First Tuesday of the month and that has meant one thing for over ten years now: library board.

This month was hosted by the Friends of Kodak Library. They served us a delicious holiday meal, the first one of the season for me. My favorite was the turkey, so moist and tender, and the pumpkin pie. I did not get a biscuit, mainly due to the fact my plate needed sideboards already.
We had two ladies hastening to join our ranks, and good thing, because it’s gettin’ to be slim pickin’s for a quorum each month. We have two members who have moved, and one who has evidently forgot she is even on the board, since she’s been to precisely one meeting all year. I hate it when people shirk their duties. It falls on everybody else to pick up the slack. And since she is a person I know outside of board, the other members and directors look to me to provide explanation.
I never was one for making excuses for myself, let alone anybody else.

The Kodak Library is a cozy space. Old, yes. In dire need or some renovations? Surely. But they’ll have a brand new building in a new location by this time next year. I guess it just reminds me of the old Seymour Library, when they were on the bottom floor of that building next to where the Dollar General Market is now.
Listen to me. “Used to be”. I’m 80 years old, I swanny.

Another thing I enjoy about board is simply talking books with the other members. Not much more than, have you read this or that, and I loved this one so much, and this book still lives inside me, and I devour everything by this author, and I discovered this book just last year, et cetera. We were talking about what people classify as pornography (in one case it was a coffee table book about Lady Gaga) and Sharon made the comment, “Fifty Shades of Gray was awful! It was horribly written, with no plot!”
“Oh, the third one’s the only one that’s any count,” I said, and everybody giggled. It occurred to me then that I had just admitted, out loud, in board, that I read pure trash. And I didn’t even have the decency to blush. Oh well. I agree it’s poorly written garbage.

I love sitting there, watching patrons come in, moms holding the hand of their little ones, dragging her to where “their” books are.
The library faces new challenges every day. They have trouble getting funded, this is a nationwide problem. Luckily we have some talented grant writers within our ranks, so that helps. But you have to know where to look to apply. Censorship is at the forefront of issues, as well. Since funding is low, it’s hard to find staff who’ll work tirelessly to put materials in the hands of patrons. It’s not just books, y’all, our libraries offer all kinds of services and items for lending. Instapots, hiking backpacks, WiFi hotspots, DVDs, even carpet cleaners! And you can make a commercial, make something on the 3-D printer, talk to a lawyer, fill out unemployment forms, and sometimes they have clothing swaps. There are author signings, crafty Thursdays, movie nights, cookbook clubs and chess clubs and beekeeping meetings. There is almost ALWAYS something going on. And who doesn’t love story time? It’s a place to be around like minded people, you’re sure to find common ground with someone there. It is a place where all are accepted and safe. You can be with a group, or tucked up in a corner, nose buried in a tome of your choosing. Or a comic book, the choice is yours. Or maybe just using the free internet. The library has been a source of many things, for many people, for many, many years.

It’s unusual how much I enjoy my solitude, or so I’m told.

I don’t think it’s unusual at all, for someone who is an only child, who was raised on a little farm in a small town, with no immediate neighbors.
I don’t think it’s unusual at all for someone to enjoy working alone when, for thirteen years, they worked in a store that was a hub of the community, with a constantly ringing phone and never ending flow of customers and sales reps. Or for two years at a job trapped in a small room with three other people, handling emergencies only.
I don’t think it’s unusual when I never had any children or roommates, apart from a husband for several years, who was largely independent himself.
I don’t think it’s unusual when your preferred and primary pass time is reading.
I don’t think it’s unusual when you’re someone who finds most people opinionated, brash, loud, obnoxious, rude, and nosy.
I don’t think it’s unusual when someone finds solace in the outdoors and wildlife or a companion animal.
I don’t think it’s unusual for someone who gets anxious in crowds, like concerts or sporting events.

I may not have the typical characteristics (I call them trappings) of a traditional life for a 45 year old lady, but I have a full life, filled with friends I call family, family I call friends, an exuberant dog, some volunteer work, and a library crammed with books.

Sean Dietrich wrote about canned music the other day. I am discovering new ways every day that illustrate my age. For instance, grocery store music. I really like it! It’s the music of my generation. I reckon everybody eats, so why are they playing “my” music? I’m not complaining; don’t misunderstand me.

He wrote, in part, “Still, it was the 15-year-old girl beside me who delivered a remark which stuck with me: ‘There’s noise everywhere you go today. We as a society don’t know how to embrace silence because we’re trying to drown out how lonely we are. We’re lonely because we’re separated. Technology separates us, politics separates us, social media separates us. Noise is one way to hide from each other.’”

It is exceedingly rare to see a group of people together without their cell phones in their hand. A few months ago I was out with some friends. We were eating at the Cheesecake Factory, where the booths are too close for comfort. It is impossible to have a private conversation, not that we were trying. I did take note of the young couple seated at the table beside ours. They were engaged with each other, smiling shyly at each other’s remarks. They didn’t look to have that much in common, going by dress. He was in Wranglers and work boots, she in a flowy dress, sandals, and a sweater that slipped off her bare shoulder. But they leaned toward each other and maintained eye contact.
She didn’t finish her entree, and got a to-go box, but they split a piece of cheesecake.
No evidence of a phone on either one, or on the table, until she excused herself to the restroom and he made a quick call to let someone know they were headed their way.
When they picked up their belongings to leave, I couldn’t help myself, and leaned over to them.
“Pardon me,” said I. They turned to me with uplifted eyebrows and equally open expressions. “Forgive me for interrupting your delightful dinner, but I just had to compliment you two.”
They both broke into small smiles.
“It is so rare to see a couple of any age sit together and share a meal without either being on their phones. It’s all ages, but especially those of your generation. Look around,” I gestured. “You’d be hard pressed to find a table that doesn’t have them laid out.”
“We just enjoy each others’ company,” the lovely girl said.
“And it shows. Please make every effort to continue to do so,” I petitioned them. “People are lost without their phones anymore.” Literally and figuratively, I thought.
They graciously accepted my compliment and made their way out into the summer evening.

I could dwell on my losses, or I could embrace all the love I’ve had. I’m choosing love. I try to always choose love, even when I don’t choose forgiveness. I’ve found myself singing again the last few days. I’ve found my laugh is coming easier, and the tension in my shoulders lessening. I’ve looked for, and found, that happiness has always been patiently sitting, waiting to be chosen over my anger, over my hurt. Through the years, when faced with one trauma or another, I find my best healing is done on a solo excursion. I didn’t have that indulgence this go round, but I found my peace on my porch, where I sat for hours on end, watching the trees bud, then flourish with leaves, then turn, and now they have blown away.
I may be alone, but it is rare for me to be lonely. And that makes all the difference.