Back in the day of awkward high school dances, geometry and hallway drama, yours truly used to spend around 13 hours a week in the Hibbing Public Library in the role of the coveted "Library Aide" position.


Let's be honest. As a job, it sucked. My time was spent alphabetizing items and yelling at people looking at porn. The paycheck wasn't great: $5.15 minimum wage.


But as a freshman in high school, when I didn't drive or pay bills, it was actually a pretty sweet gig. Get a couple hundred dollars every two weeks, use a little to avoid the vomit served in the school cafeteria and the rest to spend on DVDs. Hell, what wasn't there to love?


I've got a lot of stories from back then... there was this one 90-year-old guy, Norm, who worked at the library for Only God Knows How Long. He was sharp as a tack, but his vision wasn't so good. He'd come back while I was putting away books and enliven my dreary day by talking about baseball, Hibbing lore or proving his sharpness by reciting various alphabets of different languages.


There was this lady, too, who apparently knew my parents and me quite well. She would stop me in the library and engage me in conversation whenever she could, often about random topics such as bathroom facilities in Europe and her daughter's battle of the bulges. She talked to me off and on for the entire two years I worked there, and I bullshitted every single conversation. I have no idea what her name was.


But my most important memory of the Hibbing Public occurred on my first day of work. It was a two-hour shift. I was being trained in by a girl named Adrienne. I remember everything, because I was nervous for my first real job, and so I was concentrating hard. 


I remember walking through the basement, checking the toys.


I remember choosing my locker (number 12, but the 12 was scratched off).


I remember the snow falling, and one of the librarians, Roberta, saying how we were supposed to get six inches that night.


And I remember, so strongly, three hours later when my Nokia Brick rang, and how I answered it, and found out a good friend of mine had been in a car accident, and was dead, on the way to one of those awkward high school dances. And I remember the week that followed, concentrating so hard on the letters and call numbers on book spines so I didn't have to think ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE.


I can't help but think about that whenever I'm in this building. I'm here now, home on Spring Break, taking a quick break from my Day of Homework. This building is important to me. It's where I first mourned someone I was knew. Once you've been in a place that profoundly affects you, some part of you never really leaves it. Coming here, despite the negative connotations, feels good. It feels important, like there are some things I shouldn't forget.


Time goes by. Adrienne got married, Norm passed away, and I moved to Des Moines. But when I'm back here, it doesn't feel like so much has changed.


Any readers want to share a similar place of importance to them? Doesn't necessarily have to be a workplace, just somewhere that a piece of you still remains the way it used to be.