When I was a kid, I used to go to a bookmobile.There I found a book called, "Me and Caleb."
I don't remember anymore what it was about (other than Caleb, which I thought then, and still think, is a cool name). But I do remember this. I loved that book, and two weeks later, I asked Mrs. Johnson, the twinkly-eyed bookmobile librarian, to let me renew it.
My son, Perry, is 9 years old. Not long ago, we went through a period when we played a lot of darts.
We'd make up various scoring systems, based more or less on our growing expertise. You won if you got the greatest number of darts to actually stick. Then you won if you got the highest number of darts within the broad inner circle. Finally, you won based solely on the number of bullseyes.
It was fun, and Perry got really good. I can't help but think that it's smart training for business.
In our neighborhood, Louis Yarc was the king of the hill.
When we all got together to play the game on some bales of hay, Louis was the undisputed winner. I still have vivid memories of him, in the midwest summer twilight, fending off the regicidal lunges of as many as 8 other boys. He'd dance around them, hoist them over his shoulder and toss them off, or just muscle them down.
I've decided that there are just two kinds of libraries in America: the ones you can see, and the ones you don't.
The libraries you can see are the ones that relish their communities. You'll see library meeting room chairs at local plays and band concerts. You'll see library program fliers on a table by the volleyball tryouts. You'll see library staff everywhere -- any meeting of any group around. You'll see library buildings in the heart of downtown.
The libraries you don't see are the ones that just don't get out much.