A farewell speech from OFPL’s resident hobbit

My dear patrons and perusers, renewers and recommenders, genealogists and local history buffs, crafternooners and tabletop tinkerers, bookmarkers and elephant ear-ers, audiobook addicts and hoopla hurrah-ers, board game-borrowers and donation bin drop off-ers, storytime sproutlings and children’s area champions, passportists and notary-ians. Today is an important day for me: I am off on my next adventure!

I shall not keep you long. Today is no ordinary day in my corner of the library—no, not quite. For it is on this very day, with this very blog post, that I must make an ANNOUNCEMENT—I am leaving the library.

Two years is far too short a time to spend among such excellent and admirable patrons. Unlike Bilbo Baggins, though, I don’t mean to disappear with a puff of smoke behind a particularly flashy ring. I will still be quietly admiring our collection, watching the seasons change from the big window wall, and maybe secretly straightening books in the stacks. But my time as your Adult Services Assistant has drawn to a close, and with it, I find myself stepping away from the public floor and into a season of study, quietude, and respite.

Now let me be very clear: I’m not saying goodbye forever. This is no final curtain call, but instead, a well-earned intermission. I hope to return to OFPL someday—not too unlike a certain grey-robed wizard—perhaps a bit more wizened, with a bit more strength, and (let’s be honest) probably still carrying armfuls of books.

A literary token of my gratitude

Speaking of armfuls of books, as any good hobbit would have at their going-away party, I have some mathoms to impart unto you all. Books for the road; books for the return; books for that soft in-between when you are both and neither. Some of these titles I have championed before; some I’ve only just pressed to my heart. All of them, I offer to you:

1. The Tea Dragon Society by Kay O’Neill
   • A gentle tale of friendship, care, and memory, where even dragons must be nurtured and rest is a radical act.
2. The Little Ghost Who Was a Quilt by Riel Nason
   • A cozy oddball of a ghost learns that softness isn’t a weakness, and being stitched together differently can be its own kind of magic.
3. The Lost Soul by Olga Tokarczuk
   • A spare fable wrapped in lush pencilwork, reminding us that the soul can lag behind, and the only cure is slowness (are you noticing a trend yet?)
4. Black Liturgies by Cole Arthur Riley
   • A book of prayers and poetry that feels as refreshing as breathing crisp mountain air; fierce, tender, rooted in Black dignity and the sacred art of being.
5. The Serviceberry by Robin Wall Kimmerer
   • A reflection on the titular humble fruit and a reminder to us that giving and receiving are not separate, and that sweetness belongs to the many.
6. The Bakery Dragon by Robert Kurtz
   • A sugar-dusted reminder that comfort can be fierce. Also, a book for lovers of little treats, much like myself.
7. The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
   • A garden long asleep wakes again, as do the children who learn to tend it. Grief and joy entwine like ivy on stone.
8. Sweet Bean Paste by Durian Sukegawa
   • A quiet novel about a dorayaki shop, unlikely friendship, and the power of listening. Bittersweet like red bean and spring sunlight.
9. Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree
   • An orc retires from adventuring to open a coffee shop. Found family, cinnamon rolls, and a reminder that peaceful lives are epic, too.
10. Bilbo’s Last Song by J.R.R. Tolkien
    • Bilbo’s quiet goodbye, set to verse and light. A perfect final note for those who know leaving is also arriving somewhere else.

May these stories keep you company on your road, and remind you that even the smallest stories can carry great warmth. And with that, in closing…

In parting

I want to thank you, my patrons, each and every one. You have filled my days with joy and happy tears, with questions I had to consult the internet oracles for, and with your stories that have helped shape my own.

To my coworkers who shelve a Misty Mountains’ worth of books in the peak of summer reading, who shared silly calendar comics with me after the day is through, and who let me serve them a hot cup of tea or coffee: you have been my Fellowship. I leave you with hope, with humor, and with the gentle reminder that library work, at its core, is an act of love for one another.

“I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like… and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.”

(Okay, totally kidding. I’m not that much of a Baggins.) But I do know this: working in this library has been my unexpected journey. I go now not to escape it, but to honor it by becoming something more.

I am going now. I bid you all a very fond farewell. Goodbye…
for now.