The New York Review of Books recently published an article by Sue Halpern with the same title and it got me thinking. My relationship with libraries has changed a bit now that I'm an author, but the core of that relationship is the same.
My earliest library memory is walking through canyons of books. The library in my rural New York town was grand by small town standards of the day--which isn't saying a whole lot except we had a distinguished-looking brick building with one big room filled with towering shelves. My mom showed me the one corner in the library feral children like myself could safely stay. The children's corner had a wooden box of worn toys and one narrow three-tiered book case. The large print and colorful colors on the covers told me this is my place, a place I could belong.
My earliest library memory is walking through canyons of books. The library in my rural New York town was grand by small town standards of the day--which isn't saying a whole lot except we had a distinguished-looking brick building with one big room filled with towering shelves. My mom showed me the one corner in the library feral children like myself could safely stay. The children's corner had a wooden box of worn toys and one narrow three-tiered book case. The large print and colorful colors on the covers told me this is my place, a place I could belong.
The library was located right across the street from the post office. Normally, this wouldn't be important except that my mom was a chatter. Any errand she dragged us three kids on would become a marathon of chat. We could either wait quietly at her side, or bake in our wood-paneled station wagon during a time when such a thing was "good for kids." As the youngest, I was held on the shortest leash, but once I earned her trust that I would look both ways each time I crossed the street, a trip to the post office was no longer the excruciating slog it had become.
I could go the the library!
I remember being reprimanded more than once to keep my voice down and not to run through the stacks. The library was a place I could go. I was welcome.
Years later, fate would have it that I met my husband in a library. Years after that, he and I would bring our three children to our local library. When we first arrived in town, the library was housed in a squat, century-old building off of the main street. Half of the large basement area was dedicated to children's books, puzzles, games, movies, music and even puppets. Passes to Boston museums and attractions were there for the asking. We both held full-time jobs and reconnected with our children at the end of the day through a bed-time ritual that included reading one chapter of Harry Potter and one book chosen, and hopefully agreed upon, by the kids. My husband became a library trustee. I frequented the book club.
Our habit was go to the library each month and fill a wooden milk crate with books. When the town built a ravishing new library, we were the last patrons to the old site and crammed as many books as we could into the crate. The library would be closed for a month as it moved from the old location to the new. During that month, we missed the cozy building and the spontaneous pizza night outings where the kids would chose movies while I urged them to hurry before the pepperoni and sausage pies got cold.
We were the first family through the doors of the new library and marveled at its size and beauty.
Some old-timers grumbled at the expense of such a "frivolous" thing as a public library. A controversy erupted over displaying stuffed birds. New folks wanted changing displays of local artists and regional history. Old folks wanted familiarity and continuity.
With its new looks came new ways to reach out to the community. Children and seniors have a place there. Yoga, lectures, movies, concerts, painting classes and so much more happens because a plucky little library in a small New England town became the heart of its community.
