Rescue at the library

Nuts. I was already a mile into my walk to the library when I realized I’d forgotten my card and ID. My book was due today, and I had one on hold to pick up. Well, it’s the library, not the Department of Homeland Discourtesy, and I figured they would be agreeable about letting me go home with my new book. They’re sweet that way. Besides, I happen to remember my library number. I’ve had it since 1976.I haven’t really needed it since 1976, but still. I punched it into the checkout kiosk with pride. 211680013879194900. Take that, Declining Attention Span. The kiosk thought about it for a second and then said it didn’t match anything in their records. The heck! The kiosk is a whippersnapper. I put it in again. Same thing, and this from a kiosk that probably can’t parallel park or read a map.But this is the library, a place stacked with goodness. I went to search for a person and found two of them upstairs behind a desk with nothing to do. Deb and Tasha, according to their name tags. Librarians really want to help you. They train for that; they live for that. I said I wanted to check out this book. Tasha asked me for my card. I told her I forgot to bring it. Did I have ID? Yeah, I forgot that, too. But I remember my number. Why We Wrote This When the electronic kiosk proved useless, a chatty interaction at the help desk became a refreshing encounter. 211680013879194900.“That doesn’t match anything in our records,” she said, truly sorry. “Maybe you can answer some security questions?” Sure! My mother’s maiden name? Skari, of Norwegian immigrant stock. Everyone in that family is the salt of the earth. Every other summer, we went to the farm where my mother grew up; I remember the grain silo smelled like toasted sunshine. Mom smiled all the time. I was a teenager before I had my first store-bought bread, because she baked all of ours.My first pet? Duffy, a green parakeet. Mom lobbied for the parakeet because she thought I should have some kind of pet that was more substantial than a guppy. Daddy had ruled out a cat or dog, even though he’d grown up with an endlessly regenerating supply of cocker spaniels – and also a burro.My first telephone number? Jackson 2-0056. Yeah, they didn’t have area codes then. My number was a bother to my friends because of the two zeros. You’d be halfway through dialing on the rotary phone, and your finger could fall out of the ring for the zero, which was at the end of the circle of numbers. You’d have to start all over. On the other hand, when you called your friends, you didn’t have to ask them where they were. If they answered, you knew exactly where they were, within the 10 curly feet of the phone cord. We had less information at our disposal, but somehow, we knew enough.My third grade teacher’s name? Mrs. Erdman. She was super wrinkly and kind. When the new girl showed up in class and didn’t speak any English, Mrs. Erdman gave me the job of neatly printing words on 3-by-5 index cards and taping them to the appropriate items. I don’t know how poor Ingrid managed to use her “PENCIL.”I had one elbow on the librarians’ desk by then and gazed up at the ceiling, as though that were where my memories lived. I went on.My dad’s middle name? Cable, named after his grandfather. Both his grandfathers fought in the Civil War. Isn’t that amazing?“You’re kidding,” Tasha said, awestruck. She had quit tapping on her keyboard and leaned toward me with her chin in both hands. Her daughter was just studying the Reconstruction era in grade school now. And since her mama is a librarian, I can bet the child isn’t getting the new scrubbed-up government version. “She is not,” Tasha confirmed. Her daughter wants to be a marine biologist – or a poet.“I’ve got your new account number here,” she said. “I mean, it’s not new; they were changed over ... When were they changed over, Deb?”“Before you were born,” Deb said, smirking and leaning back in her chair.Tasha shrugged. “Anyway, I can’t believe you remember that big, long number. Do you want me to write down your new one?”“Nah, I’ve got you people. Hey, it was great talking with you!” It was. In times like these, I take such interactions and kindnesses in like oxygen.“Have a good rest of your day!” Tasha said, apparently satisfied that my day had been agreeable enough up to now. “Hope to see you again soon,” she added.She will. I forgot to take my book.