That’s a third of my life.
No regrets yet, though if I’d been given the option of independent wealth, I might have been tempted.
As a child, my number one best friend was the librarian in my grade school. I actually believed all those books belonged to her.*
It all started with an innocent (probably) question:
“Hey, honey?” asked my husband. “Have you ever visited Fontspace.com?”
Well, I have now, thanks . . .
Libraries are absolutely at the center of my life. Since I couldn’t afford to go to college, I attended the library three or four days a week from the age of eighteen on, and graduated from the library when I was twenty-eight.
Why didn’t anyone tell me The Big Bang Theory was so funny?
Was it the time suck? Because giving me a heads up right after the pilot would have meant losing 30 minutes a week, instead of the hours and hours I’m going to lose catching up on four and a half seasons.
The first time I walked into a library, I got so excited I almost wet my pants.**
—Roy Blount Jr.
Why not the flute? Or the violin? We’ve got a couple of those shoved in the back of the closet. Her hands are too small for the bassoon under the bed, but so are mine and we got along all right.
But she’s been experimenting in music class and she loves it. I blame all that Apocalyptica I’ve been playing on our commutes.
We’ve compromised on one semester—she has to practice at least fifteen minutes on piano and cello, and if she can’t keep up with her homework, too, then she’ll have to wait a bit.
My husband isn’t sure—and my MIL really isn’t sure—but the rental fees for the kid-sized instrument aren’t that much, we received a school fee rebate that will more than cover the cost of the lessons, and an ensemble might teach Jane more about working as a team.
Plus, when I asked her why she wanted to add an instrument, she said, “Because I like music. I’m just like you.”
Sniff. Good one, kiddo.
Reading makes immigrants of us all. It takes us away from home, but more important, it finds homes for us everywhere.
*They did. All library books belong to their librarians, in loco parentis, heavy on the loco. We choose them, we care for them, we tape up their boo-boos, and we preside tearfully over their passing (and exact revenge, when necessary).
**Cool. So did Sunny.