COULD I HAVE A WORD OR TWO?

I can remember when I was very young, perhaps seven or eight.  I used to visit the village library whenever I could get the chance.  The library was located along the dirt road on the way home, nestled in a forest of tall eucalyptus trees.  This building was a special place to me, a sanctuary of knowledge and higher power.  It had a special smell to it that always excited me.  It was the fragrance of books and furniture polish, but also of wisdom.  The library consisted only of one large room with the librarian's desk tucked away in a corner near the door.  Her name was Miss Gill Bye, a friendly woman; young although just by her demeanor I felt that she was a wise old sage.  She was a spinster and was always attired in an old fashioned manner, I thought.  A plain white blouse and plaid skirt, with sensible brown shoes, like a librarian ought to wear and of course she wore large owl spectacles, but this only served to make her more of a wonder to a young child.  She seemed very important and all knowing.  She could tell you without a moment’s hesitation where every single book was.

She knew that I would come in quietly and go straight to the adult section, where I would scan the shelves for hours selecting the most difficult book I could find.  I was intrigued by the title on the cover and the big words inside, always greedy to learn more and more.  Sometimes she would try and steer me away from the more difficult books to the children's section, and sometimes I would concede and take out one or two children's storybooks just to keep her off her guard.  But then when she wasn't looking, I would sneak back to the adult section and take out one interesting book.

I would stand anxiously at her desk with my pile of books and wait to have them stamped.  I always tried to stand casually so as not to give the game away, holding my breath all the time.  Then when she got to the interesting one at the bottom of my pile, she would stop with one eyebrow raised and her stamp poised in midair, but only for a moment, then she would smile and her stamp would come down and make its mark on my book.  As soon as that was done, I knew I was home free, and could breathe again; she wouldn’t try to stop me now.

It was always a long walk home in the afternoons.  One and a half miles of dirt road winding downhill through the shady trees towards our castle overlooking the sea.  But after a visit to the library, I would fly home as fast my legs could carry me, with my school bag in one hand and my pile of heavy books in the other.  And for the next two weeks, I would sit every afternoon pouring over my treasured book, stopping only to look up the difficult words I kept finding.  I loved words and always managed to find new ones.

I always wanted to use the words in my every day conversation, because I had them swirling around in my head just bursting to be used, but on the occasions when I did, I was accused of trying to be arrogant and insolent.  But that didn't stop me using them secretly.  They would leap into each and every thought in my head.  Yet when the words came out of my mouth they would have been reduced to little words that everyone could understand, there was nothing interesting left.  I always felt cheated by my audience because they would never allow me to be original and interesting in my speech and so I became a quiet child, not speaking much about my inner thoughts.

Even today I am still like that, my spoken word is not worthy of my thoughts.  I have so many wonderful words running around in my head just wanting to be used, and all these I learnt at the little library in the woods by the sea.

Cally