librarian | Jodi Hills

She used to write them on little yellow sticky notes and put them by her telephone — favorite lines from the books she was reading. They would be at the ready for discussion when she called me. Maybe everything in that sentence is dated. Printed books. Wall mounted phones. Notes hand written. My mother. But for me, it feels like five minutes ago. Now.

She is still getting in her red Ford Focus. Driving down the street to the Public Library to return the books — never in the drop box, but to the librarian Bobbi Jo, who is lucky enough to hear the “yellow notes” straight from my mother’s mouth. And she is quick to deacon herself back home on the bench in front of the picture window. And the sunlit words of choice find their way from page to heart to hand to pad to me. And it never ends.

Each note was a reflection, a reminder I suppose, of who she was. We’re all looking to find ourselves, the best of ourselves, and pass it on. And, oh, she was good at it.

I change the business card holder on my desk frequently. Even with paint on my hands and pants, I need reminding of who I am. Who I want to be. A reminder to keep searching. To keep writing down the clues. Little bits of my heart. And to pass them on. Is it the best of who I am? For today, yes. Maybe tomorrow, even better. Because the calls are still coming into my heart. I hear my mother’s voice. And Bobbi Jo will remind me through Facebook that this library is still open. And maybe we will all get a little better at communicating the best of ourselves. And possibly, most probably, if we Ivy it right, the yellow of our beating hearts, will reach through all lines, and stick.

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We were taught that it was sacred, right from the start. “Children, be quiet,” she urged, as Mrs. Bergstrom walked us from our first grade classroom to the library. I don’t remember asking why. I guess I always assumed it was because the books had so much to say, we needed to listen.

With this opening of worlds, it became necessary from the start to mark our places. The librarian told us, pleaded with us, never to “dog ear” the page. Imagine, she explained, if every time you walked into your home, your mother grabbed you by the ear and folded it over and pulled you in to show you your place. We all agreed that would be terrible. I know some still did it. I can’t say who for sure, but I had my suspicions. And the proof was often there in a big crease going diagonally down the story. I didn’t do it. I still don’t. Not because I was so perfect. No, it was because just down the hall, in art class, it was Mr. Opsahl that taught us paper had a memory. When you folded it, it stayed. Everything we were being taught at Washington Elementary told us that these books, these pages with words, were alive. And it was here, that I found my place.

I still live there. Here. In the word. It’s where I find my truth. My hope. My joy. It’s here I can find company. Comfort. I can welcome you in, and with any luck, give you the same. Because I think that’s what they were always telling us, as we raced to make our mark — to listen, to be kind. We can do this. For each other. We’re all hear to tell a story.