The Holy Library

I love books. I love their smell, their binding, and their heft in my hand. And yes, I often judge a book by its cover; some are just more interesting than others. At the end of this blog I have put in a link to a game; see if you can name the book by its cover.

This obsession with books began at a young age. In grade school, I would get all excited when the bookmobile would come, and impatiently wait outside for my turn to enter this cramped and wobbly library-on-wheels. When the Scholastic Book fliers would be handed out, I felt like I had received a catalog for Tiffany's, with each page boasting more exotic treasures than the previous. Page one:  Are you my Mother?; Frog and Toad; Velveteen Rabbit. Page two: Bread and Jam for Frances; Corduroy; Where the Wild Things Are. Page three: Caps for Sale; Little House on the Prairie; Wind in the Willows. Page four: Johnny Tremain; A Wrinkle in Time; Charlotte's Web. I'd scrape up or "borrow" enough money to buy something. But the truth is, I never read them; I just wanted them. I was a covetter.

On Saturday's, my dad would bring me to the Solon Public Library, a very sacred place to me. The doors to this brick rectangle opened into a wide hallway with display cases and bathrooms to the left. After getting a drink from the water fountain--that holy water was always satisfyingly cold!--we'd enter through the second set of doors and into the inner sanctum.

 It was like entering a Catholic Church complete with priests, altar, rituals, and contrivances.

• The Priests: Unlike those in the Pope-led Catholic Church, these priest's were women. Non-smiling women. Women who held the power. Women in polyester dresses.
• The altar and Ritual #1: Completely cut off from the congregation by a 3 foot horseshoe counter. Here you would approach the librarian with your pile of books to return either sin-free, or to ask for absolution:
•  Me: "Bless me, Librarian, for I have sinned. I have three overdue books."
• And receive penance. Librarian: "Give me fifteen cents and promise to never overdue again."
• The Contrivances:
• The Library Card: Tangible proof of your Baptismal Rite of Initiation
• The Take-Out Slip: Pocketed in the back of the book and presented during Offertory.
• Ritual # 2: The Blessing and Dismissal.

Our library was one big room with a row of tall book cases separating the kid's section from the not-kid's section. Dad would drop me off in the former and then go hang out in the latter. I can still conjure up its smells, colors, and textures. I'd go from right to left, removing books willy-nilly from the shelves based on my criteria of thier smell and cover art. Hardbacks with those plastic cover-protectors exclusive to libraries, were my favorites. I would avoid the wretched weathered and wrinkled paperbacks. My choices ranged from picture books to teen fiction. Stack in hand, I would go to the not-kid section to find my dad reading maps and reference books. When he was ready we'd go check out.

And there, at Ritual #2, I'd pull out the slips from the back of the books and use the midget pencil to inscribe my name: Patricia Krasowski. This was proof for the ages that I existed; that I was a member of this church, this denomination of readers! Although I was a poser, someone more intrigued by the accoutrement's of the religion and not its beliefs, I knew deep in my heart they understood but still accepted me. This is a very 1970's notion, by the way.

But our morning was not over:

• Ritual #3: The Tavern. After leaving the library, Dad would take me to the Tavern where we would partake of Communion. A Beer for him and Coke--in a bottle!--and pretzels for me.

PLAY THE BOOK COVER GAME!
 http://www.sporcle.com/games/g/bookcovers

The Farm

When I was a kid, Sunday usually meant a trip to The Farm. I always thought this trip took an hour-and-a-half until recently when I googled a map, traced the route and found out it was only a 45 minute drive; I had doubled the hell. Obviously, this was not a trip I looked forward to.

 I was--and am--prone to being motion sick. All you had to do was say "We are going to The Farm" for me to start sweating. We'd all pile into the car: three in back, Mom and Dad in front. As the youngest I would have to sit in the middle, the coveted window seats called for by my older brother and sister. They would make themselves comfortable--sprawl--and I was not to touch them.

Uncomfortable and crabby, I'd begin getting motion sick as soon as we backed out of the driveway. My dad would drive (insert favorite line from Mom: "You know I don't drive"). Going down hills would claim my stomach, curves took my brain, and lurches would suck out the last of my resolve. Soon, I'd have to stick my head in the paper-bag my mom had lined with a plastic bag, always at the ready (the stiffness of the paper bag made it a reliable receptacle and the plastic bag made for ease of disposal). To this day I suffer a Pavlovian response to the smell of paper bags.

The second reason was everyone on The Farm scared the shit out of me. Except for Tipper and Princess. They were the two dogs I remember the most, probably because they lasted longer than any other dogs after getting hit repeatedly by cars. They smelled really bad and had matted fur full of burrs. But they were happy, and bouncy, and Tipper would sit on me when I sat on the floor. I think they were angels sent by God. That's one of the reasons I love dogs.

My Uncle Tony and grandparents lived on The Farm. It was my uncle's farm, but my grandparents came to live with him. The story of my uncle's move to The Farm is a legend of Shakespearean proportions.

First, the legend:
ME: After much planning, Uncle Tony runs away from his home on Green Road in the dead of night. He tells his secret plans to no one except my mom. He absconds from the Cleveland home he shares with his parents, and moves to his own personal Idaho: West Farmington, Ohio, an Amish area not far from the Pennsylvanian border. A few weeks later, my grandparents show up unannounced and unwanted on his doorstep, bags in hand, and ready to move in with their forty-year-old adolescent.

Now, the damper as applied by my sister:
PAULA: They had put the house in Cleveland on the market before he moved and it was assumed that Nani and Nano--that's what we call our Sicilian grandparents--would join him later.

The truth, somewhere in the middle:
MICHAEL: Although I like my story better, I thought I'd ask my brother. Paula and I both partially right: the house in Cleveland was put on the market, but Uncle Tony was making his move for freedom which wound up being very short lived.

So back to why The Farm scared the shit out of me: Uncle Tony, Nano, and Nani.

Uncle Tony picked on me--and probably others--constantly. Yes, I was told that this was his way of showing affection, but it was mean-spirited and personal. In retrospect, I can now see he probably felt very impotent, and I don't mean in the way you may be taking it. It's just the best word I can think of to describe what he must have felt like; he never got to be the bachelor farmer he wanted to be, he never was able to sever the ties. But at age 6+, I didn't know that, and it does little to erase the sour memories and feelings of my own impotence.

Nano and Nani never really learned English. I never knew what they were saying, even when they were using English words, and I was too scared to ever approach them. I only remember Nano from after he had his stroke. He gave up on life at that point and what I remember the most is him in his wheelchair reading the newspaper and saying he was going to die. Nani had some mental issues. When she found out I was left-handed, she threw herself to the ground and began flailing, speaking gibberish, and clutching at her hair and face (I later learned she told her left-handed sister back in Sicily that they didn't allow left-handed people in America). I also have memories of her killing chickens--for food, not demonic reasons--in the yard, and me helping her make sausage  in the dark, damp, and smelly basement.

There were some things that were fun about visiting The Farm:

• The hay loft in the barn
• Picking berries in the fields behind The Farm
• A fleeting memory of a free-wheeling jeep trip in the mud 
• The man-made pond behind the new house (the original home was a century home and was moved; very cool) which we called The Lake
• My dad taking me to the general store in town to buy an Archie comic book and sample Baby-Swiss cheese

I also remember some quirky things:

• Helping Nani feed the sheets through the mangler: a hand-cranked machine with rollers to remove water and eat fingers
• Ice that tasted like Romano cheese
• Undrinkable water because of the iron content
• The cookie drawer with ginger snaps in brown paper bags and Archway molasses and windmill cookies
• The dining room table's pedestal that was carved like a lion (this is where the left-handed incident took place)
• Nani's collection of 1930's  ceramic lady heads
• The train track and late night trains

When the visit was over, we would return home. I would get car-sick the minute the car left the gravel driveway. I'd always look for Mosquito Lake because I thought this meant we were almost home, only to be repeatedly reminded by everyone in the car that we weren't. The same hills, curves, and lurches would attack me and I would be handed another Mom-made barf bag. Soon, I would desperately crave something salty and potato-ee. So when we got home, I'd lay on the couch with my head and stomach swirling, and my dear sweet, dad would go to McDonald's--we never ate at McDonald's!--and get me french fries. Dad was an angel sent by God. That's one reason why I love my dad.

You may be wondering why I call it "The Farm". Well, that was what we all called it, caps included. It was like an institution, an historic site. A place that really didn't belong to us, but we belonged to it. I wonder if this is what Uncle Tony felt.