Your hometown library:  where more than books may await the curious reader

If a pollster or market researcher were to collar me on the street and solicit my opinion of the greatest invention in human history, I would answer “the library.” At the library, one can sample from among the offerings as a hummingbird tests flowers. I choose selectively, yet somewhat wantonly: A paragraph tasted; a sonnet sipped. At the library, I’ve traveled the world for free.

Librarians are dear to me, too.

How do they know so much? Where do they find their patience? Is patience a course taught at librarian school? I remember, with fondness, the librarians in my hometown library. The librarians were so welcoming and kind. They liked readers, it seemed, and oh, how I liked to read!

The librarian in the Children's Section wore a cameo brooch at her throat, and smelled faintly of flowers. Behind her specs, her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. The long strands of her silver hair were always coming undone from her topknot and tumbling down. She was a bit messy, just like us. Perhaps that’s why we loved her.

She could assume so many voices during story-time reading circles. Her deep Billy Goat Gruff voice was so unlikely, coming from such a slender slip of a woman. We would howl with laughter. And no laughter was more musical than hers.

After I had read all the books that interested me in the Children’s Section, I applied, with rapidly beating heart, for permission to enter the upstairs realm ... the mysterious Adult Section.

The Adult Librarian gazed at me over her half-moon glasses. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Eleven,” I replied.

“You’re younger than the rules, you know. The rules say you’re to be at least 14.”

“Yes,” I replied meekly, “But I think I’m ready.”

“Well, we’ll have to give you a reading test to make sure,” she answered.

“A reading test?” I quavered. This was unexpected. She gave me a book to read. The title escapes me. Stricken with stage fright, I stumbled and stammered over the word “bottle.”

The Adult Librarian raised an eyebrow until I finally pried the word off my tongue, careful to pronounce each of the two Ts and not pronouncing it “boddel,” as I would have, had she not been listening with perked ears.

I finished the page without further mishap.

“Not bad; I guess you’ll do,” she said with a firm mouth, but now friendly eyes. I had passed her test. Then she again grew solemn. “You can take out four books at a time, and no more. And you’re to take good care of the books. No dog ears or coloring. No rips or chewing gum.”

Gum or coloring in books? Me? I would never desecrate a book.

She continued, “And if you want any books from under the counter, you’re to bring written permission from your parents.”

“What are under-the-counter-books?” I asked.

“That’s where we keep certain books for young adults and adults. Books like Catcher in the Rye, Peyton Place; books like that, books for older readers,” she said with a certain satisfaction, perhaps thinking that I, aged 11, wouldn’t be able to secure permission for those books.

I instantly vowed to secure permission for Catcher in the Rye and Peyton Place. Especially Peyton Place. The Adult Librarian had spit out the title the way you’d spit out a bug in your coffee. I must have Peyton Place.

Though I was successful in getting parental permission for Catcher in the Rye, I never read Peyton Place until years later. Catcher proved much the better choice. What a comforting discovery to find out there were other kids who were shy and confused—just like me.

Catcher in the Rye and Portnoy’s Complaint were two of the books that startled me the most during those early reading years. I had been lost in the classics until then, and had cried over the poor lost Dickens children laboring in their workhouses and eating horrid cold porridges.

To read in Portnoy’s Complaint of a boy who committed unspeakable acts upon the liver destined to be the family’s dinner that night was quite alarming to me. I never, ever, ate fried liver at our dinner table again, even though it was my mother who did the shopping and not my brother.

With few markers to commemorate coming of age, ascending the steep staircase to the Adult Section became my personal Rite of Passage. Standing on the edge of young womanhood, I was proud to access the Adult Section, replete with adult temptations from J.D. Salinger and Phillip Roth, available from under the counter—with proper permission, of course.

My love of libraries continues today. My library card still unlocks exotic voyages, knowledge and magic, but I’m hoping that when I’m in my 90s or beyond, I’ll finally get to see the truly adult books.

Within their pages, maybe, just maybe, I’ll discover the meaning of life I’ve been searching for all these years among the books, periodicals, and newspapers.

Until then, I try to live by words I read in a travel article. The author described a humble cottage she discovered in Provence, France. Painted over the cottage door were the words “paix sans envie.”

In English, the words translate into “peace without envy.” Three small perfect words. And come to think of it, I think these words are the key to unlocking the secret of a happy life.

And of course, this information was found at the library, on the shelf, in the periodicals section, where it had been waiting all along.

Happy reading to all.

© 2008 by Patricia Frank. All rights reserved.

No welcome for these neighbors

I didn't want them as my neighbors.

People had warned me about them; told me to watch my step. Dangerous, nasty, I was told. So I wanted them gone. Out of my life. But they had been here first, here before I came. That being so, I tried very hard to practice the “do unto others” Golden Rule.

Up until now The Golden Rule seemed to work--I'd gotten along well enough with them. But I knew from past experiences with others of their type that they had weapons in their possession. True, up until now they'd practiced forbearance and had not deployed them—but they could—at any moment, unless I took decisive action, protective action.

All my fault

And so while it saddens me to confess this, but confess it I must. I did it. It was me who cast the first stone.

With family soon due to visit, I wanted to extend every comfort and kindness, and keep them from harm. This meant I had to get rid of my neighbors. Nip problems in the bud, so to speak. I worried, whether duly or unduly, that my guests would cross swords with the neighbors and pain and suffering would ensue.

I worried especially about my little four-year old niece. You know how kids are. Tell them not to do something and sure enough they have to do it just to test the truth of what you just told them. Sticking their finger onto hot stove burner until learning the lesson of hot and ouch, for example. So warnings would not work. The danger must be removed entirely.

I plotted, I planned...

So it was that I had to get rid of my neighbors. It was the only way to deliver complete protection. Flying in the face of the Golden Rule, I consulted with those who knew about methods of annihilation. Poison was highly recommended, but fire and gasoline were also named.

Gosh, these suggestions seemed harsh. Didn't compute with the Golden Rule at all. Maybe I didn't have to actually kill them, maybe I could just get them to move. I just wanted them gone. Poison, fire, gasoline—surely there must be a different path?

Household hints to the rescue

Then I hit upon it. In an household hints column I read about the 101 uses of household vinegar. Following Use #12, I'd started using vinegar and water to clean my kitchen counter tops. Now my counters smelled like a Fish n' Chips joint, but the counters were sparkling clean, and no harsh chemicals sullied my kitchen. So, I decided to test Use #79—using vinegar to get rid of undesirable neighbors.

Running low on armament, I made a trip to my nearby Piggly Wiggly to bolster my supply. There I picked up a half gallon of Piggly Wiggly house-brand white vinegar, and toted it home in the basket of my bicycle, smiling as I pedaled, envisioning my neighbor's dismay when I showered them with this.

“Surely, they will recognize my intent and will pack up and go, “ I gloated. “And I won't have to kill them at all, merely inconvenience them a bit. Moving's healthy; they can make a fresh start somewhere else.”

The fire ants viewed the matter differently.

For a fact, the vinegar shower did cause them to emerge from their home base with a sudden flurry of activity, running hither and yon, caught by surprise by the pungent rainstorm showering down.

“Aha,” I thought, “this is working fine. They are packing, they are going, they will soon be gone. And Caroline, my little niece, will be saved from playing in the ant hill, never knowing their violent predilections. I will be conquering Auntie, making the world safe for small children. And not an ant will have died, though some will smell a little strong for a while.”

So I thought.

Tick tock...tick tock...

Soon the ant hill was deserted. Sodden and reeking, much deflated, it appeared antless. Victory seemed mine. I was smug.

Until the day they attacked.

I think they had been waiting, plotting, planning and marshaling their forces. They chose the moment of attack well. I came tripping out of my car, carrying sacks of snacks from Piggly Wiggly. Distracted, I was not paying a bit of attention to my sandaled feet and what lurked beneath them. Perfect timing.

Now! They launched their counter-offensive.

I didn't immediately feel the damage of their onslaught. But soon, oh yes, soon, I knew they'd hit their mark.

I'm very sensitive to insect bites. These bites seared, burned, itched. I writhed in discomfort. Liberal applications of peroxide, rubbing alcohol, Cortisone cream, ice, and even vinegar did not quell the fire. All through the long night, I tried every cure and nostrum in my medicine cabinet and every natural remedy I found through an Internet Google search of “Fire ant bites, treatment.” Nothing worked for long. The fire stayed lit.

Then I saw the humor in my predicament. And so I laughed. Just a bit, you understand, not an outright guffaw or even a true chortle, more a little whimper of laughter. Did I not now feel much as they had as the acidic vinegar began to patter down on them? Had they not lived in harmony with me these many months, with never a bite inflicted? Had I not fired the first salvo in this skirmish?

I am begging, begging for forgiveness

The war is not over, I fear.

To be sure, my neighbors did move household from their vinegar-drenched home. They moved with vigor; with much hard toil. Moved they have—all of two feet away. Their new home is now closer to my doorway.

They have me completely cowed. Taking a detour, I give them a wide, wide berth.

I can sense them waiting. Watching. Getting ready. Muttering small commando orders under their breath. Breathing quietly their breath of fire. Waiting until once again I'm laden with bags from the Piggly Wiggly and am unaware, vulnerable. Then they will muster their soldiers, get me in their sights, and have their way with me.

Oh fire ants, I am sorry. We had co-existed until I threw the first stone. I am sorry. Truly I am.

Mea culpa, fire ants.

Détente?

Patricia Frank loves words and uses them whenever she can.  She's also the editor and publisher of Vibrant Village.

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