Libraries and Librarians

I haven't blogged about libraries yet because it's a topic so near and dear to my heart that it's hard to keep it short and manageable. And, sniff, I'm still smarting from a hurtful blow that happened nearly a year ago.

For reasons not quite clear to me (except that it had nothing to do with me), I was moved from the library where I worked for the past 13 years -- a library I'd rescued from something akin to a coma and nurtured back to health -- to a library in a different school with an automated card catalog but, alas, hardly any books. A lot of people said, "Well, that's nice. You'll be out of that basement. You'll finally have an automated catalog instead of those cards." People who don't understand libraries didn't get it. The computers aren't what makes a library wonderful and special. It's the collection -- the books. Books and literature are the reason I went into library work and over the years I'd built up one great collection. No bragging, just fact. I read book reviews and a wide variety of professional journals to cull out the cream of what was published each year. A lot of those books -- like Ted Hughes's book, The Iron Giant, or Barbara Cohen's book, The Carp in the Bathtub -- are out of print now and can't be easily or inexpensively replaced.

The library they put me in has a lot of junk -- every Goosebumps book, every Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew etc. but few books of real substance. No books on the Civil War and few of the award winning books. Not even a thesaurus. Certainly no Iron Giant. I've nicknamed the collection "Series Are Us". The previous tenant was more obsessed with computers than books and so, sadly, this is her legacy to me and the children of the school where I now work.

Anyhow, above is a photo of my old library that I took before I left on my last day and took my plants with me. Yeah, I know it was in the basement and had those ugly pipes running through it (it was an 85 year old school) but I loved that collection! And that library was bigger than it appears in this picture.

So, now I'm sort of starting all over again. The PTA donated over $3,000. to help rebuild the collection. It was very generous of them but I'm afraid it's going to take many years as well as thousands of dollars to bring it up to snuff. Still, hope springs eternal. And it is spring, right?

Anticipation

Back when I was slightly younger there was a song I used to sing along with on the radio - "Anticipation" by Carly Simon. Later (but before it became a Heinz Ketchup commercial) I even went out and bought the album. Carly Simon's lyrics seemed to mirror many of the feelings I had growing up and she quickly became one of my favorite recording artists.

Unlike most of the topics explored in Simon's early albums, anticipation is one feeling I still haven't outgrown. It always feels good to finish a painting or a poem, a story, a chapter -- to take something as far as I artistically can. The problem comes with getting ready for the next story, the next chapter, the next painting. I get fidgety and high strung like a sprinter waiting in the starting blocks for the crack of the gun. If I'm getting ready to paint I might clean around my easel, scrape down my palette and squeeze out a fresh array of colors, sharpen my pencils in anticipation of a future drawing or go for a walk. When I'm getting ready to write, I'll assemble the reference books I might need, spend extra time on my background notes or character sketches, work a little more on my rough outline - anything to delay the act of putting my butt in the chair and writing. Once I settle in, however, I'm usually fine.

Maybe it's the transition that's hard to deal with -- the anticipation of change coupled with the hope that maybe this will be a breakthrough painting or a defining chapter in my character's story. Maybe it's the fear that I'll fail miserably. Not that failure is bad. I just finished a portrait that I refuse to share with anybody outside of my painting class. It's dreadful and far below my standards but I did, I admit, learn a lot by doing it. It was, to put it nicely, a learning experience.

Nearly everything we do by our own creative energy should be a learning experience. And if it isn't then what's the point?

What Is a Real Mom?

Linda tagged me so here is my response to "What is a real mom?"

As every mother knows, there's more to being a mom than giving birth. Being a mom to me means:
1. Telling them no sometimes. No, you can't have a tv. in your room. No, you can't have your own cell phone. No, I am not your friend; I am your mom.
2. Teaching them that good manners don't cost anything.
3. Checking the closet for scary monsters before bedtime.
4. Helping them with their homework even after you've worked all day and you're tired and your body is screaming for a nap.
5. Reading Sylvester and the Magic Pebble - again. Or The Little House - again. Or Goodnight Moon - again.
6. Giving up your free time to take them to cello lessons, soccer practice, Cub Scouts, the spring concert, the holiday concert, violin lessons, the library etc.
7. Using a diaper bag in place of a purse for the first few years.
8. Finding it hard to watch your son's wrestling match, even when he's winning.
9. Having a game of catch on a soft summer afternoon.
10. Getting up in the middle of the night to clean up vomit.
11. Worrying when they get their driver's license.
12. Sending them care packages when they go away to college.
13. Never forgetting the moment you held their tiny bodies in your arms for the first time and marveled at how perfect and beautiful they were.

These are just a few of the things that came to my mind -- things I won't forget about being a mom.

A Night On Bald Mountain and the Trail Angel

My mountain man, Derek, called this morning from Erwin, Tennessee. Two nights ago he'd hiked up to a shelter near the top of Bald Mountain (elevation 5500 ft.). The temperature, he said, had plummeted to about zero and so his water had frozen and his shoes -- and even his Snickers bars -- were blocks of ice. He had to hike a lot of miles before he finally warmed up.

While at the shelter, he looked at the log book. Sometimes the hikers leave messages for one another or comments about the scenery, weather conditions, things to look for, thoughts to ponder etc. There, spread across an entire page, was a message about an Easter Dinner that a so-called "trail angel" was hosting for the AT hikers. It was all you can eat- for free! So, Derek copied down the phone number and, when he came to a place with good phone reception, gave the kind angel a call. She picked him up in her truck and brought him to the church where he and about 60 other hikers had gathered for dinner. And eat they did! When you're hiking 12-20 miles a day, you work up a healthy appetite.

Apparently there are many trail angels along the route, people who pass out sandwiches, fruit salad, and even omelettes to the hikers passing through. What a generous thing to do. In a world crowded with too many ugly stories about war, hunger, savagery and neglect it's nice to hear of people performing selfless acts of kindness for total strangers.

Angels don't necessarily wear wings or halos. Sometimes they can look like our next door neighbors.

Procrastination

I believe I've taken the art of procrastination to a new level. It's amazing how many things I can find to distract myself from my writing. Here are just a few, I'm sorry to say.

1. Play game of online Scrabble. Lose to Maven (but at Master level).
2. Check email.
3. Complete NY Times crossword puzzle, except for 3 spaces in lower left hand corner.
4. Read friends' blogs.
5. Throw load of dirty laundry into washer.
6. Stare at last Mallomar in package and wonder if should eat it now or save it for dessert.
7. Fiddle with blog layout.
8. Play another game of Scrabble. Lose again to Maven, sigh.
9. Read another chapter of novel.
10. Throw laundry into dryer.
11. Make cup of tea.
12. Check email again.
13. Take recyclables out to curb.
14. Check Blue Boards.
15. Check SCBWI boards.
16. Look up weather in different parts of country. Then world.
17. Decide what the heck. Eat last Mallomar.
Problem: Husband has already eaten it.
Lesson: Don't procrastinate.

Don't be surprised if the next time you look up procrastinate in the dictionary, you find my picture alongside it. So, how do you while away the time? I know I'm not alone here.

Appalachian Trail Update

My son, Derek, has finished his trek through the Smoky Mountains and is now winding his way through North Carolina and Tennessee (the Appalachian Trail meanders through both states for a while). So far, he's acquired lots of blisters, eaten his way through boxes of food, met some interesting people and taken in some startling beautiful scenery, he says. After hiking 40 miles over two days, yesterday he took a day off to shower at a hostel and email his article to our local newspaper.

The thru-hikers give each other trail names. One guy, a lawyer, is nicknamed Not Guilty and another, a Brit, has the moniker Father Christmas. Derek's nickname is Caterpillar. Not because he moves like one, but because somebody said he looked like a caterpillar threshing around in his sleeping bag. Okay, so maybe he does move a little bit like a caterpillar.

My husband, Dennis and his friend, Matt, drove down to North Carolina yesterday to meet up with Derek and hike part of the trail with him. They left the house at the ungodly hour of four a.m. (to avoid traffic in New York City). So far, so good but for Derek, so many miles and months away from Mt Katahdin, Maine - the end of the journey.