Library Memories

Library Memories

Growing up, there were precious few constants in my life. My family was hardly military—in fact, my father mainly sold insurance—but our circumstances changed so much and so often we usually moved once every year or so. By my 17th birthday we'd moved a total of 14 times, and I'd never been in any one school system longer than 16 months. As a result I never had time to put down roots, make any friends, or do anything that required staying in one place for very long.

The one exception to this rule was the local library, my sole bastion in the whirlwind of confusion and complicated emotions that defined my existence. My parents noticed the interest I had taken in reading from an early age, and the voracity with which I consumed every book I found interesting. To their credit, they did their best to help foster this interest, but given our circumstances, a wall of books doesn't travel well. The good news was that the library had plenty of books and didn't need to travel.

The benefits of the library were twofold for me. The main benefit was the seemingly endless stream of books I would check out, which for many years became my only companions. At any given time you would find me with at least two or three books in tow, sometimes more. And you can bet I was indeed reading them all at the same time, with colorful bookmarks dutifully guarding the moment I paused each story.

Primarily I would read fiction, although the occasional astronomy or archaeological journal would sneak its way through. For the most part, though, science fiction was my jam; I was drawn to any author who could show me something I'd never seen before—or, at least, not in the same light. I would look through the eyes of characters and see vastly different worlds from the personal hell I currently found myself in, or find brand new ideas I'd never stopped to consider before but couldn't get out of my head now. Those characters became my friends when I had none, and I lived vicariously through them. In many ways, out of all my options at the time, it was the healthiest way I could have found to escape.

The other benefit was the respite. A tumultuous lifestyle doesn't make for a stable family, and more often than not I was a reluctant witness to the breakdown of a marriage that somehow never ended in divorce...if only because neither side wanted to end up truly alone. Yet they could never quite see how their actions towards each other left their only child just as alone and miserable as they felt. But the library was quiet and, as a rule, if anyone dared to raise their voice at another or speak in anger, an adult would step in and resolve the issue—or make the offender leave so those of us that just wanted peace could enjoy reading their book.

I loved that rule.

In the years that followed, no matter where or how far away we moved my parents always somehow found a way to take me back to that single library on a regular basis. On some weeks there would be a “movie day” with various child-friendly films featuring a narrator that read books aloud. I always looked forward to those. But my favorite program by far was the summer reading initiative: every child was handed a blank list to fill out over the summer months. Whenever they finished a book they would write the title on the list, and give a verbal summary of it to the attending librarian so she could stamp the list. When the list was filled, something like twenty books or so, the child could choose a small toy from a chest tucked behind the librarian's desk.

I remember other kids in the library grumbling how they “had to read so much” just for one toy, but for me, it was heaven. I consumed so many stories I would often fill up two or three lists, and would have to find space for the toys I knew would inevitably be lost the next time my family moved—but dangit, I would love the hell out of those toys until then. It was through this initiative I discovered some of the most memorable books that stuck with me forever; to this day I distinctly remember reading The Girl with The Silver Eyes by Willo Davis Roberts, and the Tripods Trilogy by John Christopher. Both are wonderful stories, and I'd recommend them to children and adults alike.

That summer reading initiative was how I became friends with Mary, one of the librarians of the children's section. She always had a genuine smile when I walked in, month after month, year after year, and in the slower moments we'd chat about random things. I can't quite remember what the conversations entailed anymore, but I loved finally being able to talk to someone who knew me for longer than a few weeks. And oh, how I must have absolutely tortured her with how in-depth my book summaries were; with the kind of hindsight that comes with adulthood, I can only imagine the times she probably would've rather swallowed shards of glass than listen to yet another one-sided “discussion” about a science fiction anthology or what the Babysitter's Club was currently doing. But she never seemed perturbed or distracted as I chattered on endlessly, for which I'm eternally grateful.

Looking back, maybe she even realized I needed it.

Mary may be one of the only people on this earth besides my parents who actually saw me grow up—at least until my family's ever-changing circumstances pulled us away yet again, shortly after I entered my teen years. I returned to that library later as a post-college adult, to find she's now the head librarian of the children's section. I congratulated her and we caught up a bit.

A turbulent childhood that evolved into an even harsher adulthood had hardened my outlook on life and warped me into someone I wasn't sure I liked...or even recognized anymore. But coming back after so long, talking to her, it struck me how her smile never changed—or even wavered—despite how hard her own life must have been. My now adult perspective understood how severely under-appreciated (and frequently underpaid) librarians are in the digital age, yet she still possessed enough strength, some kind of inner light to find the positive facets of life. She just refused to be beaten down, whereas I had long since lost the fight.

Without my realizing it at the time, she'd become one of my heroes, and that little library was a safer home to me than my own home ever had been.

My own jaded outlook on life has softened a little (though only a little) in the years since then, and I'm learning to be kinder to myself. I've been down, but I'm not out. So, for what it's worth: if you ever read this, Mary, thank you for being one of the few constants in my life when I needed it most.

And I still remember my favorite toy from that program, long gone but never forgotten: a small, plastic, striped tiger. Its fuzzy felt was far too orange to be realistic, but I didn't care. I'd earned him, and for as long as I could manage, as long as life would allow, I was going to love and protect him before I lost him.

By Angela Scott