At 62…What I learned at the library

There were two libraries during my growing up years. The first was a big square brick building across the street from the county jail. Two water fountains were on the south wall, with two labels above them, stating who could – and who could not – drink from them. They were but two of the many examples of the starkly divided world that comprised small southern towns in the early 1960s, and the signs were eventually removed. The second library was a standalone building down on Main Street. I loved the topiaries on the east side that spelled out the word “Library”. It was the first time I’d ever seen such a wondrous thing. The second library had a place to park the Bookmobile out back. That was one of my favorite things, that little rolling truck of books. It always smelled like old books, with that slightly musty odor that promised wonderful discoveries within.

Daddy took care of the African violets for the library. They had a huge table of gorgeous plants, with flowers covering the violet spectrum – pinks, purples of all shades, whites. Every Saturday morning, I followed along with him. He watered, picked over leaves, and chatted with the librarians. I disappeared into the shelves to re-emerge an hour later with a huge stack of books. I blazed through them each week, curled up on my bed by the big window, a fortification of snacks beside me. I could hardly wait until the next heavenly Saturday morning. I loved those times with Daddy.

Stairs formed the dividing line between the children’s section and the adult section at both the old and the new libraries. There was something symbolic about those stairs for me. Entering the adult section was heady, entering the kid section always left me wanting more.

I outgrew the children’s library at a young age, and I got permission from the librarian to check out adult books when I was around ten, but only with her supervision. I always wondered if she had any idea of the depth of the world that she opened for me with that permission. I wandered around the stacks, looking for pretty dust jackets. One huge book caught my eye. The cover was exciting, filled with glorious pictures. Gone With the Wind had over 1000 pages in that edition, with double columns of tiny mouse-type on each page. I checked it out, it took me about two months to read it, and Scarlett O’Hara and her world were forever burned into my impressionable ten-year-old soul.

I got my sex education at the county library. Thinking back on it as an adult, I’m amazed at the wide variety of truly descriptive authors that lived on the shelves of that small town, Bible-belt library. I read some of the most graphic, out of the ordinary passages I’ve ever had the pleasure to read while curled up in those stacks. (I never sat in the chairs in the lobby. When I found a book to skim, I just dropped down to the floor and commenced to read.) Back in those days, when you checked out a book, library index card bore your name. You could see everyone who’d checked it out. I still can’t believe the little grey-haired ladies freely wrote down their names on some of those cards – or maybe they just found each other afterwards for book discussions…!

After GWTW, I branched out. I devoured historical romances, and soon began to learn which ones were worth reading for the history, and which ones to skip. Gwen Bristow’s books brought history to life, while telling exciting stories. Others I loved were by Harlequin Romance authors, which in those days, were pretty well written. In later years, we loved to play Trivial Pursuit. I knew the oddest answers, and I could credit every one of them to those early Harlequin Romances.

Other authors caught my early attention – Herman Wouk, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Louisa May Alcott. In middle and high school, the list expanded to J.R.R. Tolkien, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Truman Capote, Edna Ferber, Leon Uris, Erma Bombeck, Jean Shepherd, Stephen King, and oh, so many more. Just like with music, I didn’t have a favorite genre. I sampled them all.

I continued to visit the Young Adult section even as an adult. Some of my most cherished book collections come from those authors – Janet Lambert and Lenora Mattingly Weber were my two favorites, and I still reread them today, in my sixties.

I discovered an entire section of plays at the library. I spent hours poring over the set and scene directions, reading them aloud. Many were older plays, and I discovered those who made up Broadway’s golden years – Barbara Bel Geddes, Noel Coward, Tennessee Williams, Neil Simon, Moss Hart, Arthur Miller, and so many more. Plays opened my world in an entirely different way and made it much easier to understand theatre when I moved to Houston and could finally experience live productions.

Those hours and hours at the library taught me practical skills, too. In those days, the Dewey Decimal System and the card catalogue were our search engines. More detailed info was contained on microfiche. The xerox machine was expensive, so skimming and taking notes was imperative. We also had to learn and decipher footnotes. I perfected my skimming skills to the point where I could zip through entire books and microfiche cards in record time. That skill still serves me well.

What did I learn at the library? I learned that there was an entire world outside the narrow confines of the one in which I was raised. I wanted to experience it – to see it – to taste it – to live it. The library literally opened up my world. I learned to question, to not take things – or people – at face value. I learned the value of reading the last chapter first. I learned to laugh, to cry, to feel shock and terror. I learned critical thinking. I learned tolerance of others. I learned that being female wouldn’t stop me from realizing my career and my dreams. And I learned what I wanted to do with my life – and to feel free in my choices for that life.

So much more than a building full of books. That library threw open the doors to the world for me. And I’m still discovering and learning and building on those skills – at 62, and beyond.