“Libraries I Have Loved” by Mary Carlson

 

I’ve spent a lot of time inside libraries. From the cozy bookmobile that visited the small village of my childhood, to the Library of Congress in Washington, the largest repository of the printed word in the world, libraries have always been a favourite place.

I loved our regular visits to the Kemptville library as a child. The doorway into the building was at the top of four mountainous, concrete steps. With picture books to return tucked under one arm, I would take giant steps to climb the summit, then my mom would help me to pull the heavy door open, and I’d step inside. Directly in front of me sat the librarian, partly hidden behind a massive wooden desk often laden with returns that awaited their check in.

There were two librarians who couldn’t have seemed any different. One was a tiny, bespeckled lady who always wore her greying hair tied primly back in a low bun. The other was a large, older man, a bit rumpled in his tweed jacket, whose most recognized trait was his persistent cough that stabbed at the silence of the library, where whispers and inside voices were the norm. Both were kind to a little girl who loved to read; neither responded with anything more than a small grim when I’d sign out Charlotte’s Web yet again. 

It was an old building even then, one of the original Carnegie libraries from the early 1900s. She’s still standing, but gave up her post as the community’s library in 2011 when a modern replacement was built down the street.

The library at my elementary school was a sanctuary of sorts for me, a quiet girl not inclined to playing recess games of tag or Red Rover. Instead, I’d prefer the order of the shelves, the kind attention of the librarian, and the seemingly endless chance to escape into adventures elsewhere. She seemed to delight in making recommendations, pulling books off the shelves to hand to me. I’d watch the stack grow taller as I nodded in agreement to yet another suggestion. With one exception - Anne of Green Gables.  I never took a liking to the stories of the little red headed girl from PEI.

Oxford Mills Library

My high school library was more of a lunchtime hangout than a quiet place to read, in spite of the librarian’s attempts to get us to settle and keep the volume down. 

What I most remember was sitting on a carpeted aisle between the shelves of books, sometimes with a friend, and out of sight of prying eyes. We’d be devouring the latest Judy Blume book, whose novels served as an adolescent girls’ roadmap to life and love, or so we thought.

I liked libraries so much, I committed every Saturday afternoon throughout high school to volunteering at the library in Oxford Mills, just a mile from home. Before amalgamation, several small communities each had their own branch; ours was installed in one of the older buildings on the main street.

In the winter, the librarian and I would keep our coats and gloves on for the first hour after we opened, until the oil furnace generated enough heat to warm the place up. The collection was a mix of old donated titles and new purchases made whenever the budget came through. 

For a shy teen, working the circulation desk, which happened to be the only desk in the place, provided an opportunity to chat with the patrons, many of whom became regulars. I didn’t need to seek out people to meet; they came to the library and I benefited from simply being there to greet them and help them go home with their own stack of books to cosy up with.  

I was granted a peek into the patrons’ private selves through their choice of titles, an almost intimate moment as the books were checked out. The lively, professional woman who loved Harlequin Romances; the shy, retired farmer who preferred historical accounts of the world wars; the young mother who returned a box of picture books in exchange for another to get her through the next few weeks of bedtime reading. The library was there and the people came.

My habit of seeking solace, comfort and the companionship of the like-minded continued when I moved to Toronto and began teaching there. By day, I’d read to my students from the classroom library I was slowly creating over time. Bi-weekly visits to the local branch were a welcome break as the long line of students snaked their way down Royal York Road. For some kids, it was an escape from school work; for others, not unlike their teacher, it was a highlight, filled with the anticipation and joy of finding the perfect book, or two, to take home.

High Park Library exterior

While it might be more typical of twenty-somethings living in the Big Smoke to spend weekends at the clubs, more often than not, I’d fall back into the comfort of a good book. A visit to the High Park Library on Bloor became part of my Saturday routine, along with picking up groceries at the No Frills across the street, and enjoying a long leisurely coffee and Danish pastry at the Bread and Roses Bakery. 

High Park Library interior

The library sat right in the middle of the action, a hub of the community, as most libraries are. I’d scan the new titles shelf, then slowly work my way to the non-fiction at the back of the building, often finding myself lodged between the travel and the self-help sections. Part of me was trying to discover who I was; the other part was longing to run away or at least imagine who I might become somewhere else.

A move to a new apartment southeast of the park introduced me to the High Park Library on Roncesvalles, another sanctuary from the bustle of life in a busy city. After a long week of middle-school angst, an hour or two inside the library served as a balm for my sometimes rattled nerves. To be greeted by a friendly librarian, find a few books of interest, and sit quietly in the company of others, with the turning of a page, the occasional stifled cough, or a whispered conversation across the room the only sounds to break the silent reverie. It would not be an exaggeration to consider those libraries to have been my salvation during what was, at times, a lonely period of my life.

Libraries remain of great importance to me, although I spend less time in their physical space. Just as readers’ needs have changed, libraries have had to undergo some transformations to keep up with the demands of their patrons. The modern library of today likely still has a New Titles shelf near the entrance, but also has room for multiple computers, maker spaces, meeting rooms, and a variety of non-book materials available for loan. Fishing rods or a museum pass, anyone? Plus, the thousands of books, periodicals and newspapers you can’t see until you search the digital catalogues.

Today’s library is also noisier - you won’t hear much shushing anymore inside the walls of your local library. For some patrons who still seek a few moments of peace and quiet, this might prove to be disappointing. However, the smiles are still there when you come inside. All are welcome. “We’re more than books” has become a popular tagline for libraries trying to entice new patrons. But to me, that’s nothing new - libraries have always been, and will continue to be, so much more than books.

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Mary Carlson is exploring the craft of writing her own life stories having retired from a career teaching children. When she’s not putting words on the page, she finds inspiration hiking the many wooded trails near her home in Kemptville, tending to her garden, and planning her next adventure.

 See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.