poop at her front door. Instead, I would forgive her for such a sin against humanity, reminding myself of my role as library steward and the benefits of free and accessible books for our neighbors.

Summer continued to pass, and kids and families took and returned books as expected. We received many comments assuring us that our library was anything but ugly. My faith in mankind was restored – that is, until our second library-related trauma.

I was making my way home from work in the early afternoon when I noticed an older Chevy parked in the middle of our street about a block before our house. The driver’s door was open, and a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and cargo shorts was rummaging through our neighbor’s Little Free Library.

As I swung wide around his suspiciously-parked car, I noticed the stacks of books on his dashboard. I made my way home, a strange feeling in my gut, knowing I’d be seeing this man soon. And I was right. Within minutes, he had parked outside our home and made his way to our library. I peeked out the window and stared in horror as he swooped up an armful of our best books and left behind a few dusty duds in their place.

”

ONCE AGAIN, I DECIDED TO TAKE THE HIGH ROAD RATHER THAN CHASING HIM DOWN THE STREET, 

yanking him from his driver's seat by his stupid plaid collar, and carrying out the most epic citizen's arrest in Chippewa Valley history.

I consulted our trusty neighbors once more – this time, on the ever-informative neighborhood Facebook group. Did anyone else see this plaid-shirt, cargo-shorts man? Was he stealing our books and reselling them? The eighteen-comment consensus was yes, he probably was… and this probably wouldn’t be the last time a stranger violated the law of the Little Free Library system.

Once again, I decided to take the high road – the harder but more noble road – rather than chasing him down the street, yanking him from his driver’s seat by his stupid plaid collar, and carrying out the most epic citizen’s arrest in Chippewa Valley history. Instead, I would forgive him for such a sin against humanity, reminding myself of my role as library steward and the benefits of free and accessible books for our neighbors.

But after this second attack, I was disheartened. I didn’t have any other books to replace what had been taken so callously. I figured I’d just let our library sit near-empty while I sulked, the bargain bin leftovers leaning limply to one side. There was nothing else I could do.

Then, just days later as I took the trash to the curb, I noticed our library was suddenly bursting at the seams! Contemporary titles in like-new condition sat packed next to each other – fiction, non-fiction, young adult, and children’s book, hardcover and paperback, all resting snugly in their newfound home.

Opening the door, I noticed a slip of paper tucked into the pages of a hardcover. Not a note for me… but a note from someone I didn’t know to someone else I didn’t know: “This is the book I was talking about. Enjoy.” The message was simple, and the lesson was, too. Library stewards don’t do it because it’s easy; they do it because they care.