French Fairytales

A Librarian's Pilgrims Progress

I've been around libraries all my life, starting with my mother bringing me to the bookmobile in Lynn when I was very small.  Our whole neighborhood would walk together, mothers and children, and it would be an outing for the ladies as well.  They would have a chance to catch up and speak with other adults, and the kids could skip along around the edges.  These households would have had just the one car for the father to take to work, so it was a special occasion for all involved to go out to the bookmobile.

When we moved to Salem, my mother brought both my brother and I to the library on Essex Street as soon as we could sign our names to get a library card.  I spent many hours there, so much so that when I entered high school, Mrs. Tomlinson in the Children's Room asked if I wanted to work there. That's where I started my profession, 14 years old, a page in the Children's Room.

After college I tried a variety of jobs, and none really seemed to fit.  Ten years after graduating from UMass/Amherst, I saw a posting for a Children's Librarian I at the Lynn Public Library.  I filled in the application, went for the interviews, and started shortly after.  Finally, I had found something that fit.

In the years between being a page at 14 and now, I had the chance to work in all departments at the public library, and now at an academic one.  I made my way to the big office with the ornate, antique furniture as library director, and then stepped back into the role that I have enjoyed most through my career, reference librarian.

But this time of year brings back a memory of my first days, and when I worked primarily with children.  I was at the Houghton Branch in West Lynn, and we had 16mm films we would show once a week in addition to craft making and story times.  There was a very popular book that had been made into a short film in the 1980's.  The hero was a girl whose parents had immigrated from Russia for religious reasons.  She had a Thanksgiving homework assignment, to dress a doll as a Pilgrim, with a capital P.  One of those people with the black clothes, and silver buckles on their hats.  She was having a terrible time of it, and went in tears to her mother.  The mother sent her to bed, and made a pilgrim, small p.

The costume she crafted was of a Russian peasant.  The teacher was upset, and told the girl she had missed the point of the assignment.  When the girl told her mother, they talked about the reasons the Pilgrims had come to Plymouth, and the reasons her own family had come.  The little girl then realized she also was a pilgrim, even without the silver buckle.

The Houghton Branch Library was situated in an incredibly diverse neighborhood.  We had families from all over Europe, Asia and the West Indies coming in every day.  What I remember most about my stay there is that after showing this movie, a Cambodian girl came up to me in tears.  She said, "Nadine, does this mean I'm a pilgrim too?"  Yes, I answered, you are.  She was a struggling student, both academically and socially.  That day, at least, she felt she belonged somewhere.  She fit in.

To all my fellow pilgrims, small p, Happy Thanksgiving, and may you find your special fit also.

Falling out of Fall

Well, I'm still trying.  Trying and trying to maintain that good attitude towards fall
that so many people have.  The pumpkin's on the balcony, the autumnal centerpiece is on the dining room table, the cheery sign is on my door.

Today is everything I would want fall to be:  sunny and warm.  Today I can putter and clean and read and enjoy my home.  I even had a nice walk along the beach before the wind blew me back into my car.  But we've had too many days this October with clouds and rain.  And darn it, I had to put the heat on. 

With the days growing shorter, I begrudge any bit of sunlight I'm deprived of.  I don't walk in the rain.  Naturally curly hair makes that a disaster.  I believe exercise is better out of doors in the fresh air and sunshine.  There's that vitamin D, and balancing all those serotonins and melatonins makes for a better night's sleep.

As we're sitting here smack in the middle of October, I have to take stock.  Yes, the foliage is great this year.  But the flowers are dying.  Mums just don't do it for me.  While they are colorful, those colors aren't in my preferred palette.  Like Sweet Baby James, deep greens and blues are the colors I choose.

So I've rejoined the Y, will continue to order the pumpkin spice latte, maybe bake some pumpkin bread.  Just let it stay sunny, not gray.  I'll keep savoring the sights and smells of autumn.  And I'll try not to think of the white and gray season that follows.

Falling into Fall

I have to admit that Fall is not my favorite season.  As the days shorten, all I can think of is the Winter that is coming.  The thoughts of those dark evenings, that cold, and gosh, snow! all bring my mood down.

All of which means I'm living in future, not the present.  There's no telling what kind of winter we'll have on the North Shore.  It could be mild and snow free, like last winter.

No, this year I'll live in the Autumn.  I'll focus on the good points of the season.  The cool nights are better for sleeping.  The warm, sunny afternoons perfect for being outdoors.  The season shines in New England, with trees sporting a vibrant palette.

Baked goods smell of cinnamin and clove, and hot drinks are appreciated in the nippy air of morning.  The farmers markets are full with local harvests, and there's lots of good cooking to be done with fresh fruits and vegetables still.

It's time to change wardrobes, and time to put on shoes.  Time to check out last year's sweaters, and corduroy pants.  Time for a pumpkin on the balcony, and a new welcome plaque on the door. 

It's a good day so long as there is a chance to get outside.  I'm going to stop thinking of Fall as an ending, but as a continuance of good things to be enjoyed.  Sometimes the snow and ice is more attitude than weather.

Beach times

The beach has been the setting for this summer.  Whether I'm walking along, sitting by or on, or driving by, I've spent a lot of time on the beach and by the ocean.  And since I've spent the summer home and not vacationing, the beaches I've been visiting this summer are the ones I've been going to all my life.

I remember traveling by bus or taxi, or by an auntie's ride, to Revere or Lynn or Salem Willows when I was small.  At the Willows we would vary sitting on the beach and sitting on the grass.

Later, as a teenager, there were bike rides to Devereaux beach with other Salem Library pages, and long, lazy afternoons.

My husband and I would go to the Willows early in our years together.  We'd play skeeball and pacman, have ice creams and chop suey sandwiches, and walk the park.  Later we mainly walked  along Lynn Shore Drive.  And lastly we would go and sit, watching the Boston skyline and Nahant.

What I've noticed especially this summer is how quiet beaches have become.  In the 1960's and 1970's, each blanket would host a transister radio.  As we would walk along looking for a "spot" we'd hear WMEX playing music, or WHDH's Ned Martin and Curt Gowdy giving play by play reports for Red Sox games.

The 1980's and early 1990's featured boomboxes playing loudly, with FM stations ruling the air.  They'd be carried on the shoulders of skate boarders speeding past.  The beach still had a soundtrack, and a boisterous feel.

Then Sony developed the Walkman and Apple the iPod, and pesonal listening devices became the norm.  The beach has gone back to natural sounds; waves break, gulls cry, and children laugh and play.  Everwhere else technology dominates our lives, but not at the beach.  Having a soundtrack is now a personal choice. 

Walking along the beach has become one of my favorite ways to excercise.  I'm hoping for another mild winter so that I can continue to do so.  The beach is a place I go to to find a sense of quiet, of timelessness, and renewal.  If I want music, I put the ear plugs in.  This year, though, I've gone without, and listened to the beach sounds, and felt like they're one of the constants in my life.

Oh, la.la, Paris.

This is a summer of day trips and short getaways.  I've been exploring Essex county with my camera in hand, or have hopped on the train to New York City for a couple of nights.

But last year I was packing for Paris right about this time.  I had seen the Woody Allen movie with Owen Wilson and Gene Kelly's American in Paris, and read The Paris Wife.

Then I got there.  There's a line in Midnight in Paris where the vapid fiancee complains about it raining again.  She was right.  It rains.  And while that misty, moisty mysteriousness adds oh so much atmosphere to a plot line, it wreaked havoc on my wardrobe and mood.  Thank goodness for hotel laundry services. 

I also found that the guide provided by the tour company had rather elastic ideas about distances.  I became suspicious when everything was just half an hour away.  I was encouraged to take Le Metro, but didn't feel comfortable doing so.

A group of us went and the subway was clean, clearly marked and inexpensive.  But I had only one good arm last year, so hanging onto a pole and my belongings was a problem.  That not so minor fact made it walking or taxis for me.

I realize my trip experience was probably colored by having had surgery just three weeks before.  But still, it rained.

I had loved the south of France the year before.  The bright light dazzled the colors, the sun was warm, the small towns were friendly, and it didn't rain.

I've offered the advice that every experience is a learning experience.  And in retrospect, what made all those books and movies interesting were the people in them.  The Paris Wife talked mostly about the cast of characters that made the city interesting in the Twenties.  Owen Wilson's character raved about meeting Hemingway and Fitzgerald. 

Perhaps if my hotel had been in a different area I would have been more charmed.  I loved Isle St. Louis and the Left Bank.  The Place my hotel was located on also had a MacDonald's, KFC and a pizza place.  It could have been Kenmore Square without the jet lag.

I had been warned about traveling in August that it would be crowded, and it was.  And being urban, the people weren't as warm as in the south.  But I have been in other cities, and live in a small one, so those factors shouldn't have been as overwhelming as they were.  I was jet lagged and in minor pain, niether of which are mood enhancers.

So maybe, just maybe, I'll try Paris again another time.   I'll just be more careful of the hotel location and the time of year.  And, of course, try to go when it doesn't rain.

Garden hopes

Each spring the gardener looks through the catalogs, wanders the aisles at garden centers, makes and breaks plans, and purchases what she hopes will be the plants that will make the season.  Brave souls start with seeds. Others, like myself with a container garden, go for the plants, those six packs of annuals that promise color quickly and constantly throughout the summer.

We all know that we are at the mercy of the growers and the weather, and the plant choices we make.  Yes, I have a southern exposure with no shade, but pansies may last longer than spring (no, they never do).  But each year I plant my flowers, my herbs and my one patio tomato, hoping for a bumper crop and no aphids or mites.

My one signature plant I use each year is blue lobelia. The window boxes up in Bar Harbor were full of them back when we visited in 1986, and they made an obviously lasting impression. I can usually plant so that they have some shade and make sure they are well watered so that they last as long as possible.

Gardeners are optimists.  Yes, there will be enough sun, the temperature not too hot or cold, I'll remember to water, and yes, I will have a garden to enjoy.  And those annuals whose flowers keep coming all summer seem to agree with me.  This year's early spring had me starting weeks before Memorial Day, my traditional start date.  I've had to replace those pansies with begonias that love that sunshine.  And also my pinks  that somehow over-wintered and came back this spring finally petered out and needed replacing. 

Heading back to the garden center is no hardship in mid-July.  Plants are now on sale and there's no sign yet of mums.  I have to say I hate mums.  They are the signal for fall and the end of gardening.  I'd rather have the last of my summer flowers than plant mums.

But we're still at the height of the growing season.  I'm still enjoying my flowers, harvesting tomatoes and herbs for cooking, making notes of what has worked and what hasn't.  A seed, a plant, seem to be nature's promise that life renews.  It doesn't always stay the same, but it stays.  I just keep that watering can handy and keep tending my garden.