So, the Salt Lake County library system did an essay contest about how the library has affected your life. I decided to write about my dad, who was diagnosed with early-onset Alzhiemers two years ago. My dads regression has been very rapid; two years ago, he knew something was wrong, but he still could communicate well and was mostly self-sufficient. It is so sad to me how much he has changed; my dad was always quiet, but now he is almost silent. He can't read anymore, which I still can't believe, because books were always a huge part of his life. So, as a tribute to my quiet, kind father, I wrote this piece. I wanted to share it on my blog. I hope you enjoy it!
His long walks often take him past the small building that doubles as library and municipal building, but he rarely steps inside to find a good book. Gone are the days when four young daughters accompanied him to the library, as are the days when he could comprehend the words he deciphers. Despite this, I’m unable to separate the library in my life from the person who made me love it: my dad.
I grew up in Springville. Our small library contained many wonders for me as a child, the most notable a book I read over and over called Through the Years with Henrietta. Back then, before computerized card catalogues, before barcodes that tracked the book and the patron who’d checked it out, the library’s simple yet effective system was to write the last four digits of the patron’s phone number on a card that fit into an envelope pasted on the back cover. I’m positive Henrietta’s card had our “7586” phone number listed on at least half of the lines.
Whenever I needed something to read, I would plead with my dad to take me to the library to check out Henrietta (or another book about dolls, they were my favorite!) One or two of my sisters usually made the familiar trek with me. We’d pile out of the `72 Ford Torino and get right to our first task: transporting the mountain of (usually overdue) books filling the backseat from the car into the library. The librarians probably cringed when they saw us coming, our arms stacked high with books, our many pauses to pick up the books that had slipped from the tottering stacks, our giggles and the bangs of books echoing around the austere hall.
Once inside, Dad would quietly slip away, his desire to find his next book as urgent as his need to separate from his daughters’ noisy searches. He was content to let us use our own means to find what we wanted to read. We might find him later in a corner, reading the newspaper or admiring a recently donated sculpture. He might even be chatting with an old friend, laughing his way through some long-ago story involving a car, a steep hill and an old tire. He’d find his own stash of books and pile them along with ours on the counter. Trouble usually ensued at this point when we discovered that no one had actually remembered their library card; couldn’t we check them out anyway and promise to bring one next time? Being on first-name basis with the librarians, this usually worked. They were probably just glad to see the backsides of us.
Flash forward to 2007. Now I live in Salt Lake County, and call Kearns Library my library of choice. For me, it has the intimate, small town library feel that I grew up with. My Dad still lives in Springville, but his trips to the library for books or a chat are gone. His early-onset Alzheimer’s was diagnosed two years ago, at age 64. The quiet man who loved to laugh at stories no one else got and who loved to read has diminished to a nearly silent man who doesn’t understand words he can still pronounce.
Last summer Dad came to stay for a weekend and we made a quick trip to the library. My sons were excited to show Grandpa around the building they visit each week. His quiet smiles and frequent answers of “okay” to their childish requests showed me that he was glad to be in a place he still understood. In an effort to reach the man I knew growing up, I found him John Irving’s Until I Find You, hoping that since he had read it before, he may have an easier time understanding it. He cradled the book as we checked out, my organized older self supplying the library card.
I realized as I drove us home that the tables have turned; now I am the one taking him to the library, and it is my sons’ books and laughter filling the car. Now I can only hope that he took away more than books from those long-ago library adventures. I know that I certainly did.
His long walks often take him past the small building that doubles as library and municipal building, but he rarely steps inside to find a good book. Gone are the days when four young daughters accompanied him to the library, as are the days when he could comprehend the words he deciphers. Despite this, I’m unable to separate the library in my life from the person who made me love it: my dad.
I grew up in Springville. Our small library contained many wonders for me as a child, the most notable a book I read over and over called Through the Years with Henrietta. Back then, before computerized card catalogues, before barcodes that tracked the book and the patron who’d checked it out, the library’s simple yet effective system was to write the last four digits of the patron’s phone number on a card that fit into an envelope pasted on the back cover. I’m positive Henrietta’s card had our “7586” phone number listed on at least half of the lines.
Whenever I needed something to read, I would plead with my dad to take me to the library to check out Henrietta (or another book about dolls, they were my favorite!) One or two of my sisters usually made the familiar trek with me. We’d pile out of the `72 Ford Torino and get right to our first task: transporting the mountain of (usually overdue) books filling the backseat from the car into the library. The librarians probably cringed when they saw us coming, our arms stacked high with books, our many pauses to pick up the books that had slipped from the tottering stacks, our giggles and the bangs of books echoing around the austere hall.
Once inside, Dad would quietly slip away, his desire to find his next book as urgent as his need to separate from his daughters’ noisy searches. He was content to let us use our own means to find what we wanted to read. We might find him later in a corner, reading the newspaper or admiring a recently donated sculpture. He might even be chatting with an old friend, laughing his way through some long-ago story involving a car, a steep hill and an old tire. He’d find his own stash of books and pile them along with ours on the counter. Trouble usually ensued at this point when we discovered that no one had actually remembered their library card; couldn’t we check them out anyway and promise to bring one next time? Being on first-name basis with the librarians, this usually worked. They were probably just glad to see the backsides of us.
Flash forward to 2007. Now I live in Salt Lake County, and call Kearns Library my library of choice. For me, it has the intimate, small town library feel that I grew up with. My Dad still lives in Springville, but his trips to the library for books or a chat are gone. His early-onset Alzheimer’s was diagnosed two years ago, at age 64. The quiet man who loved to laugh at stories no one else got and who loved to read has diminished to a nearly silent man who doesn’t understand words he can still pronounce.
Last summer Dad came to stay for a weekend and we made a quick trip to the library. My sons were excited to show Grandpa around the building they visit each week. His quiet smiles and frequent answers of “okay” to their childish requests showed me that he was glad to be in a place he still understood. In an effort to reach the man I knew growing up, I found him John Irving’s Until I Find You, hoping that since he had read it before, he may have an easier time understanding it. He cradled the book as we checked out, my organized older self supplying the library card.
I realized as I drove us home that the tables have turned; now I am the one taking him to the library, and it is my sons’ books and laughter filling the car. Now I can only hope that he took away more than books from those long-ago library adventures. I know that I certainly did.
2 comments:
Wow, Becky, that was really well written. I actually teared up reading it. My grandpa's dementia continues to worsen, so I can sort of understand what you're going through, but I can't imagine what it would be like if I were losing my own father. Did they already decide a winner for the contest? Because I can't imagine a better essay - I think you should win!
Becky, Couldn't resist your blog title, saw it on a friends........I too LOVE to read, my ideal day would be to spend all day in the library reading. Absolutely loved your essay about your DAD, thanks for sharing. My dad passed away this summer from lung cancer, he too loved to read and we would visit the library every summer for stacks of books (we lived so far away!) What a loving tribute to your Dad...... readers are so lucky, we are never lonely, nothing I like better than reading to my kids all snuggled up together. I want them to love reading..... will look forward to checking out your blog more often Becky....... from Kasandra in Kamloops, BC, Canada
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