I grew up on Arthur Avenue. As a child I knew it as a street full of vibrant people, things to do, fences to climb. When people asked me where I lived, the answer always included; “You know, the street the library’s on.” The response was always met with a look of envy. It never occurred to me they were admiring the large houses and well-kept lawns.
At an early age I anxiously awaited getting my very own library card. We had to be “responsible, and know how to take care of things”. When the day come, I stood proudly at the front desk, at the West wall of the building, and watched closely as the librarian filled in the empty lines with the indelible blue ink that was synonymous with the Lakewood Library Card. When the crisp, glossy, white card was handed to me, it perched gingerly in my fingertips, so to not smear the ink. The letters were even more perfect than those on the border of the chalk board in the classroom at Grant. The card meant freedom. Having a card meant having a personal check-out limit. Mine now seemed endless.
The next step to the library card, was having permission to venture to the library alone. Until that day, my mother, an avid reader, would walk us down there weekly (at least) and allow us to choose books and 8mm tapes. It was at 9 or 10-years-old when it was deemed okay to make the pilgrimage alone. Walking down the street never had so much significance. This was a rite of passage, my own personal quest for books. I could scan the old card files and run from shelf to shelf, at my own pace and not have to worry about leaving early for things like shopping at Bi-Rite or A&P for groceries.
There I was on Arthur Avenue, proud, brave; probably walking at a faster pace than normal. From this point on I was able to say “I’m heading to the library", open our side door and head north. A typical visit included sitting on the rounded window seat, in the children’s section, next to the main entrance. Peering over a stack of books, I’d make the important decision as to what would come home, and what would have to wait another week. If the window seat was full, there were always the round tables where I'd watch others come and go through the front door.
One visit held special significance. At some point after I arrived it started to rain. Not drizzle, or drip lightly from the ginkgo trees out front, but a full-fledged downpour. Bravery quickly was swallowed by my fear of storms. So I fretted, sat, and read more books. I looked out the window and grew uncomfortable on the narrow, 1960’s styled, thin bench cushions all while squirming from the fear of walking home alone and worrying about maintaining a brave front. It was clear the rain was not stopping soon, so I broke down and called home on the pay phone. Sulking in the window, worried about being seen as someone who didn’t have the right to go places alone, I saw my mother... carrying an extra umbrella. She looked at me through the window and I felt my heart leap. She wasn’t mad, ashamed or bothered; she was there to bring me home. That day taught me an early lesson on humility. You don’t lose points for asking for help, and those bravery badges don't fall off when you do. And that the same mother who comes running with a band-aid when you fall out of a tree, will walk down the street with an umbrella to get you and your books home safely.
As a high school student, after hundreds of solo visits later, the library was the site of my first paying job. At $1.90 an hour I shelved books under the watchful eye of Ms. Stevulak and learned to archive magazines and run the micro-fiche/film machines. These skills served me well as an adult, as I went on to work at a law library, inventoried microfilm, burned micro-fiche for an insurance company and briefly worked as a catalog and document librarian for a financial firm. To this day, the library is a place of wonder and exploration.
Congratulations on 90 years!
- Christine Young
