It seemed an unkind ending for the home of friends who had given us so much: “Madeline and the Bad Hat,” “Curious George” and Max with his wild rumpus.
Growing up, I was taught to respect library books. Be careful not to bend their spines. Never leave them outside in the rabbit hutch. My rural childhood town had only a school library, but I imagined public libraries in cities to be hallowed places with potted ferns, towering bookshelves and librarians who glared at you (but in the best way) behind serious round glasses. And, most of all, scores of books.
So it seemed particularly grievous when a man in an armored bulldozer destroyed our local library, which was located in the basement of the town hall. Two years have passed since the bulldozer incident. I didn’t lose a home or business that day like many others did. Still, I had a hard time getting over the loss. Taking out the library was hitting below the belt, I thought, or playing dirty pool. Libraries should be the Switzerland of public places, agenda-free safe houses where children can lose themselves in a book, or escape problems at home if only for an hour.
In a small mountain town with few entertainment options, the library would be missed. Sure, the old library had been small, but to my then 2-year-old daughter, it was heaven. She loved to select books from the preschooler- friendly racks, or listen to the librarian read stories.
I loved the surprise of finding a new novel I’d read about in the Sunday newspaper’s book section. I admit to feeling empowered in the self-help section surrounded by cookbooks, parenting guides, foreign language tapes – even “Yoga for Dummies.” Armed with only my library card, couldn’t I find solutions to many of life’s dilemmas right here? The Internet is less tangible, more like a Magic 8-Ball where you type questions in Google. Books, on the other hand, wait like sentries to help you raise a child, master the art of French cooking, or train your dog not to eat the couch.
The evening after the bulldozer attack, my husband and I drove around Granby surveying the damage. From our deck, I had listened to gunshots, seen the smoke from the bulldozer unfurl above the trees as news helicopters whirled overhead. That night, we found a surreal landscape of yellow police tape looped around piles of rubble where businesses once stood. Cars had been crumpled like beer cans, or pushed into buildings. Caterpillar tracks were etched into the highway. The park swing set looked like a broken Tinker Toy. And our library was ruined.
Weeks later, the library was moved to a modular building near the elementary school. In the 1,800-square-foot trailer, we jostled around each other while down the street the new library took shape.
The trailer was noisy. Librarians had little room to work. During story hour, children stormed the place like pirates. But I never heard anyone complain. There was a sense that we were all in this together.
When the new library opened June 23 (the grand opening is scheduled for July 4), my kids and I walked through the sliding glass doors and gawked at the high ceilings, the shiny new bookshelves and computers.
My son and daughter quickly located the children’s section (about the size of the modular) and scooted inside to find old friends: “Bob the Builder,” “Max and Ruby,” and “Lyle the Crocodile.”
It was comforting to see these much- loved books in their glamorous new digs. I watched eager children walk inside, tentative at first, until they discovered the book bins, animal stools and the big shark sticking from the puppet rack. Older kids were immediately drawn to the window seat overlooking the action at the skateboard park across the street.
The ending to the story of the bulldozer and the library is a new beginning, one that’s infinitely more complex than happily ever after. It’s a story that people in this town will continue to tell for years to come.
For now, I’ll sit down at the children’s table and quietly read a story to my kids – Max and Ruby in “Bunny Cakes.” Again.
Gretchen Bergen can be reached at gretchenbergen@yahoo.com.
