Little Libraries
The fireplace poker swings at the Little Free Library on the corner of Kindred and Tapestry. Pieces of wood shatter. The one that is a mini replica of the house it stands in front of- victorian, the same light blue door, and floral wallpaper that also covers the kitchen of the Aldrich household.
Books tumble out. A book on house plants, a children’s book called “Who Had a poo?”, “Infinite Jest” which has been the longest sitting book in there- the one everyone says they will read one day. “Elementary Training for Musicians,” a biography of Shirley Temple, a book called “Aroused” ironically followed by the thud of a Bible.
…
Last month, the slim glass was shattered of the Little Library that was essentially a plain, wobbly wooden box. “One of the ones the prisoners must have made” a neighbor whispered to his wife. It was covered with plastic- “an eye sore” the neighbor’s wife had whispered back- until “that steward” got around to fixing it.
A steward being the person who owns and registers their Little Library. The term the residents of Hudson, Wisconsin knew to use because the very invention of the wooden box of borrowed books began here.
Eleven year old Mae learned the term recently, when she moved to the neighborhood from the “big city.” She liked to imagine the steward as a librarian who shrunk herself, hopped into the box, and tidied up. Mae was fascinated by the Little Libraries. She took to going on walks and exploring each one, often holding in her mind quotes she read from books purchased by strangers.
Her mother was shocked when Mae said at the dinner table- sans father- “we must remember, although we don’t always have a say in what shows up on the canvas of our lives, we always have say in the frame we surround it with.” A page in a self-help book written by a middle aged woman. She found it in the Little Library that was painted rainbow, in front of the house she wish she lived in- the one with all the wind chimes.
That page had been marked with a religious bookmark that read “ I AM Blessed You are The Blessing. : Pass it On”. Mae wasn’t religious- that she knew of- but she liked the idea of passing it on. So she took the bookmark to her favorite Little Library- the simple wooden box that was tough to open, and the windows so slim it was like a secret. She loved the worn, mysterious aspect of it- the same way she liked her books.
But the Little Library had been covered with plastic. Mae lifted the plastic and saw that only the slim glass had broken. “I hope the tiny librarian wears proper shoes when she sweeps tonight,” she thought to herself.
While everyone else in the community assumed that “that steward” had just failed to upkeep, Mae took note of the odd, minimal destruction. But she was determined to “Pass it on.”
So Mae walked, her small hands clutching the bookmark promoting a cult, to her second favorite library. The one shaped like a schoolhouse.
She unlatched it then peeked inside, fingering the tops of the pages, checking for any gaps that possibly contained a folded down page. This was part of her ritual. Next, she would step back and scan the titles, guessing what type of people left the books. The more eclectic and contradictory, the more exciting.
Such as when she found a book titled “How to be a Thin Person” in the same library as “Help Your Teenager Beat an Eating Disorder.” The latter she opened because of all the folded down pages, which was the next part of her routine. She read anything dog-eared or highlighted, pretending the shrunken librarian left them for her to find.
Again, Mae surprised her mother at the dinner table when she announced that she signed her up for PTA meetings that took place late evenings. Her mother seemed to be eating less- appearing like the withered paperbacks with yellowed pages and pieces of the cover missing.
Mae had remembered the marked page in that eating disorder book that said to “schedule age-appropriate activities around mealtimes for your child.” She knew the withered paperbacks stayed in the Little Libraries the longest, never being chosen. Mae’s eyes often went to them over the shiny hardcovers.
Which was the next part in her ritual. She would see if any books caught her eye. In the schoolhouse, she saw one titled “Now is the Time for Dreams.” She flipped through the pages, then placed the bookmark in one that she considered a good quote to pass along.
Mae never wished to be a steward herself, despite her fascination. She wouldn’t shrink herself to please a community that wasn’t hers. But as she left the bookmark, she was satisfied to contribute to a Little Library.
If Mae had stayed a moment longer before continuing her long walk, she would have overheard a dinner conversation much different to her household’s. Multiple voices around the table, not just two. Overlapping and interrupting, not one-sided. Loud and passionate, not filled with silences and boredom. This particular dinner amongst the stewards of the schoolhouse was louder than usual. And ended with the slamming of the front door, never to be entered by the person who slammed it again.
However, Mae had just missed the dramatic exit, as she was already at her third favorite Little Library- the one shaped like a bird feeder. Inside she found a poetry book with various marked pages. Most were under the section titled “if you’re in love.”
She didn’t understand romantic love yet, but she was beginning to understand that it was something she should understand. Perhaps study it the way she studied the highlighted pages in a business book she once flipped through. She could guess the type of person who had left the business book. This poetry book would be a bit harder to crack.
“People should fall in love more. Fall in love with the rare moment your cat doesn’t ignore you.. The way your coffee swirls, the stars when they look at you.” Someone with a softness had once purchased the poems- Mae was sure of it.
She heard the quote in the voice of her Aunt, who poured over books with her at the kitchen table when she was just learning to read. “Soft”, she once heard her father call his sister, who’s visits lessened as she grew older.
Curious, how a subject Mae just decided to learn about was already fueling her brain. There seemed to be a link between her and whoever marked this page. She decided to break her self-imposed rule to not take the books. Because the miniature librarian pushed it in her direction. And she wanted to discretely leave it lying around for her mother to find.
As she pulled the book out, she noticed the shelf tilt a bit- strange because the poetry book was so light. Was it because she was breaking her rule? A sign she shouldn’t take it?
But as she went to put it back she noticed a screw of the shelf loose, and a funny hole in the back- as if a bear tried to fit into a house made for birds. Were there bears in this town?
Perhaps the book should stay with her.
…
When the fireplace poker shatters the Victorian Little Library- most people’s favorite in the neighborhood- Mae can hear it from her bedroom. The rest of the town is asleep. They’re community people.
There is a “connective tissue” between them. “The embodiment of neighborliness and community pride.” They sleep peacefully, in harmony and trust.
However, Mae’s ears are tuned in. She had noticed the broken glass of most people’s least favorite Little Library. She saw the bear hole in the bird feeder- the one with the poetry book that her mother is discreetly reading now. They’re city people, they don’t sleep peacefully yet. If her mother wasn’t entranced in the pages, she might have heard the noise too. But it’s only Mae and one other neighbor who listen.
Todd Jr. Bol, the eleven year old who lives inside the house behind the schoolhouse Little Library, is awake too. The cast on his leg itches after a day outside, sweating, trying to pretend he could still play with his friends despite the broken leg. He’s also been plagued with curiosity ever since he checked on the books in his library- at the request of his mom- and noticed a bookmark poking out of one.
Whether it was boredom from not being able to have a normal summer with his broken leg, or the fact it was a religious bookmark- wondering if “uncle” Brooks left it there- he decided to open to the marked page.
And the quote from “Now is the The Time for Dreams” stuck with him. “this is the moment (the precise moment) that everything can begin.” Was someone trying to tell him something?
Todd never really thought about “signs” until his grandfather died. He loved his parents, but him and his grandfather-his namesake- had something special. A secret language of sorts.
If his Grandad had been there during the major blow up at the dinner table a couple weeks back, they would have exchanged a look. One that said “it is what it is.” In fact if he had been there, the argument wouldn’t have happened in the first place.
Sometimes when Todd can’t sleep he sneaks down to the computer to research Todd Sr. Recently he read about his Grandad’s and Brook’s idea behind Little Libraries:
“an essential social, psychological, spiritual link between one library and the next. It’s the notion that people meet people they wouldn’t have met; they share things that they value with each other. This is more than a box; this is more than books; it’s a whole set of relationships.”
So when Todd Jr. hears the shattering, he understands the significance. And because he has witnessed so many being built, he knows exactly what is being destroyed.
The shattering of everyone’s favorite Little Library will be the shattering of relationships. The fireplace poker cutting through the social link. The tumbling of books like the tumbling of values.
Todd and Mae are only eleven, but they both know the neighborhood won’t be sleeping soundlessly from here on out.