What do weirdos, introverts, and stay-at-home parents all have in common? Public libraries.
Libraries are a refuge for dreamers; a place to experience a fellowship with humanity that transcends time and taste.
Even if you’re only there for a clean place to change the baby’s diaper or because you need somewhere to rest your feet, the enormity of their mission impresses itself upon you.
Kim Kardashian shares shelf space with Aristotle. David Spade sits (alphabetically) next to Steven Spielberg. The many faiths of the world come together under the all-encompassing classification: Religions.
Libraries have been a favorite place throughout my life. I vividly remember leaving my library as a kid with an overflowing bag of Little Golden Books, Berenstain Bears picture books, and VHS tapes soundly protected in hard plastic cases.
When I got older, the library constituted the absolute limit of how far I could ride my bike alone. The sidewalk started one house away from mine and ended a mile later at the library. It seemed like divine providence.
I got my first library card around fifth grade. The librarian spoke passionately at the group orientation about the responsibility of borrowing materials.
She warned us against misuse and showed damaged returns. One book had served as home plate in a baseball game. I shuddered.
That presentation replayed in my head two years later when I found one of my library books soaking in a puddle of vase water knocked over by the cat.
The water-logged book with purple streaming ink was no dimestore paperback. Middle-School Chris had a nerdy obsession with South Africa’s anti-apartheid movement and had accordingly checked out a massive foreign policy tome.
It was easily the most expensive book I’d ever held, which is why I panicked hiding the book in my backpack until I could think of a way out of the mess.
My solution was to lie.
I practiced responding when the librarian approached. “What!? I would never damage a library book! How could it have gotten wet? Oh no, I’ll bet some trouble makers filled the book return with snow. Check the security tape, I demand an investigation!”
I even considered returning to the scene after returning my book (now disguised) to fill the return drop with snow effectively ruining everything in the basket and exonerating myself.
I ran reconnaissance on the book-return chute and aborted the mission when I noticed that the chute emptied onto the library’s carpet.
While I thought very little about damaging an untold number of books and tapes, I drew the line at ruining their carpet.
My plan didn’t work.
I never used my surprised reaction because the librarian simply sent me a bill that I quietly paid from my newspaper delivery money to avoid bringing shame on my family.
(Indeed, I’m only comfortable writing about this now because my mother passed away, thankfully not from the disappointment of her son ruining library books.)
This memory gnawed at me all spring this year as my daughter Senita’s penguin backpack sat full of St. Patrick’s Day-themed books I couldn’t return due to Covid.
The library’s book return drops were closed for several months. While no late fees accrued, I kept wondering what sort of water-damage opportunities might present themselves during that time.
Though they were physically closed, the Wallingford Public Library has continued to be a saving grace throughout this pandemic. If anyone understands how to find meaning without interacting with other people, it’s a librarian.
Parents of school-age children are appropriately consumed by the in-person vs virtual school conundrum. Meanwhile, first-time parents of babies and toddlers also have no idea what to do. We’re struggling just as much, but without the public school infrastructure.
I’m all for flexibly adapting to our new reality, but that’s very hard to do when your daughter simultaneously adapts herself from a baby to a child.
Thankfully, my library has filled the void with virtual storytimes, Mother Goose Music classes, and a YouTube playlist of age-appropriate songs.
We don’t yet purposefully show my daughter TV though she picks up some exposure when I’m watching the news. I fully expected her first words to be “come on, just show the weather already.”
We quickly made a screen-time exception for library programming since Senita’s met them all in real life. She loves it when her teachers pop up on the TV.
In a world without Sesame Street, Paw Patrol, or Blippi, local librarians are my daughter’s celebrity superstars.
It isn’t the same as physically going every week, but their classes are helping Senita develop important and necessary skills.
As Connecticut slowly continues relaxing pandemic safeguards (backed by science), our librarians are expanding their services too.
They’ve put together personalized book packages we checked out with curbside pickup. They even posted a video of the children’s department fish tank so we could check in on our former snack-time pals.
The adult-services department has helped counter my sense of isolation too with Writers’ Group Zoom meetings and curbside pickups.
By the time we come out of this pandemic, many things will have changed in our world. Today I’m grateful for libraries, which are still what they’ve always been for me: a refuge for my dreams and my seat at humanity’s table.
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