The closing of small-town libraries because of lack of funding has been in the headlines recently, and it is sad news, indeed. For more than 50 years, I have made regular trips to local libraries, inhaling the smell of books both old and new, perusing the stacks, looking at covers, reading the book flaps (and, lately, scrutinizing the size of the font) before heading to the checkout. There the librarian greets me by name and we chat about a recent author’s visit or the upcoming book and bake sale.
If I have time, I’ll settle into a comfortable nook to skim through periodicals or sort through the pile of free magazines. Smaller libraries usually offer an electric teakettle and a variety of teas and instant coffee for those who choose to linger. Often there is a display of a local artist’s work to enjoy, to be replaced by the work of a different artist the following month. My father’s paintings of seascapes and old barns have graced the walls of both the Southport library, where we have a summer home, and the West Buxton library – the small library I have frequented for the last 20 years.
When I was a girl, growing up in (what was then) a rural town west of Boston, trips to the library were part of our regular round of errands; we probably averaged three visits a week. My mother was a voracious reader and instilled the love of reading in all four of us kids. I took large stacks of books out at a time from the children’s room; the librarian expressed incredulity at my having actually read them when I returned them two days later. I have a clear memory of hours spent happily reading and munching one Macintosh apple after another on our living room couch, lost in the world of “The Secret Garden” or “The Borrowers,” or even “The Bobbsey Twins.”
It wasn’t long before I had read my way through all the children’s books and graduated to the adult section upstairs. I remember my mother dropping me off at the library, while she ran other errands, with instructions to check out a few books for her (her directive was simply “get the thickest books you can find”). Mom wasn’t fussy about her fiction. I don’t recall her requesting specific authors or genres; it just had to provide at least one evening’s worth of entertainment.
I made my way back to the children’s room when I started teaching elementary school in my early 20s, and again when step-grandchildren and nieces and nephews started to arrive. Now, in retirement, I teach second-graders in an after-school program and once again delight in seeking the perfect picture book that will work its magic to settle down my young charges at the end of a long day. How poor my life would have been without libraries and books – and my mom and children by the hundreds. Thank goodness for them all.
— Special to the Telegram
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