The Library

Celeste Johnson

English 1010-11

My fourth grade teacher was Mr. Cooper. I remember his name well because he told us what a cooper is: a barrel maker. Some things, like odd tidbits, stick in your head like super glue. He was a kind faced man with white fluffy hair like freshly spun cotton candy. He was my first male teacher. Part of me was worried, while the other half was curious. I wanted to make a good impression on him. All of us girls in his class wanted to impress him; whether we knew it or not, we were smitten.

The school year progressed and one day Mr. Cooper announced that we were going to learn how to write poems. We practiced writing poems in class and he challenged us to go home and write more. He said that we could read them in class the next day if we wanted to. I couldn’t wait to write mine; I had to amaze Mr. Cooper.

As mom cooked one of her tasty dinners, I sat cross-legged on the floor in the living room and carefully wrote a poem. I was a chubby kid and food was my life, but even the smells of mom’s baked chicken didn’t deter me from my poem writing. I can’t remember exactly what I wrote about (probably something as absurd as a poem about triangles), but I was extremely proud of my poem. I read and reread it until I felt it was perfect.

          At school the next day, I took my usual seat between my friends, Pamela and Brandy. We chattered about our poems and waited for the bell to ring. My stomach was nervous; I was going to read my poem in front of the class. When the bell rang, Mr. Cooper took his place at the front of the classroom.

“Hello class. I hope you enjoyed writing poems last night. Anyone care to share what they wrote?” Mr. Cooper spoke.

I took a deep breath, it was time. I was just about to raise my hand when Brandy threw her arm in the air and Mr. Cooper called on her. I sank in my seat and remembered why she wasn’t my “best” friend.

Brandy’s poem actually turned out pretty good. Maybe I can’t write well, I thought to myself. Still uncertain, I waited for Brandy to finish. Something inside me snapped out of it and I flung my arm in the air when Brandy was finished; craving to be heard. Mr. Cooper called on me. My face felt hot. I am sure I turned bright red. I scooted my chair back, slowly stood up, and read my poem.

“That was very good Celeste, thank you.” Mr. Cooper spoke to me. His praise sounded like heralding trumpets: Mr. Cooper liked my poem.

Another time Mr. Cooper asked us to write a story for an assignment. He said that the two best ones would be made into plays and we would act them out for the whole school. I was so excited. Sitting down to write it, my mind went blank. After days of mulling ideas in my head, I began to write a funny take on The Three Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf and wrote The Three Wolves and the Big Bad Pig. It was a silly tale where the pig wanted to torment the wolves. In the end, the pig climbed on the roof, fell down the chimney, got baked in the fireplace, and the wolves ate him. Mr. Cooper loved it. He chose my story for our class to act out. He changed the ending slightly and had the cooked pig on the dinner table with an apple in his mouth. Mr. Cooper was brilliant.

          I began developing a greater love of read and writing through those two experiences in Mr. Cooper’s class. It was as if my heart was going to explode if I couldn’t read. As luck would have it, across the street from my school, Marina Vista Elementary, there was the public library. It was a tiny building with two grey-haired old lady librarians. They always had their hair pulled back and never wore pants. The library always smelled a bit musty; that’s what happens when you live near a beach and the building is old. When you walked in the door, there was the check out desk to the right, along with the book return area, and right in front of you was the Children’s section. They had little chairs, tables, and plenty of books. I got a library card and went to the Children’s section. I found a book of silly poems by Shel Silverstein, books about animals, and all other interesting things. Each book called my name and I soon found myself with a huge stack of books in my arms. I couldn’t make up my mind and I didn’t want to hurt any books’ feelings (as adults, we forget that objects have feelings too). The sky was darkening and I knew I had to hurry home. I carried my gigantic armful to the checkout area. Without a word, the librarian started stamping each book with a due date. Wide-eyed, I realized that I could check out that many and excused myself to go get more. She was busy stamping due dates and didn’t protest. I came back with another armful, including Spanish comic books. If you are wondering if I can read Spanish back then, well, I couldn’t; but hey, they let me check them out. After the books were all stamped letting me know had two long weeks to enjoy them all, I began stuffing them in my backpack. It didn’t take long before I realized there was not enough room. I should have left some books back at the library and just got them another time, but the books all cried out to me like orphaned kitties. I couldn’t pick which ones could come home with me and which ones I had to abandon to the stale library. So I just carried the precious books in my arms and headed home.

            The sun had set, it was getting chilly, and I had a long walk ahead of me. With each step, my shoulders screamed and my back yelped in pain. The books in my arms began to get heavy and created little creases and indents on my arms. I could feel the sweat on my back. Up ahead I saw a hill. The hill looked steeper than before. I had no longer begun my ascent when my brother showed up looking for me.

          “There you are! Mom and dad are worried. Where have you been?” Larry quizzed me as he rode his bike up to me. I quickly explained that I was at the library. He rolled his eyes at me and said, “Let’s go.”

          I couldn’t make it another step with all these books. I begged him to help me carry some.

         “Why did you check out so many?” Larry whined as he grabbed some from me. “Who cares, let’s go.”

        Out of breath, we made it home and I got into trouble for being out so late without permission. I tried to explain that I was at the library but I was sent to my room. Which was fine by me, I had enough books to keep me company.

        Soon days passed, weeks passed, months passed. I still had my treasure of books. My parents had no clue. I knew I should return them, but the hike home with them all was so hard, it was daunting to try to take them back. My parents ended up finding out about them months after I checked them out. We were packing to move and they found them. I was in so much trouble when they got the late fee amount. It has been well over 20 years since that happened and thankfully my parents can laugh about it.

         Those experiences in my life stand out as the most influential reading and writing experiences. I am forever grateful for Mr. Cooper’s encouraging me to write. I will always think fondly of him. Even though I never got around to reading all the books I checked out back then, the desire and love to read still exists in me. I have many bookshelves in my house overflowing with books; although this time, they all belong to me... with the except of a few library books my parents missed.