I can’t remember the first time I stepped into a Barnes and Noble, but it must have been when I was in college decades ago. I was charmed by the rows and rows of books, the coffee bar, and the comfortable chairs and tables situated around the store.
Growing up in the very liberal Eugene, Oregon, I was used to bookstores that featured crystals, metaphysics sections, astrological chart reading, and instructions about witchcraft, punctuated by the pungent smell of patchouli incense. Barnes and Noble was a welcome relief to that crunchy Oregon vibe.
When I entered graduate school, Barnes and Noble became an oasis. Its coffee and cinnamon scones beckoned me from the 38 miles between it and my rural university. I spent entire days there, writing papers, buying and reading books, and I even had my confession heard there by a fellow shopper and priest. When I started having children, I would swing by before weekly doctor’s appointments to grab one of the beloved scones when cravings got the best of me. And when I was writing, I sat in the café and paged through research for my doctorate and eventually books. Finally, when my first book came out, it was a special moment to read my name on its spine among the stacks.
As my children grew, I would take them to Barnes and Noble, picking out favorite books or grabbing gifts for friends. When I started homeschooling, the store gave me an “educator’s card” providing a
