An unveiling of artifacts

The Tale of the Librarian's Fifth Wife is collection of moments, an assemblage of events, a bread basket of words, a swap meet of scraps left behind from a beautiful romance that will help clue you in to the real deal, to the life of two star crossed lovers that has already been lived and left behind. For the moment, anyway.


Our lives lie scattered over several states and a half a case worth of decades. It's not so much a want as a need to do this, to gather together the splinters and the shards of our times and share them here with you. Those bits and pieces of flotsam and jetsam found below in this winsome log are the bits and pieces of our times, a smattering of the trinkets of the love that Jane and I gathered up over the course of five long hard years. How they come to you now is in a story of sorts, a type of autobiographical fiction, with images cadged from places other than our satchel. Give it time, photos, sepia, wrinkled, pocket worn, are yet to come.


So, what else is there to do but get out that cobbled together blanket of dreams from the back of the car, spread it out under the branches of our favorite green and noble Oregon Maple tree that we both loved and share these words and tales of those long ago times with you. It was a wonderful time. Sit a spell, grab your spectacles and come ride along with us for awhile.

Love, Jane, the Professora and Roger, the Wild Half Mexican Boy



Thursday, March 10, 2011

View from the cockpit

The rain is hitting hard and heavy. There has been the threat of rain all day, but it wasn't Puget Sound heavy skies but one large, alien spacecraft looking kind of cloud, lingering, foreboding, hovering locally, keeping all of us guessing as to when it would break. Well, the wind came up, the trees starting blowing sideways and like a good cloudburst will do, it let loose, cancelling the boy's lacross practice for the day and causing a run on our meager supply of grocery bags. No wet books, please.

I sit at the back of the bus, bus being apt for the Thomas product, bus not so much in bench seats but we have the aisle up the middle. No students on board for the moment, as the wind is blowing even sober minded drivers on down the road and away from us. No, we have a mobile library here, stocked with primarily best sellers, childrens picture books, a handful of large type, a smidgeon of audio and a movie collection that is the rival of any Netflix line up in the land. We hear how wonderful our movie collection is all the time. Well, we pad it now with a few more classics and foreign but that is a better take on our mission: to spread the word about all that good and great to see, read and hear, not just what Oprah or the Idaho Statesman has previewed that week.

The back of the bookmobile is my territory. I sort of made it happen by default. I like the way I can spread out back here, lay my backpack, lunch bag and jacket out and know that no one will care about the mess. Sure, it's a public space but we have no coat closet, rest room, break area or locker arrangement. Folks know to look for me in the back, my colleague J up front.

From the back I can look out over snowfields, parking lots and playgrounds. I can see class loads of children arriving, give a holler when car loads of patrons pull up. From my seat I can perform crowd control during those heavy after school sessions, keep an eye on the lay of land when the shiftless arrive, do an inventory in my head of what we need and when we need it and then, when things get slow, send my colleague along to branch to fetch it.

The colors are contemporary library hues of blond wood and rugged tan/turquoise/burgundy indoor/outdoor carpeting. We keep the soundsystem going most of the time, lower when J is a the helm, a bit louder when I am on my own. Jazz, world beat, classical, a bit of Windham Hill. Good background sounds, no lyrics, mostly pink noise and generally the same album throughout the day. Sometimes that's a good thing, that plain wrap anonymous sound but then again with some jazz albums you gain new insight the more you listen. And listen we do even if it's a volume that's a bit lower than I'd like.

The winter is passing and spring is on the horizon. As the days get longer and warmer we tend to burn the heater less and the lights less frequently. It's been a good post so far, quiet some days, rambunctious and rowdy on others. We are piloting a shut-in program in one retirement home and hope to expand that service to other places soon. I am hoping to start a new movie appreciation group back at the branch and have asked the collection development person to look into licensing real soon.
And while it's not quite what I envisioned I find that it's a sweet little good job. Good staff, great leadership, a solid bus to do my good work out of. And that, my dear, is almost more than I can ask for on some days.

So I stare out the window at traffic making it's way into town, most keeping a blind eye to me, doing their best to make the signals, everyone thinking of home, replenishment, libations. I know that will be my story soon.

The cockpit at the back of the bus is now a home away from home. One more home of many that I have made here in the Treasure Valley. It's not the Port Orchard branch but then again Port Orchard is no longer my home, either. One more place to say I hung my hat.

Now that's a thought..a hat rack!

Thoughts fly your way, Professora.

Your Wild Half Mexican Boy

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