Question:
Have you ever been sitting in your car, innocently listening to the radio, when a song comes on that you happened to be listening to 4 years ago when you were driving to school the day that you were going to Sunsplash in order to celebrate your seniorhood and impressive school spirit, and then, suddenly, you get taken back to that very moment and you feel like you're 17 again and like you should be wearing a bikini under 5 layers of appropriate coverups while carrying a beach towel and a calculus book?
Or you know, have you had some similar experience?
Because that happens to me every time O.A.R.'s song about love and memories comes on.
This isn't actually about O.A.R.'s song.
It's actually about the library.
And about how I came to the library to get bordering-on-obsessive amounts of work done.
And about how as I sit in the middle of this library working center, getting bordering-on-lame amounts of work done, I think I am experiencing what it might be like to have your life flash before your eyes.
(I hope this is not some sort of cruel confirmation of my hypochondriac fears that I am slowly dying with absolutely no symptoms of my pending doom.)
Anyhow, back to my happy reminicising at the library...
There is a kid outside the window. He is running along the low walls that were built as decoration maybe 14 years ago. At one spot there is a gap that separates two parts of the same wall.
The boy is running, full speed ahead, and then stopping right as he gets to the edge of the gap.
I did that when I was 9, too.
I only jumped once. And to that day, it was the bravest thing I had ever done. Except maybe hanging upside down on the monkey bars.
Unfortunately for anyone dedicated to reading this entire post, my library memories don't stop there.
Somewhere in a room upstairs, I attended a book club where I read some book that taught me to jump in the water should I be chased by a hive of bees. And that's important information. You never know when you're going to be chased by a hive of bees. Just saying.
We also read a book that did not contain important information, as far as I could decipher, which should have been titled "Hansel and Grettle on Crack." I don't remember the actual title. But I do remember it was a creepy book with demons and words that were way out of my vocabulary capabilities. I think, maybe, I eventually just read the last chapter and called it good.
Also, at that bookclub I was introduced to a person who was also named Alec. It was a baby. And a boy. I thought, well that's weird. And so began a life long pursuit to establish the name Alec as an acceptable girl's name. Just kidding. Nothing began in that moment except a vague curiosity as to what type of parents would name a boy Alec. Okay, maybe not that either. I just thought it was weird to meet another human named Alec, particularly since he was nothing like me. After all, he was a boy. And a baby.
Still not done. I spent a good portion of my childhood at the library. Apparently.
One time I went to a mineral show at the library. It was boring. I think, perhaps, my mother needed some quiet time that day. Or maybe she just remembered how much I loved rocks. She should have known I didn't actually love rocks, I loved those little black bags that you fill up with rocks at the grand canyon.
No wait. I loved rocks, too. I am now remembering a series of unfortunate years filled with rock pets and rock collections.
Maybe that library event wasn't boring after all. And maybe I should have been a geologist. Or an Etsy shop owner. (You might be thinking it's not too late for that last one. But you would be wrong. Turns out someone already has claim to the
rock pet business.)
Then there were the hours I spent searching for the book called Fudge. (Not Super Fudge.) This Fudge is about a dog.
I love that book. It still gives me warm fuzzies. And I can't even remember what it's about. Except there was a puppy. And maybe a boy named Charlie. (Or maybe now I'm thinking about Charlie's chocolate factory...) Both were good books. But only one gives me warm fuzzies.
Moving on.
One of the happiest days of my life happened because of the library.
It was the day I lost my library card.
I was so sick of looking at the ugly signature on the back of that card that I signed when I was barely 6. When I lost the card, and paid a dollar, it was like a chance to start all over. To make a new name for myself. To no longer be the 11-year-old who writes like a first grader.
The second time around, I signed that card so carefully that I consider it something of a miracle that I didn't mess up. I still have that library card. Somewhere around here. It's really a beautiful signature. I would scan it for you all if I could find the thing.
The last memory on my trip to library lane is the hours my best friend and I spent studying for AP tests at the library, on the comfy chairs, with smoothies made mostly out of artificial fruit juice and whipped creme.
I feel like I should make this some sort of political statement about funding for libraries.
But it's not.
It's just about how it's weird to grow up.
I mean, one minute you're sitting in a library looking for a Junie B. Jones book that you haven't read yet, and a second later you're reading every book google has to offer about World War II journalism as you try desperately to finish a thesis and graduate college.
It's weird.
Like almost as weird as meeting another human named Alec. Who is a boy. And a baby.
Question:
Have you ever heard that song by Miranda Lambert about the house that built her?
She sings about how she just needs to go inside and get a memory. That a simple memory might be enough to set her back on track.
I know what she means.
I hope that library stays around forever.
Someday, I may need to go and sit in a big room and look out the window and see kids play on the wall outside.
And I'm might need to drink a mostly-made-out-of-corn-syrup smoothie.
And someday, when I can't remember how I got to where I am, I might need to sit in the library and spend some time trying to remember.
Because, you know, sometimes, I need to go back to that place where I'm 9-years-old again.
And remember.
