Sunday, March 13, 2016

3.12.16 Perfectly nice.


     I'm doing one of my favorite things, on a Saturday morning, going by my town's library. It's chock-full, of course, with children yelling and running and babies screaming; with people politely edging around each other, to look at this or that rack of books and magazines and periodicals and movies.
     We all put down our bags, and then go searching around, moving over for each other to make room, as we gently open each book jacket, and peek inside, to see if maybe this is a good fit.
     We are each imagining hours and hours of sitting or lying down, having adventures, to faraway places, and lives that are different than our own.
     I go up to the desk to check out, confessing that I have lost my keys, and can they look up my number. Thinking it cost money to get a new card, and maybe I can put it off.
     But he smiles at me, and tells me it costs nothing. In fact, he can do it right now. It just takes a minute. And so he does.
     And then? I'm as happy as a kid with new shoes. Even though they would've let me take out books anyway.
     Librarians are so discrete, too. They can tell so much about you, from the titles you select each week. This month, more this focus, a few months later it changes to that. They're great- they get that it's your business. But they know.
     And over the years and years, if you are an aficionado, if reading comes easily to you, or beautiful books with drawings and photographs, then you come regularly, picking up a supply of Wonderful Things. Sometimes I go online and simultaneously keep open online listings of interesting books, and the library request area of their website. I find a jewel, go see if we have it in our library system, and bing! One day I show up and there are all sorts of beautiful exciting things, waiting for me.
     At the desk today is a woman having a wonderful conversation with a librarian, and she's with her husband, who has some degree of dementia, it seems. He has difficulty with balance, and comprehension. He has wandered a little bit far from her. And so, in a very sweet Portlandia fashion, she raises her arm up over her head and extends toward him, says "Come to me! Come to me! " . And he smiles. He does. Oh my.
     People who've origins from all over the globe who live here come in, with their children and their friends and their teenagers and their strollers and their wheelchairs, they all pour in, looking for that which will please
     There are people reading stories to happy or cranky or wiggly kids in the kid room, and people in another corner reading the daily news. Lots of young adults or teens on computers in the resource room. Displays of local art or creations or wonderful ideas on stands in the middle of the room. Adolescents browsing their own books, in their own area, with bean bag chairs and small hidden away nooks. Nice worn chairs all over the place, for people to sit and visit awhile.      All checked out, I pack my newest items in my bag, and head for the front door. Of the old old building.
     The person ahead of me is older than myself, and as he pushes open the front door, a younger man catches sight of him, and steps back, exclaiming in pleasure. And then so does the happily surprised older man. 
     They exclaim together, and embrace, and it's only a second, but I'm paused behind them, smiling myself, at their sudden joy. That sudden joy would come upon anyone like this. Coming out of their momentary distraction ,they move off the main path, find a thoughtfully located bench out front in the bright warm sun, settle, and begin catching up.
     Walking behind me is a person with a grandchild, the small one tiny, walking, asking questions. That age when they move about 1 inch an hour. The adult smiles down at their grandchild. The kid happily looks at each piece of grass they've picked and carefully share with the grandparent.
     Beyond the crosswalk, I approach  my car, where my Shepherd is lurking inside. Fearful of all things, he sounds absolutely frightening, when I move close enough for his protectiveness to express itself. 
     When he starts barking, a man ,with long gray hair and a bushy mustache and eyebrows, stops quickly and looks around. I call to him "I'm sorry; It's just my dog here in the car. He's just afraid. That's why he sounds like that."
     He turns and looks at me, smiles, says, in a German accent, "Oh, that's not a problem. I love dogs. I love all dogs. I love all animals. He's not a problem." And then turns, and continues on down the shaded sidewalk of town.
Goodness. I call my thanks to  him. I put my wonderful cache of books in the car's trunk, and get in there to reassure my big pup. Before driving off, on one more perfectly nice day we have here.

No comments:

Post a Comment