Monday, January 7, 2002; Page C09
Kids adore libraries. Where else can you find endless shelves filled with stories about curious monkeys, giant peaches, beanstalks and hungry caterpillars? The plastic library card and the responsibility of returning books on time is a rite of passage, one of many marking our entrance into the adult world.
Most adults, on the other hand, tend to favor the crisp, sanitized environs of chain book retailers, where one can flip through the latest John Grisham bestseller or fresh copies of Oprah-worthy selections while nursing coffee and biscotti.
I used to be among those latte-drinking, magazine-flipping masses, snubbing my modest neighborhood library until just a few months ago. Visions of musty stacks, an archaic Dewey Decimal System and intimidating librarians kept me from going, even though it’s just half a block from my apartment. After all, that’s where retirees, stay-at-home parents and neighborhood "eccentrics" passed the time, or so I had always thought. I didn't see myself bonding with that crowd, hunkered down in one of the well-worn wooden chairs, glancing up occasionally (reading glasses perched on the tip of my nose) to say hello or engage in neighborhood gossip. I had places to go, things to do. Well, not really.
Plus, like so many of my peers, I pride myself on the books I've read and what I've accumulated over the years. Swaggering British writers, classics, travelogues and relics of academia fill my bookcases. My collection would wither if I rented books. And anyway, how would I remember what I had read or lent to friends?
But then the economy drooped, my career hit a wall, and Sept. 11 happened. Suddenly, the simplicity of the library and the thrill of getting a stack of books for free weren't to be taken for granted. French provincial cooking or sarcastic political essays could be had for next to nothing, not to mention books on tape, new magazines and the underrated joy of watching small children scuffle over the latest Harry Potter hardback.
I also discovered that libraries around here have much more to offer than just books. Business seminars, a "Great Books" discussion group, a Ukrainian art exhibit, a Scrabble club, computer classes, poetry slams, film clubs and more were all there for the taking. Where had the library been all my life? I began to look forward to my weekly library visits, comforted by that old musty smell, calmed by the routine of it and by the familiar faces.
There was more hustle and bustle than I remembered. Even on an early December Monday afternoon, the place hummed with activity. In the main reading room, a hodgepodge of library regulars mulled about or dozed off in the wooden chairs. Young boys raced in on their scooters, huffing and puffing on their way to the two overburdened computers that live in the kids' section. A French couple leaned against the front counter, kissing, oblivious to the world around them. This was the pulse of my little community, and now more than ever, I needed to be immersed in it.
My neighborhood library isn't ornate and grandiose like the Library of Congress or expansive like the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library downtown. It’s unassuming, with threadbare carpet, dusty stacks, and tables and chairs worn to a brown patina from years of use. The front counter is always cluttered with books, pencils and fliers announcing neighborhood events, the weekly film night and meetings. While the surrounding blocks evolve and fill with chic wine bars and Asian-fusion restaurants, the library remains unchanged. And I'm strangely thankful for that, thankful I can check out as many books as I like, pleased at the sameness of it all, content knowing that it will probably never change.
Strangely, I have become something of an evangelist, telling all who will listen about the wonders of the public library. But it’s not as though I have to do much convincing. Indeed, the mere mention of the good old public library elicits smiles and fond memories from just about everyone.
My hipster friends, who now sip mojitos and read Jane magazine, wax nostalgic about time spent poking around the stacks and researching school papers. The cult filmmaker next-door grins when he tells me he volunteers at the library’s book sales, in part out of goodwill and in part because he gets first crack at crates of old vinyl records. My mother’s eyes light up remembering afternoons spent at the Baltimore public library when she was a child, beginning what would be a lifelong passion for books.
True, the library isn't sexy or fashionable. It isn't a place to see or be seen. But in times when nothing is certain, it gives me endless comfort and pleasure.