4451

Books are such wonderful things

My mother wanted to be a librarian. She worked in the library at Mt. Morris College when she was a freshman there in 1930-1931 (the college had a disasterous fire in the spring and closed the next year). The Depression, then marriage and motherhood ended any career dreams, but she briefly worked as a clerk in the town library in the late 1950s. She was quiet, well organized, determined and tenacious; if anyone ever said a negative word about her, I never got wind of it. She drove to Rochelle to teach migrant workers to sew, held Bible studies in her home for years, ran a retreat center on her family's farm, and looked after innumerable relatives. For the most part to fulfill her dreams, she just read, researched and collected. We always received books or magazine subscriptions as gifts at Christmas from my mother and grandmother. Shortly before she died in 2000 she was still walking to the town library, which had become a public library while she was in college, and she had card #14. When she was in high school, she won an essay contest at the Dixon, Illinois public library, the nearest library to their farm. I think this was written when she was 15 or 16 and was published in the paper, so I only have the clipping and not the date.

Books are such wonderful things
There is one place, above all others, that holds a fascination that is not to be dimmed by frequent explorations. That place is a library. Rows on rows of books reaching to the ceiling. Some are nicely bound, clean and little used; others are shabby, worn out by loving an d unloving hands. They are there waiting for me, quiet and orderly from the outside, as they rest in neat lines on the shelf. Inside of the multi-colored covers is action, teeming life, successes and failures, tragedy and comedy.

To prepare for a trip is a different task, especially if it would be a journey that would reach around the world, turn back the centuries and allow me to live with the world from the earliest time to the present day. Such a journey is, of course, impossible, although extremely pleasant to dream of taking; time has never been known to stop or turn back. Out of the years has come something better for men. People of all times have written or recorded their thoughts on stone, parchment and paper. Only the best is left to us, and we may have a microscopic, yet comprehensive view of the world.

Only a slight motion of the hand is necessary and the cover of a book is opened; a kingdom waiting to be explored. Perhaps in this lies some of the wonder of a book. One need not leave the room to enjoy adventure or learn what is going on in other countries. What has happened hundreds of years ago is as close at hand as the present day. We may know more about Mary, Queen of Scots, than the “first lady of the land.”

A book is for relaxation of tired minds and bodies, inspiration through the actions of some ancient hero of mighty deeds. It has the power to lift the reader from surroundings that are familiar to places of dazzling splendor or trouble or squalor. A book will take you farther and faster than Mercury’s wings.

One summer day I sat down to read. The air was heavy with heat; only by reading could I forget the uncomfortable weather. My book was an Alaskan story. I climbed snowy mountains and crossed bleak valleys with the lone traveler. As the story proceeded, the traveler crossed a supposedly frozen lake but disaster came upon him. The ice was thin and gave way. I sailed through the icy waters with no hope of rescue, with the unfortunate man. It was terrible for life to end this way--no friends to weep, just lost. I shivered as the awful desolation of the north held me in its power. With a dry throat and my heart pounding wildly I stopped at the end of the chapter to find myself shaking with cold under the rays of a scorching sun.

A book is so wonderful, if it is truth from the author’s heart. It can do more than dazzle the brain with facts and fancies. It will reveal the vision of life as the author sees it. It may be ugly or it might be beautiful, joyous; it might be merely silly. Through the thoughts of his characters will run his own thoughts, their actions, what he himself might have done. Their philosophy of life is his, though it may not appear so on the surface. The author cannot keep himself hidden no matter how he tries.

Through the ages, men have attempted to tell realistically of the actions and lives of others. No matter how they failed or succeeded, they left a true picture of themselves--an example of the real feelings of that time more exact than any attempted story. That is why books are such wonderful things.