I recall how surprised I was to learn that the president paid the librarians $28 a month, and only that. Before Mama got Junia, she had to rent her mounts from Mr. Murphy, paying $7.25 a month. With no books or money to buy them, she and the other librarians had to scrounge around for their reading materials.
But the librarians were determined and sent out a cry for donated books to the Boy Scouts, PTAs, and other groups. Soon penny funds were started, and cast-off and tattered books and magazines and newsprint arrived. And while they waited for new reading material, the scrapbooks became treasures.
A corner of the cardboard cover had been nibbled off by a mouse, and the wet woodlands had ribboned most of the paper. Opening the faded blue, lined notebook, I carefully turned the delicate pages full of cutouts from old magazines and newsprint. There were many colorful birds in flight, cheerful flowers, recipes, quilt patterns, and household tips that had been pasted in, along with notes written beside them. Many times, Mama had set me at the table with the paste jar to help make them for her patrons. On the last pages, I read the poems and prayers Mama had handwritten inside with her fine penmanship. Missing her, I closed the scrapbook and set it back on the shelf.
Inside a closet, I found old cleaning supplies, and swept and dusted, sneezing in between. Done, I toted a bucket out to the creek and filled it with water to mop the slanted wooden floors.
It was an office as grand as Miss Foster’s. It was my office. Outside, birds welcomed the new day, their songs lifting, carrying across the sighing woods into ol’ grandmother mountains.
Proud, I took a moment looking over my work before I continued scrubbing. When I put the broom and mop back in the closet, I noticed a stack of newspapers on the top shelf. I climbed onto a chair and retrieved one to inspect, wondering if I should toss them out or save them in case someone might request an old newsprint. I examined the 1943 paper and set it over on my table to read after I finished.
Several hours later, I sat down at the table and separated the reading material, poring over the books, magazines, and newsprint and organizing them for the coming days, while nibbling on the dinner I’d packed. It was comforting and somehow it was like Mama was here sitting beside me. I closed my eyes and exhaled, remembering the times she had graced this building, carefully poring over the books to make sure each patron received the perfect read.
When I finished my work, I skimmed the old newspaper, pausing on a death notice someone had circled in bold black ink about a man named Byrne McDaniel. It noted a court case the Kentucky man was involved in long ago:
In a landmark court case, Byrne McDaniel won his emancipation when he left home at age twelve after his father failed in his duty to give him a parental home and instead forced him into labor by making him go out into the world to seek his own fortune. In 1909, when Byrne was fourteen, the court ruled to grant the young minor his adulthood…freeing the child, for all period of its minority, from care, custody, control, and service… Byrne served honorably in WWI and was awarded the Silver Star medal for gallantry in action… Byrne credited his emancipation… He was a deacon at the White Oak Church, and practiced…will be remembered for…
Emancipation, I turned the word over and thought about my own freedom as I read Byrne’s accomplishments and life services.
Many times, Mama had said books helped her survive, gave her a freedom like no other in these hills. And sitting here in the quiet where she used to sit, books gave me hope for my own.
I reread Byrne’s obituary, my finger running under the words as I soaked them up before tucking the old newspaper into my bags.
Freedom. It was all I could think about. I picked up a book and rubbed its worn cover, fanned through the pages, marveling over the power you could get from books.
Excited, I packed the rest of Mr. Taft’s loans inside the pannier, thinking about my freedom, knowing somehow the books were the key.
Twenty
I found the door half-open when I arrived home, and a loud ruckus coming from inside.