La Bibliotheque

Winter Park Public Library

My mother took great care to instill in us a love of books. We were read to in the womb, in the rocking chair, in the car, in the waiting room, and in the "school room" daily. My father took the evening shift, reading to us from the "God Book" (Ergemeier's Bible Story Book) which had been handed down from both sides of the family. Our favorite was the handwriting on the wall. After a Bible story we would read from something else: Lewis or Alcott, or Burnett, or Kipling--or if dad was in creative mode he would tell us about the Laughing Man, his own improvisions from Salinger's short story. They were the best of all.

But the reading frenzy did not just occur in the home. Twice a week, Kendall and I went for piano lessons with Mr. Roberts. Each lesson was a 1/2 hour, and my mother would drop one of us off at Winter Park Public Library and then alternate us for the next lesson.

Winter Park was, hands down, the best library I have ever held a card for. I'm sure if I visited now it would seem smaller and older, and not so majestic as it did to my 8-year-old self. The children's section was massive and contained the entire fairy book collection by Andrew Lang (the blue fairy book, the pink fairy book, etc), Cricket magazines from as far back as the 1960's, the entire Mrs. Goose collection, and all of the tales from the West Wind books; in short, most of its inventory were out of print at the time. We devoured them.

On Top of its magnificent selection, the library had a full grown tree right in its center. And a man who was there every time we went who had never cut his hair. It looked like a plank of dark wood, long, and matted, and sometimes he carried it in his hands. He added to the library's magic.

My favorite nook there was the window room, a large room like a green house with no furniture, only huge pillows and cushions for children's reading When I went I usually picked out 10-20 books and headed for the window room until it grew too dark to see.

I loved that library so much that I signed up to be a library volunteer there when I was nine years old. I got the idea because once another girl only a few years older than me checked our books out. She quickly took the cards out of their pockets in each book and put them into a stamper, and each time there was a delightul resounding "smack" when the card was stamped. Oh, how I envied her. I wanted nothing more than to be the book stamper girl. I begged my mother, who called the librarian, who interviewed me, and who agreed to let me volunteer.

My job, however, was not stamping. It was shelving. I was to take a cart of books, check them for damages, and put them on the appropriate shelf in the library. How nine-year-olds were allowed to do this, I'm not sure, but I failed miserably. It was the first foreshadowing of my life-long taskmaster's struggle. As I checked each book for damages I wanted to just see what it was about, and usually ended up reading the whole thing from cover to cover. Oops.

I sat only a few yards away from the stamper, but was never promoted. I could never finish shelving the cart, because I was reading every book on it.

I didn't volunteer for very long. I don't think I was fired; I quit. I went back to the window room with my pile of books and was content there to stay. As much as I love the idea of being a librarian, I don't think I could ever muster up the discipline not to read each book as I put it away.

I mention all this because I have the delightful privilege of currently enjoying two libraries through my work, Neither of Which Gives me Late Fees! Originally I meant to write about the many years of drama that have ensued between myself and various libraries and the trouble I have always had getting books back on time, but good memories are far better to share.