I have had an extraordinarily busy day today. I have taken my mother shopping, visiting 3 different towns for this unholy purpose. We had lunch in Wolfville and shopped there. We bought things in New Minas. We dropped off something in Kentville. There were other stops. My brain is clouded.
I type these humble words, once again, at the Port Williams library. They keep Friday night hours. I am grateful for that.
I had a nice conversation with my sister a couple of weeks ago. The salient part that I'll share with you has to do with this library. When we were growing up, we lived on a street where my mother still lives. We did not always have the means to visit the library. Had they been open in the evening back then, we could have availed ourselves of the library services much more often, but the sad reality was that the library was only open a few hours a day, a few days a week. No evenings. No weekends. This effectively meant we could not visit the library during the school year, as we would get home from school at an hour too late for us to hop on our bicycles and drive here before it closed. It meant we had to make do with our school libraries.
The school library at my senior high school, Cornwallis District High, sucked. It sucked in ways that are difficult to explain. The vast majority of the books in that library were of an educational nature. Not many novels. Not that many books a fella or a filly would want to sit down and read.
It was frustrating for me, and likely my sister, to be so close to this excellent resource, but be unable to take ready advantage of it. In the summers, when we had time off, and no money to spend, the library was a Godsend. It kept me from going stark raving mad. But during the school year, I read my own books, the ones I could afford to buy, or the ones that were given to me at Christmas or whatever. A few of those books, I still own. A few of them, I still haven't read. Our little secret. OK?
Growing up on that street didn't kill me. I still spend time there. The house I grew up in, is still lived in by my mother. Six months before he died, my father added my mother's name to the deed. The house and the street it's on mean a lot to me. They represent where I came from, where I went, and where I am now. I'm not sure, if I could change the past, if I would.
But, why didn't the damned Bookmobile go past our house?
More in a bit.