I'm going to my local library. It's around one o'clock on a weekday. I park in the lower lot and enter through the lower level. That's the children's section and I'm going that way because it leads directly to the library's used book store. The two-story library was built in the 60s and has an unconventional structure. It's an arc. Built on a slope, both of its two levels have windows. The bookstore is small but well run. The books are in order and in excellent shape; I once bought one that still had a gift receipt in it, meaning that the gift recipient either thought too little of the book to even riffle through its pages, or already owned or had read it.
I look first at the DVDs and CDs in the racks and a bin just outside the store. I find one of each I like and take them. I go in the store. I'm in luck. I find a book I've meant to read for years. I check it to make sure no one's underlined anything in it. It's clean. Everything in the store is inexpensive: Books range from one dollar to two. CDs are a dollar, DVDs are two.
This is before my knee hurt too much to climb stairs so with my items, which I'll pay for upstairs at the checkout desk, I head for the first floor. There, I go to the display of new movies. Again, I'm in luck. There's a movie I'd missed in theaters, and it's a Blu-ray edition. Usually, the library charges two dollars for new releases but I've donated enough to not have to pay that fee. Not that I come even close to recouping what I donated, but it's nice to not have to pay.
Then it's on to the magazine and periodical section. The magazines are in racks and not clamped in those awful plastic covers. I find a new edition of a magazine I like and sit in one of the comfortable chairs to read. I'm in my mid fifties and the youngest one there. The others, if there are any, are usually retired men north of seventy. In the last decade of his life, my father went to this library often and sat where I'm sitting. My mother's health was failing and although he never said it, I suspect he enjoyed getting out of the house and getting a break from tending her. He was her primary caretaker until the week she died in a hospital. He died less than two months after she did. She was a demanding patient and my brothers and I were sad that he didn't have more time to enjoy life after she died but he was, after all, ninety-one.
I find a meaty article in a magazine and read all of it. From where I'm sitting I can see the covers of about twenty magazines. They're in alphabetical order so their topics are random. A sports magazine may be next to one on knitting. I put the magazine back and look at the newspapers. Usually, I'll pick up the latest copy of the weekly paper I was a reporter for nearly twenty years ago. I tut at its poor quality. Dull headlines, lifeless leads, grammatical mistakes. Not that I was perfect, but some of these writers have been there since I left and should know better by now.
I look at the new books that have come in. None interest me. A surprising number of the covers feature women wearing bonnets. This may be a regional thing but I'm much closer to Philadelphia than to Pennsylvania Dutch country.
My favorite librarian is at the counter. She's in her late twenties, I think, and more attractive than she knows. She greets every customer with a high-pitched, short "Hi!" which would irritate if you didn't like her. She tallies my purchases and scans the movie.
I exit through the main door and head for the car. I'm underdressed for the chilly weather. I get in the car and it's warm. It's a little stuffy, but in a nice way, like a comforter. I turn the key and put the radio on and there's an interesting segment on public radio.
My drive home is short and I look forward to having a late lunch and a cup of coffee.
