Traumas at the Library Check-out Desk

I got my hot button pressed today. Had to rant and rave, take a trip down memory lane, and investigate a few rabbit trails along the way. Get a cup of coffee and settle in, this is gonna take a while.

Karen Blados blogged that her first-grade son, "The Punk," was all excited because he had checked out a "chapter book" from the library. There was a substitute librarian on duty at the time who didn't know first-graders weren't allowed to get books from the yellow section.

Well bully for him! I hope he sneaks over to the yellow section every time he's in there. I hope he can manage to tote out stacks and stacks of chapter books that are supposedly too advanced for him. Because if a kid has a burning desire to read a chapter book, he shouldn't be limited to Fuzzy Bunny's Adventures in ten pages with more pictures than words.

Yep, this is a big ol' hot button for me...The Yellow Section Restriction. Brought back a particularly hateful memory which I've never forgotten or forgiven. Trailing on its heels was another library moment as a little kid that turned out OK, and another which happened just recently. Childhood traumas are not easily forgotten it seems.

Let's start this story at the beginning, shall we? Nana, my sister, is twelve years older. She was born a teacher and I was her star pupil and teaching guinea pig. She instilled in me a love of reading. She would bring me the good stuff, Newberry Award winners like Charlotte's Web and Dr. Doolittle, and a mystery series with five kids, The Happy Hollisters. (Yes, I remember this like it was yesterday, are you impressed Nana?) I sucked them up like a sponge. Thank you Nana!

My real passion for reading started somewhere around the third grade. That's when I became too nearsighted to see the world beyond the length of my arm. I could live out my childhood adventures in the pages of books. I read everything I could get my hands on. Our house was full of books and I was free to read anything I wanted. Mother probably didn't realize I was reading Valley of the Dolls at age eleven, but it kept me out of her hair and that was fine with her.

Nana and Pris (the middle sister) brought home their worn out high school Literature books the school was replacing. From those I got my first taste of Sherlock Holmes in The Adventure of the Speckled Band. I also got bits of Pygmalion, Cheaper by the Dozen, The Ransom of Red Chief, and other great classics. I read those Lit books cover to cover at least three times.

I also discovered a cache of the complete Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew series in a dusty corner of the church basement. Every Wednesday after choir practice I'd get three and return them Sunday morning. Took me about a year to read through the whole collection.

On Saturday morning Mom did the grocery shopping. She didn't want to lug me through the grocery store so she dropped me at the library and picked me up when she finished. I had about 40 minutes to snatch up a week's worth of reading material, somewhere in the neighborhood of ten to twelve books. That would last me from Saturday to Wednesday until I got to choir practice.

Suffice it to say I was an avid reader and read well beyond my grade level. One of the first "adult" books I was allowed to buy was Shakespeare's Four Tragedies: Romeo and Juliet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar, and Hamlet. (It's still in my bookcase to this day.) I was in elementary school at the time. I was looking for something a little meatier to read. I chose well. Shakespeare is a bit meaty for a grade-schooler. I remember Mom raising an eyebrow and asking if I rillyrilly wanted *that* book. I said yes. She shrugged her shoulders and paid for it which is very unlike my Mother now that I think about it. I guess she figured if I wanted to try to tackle Shakespeare it was worth the 60 cents.

So, that's my background on books and reading. Now we get to the nasty memory.

Third grade, class trip to the library. The school library is one small room. Low bookcases under the windows for Grades 1-3, tall cases on the opposite wall for Grades 4-6. Every person in the class gets to check out a book to take back to the classroom for the week. The books stay on a reading table and we can read any of them after we finish our work. I always finish early and snatch up a book. Had the whole pile read in a matter of days. By the time I reached third grade I had read most of the books in the Grade 1-3 section.

This particular library trip I'm searching in vain for fresh reading material. I realize I've either read everything at my level, or what I haven't read is below my level. I need to hurry and pick something because time is running out. I turn to the big stacks on the other side of the room. Ah ha! Big books, chapter books, books I won't finish in fifteen minutes. Fantastic! I wander over and gaze in wonderment at all the marvelous books in front of me, scanning the titles, trying to decide on just one.

Then the evil librarian catches me in The Forbidden Zone.

"Hey! You can't be over there! You have to get a book from this section!" she snarls, pointing at the low bookcases.

"But I've read all those books. They're all to simple." I reply.

"It doesn't matter. You can't have a book from over there. Pick one from over here...and hurry up about it."

So, frustrated, I walk to the low bookcases and grab whatever my hand lands on. What I really wanted to do was scream, "Look bitch, I'm slogging my way through a high school Lit book at home and you are forcing me to take Fuzzy Ducky's Bathtime? Are you crazy???" But I was only eight and didn't have adequate vocabulary at the time.

"This one. I'll take this one," handing it to her to check out for me.

"You didn't even look at it!" she says, accusing me of being a smart-ass with her glare.

"It doesn't matter. I won't read it anyway. It's too simple."

She checks it out to me, still glaring, and I'm almost in tears. I want more than anything to read, but I want a big book, one with chapters and no pictures, one that will entertain and enlighten for longer than 15 minutes. But that's forbidden just because I'm in third grade, not fourth grade.

I hated that woman from that day forward. She was the librarian, someone who is supposed to nurture and encourage a child's love for reading and books, not smash it flat with stoopid rules. I thought she should be fired. When I read her obit in the hometown paper I had a satisfied smirk for the rest of the day. Good riddance.

Fast forward a year or two. Saturday morning county library/grocery trip. I have collected my dozen or so books for the week and go to the checkout counter. I'm barely tall enough to see over the top. I set my stash on the counter along with my library card as I have done for weeks and weeks and weeks. The lady at the counter (new, not the librarian) peers over the counter at me and says, "Oh, little girl, you can't check out all these books. There's a three-book limit."

"But, but, but, I always check out this many."

"There's a limit, only three a day."

"But I'll finish three by this afternoon!" I say, my bottom lip quivering and tears welling in my eyes imagining a week with no books to read.

The new lady, who is actually very nice about it all, sees my panic and tries to explain again. I try to explain again to her.

"But, but, but, I get this many every week. I always get this many. Look at my card!"

By this time Miss Baker, the librarian, steps out from the office to see about the commotion. (Yes, at our quiet little county library this would be considered a commotion.) The nice lady explains to her, pointing at my mountain of books, that I'm over the limit.

Miss Baker is something like second cousin once removed to my father and is approaching a hunnert years old. She is the quintessential old-maid librarian who has devoted her entire life to books, the library, and her library patrons. She has checked me out every Saturday for most of my life and has never batted an eye at my carnivorous reading habit. That's why I was clueless about the three-book limit.

Miss Baker adjusts her bi-focals (complete with the little chain that clips on the earpieces and goes around her neck, draping across the shoulders of her ancient cardigan) and peers over the counter at me. Then she smiles a little smile. She turns to the nice lady and says, "It's OK, I know her. She can check out all she wants."

Tears of joy, tears of relief. I got my books but not without some much remembered trauma. I sniffled all the way home.

Fast forward lots and lots of decades to a year ago. I'm at the community college library checking out four art and drawing books.

Nice lady at the counter says, "I'm sorry, but there's a three-book limit."

Just for an instant I am that little girl at the county library again and I get an adrenalin rush of panic. My eyes moisten in an involuntary reaction. My lower lip runs out just a smidge. The library check-out trauma I had as a child has bubbled once again to the surface. Somebody with stoopid rules is trying to restrict my access to books. I know kindly old Miss Baker will not be here to rescue me this time.

But I relax when I realize I'm a big girl now. The three-book limit is not a problem. I probably won't finish three before the due date anyway. I can come back and get more books any time I want. I have a car and can drive myself. Life is good.

I think about Miss Baker as I hand over one to go back to the stacks. Kids need more librarians like her, somebody who understands that just because you are little it doesn't mean your brain is; somebody who understands that sometimes three books just ain't enough, and that they need to have more words than pictures.

Maybe The Punk found his Miss Baker today in the substitute librarian when she let him check out his chapter book from the yellow section. I hope so.

The Taxman Cometh

The first breath of spring brings with it the stench of the taxman. The approach of April 15th weighs heavy on my mind as soon as the Christmas decorations are packed away.

It's not that I mind paying taxes. I understand that living in this republic bears a price. If the skies above me are clear of bombers, if the roadways are free of potholes, if the FDIC is still operational, I'm happy to contribute to the cause.

The thing that worries me is filling out the forms. I'm never sure if I've done it correctly or not. I agonize over the figures from about mid-January until April 14th when I drop them in the mail. I have mailer's remorse that I've not completed things correctly or left something out. I DO NOT want the IRS taking interest in little ol' me down here in Lower Arkansas. The IRS can make life a living hell for years to come.

I figure I have simple enough tax items that a person of reasonable intelligence (me) could get a 1040 filed with no problem. However, even though I have reasonable intelligence, the people who write the frakking tax laws and 1040 instructions do not have enough intelligence to write them in plain English. Sheesh! I'm pretty sure the IRS subcontracts that task to the lowest bidder in some third world country. I couldn't make the instructions that confusing if I tried. Sheesh again!

This year I spent three days poring over the federal nightmare. When I got to the bottom line I owed money. DAMMIT! That wasn't supposed to happen. I thought I had calculated the right amount of withholding tax from Hubby's paycheck. Nope. We made almost exactly the same amount of money this year as last year, but this year we owe a boatload more taxes. Thanks Shrub. I really appreciate that economic stimulus of more taxes this year. That means I'll be spending less as well as everybody else. Instead of giving us all back a check, why don't you just let us keep our hard-earned money to begin with???

Knowing I had to cut a check to the feds, my tummy started developing an ulcer. Then I opened the booklet for Arkansas State Income Taxes. I read through that pile of #%$@!!!!!ing cow poop for two hours. I'm pretty sure the state of Arkansas subcontracts the writing of this booklet to a group of monkeys on crack. Holy Bejeebus! My ulcer was now full blown with acid gurgling up to my tonsils. I had to take a powder and retire to my bed.

The next day I decided I was going to break down and finally take my taxes to a CPA. I was not going to be in agony for the next two months over this unholy bull crap. Whatever she charges will be well worth my piece of mind and far less than a visit to the gastroenterologist.

Miss CPA Lady was sooo sweet. She is about my mom's age. I told her of my agony and she said, "Lay your burdens down child." I thought I was going to cry it was such a religious moment. I now understand the cleansing elation people feel when they find Jesus and get saved. Miss CPA Lady has indeed saved my soul. I shall be bowing in reverence at her alter each spring from now on. And the tithe she demands is far less than 10% of my total income.

Truth in Signage

Here in Our Town we have an anti-abortion group operating out of a storefront downtown, staffed by volunteers from local churches. They counsel scared young girls and try to convince them to keep their babies and either parenting them or putting them up for adoption.

If that's what they think is God's calling, so be it and more power to them.

What twists my knickers is the sign out front says "Medical Center" when in fact no medical services are provided. They provide free pregnancy tests, but anyone can do that themselves at home, albeit not for free. Otherwise, the folks inside are church ladies who tell them how terrible abortion will be.

The horrible side-effects of abortion posted on the "medical center's" website have been refuted in a July 2006 U.S. House of Representatives report, "False and Misleading Health Information Provided by Federally Funded Pregnancy Resource Centers."

I think it is abominable that "Christians" use such underhanded tactics to confuse and confound an otherwise emotionally fragile kid. The girls don't need that. They need sound medical counseling, not Bible-thumping nonsense.

If the "medical center" wants to preach their no-choice sermon, they have that right. Just change the sign outside to "Christians for Pro-Life" or something that better reflects what is inside the door.

Porn Rant

Crap that gives me a rash:

An Open Letter from Morality in Media President Bob Peters To Marriott International CEO Bill Marriott: Get Rid of the Porn

In his letter dated July 18, 2007, Robert Peters chastises J.W. Marriott, Jr. for allowing pay-per-view porn in Marriott hotels. Peters states:

"Before we checked out, however, I decided to make sure this was a "porn free" hotel by turning on the TV and clicking to Menu Options. Sadly, what I found was not only a link to "Hollywood Movies" but also to "Adults Only." There was a "Must Be 18 To Enter" warning, but proof of age was not required to proceed and view film titles (emphasis mine) (with pictorial/written promotional material) like these:

"Reign of Tera 2" ("hardcore action")
"Lesbian Secretary" ("hardcore")
"Hardcore POV" ("This is hardcore point of view")"

Thank you Mr. Peters for publishing the "porn" to which I previously did not have access unless I had checked into a Marriott hotel. The very thing against which you rant you have published for the whole world to see...the film titles only. Marriott placed this "porn" behind a "Must Be 18 To Enter" warning, but you sir, did not. Anyone can stumble across it on your "family" website. Thanks.

If someone wants to see steamy stuff on Marriott TV, they must pay, and they have to go looking for it apparently. The Adults Only category was not in the main list of viewing options, it was buried down in the Menu Options. How often does anyone select Menu Options anyway???

Yes, Mr. Peters, stay somewhere else on trips away from home, please. I enjoy the hospitality of Marriott hotels and now there will be a greater availibility of rooms for me. It's a win-win situation. You will be sheltered from the inticement of demon porn and I will have the opportunity to luxuriate in a king-sized bed away from the ice machine, garbage bins, and noisy AC units. Excellent!

Michael J. McManus, writing in his column "Ethics & Religion", gave his support to Peters. "You Too, Can Fight Pornography" Aug. 04, 2007.

McManus writes:

"An FBI study of 37 murderers confessing multiple killings found 29 used hardcore and soft-core porn to fuel their anticipatory fantasy."

What McManus fails to realize is that violent people can use ANYTHING to fuel their anticipatory fantasies. A photo of Craftsman handtools in a Sears catalog can tip a psycho over the edge to stab someone in the neck with a screwdriver. Violent people are just violent. That's all there is to that. Porn watching does not a killer make.

When questioning serial killers interviewers don't usually ask the killer if they ate white bread or brushed their teeth. Their only questions support the quest against porn. If different questions were asked, statistics would support the contention that brushing one's teeth or eating Wonder bread can fuel a serial-killing fantasy.

Peters states in his letter to Marriott:

"You should also be aware that distribution of such materials, among other things, contributes to the breakup of marriages, to prostitution, to sexual assaults against both children and adults, to the spread of sexually transmitted diseases and to the erosion of decency."

Society's ills are not caused by porn. Mankind was doing horrid stuff to each other long before Debbie did Dallas. Folks, find something else to blame.

Why, oh Why?

"Why, oh Why?" wailed the woman on TV. "Who will stop the violence?"

She was a "survivor" of a murder. Her son had been gunned down at 2:00 a.m. on a street corner during a drug deal. The photo of her son showed him wearing his cap backwards, pants sagging so that his underwear was showing, gold chains, prison styled tattoos, and flashing a gang sign.

I wasn't feeling much love for the lady. What I wanted to scream at the lady (actually I screamed it at the television) was, "Your son wouldn't have been gunned down at 2:00 a.m. if he had been at home in bed where other civilized people are at that hour!" If he had been asleep in his bed in the front bedroom, exhausted from a long day of honorable employment, and a stray bullet through the front wall took his young life, you would have my full sympathy.

Sheesh. If you deal drugs on the street corner, you run the risk of death. Your son knew that. Drug dealing is a high-risk occupation. Your son chose his path in life. He rolled the dice and lost. You are not a victim of violence. You are a victim of your son. He held you hostage with his actions and you suffered the consequences of those actions. Do not wail on television for someone else to fix the situation. The only person that could have fixed it was your son. Lay the blame and hurt where it belongs...on your son.

Her final words, the same mantra all gang member's families chant at their deaths, were, "He was such a good boy."

Made me want to slap her silly.

Children Left Behind

Another fateful trip to Wal-Mart this afternoon. We were leaving right behind a lady, age 35-ish or so, with two little kids. The girls were precious little sweet things, about ages 4 and 10 months. When a man commented how cute they were, the lady replied they were her grandchildren, not her daughters.

Hummm....a 4-year-old grandchild at age 35. Do the math.

The four-year-old wanted to ride on the outside of the cart across the parking lot. Grandma told her to get off the cart in a rather loud voice. There were a lot of people, carts and traffic in the parking lot. The little girl was obviously frightened and wanted to hold on to grandma or at least the cart. Grandma continued to loudly berate the little girl about clinging to her dress and holding onto the cart as they walked to their car.

We go two rows over to get to our car. About that time we (and everybody in the parking lot) heard grandma scream at the top of her lungs at the 4-year-old, "LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE AND GET IN THE DAMN CAR!!!"

Sigh.

The boys said, almost in unison, "And we're gonna have to teach that kid in a few years."

I'll bet when George W. and his cronies cooked up the No Child Left Behind crap, he didn't know this lady or others just like her who live here in Our Town. Lots of folks like this live here. We see 'em every day in Wal-Mart. Probably not so many live in George's neighborhood.

These poor kids have been left behind at birth...both of them, and lots of their friends. About the only thing public schools will be able to do for them is feed them a decent breakfast and lunch.

Sigh.

Shootings at Virginia Tech

This afternoon the TV was filled with coverage of the fatal shootings at Virginia Tech. Not much was known at the time about the shooter, his victims, or the reasons why.

What hacked me off to no end was the endless speculation about who was at fault. Commentators blamed campus security personnel, campus security measures, the local police, VT administration, gun control laws, and American culture as a whole. Ack!

Has the American media and public sunk to being a bunch of brainless fingerpointers???

The person at fault was the psycho who pulled the trigger. No one else. Don't rape my ear with any further discussion on the matter.

No amount of notification or prevention measures can stop a nutcase from carrying out his intended task. It just isn't possible. They will always find a way.

A senator from somewhere said that she had introduced a bill to limit gun clip size to 10 rounds. How very pointless that piece of legislation would be. If a nut is determined to kill a bunch of people, he'll just buy TWO clips. Duh!

Since the on-air news media had nothing intelligent to add to my knowledge base, I turned off the tube.

I remember now why I don't watch much television.