PUDDLEWACKY

Daily A~Musing #9:  Libraries

I learned how to read when I was 5.  By today’s standards, that probably doesn’t sound very impressive.  But, back in the early 1970’s, I was one of the only two kids in my kindergarten class that possessed this skill.  


My grandmother taught me how to read Felix the Cat at her tiny kitchen table in Calais.  I remember the feel of the vinyl tablecloth under my sweaty little fingers and how my grandmother leaned over my shoulder and patiently pored over each and every word repeatedly until I could recognize them on sight.  I remember how hard it was and how I really was just memorizing the symbols on the page to prompt the sound of my grandmother’s voice in my head. 

My kindergarten teacher, Miss Terrine (I don’t know if I spelled that correctly…I WAS only 5, you know) allowed me to read Felix the Cat to the class all by myself.  Miss “Tangerine” (as I called her) gave me and the other reader special projects to encourage our reading.  I remember being allowed to make peanut butter cookies because I could read the directions.  Miss Tangerine also seemed pretty tolerant of the fact that I was a kind of weird kid.  (I used to have a pet pine tree that I named Polkadots.  I used to fingerpaint pictures of it.  Yup, folks, I’m not making this up.) 

Being one of the first readers in my class and having special privileges instilled an insatiable gluttony for the pleasures of books.

I lived most of my early childhood in rural areas where sometimes there was no library or, at least, not much of any nearby.  My mom used to subscribe me to Highlights Magazine and let me buy those cheap club books we could order at school every month or so and have delivered to our classes.  Teachers also frequently gave me books to read, sometimes from their own private collections toted in from home.  The sight of the Bookmobile sent shivers down my spine because a whole library came to us instead of us having to go to it and they switched their books each visit so we had a variety to choose from.

When I was 6, my mom took me to the Calais Free Library and I was thrilled.  As you can see, it’s a very romantic-looking structure.  I explored the place as thoroughly as possible and selected Black Beauty by Anna Sewell.  I was so excited until the librarian told me I couldn’t take it out.  I don’t remember the whole exchange verbatim, but it went something sorta like this:

My mom:  “What do you mean she can’t take it out?”

Evil Library Lady:  “This book is not from the children’s section.  She can only take out books from the children’s section.”

My mom:  “But I’m her mother and I’m okay with her reading this book, so let her take it out.”

Evil Library Lady (with a slightly condescending look down at me):  “She wouldn’t understand it anyway.”

My mom:  "What do you care about what she would or wouldn’t understand?  My daughter can read, she wants to take this book out, let her take it out.”

Pictured at the right here 
is this controversial piece of literature-->

Unfortunately, Evil Library Lady was correct and I didn’t understand most of it, but that didn’t stop me from trying my darnedest.  And it didn’t stop me from thinking my mom was the baddest beotch on the block for taking on Evil Library Lady on my behalf and knocking her DOOOOOWN!

A couple years later, my nana gave me my own copy of Black Beauty for xmas.

It’s still on my bookshelf today.

At some point I came to understood that libraries were SUPPOSED to give you their books (I sometimes struggled with the giving back part…haven’t we all?) and that there were literally thousands to choose from.  From this point I declared libraries sacred vessels filled with holy relics and worshipped regularly.  

I went back to the Calais Library many times and borrowed many books.  I practically LIVED at the Bangor Library and the Fogler Library at UMO but I still frequently visit the Glickman Library at USM       when I’m feeling homesick.                

           

Every time I’ve moved to a

new place, part of orienting myself has always been finding the closest library. 

                       Glickman at University of Southern Maine

Just so you know, I’ve moved over 30 times, so this has been a well-rehearsed ritual.  In fact, it’s so deeply ingrained in me, I didn’t even realize that I did that until three seconds ago when I finished typing it here.  Wow.  The things one discovers about oneself when blogging.  J