Responsibility And Disaster At The Library

 Grandma Lu was sitting in her chair by the window looking at the clouds. She grinned and thought, "Old woman, you have been doing this since you were old enough to remember. On the farm your bedroom that you shared with your oldest sister seemed like it was in the arms of the cottonwood trees. You could see the squirrels and the birds. The big fluffy clouds were your favorites. You could make them into anything that you could imagine. Sometimes you saw giants, bunny rabbits, wolves, or big teddy bears. Your bed was so very comfy. You could hardly move when you were in bed because of your grandmother's heavy quilts that weighed you down. They were made of old coats. You could lay there and listen to what was happening downstairs and knew that soon your dad would come up the stairs and squeeze your big toe and say "Up and at 'em Annie. Time for breakfast." I would squeal and laugh and go downstairs for a hearty breakfast. When I say hearty it was hearty. Often it was oatmeal with brown sugar and cream or French toast made from homemade bread. We had Sanka or hot chocolate to drink for bteakfast to keep us warm. We also had heavy cream in our Sanka or hot chocolate.

Grandma Lu grinned as she thought of the day that she and her mother walked up the steps to the Cherokee County Library. I can remember so well the feeling when I printed my name on my new library card. I had not yet learned cursive, but my writing, often messy, was perfect on that card. I received a stern warning from both my mother and the librarian, Mrs. Irene Leeds that from now on I would be held responsible for the books that I checked out. They were to be kept clean and not marked in. I was told to always remember that other people would be reading the same books that I had returned and they expected them to be good as new.

After a few weeks of checking out books Mrs. Leeds greeted my mother and I with great news. The library had received a new shipment of brand new books that had never been read before. She looked me in the eyes and smiled and said, "I know you will take very good care of these books, LuAnne, so if you would like to check them out you may."

I looked at my mother and she smiled and said, "You may check out one of the books this week. Next week you may get another." It was Little House on the Prairie written by Laura Ingalls Wilder. The year was 1951 and I was seven years old. Little did I know that the world as I knew it would never be the same. That book started my mind reeling with "What ifs" and "Oh nos!" and a brand new feeling of "I can't wait until next weekend so I can read the next book to see what happens!"

Those books were often the subjects of my conversation at the kitchen table and with my mom while she was baking. One day I asked if I could take my book to school. I thought that the children and teacher would like to see what I was going to talk about. In other words it would be my prop for my little speech we all had to do in second grade. It was a bit like show and tell for older children. After much stern warnings and reminding me that the book was expensive and that I could take it, but be extremely careful I took that precious book to school and never saw it again. That day is right up there with one of the worst days of my life. You see my parents had to pay for that book. It cost them $11.00. That was the equivalent of $133 nowadays.

The last story I wrote I said I knew no crime until I was a grownup, but while I am writing this, I have a sinking feeling that someone did find that book and kept it for themselves.

It took some doing to get the trust back from Mrs. Leeds and my mother. Of course, I never ever took a book to school after that except those for homework.