When I was very young I knew about Carnegie libraries built all around the country, a steel tycoon’s gift to the nation. They were special places, the sort of mansions rich people might live in, only devoted to books. My branch, in Oakland, California, had high ceilings, wood paneling, a fireplace and sofas. For an ordinary child coming from an ordinary home, to come into this special place, a mansion devoted to the written word, how could I not think books were special?
My mom was the children’s librarian at this branch, and I would go with her to work on Saturdays. The day often included a trip to McDonald’s down the street. My dad was a bit of a hippie in his long-haired days, a health food nut, and this was our weekly escape from the rigors of whole grains and homemade yogurt. Eating our forbidden burgers, my mom and I would discuss what books she should read for story hour. She had good taste. Only the best. Charlotte’s Web, the Miss Bianca books, about a detective mouse, A Cricket in Times Square. I don’t remember any princesses. The favorites I remember were about small creatures, insects, things we might overlook in our everyday lives. That small-scale perspective appeals to children, who often feel themselves underfoot in the adult world, a world of giants.
As I grew older, I read just about anything, from Go Ask Alice to Daddy was a Number Runner. From Portrait of Jennie to The Thorn Birds. My mom never said, “Don’t read that, that’s too old for you, that’s inappropriate.” Or even, “Well, that’s just not very good.” Of course she was busy working. She left me pretty much to myself. When I wasn’t reading in one of the easy chairs upstairs, I was amusing myself in the basement, playing alone in the dim warren of rooms.
There was meeting room with a huge table and small windows near the ceiling, offering views of feet passing along the sidewalk in front of the library. I played an Anne Frank-inspired game, peeking out at the bustle, unseen.
There was another room filled with shelves of stacked magazines. I spent hours paging through copies of Life from the 40s and 50s, fascinated by the advertisements and pictures of movie stars.
There was also theater with a small stage where I pretended to be an actress, myself. When I tired of that, I played don’t-touch-the-ground, crossing the theater by stepping on the folding chairs.
Finally, there was a long, narrow L-shaped furnace room where I terrified myself, inching along the brick walls by touch, approaching the monster-furnace, with its strange hums and clanks.
These basement imaginary games were a kind of story-telling, and I associated them with the books in the bright rooms upstairs, not consciously planning to write my own books someday, but knowing absolutely how important stories were to me. All kinds of stories.
There was a third area, too, behind the front desk, two connected rooms with a mini-kitchen, a lounge and for a while, a library cat. This is where the librarians and aides rested and chatted over coffees or Cokes. I remember them as a bunch of funny, smart people, mostly women, who were nice to the little girl in their midst. I’m grateful to my mom for taking me to work with her and letting me read and play, observe and listen.
She’s gone now, but she’s left me with these memories. They’ve become a sort of library of the mind, full of the books I read there—other people’s stories—also my own stories, created when I played my imaginary games. And I like to think there was one more basement room, one I never found, not crammed with old furniture or stacks of dusty magazines, but with the spirits of all the stories I have yet to write.
copyright 2019
