The president of the Friends of the Library Foundation spoke next. She passionately evoked the democratic principles upon which the nation was founded, praising the egalitarian nature of the library, for anyone regardless of wealth, gender, age, color, religion, education, or status could pass through its doors and gain access to its wealth of information and resources. “Franklin Delano Roosevelt called libraries ‘the great symbols of the freedom of the mind, essential to the functioning of a democratic society,’” Alicia declared. “Libraries and librarians are essential to a healthy democracy because they ensure that everyone—everyone, not merely the privileged and the powerful—can gain access to information and thereby become informed citizens and voters. Without this access, people may not know what their elected leaders are doing on their behalf, or what candidates are promising to do, or what the consequences of a proposed measure might be for themselves, their families, and their neighborhoods. This is especially important for the poorest among us, those who can’t afford books or newspapers or home computers or high-speed cable Internet. A healthy democracy cannot endure if only the wealthy are aware of and engaged in the process of governance while the poor and powerless are left uninformed and uninvolved.” Alicia’s penetrating gaze traveled along the high bench where the city council members sat impassively, and then she turned to take in the entire gallery. “Believe me, my friends and mis amigos, we should all be wary of any powerful group that wants to keep the poor ignorant and disenfranchised.”
A smattering of applause and cheers and a low rumble of disapproval greeted her as she stepped away from the microphone and returned to her seat—head held high, expression proud and defiant. The mayor banged the desk with his gavel and called for order, warning that any further outbursts would be grounds for expulsion.
Next the leader of the fledgling Conejo Hills chapter of Close the Book, California took the podium and used her five minutes to denounce the inclusion of “filthy, age-inappropriate” materials in the library’s collections. “Libraries must be safe places for children and young adults, who make up a significant percentage of library users,” she said, pounding a forefinger onto the podium for emphasis. “If offensive books cannot be kept out of the reach of patrons under eighteen, then we demand the librarians institute a warning-label system using the same codes that are used for television programs, movies, and video games. If warnings are considered essential for those media, why not for books?”
Linnea had a sudden vision of herself seated on the floor of the children’s department surrounded by piles of books taller than her head, reading each one; evaluating the content for references to sex, violence, drugs, and swearing; and slapping each cover with a color-coded sticker—green for innocuous Sandra Boynton board books, fiery scarlet for I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Scarlet stickers would become a magnet for curious teens, whose rebellious streaks would guarantee heavy circulation for any scarlet-stickered book.
“Did she help us or hurt us?” one of the Conejo Hills reference librarians murmured. Linnea figured it was anyone’s guess. The woman hadn’t called for the library’s closure, but she hadn’t exactly championed it either.
A man who looked to be in his early forties took the podium next, and he spoke briefly and angrily about how high taxes were destroying the economy. “I don’t use the library, so I shouldn’t have to pay for it,” he declared. “If people can’t speak English, they shouldn’t take a free class at the library—they should go back where they came from.” Someone in the gallery above shouted out in agreement, and the mayor banged his gavel. “Libraries have become after-school day care centers for smart kids and hangouts for homeless people. I shouldn’t have to pay for that. If people want to buy books or computers, they should get a job, save their money, and buy them. I don’t work forty-plus hours a week to subsidize some other guy’s access to free books.”
Linnea sighed as the man returned to his seat, nodding and raising his hand to the gallery in acknowledgment of their support. She never understood how people like him failed to realize that everyone benefited when their neighbors were educated, informed, and involved. Some people just couldn’t think beyond the walls of their own homes.
Another, calmer man followed, and before he ran out of time and was required to step down, he offered a lucid explanation of how much money would be saved, and how few jobs would be lost, if the library were closed. To her dismay, Linnea observed several of the council members leaning forward in interest as if to catch every crucial fact and figure. Two council members were so engrossed that they forgot to maintain a veneer of impartiality and nodded from time to time.
“His figures seem questionable,” Kevin murmured close to her ear as he rose and joined the queue to speak. When it was his turn, he presented his own cost-and-benefits analysis of the library, clearly and objectively. The council listened attentively, and Linnea was proud and relieved to see just as many, if not more, minuscule nods in response to his presentation as the earlier speaker had received.
It would have served the library’s cause well if the public hearing had ended with Kevin, but a few more people spoke on both sides of the argument, most reiterating points that had already been made. The last to speak was a young man with dark, curly hair wearing black-rimmed, rectangular glasses and a UC Santa Barbara sweatshirt. Linnea straightened in her seat, expecting to hear the voice of youth advocating the library’s cause, but the young man’s appearance was sadly deceiving. “Libraries are obsolete,” he began, spreading his hands as if stating a universally accepted fact. “Everything worth reading is on the Internet now. See this?” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a smartphone. “I can get more classic novels and references on this than I could ever read in my entire lifetime. In twenty lifetimes.” He paused to shake his head. “I’ve lived in Conejo Hills most of my life, and yeah, I came to Saturday Story Times when I was little, but the world has moved on. Conejo Hills is broke. The whole country is broke. We just can’t afford obsolete information stores anymore. We shouldn’t keep these dusty relics on life support for sentimental reasons or because it’s tradition, especially when everything we could possibly want to read is online.”
Linnea longed to interrupt him to correct his error-strewn remarks, and she felt the librarians and library supporters around her tensing as they fought the same impulse. Not everything was online—far from it—and not everyone had access to the Internet in their home. Oneself and one’s friends never accurately represented a diverse community. Why were comfortable young adults always the first to overlook that?
“My generation is online and the generations coming after us will be too,” the young man continued. “We’re three generations removed from people who actually needed physical libraries. We learn and think and consume information different than people of the past. If you want children to be prepared for the new economy, you’ll teach them to use e-readers and forget about obsolete paper technology.”
“If he says ‘obsolete’ one more time,” Alicia muttered, “I’m going to stand up and scream at him.”
Linnea patted Alicia’s arm to advise patience and restraint.
“Also, all this talk about libraries creating community misses the point of today’s reality,” the young man said. “Community doesn’t happen in a big public building anymore. It all happens online. I have hundreds of friends, and I don’t have to be with them in person to have community. People of my generation are the future, and we should have a big say in the budget because the consequences will affect us much longer than it will affect you.”
Because the rest of us are old and creaky and teetering on the edge of our graves, Linnea finished for him silently. This young man had attended Saturday Story Times, perhaps during her tenure. Where had she gone wrong?
The young man leaned closer to the microphone as he glanced around the room. “Sorry to be so harsh, but that’s the way I see it. Thank y
ou.”
He left the podium to a startling crash of applause.
“The blindness of the privileged,” exclaimed Alicia, incredulous, her words barely audible in the din. “It will be generations, if ever, before everyone has their own personal access to the technology he takes for granted. How can a college student be so unaware of how most of the world lives?”
Linnea could only shake her head.
The mayor announced that the time allotted for the public to address the chamber had elapsed, but they would review all written remarks as long as they were submitted before five o’clock. Linnea, who had said all she intended to say, wanted nothing more than to go home, crawl under a quilt, and rest until the city council reached a judgment.
For a week the mayor and city council met in several lengthy sessions closed to the public. Rumors raced through the city like capricious winds, shifting, ephemeral, and ever changing. Linnea refused to heed any of them, doggedly going about her usual routine. They would know the library’s fate soon enough.
Linnea was shelving young adult manga when one of the teenage pages dashed over and breathlessly told her that the mayor had called a press conference and the library director wanted senior staff to join her in her office. Linnea dumped her armful of books on a cart and hurried through the library, past contented patrons browsing the stacks or reading in comfortable chairs. Behind the scenes in the area restricted to staff, she passed coworkers grouped around computers watching the press conference stream live over the web, so intent they did not glance up as she raced by. She was the last of the senior staff to arrive in the library director’s office. The computer screen had been turned to face them, and the mayor had already begun speaking.
The city council’s decision was both more and less than what Linnea had hoped for, and nothing at all that she had expected.
The council had set aside the matter raised by Close the Book, California. Concerns about the library’s collection, while certainly worth further scrutiny, were not relevant to the current budget crisis.
Linnea heaved a sigh of relief and closed her eyes. Someone patted her on the back. She had not cost her friends and colleagues their jobs after all.
The mayor continued reading from his prepared statement. Although in principle the city council was opposed to deficit spending, circumstances warranted emergency measures. The city had secured a loan sufficient to fund the library throughout the next fiscal year.
Linnea gasped and seized the arm of the person next to her. In the distance, they heard cheers erupting throughout the library. They were safe. They would not have to close. They had another year, an entire year to come up with a plan to keep their doors open forever.
But the mayor was not finished.
The city council had passed a measure to create a referendum on a dedicated millage to fund the Conejo Hills Public Library—.7 mills for five years. If the referendum passed, during that five-year period, a capital campaign would be launched to newly endow the library foundation to ensure that its operating expenses would be met for generations to come. The special election would be held in December, on the last business day before the holiday recess.
The sounds of jubilation subsided. Inside the director’s office, some of the senior staff stared at the computer, while others exchanged looks of stricken dismay.
The city council’s plan was sound—reasonable and pragmatic, both for the short term and the long. But who in such troubled economic times would vote to raise their own taxes?
“We have a few months,” the library director said quietly, breaking the silence. “We have time to make our case to the public the way we made our case last week. We’ll rally the support of the community. Too many people want us to keep our doors open for us to fail.”
“Too many people won’t miss us until we’re gone,” muttered the head of the reference department.
Linnea feared he was right.
Autumn found her dividing her time between the children’s department and the Vote Yes for Libraries headquarters, better known as Alicia’s dining room. Kevin soon became a leader of the movement. They labored ceaselessly to get the word out, to motivate potential voters, and to refute the false and frenzied reports of their opponents, who claimed that the small increase in taxes to preserve an important community asset would result in nothing short of the destruction of life as they knew it.
The holidays approached, but Linnea gave them hardly any thought until Kevin asked if she and Mona had discussed their annual sisters’ reunion.
The question caught Linnea utterly by surprise. “I assumed we’d have to skip it this year.” Their husbands always treated them to a getaway week shortly after Thanksgiving as an early Christmas gift, but between the upcoming ballot measure and their tight family budget, Linnea had assumed they couldn’t afford to go.
“Of course you don’t have to skip it,” said Kevin, appalled. “It’s tradition. You and Mona look forward to your week together all year around. You need that time together.”
“I need to save the library.”
“You’ll be gone only a week. There will be plenty of saving left for you to do when you come back.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and regarded her earnestly. “I’ll be here for the kids and to do my part for Vote Yes for Libraries. You know you’ll be able to work better after some time away. You’ve been too stressed out. A week with Mona is just what you need—and I bet a week with you is just what she needs.”
Linnea was well aware that Mona was under considerable pressure from her employer, the governor’s new directives, and her union. They both needed time away from the stress and strain. So it was mostly for her sister’s sake that she acquiesced, but she warned Kevin that he would have to agree to a very modest travel budget or she wouldn’t go.
Kevin remembered hearing a distant cousin sing the praises of Elm Creek Quilt Camp at a Nelson family reunion a few summers earlier, and when he searched online and learned about Quiltsgiving, he decided it was meant to be. A week in a historic manor in beautiful rural central Pennsylvania, delicious meals, as much quilting as Linnea could possibly desire, the opportunity to support a worthy cause—all the husbands had to do was come up with airfare, and the sisters would be set.
And so Linnea found herself far from the strife and worry of home, spending precious time with her sister, quilting, making new friends—and resting up for what would surely be the fight of her life.
* * *
Instinct as much as reason drew Linnea toward the grand oak staircase in the foyer. She had already searched the first floor of Elm Creek Manor to no avail. The twins had led her up to the third story, where she had seen the playroom, guest suites, and a trapdoor in the ceiling that surely led to an attic, an unlikely setting for a library. Only the second floor remained unexplored, so that was where she would go.
On the second-floor landing, she glanced down the hall to her right and saw doors to guest rooms, including her own, and she suspected they continued around the corner. To her left, on the far side of the broad stairwell, were two French doors with filmy taupe curtains covering the windows on the inside. She peered at the ceiling and determined that the room was directly below the spacious playroom and likely the same size—large enough indeed for a family’s library.
She knocked on one of the doors. “Come in,” someone called to her in reply.
Linnea entered a room that spanned the entire width of the manor’s south wing. Between tall, diamond-paned windows on the east and west walls stood dozens of high bookcases, their shelves bowing slightly under the weight of hundreds of volumes. A blaze crackled merrily in a large stone fireplace on the south wall, where an antique scrap Castle Wall quilt hung on the wall to the left of the mantel and what appeared to be unjoined sections of a Winding Ways quilt were displayed to the right. Two armchairs and footstools sat before the fire,
and in the center of the room, the twins sat on the floor playing Candy Land, ignoring the coffee table and the chairs and sofas surrounding it nearby. Sarah was seated in a tall leather chair behind a broad oak desk cluttered with a computer, papers, and files; Sylvia sat, one leg crossed casually over the other, in a smaller leather chair on the other side of the desk. Both women looked inquiringly up at Linnea, but it took her a few moments to realize this, as she was transfixed by the books, the glorious collection of leather-bound, antique books among which, surely, several priceless first editions awaited discovery.
“I’ve been looking for this place,” Linnea said, taking it all in.
“Well, it seems to me you’ve found it,” Sylvia replied cheerfully. “Were you looking for something to read?”
Linnea laughed. “I’m always looking for something to read.”
“This is the book lady,” James informed Sylvia. “I told you, remember? We already showed her where the best books are.” He turned to Linnea and added, “You can read any of them any time you want. You don’t have to ask. It’s already okay.”
As one, the women smiled indulgently. “Thank you so much,” Linnea told him. “I think I’d like to look around here too, though. I’m sure there are some wonderful books on these shelves.”
James frowned slightly and shook his head. “Nope. They all have tiny little letters and no pictures.”
“Some of them have pictures,” Caroline said, and she took her brother’s hand and led him off to find one.
“When I searched for the library earlier and couldn’t find it,” Linnea said, “I was afraid you had gotten rid of it, or that it never existed.”
“Perish the thought,” declared Sylvia. “Rest assured, my dear, this library will remain long as there’s breath in my body.”
The Giving Quilt Page 14
