As writers, we have at least one thing in common—a love of the written word. Whether it’s fiction or non-fiction, short stories or poetry, that commonality creates a special bond between us.
As a child, I was exposed to books at an early age. My mother was, and still is, an avid reader, so maybe it’s in my genes. Books were frequently given as gifts and then shared among my three sisters and myself. Often relatives would inscribe them; I still have an oversized book titled Shirley Temple’s Bedtime Stories from a great-aunt that I cherish even now.
We made weekly family trips to the public library. I remember my excitement at receiving my first library card. I was five years old as I stood and watched as my name and address were typed onto a small yellow square of cover stock with rounded edges. I carefully printed my name onto that card as the final step of my “initiation” into a world that allowed me to choose for myself from among the many volumes stuffed onto enormous dark wooden shelves that towered high above my head. I was always the last one to check out, having to carefully examine each book not only for the story it contained, but the cover art and condition of each book as well (I’m still a little anal about that—I like well cared for books).
Sometimes I’d find a chair tucked into an alcove of the library and sit and review my selections, taking care to insure that I had not only selected wisely, but that I had chosen enough books to last me until the next weekly trip. I’d proudly march up to the circulation desk, carefully deposit my books, and place my card on top of the stack. I somehow remember the librarian commenting on my choices, pleased to think she shared my opinion as she scanned each book and placed a card into each pocket. Our library was located on a hill, so there were a number of steps down to the parking lot below. I always took care so as to not drop any of my treasured booty, ignoring my mother’s request to hold the handrail as I made my descent.
I still live in my hometown and we have a brand new library—much larger and complete with a separate children’s room connected to the main room by a small white bridge and rainbow overhead, white clouds painted on the walls (see post photos). It’s a lovely room with furniture and shelves scaled for children, but I still have fond memories of that old library and the feeling it gave me of being more grown up than I really was.
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The first time I rode a bus by myself, it was to the library. I waited for it all by myself, put the money in the coin box and found a seat. I had a strange but familiar feeling that I was riding into my future, that books, ideas and white marble momuments were the stuff of my destiny.
When the bus hit Western Avenue, it pulled up next to The Oak Room, a bar that served cheap liquor fortified by cheaper moon-shine. As the bus coasted to a stop, a wild-eyed wino charged out of the bar like a bull breaking out of a corral. He came bellowing across the sidewalk and head-butted the panel below my window, knocking himself cold.
It is then that I got another strange but familiar feeling that crazy-ass characters were just as much the stuff of my destiny.
Today, I am not comfortable unless there ar three partialy read books in my house. No matter where I go, from room to room, there is something for me to read.
I took count on my 83rd birthday, and had noted 29,848 books read. I also noted writing and publishing 9 fiction, 43 children's books,107 textbooks, and 2023 articles-columns-short-stories. Lucky for me, my wife, a great reader, works at BORDERS!
Enjoying the holidays and all you bring to Gather!