I haven’t been to a library in about five years. Since I got a Kindle, I do most of my reading on it. However, I decided I needed to give my reading tummy a more diverse diet and would do so by perusing the selection at the nearby library.
Due to the lengthy absence, I knew I would no longer be in the system. As I waited in line to renew my card, I recalled my hometown library. I grew up in a small town in Oklahoma. Despite the size of the population, the original library was impressive. To reach the doors, one had to climb not one, but two sets of stairs with a landing between the two. In those days, access for the handicapped was not a priority. The lowest set of stairs had no railings at all. The second had stone bordering the sides too tall for a young child to utilize.
The library was constructed of cream stone and an almost peach-colored brick. Four columns graced the entrance. For many years, whenever we visited the library, I had to cling to my mother’s hand as I struggled to climb. Steps led up to huge, double doors framed with glass. Mom would tug them open and usher me and my sister into the rotunda. I remember craning my neck and gawking up at the dome. Five rooms with arched entries branched off the rotunda, each, I’ve read, with a unique, Italian tiled fireplace. Of course, I never visited the room directly behind the large wooden counter. Staid librarians stood at their workplace ever watchful, as the furnaces that bracketed the counter struggled to warm the building in the winter.
Older now, I wondered how we acquired such a beautiful building. Built in 1902, the Carnegie Library was the second Carnegie library built in Oklahoma and is now the oldest existing one in the state. Andrew Carnegie, a steel magnate, donated money to build the library and a local architect designed it.
I haven’t been able to verify this, but supposedly the funds were given to a women’s club who also raised money for the project. When the library was completed, and Carnegie saw it, he was disturbed by the way the money had been allocated. Apparently, he thought a portion should have been used to buy shelves and books. I can’t help but chuckle as I imagine the look on Carnegie’s face as he entered the building and searched for any sign of reading material or, for that matter, an area to place them. Afterwards, he kept his money to give out to other states. When the town decided they needed a new library, the edifice narrowly avoided being torn down. A local philanthropist saved it and it is now a part of a museum.
I remember being terrified of one librarian. She looked a lot like the stereotypical vision of a librarian, an older woman with glasses perched on the end of her nose attached to a chain that she wore around her neck. Her clothes were nondescript and dark. Once, she quietly crept up on one certain little girl, scaring the child. Then the librarian fiercely whispered rebukes to her for sneaking over to the adult section. (I’ve always been too curious for my own good.) Like a blood hound, she could sniff a book fine as soon as a patron entered the library. Scowling, she would demand the fee. I wanted to avoid her wrath at all costs. But hey, Wrath of the Librarian would be a great name for a band.
I wanted to avoid her wrath at all costs. But hey, Wrath of the Librarian would be a great name for a band.
Back then, each book had a paper card inside it. When a patron checked out books, the book card, which was stored in a pocket inside the back cover of the book, would be removed, the patron’s name added to the list of people who had previously checked out the same book, and the card filed. The librarian would stamp the date the book was checked out on it and a small sheet that was attached to the book. This page was also stamped with the date the book needed to be returned by. The book card would be filed and kept until the book was returned.
The books at our library were OLD. I mean old even for a library built in 19— “mumble, mumble.” Pages aged a golden tan. I would reverently turn them, because it was so easy for the pages to become dislodged from the spine, or the paper to tear because a less scrupulous reader dog-eared and weakened it. (I was convinced the grouchy librarian would blame me and I would have to BUY THE BOOK. Horrors!)
I was and am a voracious reader, and because many of my hometown library books had been written ages ago, my contemporaries don’t always recognize a title or series I read as a child. When I talk to others, I’m surprised to discover that they have never heard of Judy Bolton books or have no idea that the Wizard of Oz and Mary Poppins are both the first books of series.
As I pass rows of computers, I marvel at how much things have changed. I tuck my plastic, barcoded card in my purse and pass between the sensors that alert the librarian when a book has been taken without being checked out. The book mark I received lists all the modern conveniences of this library and, while I’m grateful to have them, that first, majestic library will always have a special place in my heart. I swear, I can still smell the sweet, old book scent—of powdery, dry ink and musky woods.
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