I was born an unusually curious child, which served in my early years to provide nothing more than an endless series of beatings. At the age of 11 or 12 I discovered while “investigating” my mother’s underwear drawer a copy of “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” With the instincts of a life-long pornographer hunter, I quickly discovered all the dirty words and salacious parts.
Growing up in relative isolation, except for my family and the children of the black sharecroppers that lived on my Daddy’s property, I spent the majority of my time discovering new and increasingly creative ways of getting into trouble. The black children were not allowed inside the house to play, so we spent our time climbing trees, playing pretend and going to the places we had been clearly instructed to stay away from. There were no Pre-Kindergartens or Kindergartens either for that matter, so it was not until I was nearly seven years old that I knew what it was like to have playmates. I learned to read in the first grade from the “Dick and Jane” books. I learned to read by sight, and still do, because phonetics were out of fashion, either that or I rejected the notion outright. Learning to read was the most amazing thing that ever happened to me. I loved going to school and I loved reading circle, lunch and recess. The school I attended had no library for the elementary students. There was one in the high school building, which we were never ever allowed to go into.
During the school year I was very happy to be in the company of children and very strident adults, but at night I returned to isolation and a large family with only arguments at the supper table and the radio to keep us entertained. As first and second graders, we were allowed to take home our reading books and our spelling books and I would try to read ahead in my “Dick and Jane.” As a young child I was given books for Christmas and birthdays, Trixie Belden and Bobbsey Twins and Nancy Drew books.
Summers were a misery, there was work from 4 or 5 a.m. until the sun set, with the only relief coming from the rock n’ roll music and the Yankees and the Dodgers on the radio. I have no idea how I learned that on certain days of the week I could walk down that mile long dusty road that lead to my house and there discover a whole new world.
The light summer breeze made arabesque patterns in the dust as my short tanned legs and bare feet plowed along the road that led to the blacktop. Past the ramshackle barn, past the corn crib, on past the three tobacco curing barns and on past the packing barn I went. And there it was! A Bookmobile! I’d never heard of such a thing and never dreamed of the treasures it held inside. I recall nothing about the driver or librarian, I only remember that I was allowed to check out and keep for two weeks two books of my choosing! I looked, and looked and browsed. I recall the musty smell of old paper and ink, and the sheer joy of being able to take two books home to read for two whole weeks. My first choice was two biographies about Dolly Madison and Betsy Ross. The books were not colorful or bright, but very plain and the only illustrations were black silhouettes of the famous women at the beginning of each chapter. They were well used, yellowed, thumbed and none of them were new. I didn’t care. In two weeks I was able to read and re-read them whenever I was not working in the field.
I don’t want to suggest or imply that I grew up around ignorant parents with no reading materials in the house, though I venture that until I was 13 or 14 years old, I’d never met a person who had a college degree, except of course for my teachers. My father only went to school through the 8th grade and my mother had graduated from high school and attended a secretarial school. Whatever skills she learned there were never used in her lifetime. Both of them were very smart and they both believed strongly in the power of education. They nagged us raw about “getting good grades,” “applying yourself” and “if you can’t be smart, at least be quiet at school.” Our house had an occasional woman’s magazine and some kind of farming magazine. There was always a newspaper and a book shelf in the living room with a few hard bound volumes. I suspect they were more for décor than actual reading. I recall they were mostly of the Neville Shute and Ernest Hemingway variety, not exactly reading material for a 7 or 8 year old. The tiny type and the long pages served to dampen my spirits about reading them. There was a public library in Lillington but that was 9 or 10 miles down the road. We only went to town for business or on Saturdays and the library was closed. When my mother or father went on business, the children were not allowed to go. So the bookmobile, served as my salvation and my earliest memories of libraries. Little did I imagine that I would spend the better part of my life living among books and music and interesting people, nor did I ever consciously choose this profession, but it is a profession that I love. I can scarcely imagine myself doing anything other than what I do now. It’s unfortunate that I took my first position in a library, because I love to read. Now that I’m here, I seldom have time to read but busy myself with the business of running this wonderful resource for others. I have pledged to myself that as an adult I would actually read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.” Maybe someday---besides I’ve already read all the good parts.
