Ah, summer. When I was in college, I had a work-study summer grant for two years. My boyfriend at the time, a psychology major, thought I should seek employment in a halfway house. In the heady atmosphere of the mid-1970s, this seemed like a radical proposition.
To me, “radical” was a good word. My father disagreed. But he didn’t argue with me. Instead, he went down to the public library, where he and I were well-known as avid readers, and asked if they had a need for a work-study student.
And so my career as a librarian began. Although I never admitted it to anyone, I was relieved to work as a library aide rather than doing whatever I would have been doing with parolees at the halfway house.
Growing up, I’d spent much of my life in the Somerset libraries in southeastern Massachusetts. Every week, Dad took me to the little Hood Library (one of three in town), which was directly across from my elementary school. I grew from “Harold and the Purple Crayon” to the “Childhood of Famous American” series to Nancy Drew and “Harriet the Spy.”
I wanted to live in the Hood Library. I figured the main floor could remain filled with bookcases, and there was probably an attic—a garret!—where I could make my home.
By the time I was in high school, a library building project was underway. It would combine the three libraries into one, located in the town center; out of my neighborhood, but by then I didn’t care. I had a driver’s license.
So the library I began to work at in college was a new place. I’d been in it a few times. When I was home on break, Dad and I continued our library visits, like we always had . But I can’t say I was all that familiar with the new library.
My job the first summer was to assist the new reference librarian. He was young and handsome, so I was happy to do so. I didn’t harbor any illusions about him—he was happily married—but It was fun to work alongside an attractive professional.
The assignment seemed mysterious and glamorous at the time: We were re-cataloging the reference section. Now I think of this task with a groan. Needless to say, the librarian was re-cataloging (not something I’d ever enjoy) and I was typing the new spine labels and replacing the books on the shelves.
And, yet, my job was a dream come true. I’d always wanted to live — and work — in the Hood Library. But the librarians there only awarded one “page” job a year. This position was given to a high school student, and mostly involved shelving books. The spot I wanted was taken by a girl a year younger than me. Her father was a pastor. Presumably, he had more clout than my dad did.
This young lady was still employed by the library when I arrived, but I wasn’t resentful. After all, she was still in high school, while I was a lordly college student with a work-study grant!
When I wasn’t assisting the reference librarian, I was sent to “read the shelves.” This is an onerous task which involves making sure all the books are in order. In fiction, this means A to Z by the author’s last name. In non-fiction, all books must be placed in numerical order by the Dewey Decimal System, then, in the case of identical numbers, alphabetically by author.
I didn’t mind this job so much, because I hadn’t yet had a chance to uncover all the treasures of the new library. It combined the collections of the three smaller libraries, and many new books had been added as well.
In fact, I would make two important discoveries. One was the English mystery writer P.D. James. I would become a lifelong devotee of her work. The other was Jane Austen. An anonymous author had finished Austen’s novel “Sanditon,” and I was intrigued enough to read it. That was all it took for me to read the rest of Austen’s books. I had found another favorite author.
The next summer in the library was completely different. The children’s librarian had to take a month off for health reasons, and the director asked if I would step in to do the story times. I was beyond excited at this opportunity. I’d volunteered as a tutor in my old elementary school and at a school near college. I liked kids and children’s literature, and, having practically grown up in the library, I knew exactly what went into a story hour.
This was a lot more fun than typing labels for encyclopedias. I didn’t feel like I was working. I even gained a fan club. A 10-year-old boy, his twin and his sister took a shine to me. Robbie remained my friend, visiting me at my parent’s house when I came home from college, keeping in touch by mail as we traveled through life.
We lost touch for a while, but when he saw my mother’s obituary in the newspaper he reached out to me. We’re now friends on Facebook.
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