When I was about 6, some kind soul introduced me to the Carnegie Library in Hazelwood. It sat halfway up a steep hill. When I walked back down with books under each arm, the sky was always filled with fire from J&L's furnaces, roaring 24/7.

Looking back, I marvel at how taken for granted the neighborhood's eternal flames were. I'm also amazed at how little girls could take long walks all by themselves and return home safely.

I needed the companionship of books back then. Life was lonely with Dad working shifts and Mom consumed by the needs of my baby brother. The only book I vividly remember from that time featured Larry the Lobster. Before encountering Larry, I never knew oceans existed. I brought Larry and his friends home often, vowing that someday I would visit an ocean and look them up.

I showed Larry's picture to my grandmother and began to lobby her to take me on a longer trip than our occasional bus rides Downtown. A few years later, I succeeded. Mum, Aunt Palma and I boarded a Greyhound, headed for Atlantic City. I can still see myself craning out the bus window for a glimpse of waves while we were still in Pennsylvania. Several hours later, the three of us stood spellbound at ocean's edge in Atlantic City.

Six decades later, the fiery canopies I grew up under have vanished, but my passion for saltwater settings remains afire. I owe it all to a book, one which my parents could not afford to buy me.

During high school and college, I haunted "the stacks" between classes. Eventually I began to buy my own books, lustily devouring them, feeling anxious if I wasn't immersed in one. I became a devotee of Stonewall Books on Filbert Street, Shadyside, where Jerry happily ordered whatever I requested. Then, we'd talk books as I browsed about that cozy cave, a few steps below street level.

All went well between books and me for the 15 years I lived in Shadyside. Then, yearning to be close to water, I decided to move to Oakmont, where I could live on the banks of the Allegheny River. It wasn't salty, but, hey, it was still satisfying to gaze out upon it and see the occasional fish jump or a blue heron standing zenlike on shore.

And so during the summer of '92, I began to pack ... and pack ... and pack. I was stunned by the number of boxes which I labeled BOOKS. The number 38 comes to mind. Viewing myself as a virtuous non-materialist, I was appalled by my conspicuous consumption and vowed to break my book-buying habit ASAP.

Within days of arriving in Oakmont, I sorted through the contents of those 38 boxes. Eventually, I gave most away, retaining only volumes to which I was unable to detach -- yet. Then, feeling unburdened, I breathed in some fresh air and walked up to the Oakmont Carnegie Library. My new life as a book-borrower had begun.

It continues to this day. Rarely do I buy a book. When I read of one I want, I walk to the library and ask Dixie or Kathy or Tina about it. If Oakmont doesn't own it, they order it from the system. Usually, I'm holding its heft in my hands within a week.

The Oakmont Carnegie Library, moreover, is a shining architectural gem -- a pleasure to gaze upon, inside and out.

A lengthy capital campaign has culminated in an expansion so seamlessly integrated that Andrew Carnegie himself would be hard put to say where the old ends and the new begins. More cozy nooks for curling up with a book beckon, one complete with fireplace. Although a fire hasn't been lit yet, patrons are always warmed by the gracious helpfulness of every staff member, including our excellent young director, Shannon Dunn.

Recently, I've been accorded the privilege of serving as a trustee of this vital community resource. On the Wednesday evenings of board meetings, I can be spotted walking to the library, smiling nonstop. I'm celebrating the fact that I now have an opportunity to give back to the benefactors who brought me Larry the Lobster and continue to bring me countless other characters who impact my imagination and nourish my dreams.