friend of the library

That's me.

I didn't want to capitalize the term "friend of the library," for to do so might be violating some copyright. It's National Friends of Libraries Week, and I'm not an official Friend, as I've not made any monetary donation. But boy oh boy, do I love that library.

When I was a wee young thing, my mom used to take my older sister and me to the Chamblee Library. Before it changed location, the Chamblee Library was a small building in old-city Chamblee, right near a train track in a cutesy part of town that was just beginning to get run-down. (Now that run-down area is getting revitalized; last time I drove by a couple weeks ago, there were new condos and retail stores just blocks away.) I vaguely remember walking the few steps up to the front door of the library, having my mom hold the door open. We knew the librarian there--she would give us recommendations.

My dad's a reader, too, but he has never understood the love for fiction that bonds my sister and mother and me. He buys books like crazy but will leave them lying around the house, occasionally stepping on them or placing a dirty coffee mug on an otherwise unmarred title page of a $25.00 hardback. My mother and I are different. Bordering on obsessive regarding the condition of our novels, we often don't let my dad so much as touch them. For as long as I can remember, one of my favorite sensations has been the slight cracking open of a new hardback storybook, the burying of my nose in the pages, the deep inhalation of breath to smell the fresh-from-the-press pages. I find equal joy in smelling much-loved library children's books, believe it or not. To think of all the hundreds of parents and babysitters and siblings and children who've read those pages, sounding out vowels and consonants, wondering what was to come of the characters they loved so dearly!


Though I had a bevy of amazing books to choose from at home, we went back again and again to our local library to borrow favorites. Russell Hoban was one of our preferred authors, and just hearing the title of Bread and Jam for Frances strikes a heart string. One of my current jobs involves my going to area homeless shelters to read to the children staying there. In a moment of nostalgia, I borrowed Bread and Jam for Frances from the Athens Regional Library. A few days before I was to pack it in the rolly bag I carry around in the trunk of my car, a rolly bag full of books and crafts and crayons and games, I decided to peruse the pages of the book on my own. In looking through the pages, in seeing the pictures and reading those words I'd not seen or heard in 15-20 years, I knew I wouldn't be able to share them with crowds of children.



This book belongs to me and my mom. Only my mom knows how to sing that little song Frances sings to her toast and jam, and only I know how to listen to her appreciatively as she does so. Closing the book, I felt like the bratty 6-year-old I often was, not wanting to share my favorite thing for no other reason than I was being selfish. The following day, I dropped it back off at the library while running errands.

Tomorrow I'll be back at the library to meet with my boss, the children's librarian. And I can't wait. I get to pick out the books I'll read with the kids for the next two weeks of work as well as some of my own books. My old self spent tons of money on buying books, but that's not possible these days--I must conserve and might as well utilize our city's resources while I'm at it!

Next month Jim and I will be making a recording as voice actors in our second puppet show at the library, by the way. I'll keep you posted about the performance date. Of course we'll not be performing (not even as puppeteers), but you will hear our voices on CD again! (But how will anything beat Jim as Pirate Captain Abdul with a baby named Little Treasure and me as his first mate, Yardarm Pitts?!)

Goodnight.