IF my town were a person, I would have a crush on it. Six years after moving to Mill Valley, Calif., I am still very infatuated with it: the way it looks in the morning (so cute), the way it smells (like eucalyptus and ferns), the way the air feels (as if it’s always spring).
I like to collect the sorts of stories — about the long-ago pig races in the town square, for instance — that might not interest other, less besotted residents.
So I thought I had hit pay dirt one day not so long ago when I was wandering around the basement of the public library and discovered a sign: “The history room is open.”
From the doorway, I could see a wall-size photo from a century ago. It was like a baby picture, and I angled in for a closer look.
“Please don’t touch anything,” a voice snapped behind me.
I turned and saw a woman who sat, proprietary as a spider, at a wooden desk in the center of the room.
“I’m just looking,” I said.
