Culture No. 19: Hoyt Library

I did it. I finally did it. I gathered up every single ounce of nerve and gumption I posses, marched down the street, and signed up for a library card. Score!

That first paragraph is not as lame as it sounds if you understand my sordid history with the library system. As a little bug, I loved the library. Five year-old Sarah was probably 100% responsible for overplaying and ruining the Shenendehowa Public Library’s only vinyl copy of “Peter Cottontail.” "Peter Cottontail" was my "Baby Beluga." I just couldn't get enough.

But as I grew older, things changed. Checkout times grew shorter. Librarians got meaner. (Apparently, my face just screams, “I’m checking these books out for the sole purpose of clipping the pictures and creating collages full of teenage angst.”) And then, one day – in a small Connecticut town with particularly creepy librarians who always threatened to come after me if I didn’t return my books on time – the most traumatic thing that could ever happen to someone in a library happened to me: I witnessed a stabbing.

And by witnessed, I mean I was checking out a movie when the bloody-scissor-wielding perpetrator ran down from the upper level and yelled, “Call 911! Someone’s been stabbed!” which is pretty much the same thing as being a witness. (Ask Mama V. She was there. She wanted to wait in the car, but I was so scared to go into that library by myself even before the stabbing that I made her come in with me.) Obviously, the mean librarian wouldn’t let me check my movie out after that. And then I was almost run over in the parking lot by the responding policeman. Needless to say, that was the last time I ever went to that library. (Mama V.’s been back. They have free movies and popcorn in the summer. Like her second offspring, she’s a sucker for the free snacks. ;)

So really, voluntarily signing up for a library card is a big step for me. And so far, so good. The Hoyt Library is within walking distance of our apartment, snack-friendly (They sell snacks AND drinks at the circulation desk. GASP!), and brand-spanking new. At first I thought, Oh, how nice. The library is new. Then I found out the library is new because the roof of the former library collapsed after the Valentine’s Day Blizzard of 2007.

…

You see? Told you so. Libraries = Danger with a capital D.

But the librarian who signed me up was unbelievably nice – just as nice as the people on the other end of the Sonic intercom, who I love because they always want me to “have a supersonic day!” – and made me feel very welcome, loved, appreciated, safe, and everything else someone who is scared of libraries needs to feel.

And then the nice librarian disappeared and I’ve been stuck with the resident crank ever since. This particular lady seems to disapprove of every book I check out (from Jesus to banana republics) and has already yelled at me once for trying to check out a reference book. (In my defense, it was in the regular stacks. I swear I wasn’t trying to sneak it home for an art project.)

But you know what? Going to the library just wouldn’t feel right without that extra bit of fear. It’s like channel-surfing past TBS: “Will they be playing Jurassic Park? Will I catch a glimpse of a dreaded raptor scene and not sleep for a week? Will I make it through alive?” Libraries and raptors, my friends. You never know when either will jump out and bite.