For
the Love of Libraries:
Where more than books await the curious reader
If a pollster or
market researcher were to collar me on the street and
solicit my opinion of the greatest invention in
human history, I would answer “the library.”
At the library, one can sample from among the offerings
as a hummingbird tests flowers. I choose selectively,
yet somewhat wantonly: A paragraph tasted; a sonnet sipped.
At the library, I’ve
traveled the world for free.
Librarians are dear
to me, too. How do they
know so much? Where do they find their
patience? Is patience a course taught at librarian
school?
I remember, with
fondness, the librarians in my hometown library. The librarians
were so welcoming and kind. They
liked readers, it seemed, and oh, how I liked to read!
The librarian in
the Children's Section wore a cameo brooch at her throat,
and smelled faintly of flowers. Behind her specs,
her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. The long
strands of her silver hair were always coming undone from
her topknot and tumbling down. She
was a bit messy, just like us. Perhaps
that’s why we loved her. She could assume so many
voices during story-time reading circles. Her
deep Billy Goat Gruff voice was so unlikely, coming from
such a slender slip of a woman. We would
howl with laughter. And no laughter was more musical than
hers.
After I had read
all the books that interested me in the Children’s
Section, I applied, with rapidly beating heart,
for permission to enter the upstairs realm ... the mysterious
Adult Section.
The Adult Librarian
gazed at me over her half-moon glasses. “How
old are you?” she asked.
“Eleven,”
I replied.
“You’re
younger than the rules, you know. The rules say you’re
to be at least 14.”
“Yes,”
I replied meekly, “But I think I’m ready.”
“Well,
we’ll have to give you a reading test to make sure,”
she answered.
“A
reading test?” I quavered. This was unexpected.
She gave me a book to read. The title escapes me. Stricken
with stage fright, I stumbled and stammered over the word
“bottle.” The Adult Librarian
raised an eyebrow until I finally pried the word off my
tongue, careful to pronounce
each of the two Ts and not pronouncing it “boddel,”
as I would have, had she not been listening with perked
ears.
I finished the page
without further mishap.
“Not
bad; I guess you’ll do,” she said
with a firm mouth, but now friendly eyes. I had passed
her test. Then she again grew solemn. “You can take
out four books at a time, and no more. And
you’re to take good care of the books. No dog ears
or coloring. No rips or chewing gum.”
Gum or coloring
in books? Me? I would never
desecrate a book.
She continued, “And
if you want any books from under the counter, you’re
to bring written permission from your parents.”
“What
are under-the-counter-books?” I asked.
“That’s
where we keep certain books for young adults and adults.
Books like Catcher in the Rye, Peyton Place;
books like that,” she said with
a certain satisfaction, perhaps thinking that I, aged
11, wouldn’t be able to secure permission for those
books.
 I
instantly vowed to secure permission for Catcher in
the Rye and Peyton Place. Especially Peyton
Place. The Adult Librarian
had spit out the title the way you’d spit out a
bug in your coffee. I must have Peyton Place.
Though I was successful
in getting permission for Catcher in the Rye,
I never read Peyton Place until years later.
Catcher proved much
the better choice. What a comforting discovery to find
out there were other kids who were shy and confused—just
like me.
Catcher in the
Rye and Portnoy’s Complaint were two
of the books that startled me the most during those early
reading years. I had been
lost in the classics until then, and had cried over the
poor lost Dickens children laboring in their workhouses
and eating horrid cold porridges. To read
in Portnoy’s Complaint of a boy who committed
unspeakable acts upon the liver destined to be the family’s
dinner that night was quite startling to me.
I never, ever, ate fried liver at our dinner table again,
even though it was my mother who did the shopping and
not my brother.
With few markers
to commemorate coming of age, ascending the steep
staircase to the Adult Section became my Rite of Passage.
Standing on the edge of young womanhood, I was proud to
access the Adult Section, replete
with adult temptations from J.D. Salinger and Phillip
Roth, available from under the counter—with proper
permission, of course.
My love of libraries
continues today. My library
card still unlocks exotic voyages, knowledge and magic,
but I’m hoping that when I’m in my 80s or
90s, I’ll finally get to see the truly adult books.
Within their pages, maybe, just maybe, I’ll discover
the meaning of life I’ve been searching for all
these years among the books, periodicals, and newspapers.
Until then, I
try to live by words I read in a travel article.
The author described a humble cottage she discovered in
Provence, France. Painted
over the cottage door were the words Paix sans envie.
In English, the words mean “peace without envy.”
Three small perfect words: Upon reflection, I think these
words are the key to unlocking the secret of a happy life.
This information was found
at the library, on the shelf, in the periodicals section,
where it had been waiting all along.
|
Patricia
Frank
writes
from
Beaufort,
NC
on
business
and
non-business
topics
for
organizations,
magazines,
newspapers,
the
web—and
books.
Nobody’s
Mother.
Life
Without
Kids
may
be
ordered
directly
from
Patricia.
Cost
is
$20.95
in
check
or
money
order,
which
includes
shipping
at
media
rate.
If
you’d
like
a
copy
for
your
own
or
a
friend,
please
contact
the
blissful
author
at
Patwrites4u@yahoo.com
for
ordering
address.