![]() I was probably sleeping the first time I visited Rawson Memorial Library. My parents began taking me there when I was an infant. In fact, my dad often took me to the library with him after dinner to give my mother a respite. He put me in my carrier behind the circulation desk, where Marge and Geneva, the library clerks, watched me while Dad perused the stacks. My mom incorporated trips to the library into our weekly routine when I was a little older. During the summertime, she took me to Story Hour. (I can still remember sitting on Mrs. Elliot’s lap, listening to a story and eating my lime green Jell-o Jiggler). And one winter, we went to meet Mrs. Claus, who read The Night Before Christmas to our group of wiggling preschoolers. No matter what time of the year we visited the library, though, there were two books I checked out alternately on repeat--Barbara Bottner’s Bootsie Barker Bites and Ira Sleeps Over by Bernard Waber. My mother read these books to me so often that she had them memorized. (Incidentally, a few years ago the library discarded the copy of Ira Sleeps Over I used to check out as a boy, and I purchased it. It now is on my daughter’s bookshelf). A visit to the library was more than a trip, it was an experience. There was the sweet fragrance that accompanies a literary atmosphere, an aroma of paper and book glue; the sound of computer keys clacking and the soothing cadence of mothers reading to their children; the sights of brightly-colored books and artwork on the walls. A trip to the library employed all of the senses. As I grew older, my view of the library changed. Whereas I once saw it as a place for me, I grew to understand it to be a place for the community as a whole. This change undoubtedly took place when I was in my early teens. I had developed an interest in the history of the Cass City community and spent a significant portion of my free time doing research. Kate, the library director, invited me to access the archives at the library, which consisted of hundreds of old photographs and documents pertaining to the village’s past. From then on, I lived at the library. A couple of years later, after arriving home from school one afternoon, my mom said that Kate wanted to talk to me. “She would like you to apply for the library page position,” she said. “You can stop by an fill out an application.” It seems ridiculous now, but my initial reaction at the time was one of fear. I feared the teasing I would get at school for working at a library, especially for being the only male on staff. I was already ribbed by some of my friends for being bookish. Now they would have even more ammunition for their good natured, but irksome jabs. And wouldn’t working at a library be boring? “I think you should do it,” my mom said. “You already spend most of your time there. You will enjoy it.” Shortly after this conversation with my mom, I applied for the job and was hired. Those first couple of days on the job, when kids from my class came into the library, I ducked into the stacks. They’ll think I’m a nerd, I thought to myself. Soon enough, though, I decided not to care what others thought of me. Working at the library was a respectable job, one that suited me perfectly, and it was far from boring. Of course, I knew the library well because of our frequent visits when I was a boy; and I knew many of the patrons who came in. It didn’t take long before I admitted to myself that not only did I not mind working at the library, I loved it! In some communities, the local library is merely an information center. But in Cass City, the library is much more, it’s a gathering place, the hub of the community. It is a democratic institution, a place where socio-economic status is neither a benefit nor a detriment. Rawson Memorial is a place where, at any given time, a retired educator may be found tutoring a child, or where a pastor’s wife is teaching an elderly man how to read. At the same time, the Pinney Meeting Room may be hosting a gathering of the historical society or the Women’s Christian Temperance Union or the Girl Scouts. At the opposite end of the building one may find a lifelong bachelor reading the county newspaper, or neighbors standing in front of the Stephen King novels, catching up on the latest happenings from their block. Sitting at a table by the window, one may see a grandmother with her granddaughter making contributions to the communal jigsaw puzzle before going home for lunch. In the center of the library is the circulation desk, the anchor of the building. Here, friendly staff members not only assist patrons with checking out materials, but also with web searches for directions to the Detroit airport, faxes to the unemployment office, and photocopies of magazine clippings to be sent through the mail to friends. From time to time, the high school band has their bakesale in the lobby to raise funds for new uniforms or instruments. The Friends of the Library hosts their “Better Books Sale” near the circulation desk, a smattering of Janet Evanovich and James Patterson novels marked down to can’t-beat prices. When I worked at the library, one of my favorite events was when former residents, or the families of former residents, stopped by for a visit. Often they wanted information on where so-and-so lived or was buried, conversations that started as sterile inquiries and ended with warm smiles and friendly handshakes. From time to time, a bereaved widow or widower brought a box of their spouse’s used books to be sold at the annual summer book sale. “Cleaning out the house is therapeutic,” they often said. Sometimes happy news was brought into the library, too. “I got the job!” or “My daughter had her baby!” were always welcome announcements. Rawson Memorial Library was, and continues to be, a singular place; and I, for one, am thankful that such places exist. As one person aptly put it, “The only thing that you absolutely have to know is the location of the library.” I couldn’t agree more.
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AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
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