Love Letter to The Library

The library is like that life-long friend, who no matter how many years it has been since you've seen them, you feel right at home the minute you walk in.

You know if you are in a strange town you can go to the library and feel at home.  There are only a handful of things to figure out and clearly marked signs to help you. Where are the newspapers? Where are the new releases?  In five minutes you have the lay of the land.  You can pick a seat and observe humanity and think 'I bet Charlotte Bronte is right over there in the Bo-Ce aisle'.

You can wander through the children's section and probably see bright colors, a fish tank, and shorter book shelves.  And if you look for Boxcar children, they will be there.  Some places, like some friends, are safe places.

If you were a small-minded person like me, you could quickly judge the town you are in. Magazines: Do they have 'Writer's Digest'?  If not, backwater.

Class-neutral.  I was recently at the Oak Park, IL library for a length of time and I saw such liveliness. Hipster families of three in their matching Northface coats, skinny jeans and black frame glasses. Sweat-shirted group of possible gin-rummy players with badly died hair, 20-something Asian girl in a tailored red wool coat. A young mother, her five-year-old daughter in twenty-year-old Little Mermaid boots.  Coughing older gentleman in parking deck attendant uniform. Vogue Model look-alikes who were speaking a Russian-ish language. Three young boys with a curly-red-haired grandma, all of them frowning but rushing purposefully to hit the elevator button first.   

None of them looked frazzled, confused, or lost.  

My therapist (used to have one, currently I just imagine what she would say) would say I love the library because it was the one place my father told me from about the age of six that if I asked him to take me there, he'd never say 'No'.  He probably regretted that promise more than once, after a long day at work, coming home in our only vehicle, and being greeted by 'Can you take me to the library, Daddy?'  This original Carnegie library is so old I could only find a sketch of it online:

 

My sixth grade self would tell you my stack of books that never ran out, that one summer of Pringles and pale legs in our silent living room, it cemented our friendship.  This newer building was built around the time I was ten... (the 70's)

The Milner library in my college years -- I wasn't much for studying there, I preferred to be in my uncomfortable dorm bed for that, but I liked to go there, smell the books, listen to the murmurs, write my boyfriend long letters, and generally experience a bit of safety. Staidness. 

                

There was the day in the Winfield Public Library when I was still pregnant with my first that I discovered the non-fiction section on 'How to be a Writer' and the universe aligned.  Within a few days of reading everything their meager selection offered in this section of the Dewey decimal system,  I realized at the old age of 24 I had missed my calling, already gainfully employed in the computer industry. 

                    

There was the St. Charles Public library where I was a storytime mommy and me virgin.  And then the reunion when I moved back to my home town and renewed my relationship with that building, mostly taking preschoolers to storytime and occasionally sneaking over to the adult side, new releases only because they were within hearing distance of the kids section, to find something to read. Four sweet words. This is also the era (90's?) when I discovered the library could keep me regular.  Gastro-intestinally speaking. A mystery for a smarter person than me to solve. 

Generally people think the library is old school.  It is not. It is the original solution to short attention spans.  If someone invented the concept today they'd be billionaires.

I go there to write. 

And listen.

And get audio books for long trips, watch violin quartets, visit the book sale room, visit old (books I have known) friends, find out about local events on the community bulletin board.  Shots taken at my hometown library recently...

 

I view artwork exhibits, listen to community speakers, attend reading groups. I've seen my niece's American Girl Collection on display. I've figured out who lived in my current house in 1898, 1908...  I've searched paper college catalogs when I was thinking about where to go to college.  I've met people who became good friends (Leslie).  Have I mentioned its free?

F R E E

I strongly believe the library has a place in our futures just like in our pasts. And as long as I live, I will feel at home there, no matter what city, no matter what age.  Libraries are a good familiar.  As much as I love change, I also love a good familiar. 

So much goodness in one spot

Every year, I say I'm going to simplify.  "The tree is up.  That is enough." I say to myself, to my family. "We don't need all the clutter and fuss." I tell my co-workers. And so far, every year, I give in.  I pull out the plastic Rubbermaid bins we store in the eaves of my daughter's room.  There must be 8 or 10 of them.  I open one, just to look for the nativity set.  That is required, right?  And then one of my daughters peeks in another bin and wants to put up the Dickens' Village.  And then I see the stockings which are obviously not optional, but underneath are the stuffed animals I like to put in the entryway. And then the rolls of glittery ribbon, the sprigs of holly leaves, and the angel collection start calling my name.  "Just one more thing." Until it is all out. Again. Cluttering up our already small spaces, with memories.

But my favorite decoration is the one above. My collection of Christmas books.  They are not all great literature.  They are not even all good (some I just like the covers of). But most of them are like dear friends.  I have to read Miss Read's Christmas collection last, closest to Christmas Eve, so I can picture that mouse keeping her awake.  Some of them can be read in an hour or so, which at this time of year is a blessing.  To sit in my recliner, with the tree twinkling nearby, my dog Molly at my left, a glass of wine at my right and one of the Christmas stories I love to re-read in my lap is about as festive as it gets for Toni Lisa House Evans.

If I'm having a bad day, I read Maeve Binchy's short story collection that focuses on the stresses and strains of holiday time.  If I feel like laughing it is Dave Barry's or Charlene Baumbich.  There is a book for every mood. And every year, I pull them out and enjoy looking at them, reading them, and then putting them away again.  A Christmas treat for me.  Is there anything better than books? 

The Day my Breath Sang in my Geek Lungs

 I was sitting in my seat in the cool auditorium, beaming down good vibes on our speaker for the evening, Elizabeth Berg, anticipating the next two hours with tangible relish. It was like I was slicing a happy cake and sitting there with a large wedge of it on my porcelain plate, ready for the first delicious bite, fork poised.  Elizabeth Berg slips on her reading glasses and peers down at a yellow sticky note and says "Is there a Toni House Evans in the audience".  My physical reaction was so clichéd.  Slow motion, face turns red, eyes bulge, heart beats hard. Don't have a coronary Toni, you'll miss the talk.   It felt surreal to hear my name come out of her mouth.  In a crowd of several hundred. Plus I'd never heard my facebook name said aloud before so I hesitantly raised my hand inch by inch while I said in my head.  Yes, that is me, right?  That is my maiden name with my last name.

She spotted my hand finally, as I raised it high and grinned like an idiot. 

"I need you to see me afterwards.  I have something for you." said Elizabeth Berg.  To Toni Evans.

I was speechless.  Now anyone who knows me knows I am never short of a word or ten. I was now breathing in and out choir music through my lungs.

She went on to give a heart-warming, realistic, and thoughtful talk about becoming and being a writer and author.  I did my best to absorb each word.  I took notes. I said to myself, 'Self, use all your senses here, breathe it in, this is the good stuff'.

I have to pause here for a confession.   Somehow(??) on the day before this conference, when she posted on facebook page about her upcoming speech, I got uncharacteristically ballsy and posted a link to my blog post about her  on her facebook. And she read it.  Here is the proof, I just can't resist storing it here for my grandchildren to see (Someday. If my kids ever get married. Wait-- will Blogger still be around?...):

So I have a written compliment from my favorite author and she said my name out loud in public.  "But wait," the universe said, "there's more!"

Afterwards I perused her books and bought one (even though I already own every single one)  so that if I told her who I was and she said 'And I care because?' I could just give her my book to sign.  I got at the end of the line. This guy was carefully handwriting everyone's name on a sticky note and placing it on the correct page for Elizabeth, so she could more easily sign and keep the line moving and didn't have to ask how to spell, etc.  I assumed it was another of the many conference volunteers being gracious.  But when he got to me he stopped and chatted and said "I'm Bill by the way."  I had just given my name so I just kind of smiled nervously and bobbed my head and he said 'Her Bill' and he nods towards the book-signing table.  Suddenly my face became very animated and I got very friendly, because just like every other blood-sucking celebrity fan out there, I thought I might get some little insight or morsel of Elizabeth-ness from him.  We chatted for a while as the line was long and slow-moving.  I liked him.  He was not intimidating at all.

I guess I used up all my charm on Bill, because by the time I got to Elizabeth I said something non-sensical, and then Bill said something like 'this is her' and then Kelly standing nearby leaned down at the same time to say "This is the Toni you were looking for earlier" or something like that, the blood was pounding in my ears, drowning out reality.  I then said something unnecessary as she was signing my book, along the lines of "I think I've read them all except this one." Even though I have read this one (?).  Then she said "I have something for you. A signed first-edition of my first novel".  Except in my ears it was like trumpets and her mouth moving and I just smiled and nodded and accepted this from her:

So I then asked for a hug and leaned across the table very awkwardly (I'm not even a hugger) and she said 'What?  I thought said you were going to show me your tattoos?'  Yeah, I'm a silver-tongued beast. As I floated away from her table, hoping to get away before I did anything to spoil the iridescent-glitter haze I was in, Bill stopped me and said "There aren't very many of these in existence."  pointing to my gift. My signed, first-edition copy of Durable Goods. I just kept saying "Thank YOU" and smiling and backing away.

By the way, that photo was taken on my hotel room bedspread minutes later, before I pulled the ribbon and peeked inside.  It now has a place of pride in my living room. I have only shared this story with about three people, because if you aren't a book-lovin' girl down to your toes, I will just sound crazy here. (So if you are thinking She's crazy, it is ok, I don't blame you.)  But hey, blogging is about transparency, and it just doesn't get much more transparent than this.  At least not and still be fun to read.  Which is one of my goals here.

Bottom line: I am worthy.  Regardless of how I come across in person. The memory of July 25, 2014 is tied with a white satin ribbon and always will be.

Elizabeth Berg Stalker

So some people have a movie star or a sports legend they would be goofy over meeting.  For me it is authors.  I have anticipated meeting a particular author for many years now.  I first fell in love with her prose when she wrote parenting articles for Good Housekeeping (or Parenting I forget which) and discovered her books and ate them up the way you eat a bunch of cool grapes on a hot summer afternoon.  (or a butterscotch candy at a football game. ) Then I waited patiently as her books gradually were released and treated myself to one whenever they came out.  There is something about her writing that makes me feel like we could easily be best-friends.  I discovered that I'm not the only one that feels this way about Elizabeth Berg.  She now has a facebook following of very kindred spirits and I'm still surprised how many of them will post something that is exactly what I was thinking. 

Some years ago, I guess it would be 15 now to be exact (as I remember this trip was just weeks after my youngest was born), I was going to Boston on a business trip and I knew Elizabeth lived there.  Then I discovered the hotel they were putting me in was in the very suburb that I'd seen her mention in her essays.  I knew from her writing book that she often spent time at a coffee shop and so I decided while in this little burb, I would hang out at the coffee shop in hopes of sighting her.  This got me so excited, that I expanded the idea, and I wrote her a letter asking her to meet me for coffee at this shop on a particular day in June.  Just know that 'stalking' wasn't even a term then.

No surprise thinking back now, but she was unable to meet me.  She wrote me a charming letter on stationary though, explaining she would be in Hershey, PA that day. And though crest-fallen, the thought of her having a chocolate-related excuse did give me some comfort.  I'm sure if a complete stranger figured out my home address and asked me to meet for coffee, I wouldn't be the least bit suspicious or wary.  But, we didn't meet.

Down the road she moved to Chicago. And one year she was going to speak at the Iowa City Book Festival and I was going to go and spend two days there and hear my favorite author speak.  So close to home, books, party, and Elizabeth.  It was all meant to be, right?  Right.   Until I came down with not just a cold but pneumonia in July and had to miss that trip.  So close. 

I've reread her book for Writers every other year or so since it came out, "Escaping into the Open".  And I've daydreamed about attending one of her writing workshops she holds in Italy combining cooking classes, food, and fiction writing.  What could possibly be better?  But then I remind myself that I haven't written in weeks and do not deserve something like that until I grow my chops as a writer.  Until I get off my butt and get disciplined.  Unless I show that I can write and write and write some more.  Which in my mind, I haven't done.  I seem to take my writing career similar to that of a postage stamp hobbyist -- I work on it when the fancy strikes me, with weeks in between.

After that  I decided it was better not to meet someone that was so built up in your imagination that they couldn't possibly ever live up that image I have created over the years. It would be like meeting Mary Engelbreit and finding out she was jaded and negative in real life, like myself at times.

Then, surprise surprise, I found out she is speaking at the Midwest Writers' Workshop I'm attending this July.  Elizabeth Berg is the Saturday evening speaker.  At a dinner.  In INDIANA!  It seems crazy to think it.  And no I don't plan to go up to her and tell her, as the 597th fifty-something woman to do so, that I'm her biggest fan.  I don't plan to ask her to read my manuscript.  In fact I'm really hoping I don't have to speak to her at all.  I just want to soak it in.  Being in a room, watching her mannerisms, listening to her words, and matching what I've grown to understand about her over the years with a face. I do know she is human and not perfect and is in fact perfectly imperfect in the same way I strive to be.  I will go back to my hotel room and write down all the details I can and keep it for a rainy day when I want to read about it.  Because face it, now that I'm more mature, I can take a step back and acknowledge it for what it is -- a bit creepy.  But it is meant with genuine affection and esteem, and I sincerely hope I do not embarrass myself when the opportunity does present itself this July. 

No really.  I swear.  I'll be mature.  And I'll stay away from the wine.  Ok, I'll stay away from more than two glasses of wine and only take four pictures.  No three. Well, for now, anticipation.....

if you want to become a fan too, here is her website: http://www.elizabeth-berg.net/
and here is the link to the writer's conference  http://www.midwestwriters.org/