IN DEVELOPMENT - "Thank You Mrs. Bunchman"

Thank You Mrs. Bunchman
By Steve Orr
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Part One

When it happened, I was seventeen. It was the spring of 1969, my senior year in high school. I had driven downtown to the public library in my mother’s 1967 Barracuda. Wow, I loved that car! It was a notchback instead of the more common fastback model. It had 274 under the hood and was rendered in my school colors of Blue and White.

It was a time of transition, on many fronts. But that day, I was to become aware of a particular change, one that impacted me in a much more personal way than most..

For as long as I could remember, I had always checked out books from the Andrew Carnegie Public Library, a huge stone and concrete structure situated on the southeast corner of 9th and Broadway, directly across Broadway from the A&P, caddy-corner from the Firestone Tire dealer. I had started visiting that edifice as a very small child and had continued to do so almost every Saturday up until that day.

I read at an early age. Four, to be exact. It was something my parents said I just “took to”. For a while, it was enough to go to the Children’s Section of the Carnegie Library each week. I would enter through the side door at the back of the library, take three giant steps down into the Children’s Section, and begin to peruse the child-sized shelves. Eventually I would decide on a book, take it home, and pour over it until Saturday rolled around again.

Then, somewhere along the way, I got turbo-charged. I started reading more and more of the children’s books at a faster and faster pace. I spent many a happy hour in the Children’s Section which, lucky for me, included books for “young adults” as well. I was living other people’s lives, traveling to exotic places, tagging along while Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys solved a mystery, getting into trouble with Tom and Huck, inventing cool things with Tom Swift, Jr., getting lost through the old wardrobe. By the time I reached my tenth birthday, I had entered the door at the back of the library hundreds of times, and I had read everything intended for people sixteen-and-under that Mr. Carnegie had put in his library.

That actually led to a bit of a problem, one that involved my sneaking upstairs to the Adult Book Section (which, in my childhood, meant books for grownups rather than the dismal meaning it has taken on in subsequent years). All children were expressly forbidden to go upstairs. However, by that point in my life, I was driven. I had to read. I had already read absolutely everything at home. I had even crawled into the attic and hauled out books stored there by my parents. My family had very little money, so purchasing new books was a rarity. I was a black hole for books. I depended on Mr. Carnegie to meet my ever-expanding need for reading material.

There was a period of about two years there when I would sneak upstairs, move stealthily along between the tall, tall shelves, grab a forbidden book, and hide in the stacks to read it. Of course, once I got going on a book, I would, as Stephen Kings describes it, “fall through the hole in the page”. That was always my downfall. As long as I paid attention, I could keep one row of books between me and the roving guard-librarians. But, once I “fell through”, I was soon captured. My book would be confiscated and carefully checked for a cracked spine or some other unforgivable sin. Then I would be tut-tutted back down the stairs to the Children’s Section. Eventually, this situation led to a crisis.
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One day, when I was nearing my twelfth birthday, I was reading in the Adult Book Section, blissfully scrunched down into my favorite hiding place. It had become my favorite for a couple of reasons. First, it was up on a mezzanine high above the main floor of the Adult Section. Most of the library staff were older women. Not a one of them liked climbing up the steep stairway which led there, and none of them would unless there was the most urgent need for one of the obscure reference works which lived there. Second, for reasons which were not apparent to me, someone had left a perfect spot for me. A large cabinet had been set at the east end with its back about two feet out from the library’s south wall. At that exact spot on the south wall there was a huge window which extended up from the floor, below. I could sit in there with my back against the east wall, the light pouring in over my left shoulder, and read to my heart’s content. Unless a person actually walked around behind the cabinet and looked, there was no way to see me lounging back there.

You know how you get that feeling that someone’s looking at you? Well, that day, I was safely ensconced in my “fortress of solitude” when I got that feeling. I had two books with me. One was the unabridged version of Robinson Crusoe. The standard version had seemed a bit too simplistic to me. The other book was The Complete Short Works of Mark Twain. I had been sneaking peeks into this one on several sorties into the forbidden realm. I was far, far away with Mr. Crusoe when I go that feeling, which I thought was a pretty creepy feeling to get on a deserted island. I looked up and the spell was broken. There, hovering above me, was the dragon lady herself, Miss Beedle, the Head Librarian (name changed to protect good librarians everywhere). She stood ramrod straight, her chest flat, her hips wide, her sturdy legs jammed into “sensible” shoes. Her too-white, painted doll face held a grim look. The perfectly round discs of rouge which decorated her cheeks seemed to glow with anger. The sight would have intimidated a Marine.

Those crafty women had been keeping a record of my name each time I was caught in violation of the librarian’s code of good conduct. I surmise this because, upon learning my name (what can I say? I was never devious enough to think to give a bogus name.), Miss Beedle checked the piece of paper in her hand and proceeded to scold me for my multiple infractions. Then, she banned me from the library!

I did the only thing I could think to do. I fled.

Usually, when I was out riding my 20-inch Stingray bike, I took great joy in the appreciative stares its banana seat and butterfly handlebars got from my peers. I had lovingly spray-painted the frame a sort of matte finish gold. The paint had a textured look. It still caught the sun, but captured the attention of my peers without blinding their mothers. But, peddling home that day, I was in no mood to enjoy it. I was unable to keep from crying. All I could think was how horribly unfair it all was. I needed to read! Nothing about the ride home did anything to improve my mood. I was despondent. And, I was clueless about what to do. There seemed to be no solution to the problem. As an adult, I now look back on these events fully understanding. The concept of giving seekers access to all that information was practically unheard of. In those days, Librarians were all about preservation and conservation. Protect the books! All I knew, then, was that it felt as though my heart had been ripped from my chest. It just hurt. My life was over.

When I walked in the door, I only had to see my parents to know that they knew. They were sitting at the kitchen table. Well, actually, the only table. Nothing unusual about that. What was unusual was that they were both sitting behind the table, facing the front door. They were in inquisition mode. Having been telephoned by the Head Librarian, they were pretty upset. So, it was a while before I got to tell my version. What was nice, and even nicer because it was so rare, was that, once they heard me out, they understood my predicament. My parents sided with me!

Soon, we were all in Miss Beedle’s office. She was patiently explaining to my parents, condescension dripping from every word, that children were to read the books in the Children’s Section. After a bit, my father, in that calm voice which meant he was really angry, asked her what the children were supposed to do when they had read all the books in that Section. She had laughed, pointing out to my father (who, it was obvious, she thought to be some sort of idiot) that such a thing was impossible. There were hundreds and hundreds of books down there. By the time a child had finished them all, he or she would be an adult.

That’s when he lowered the boom. My father read her the riot act. When he was through, I had a newly issued special adult library card and fully restored privileges. I’ll never forget the parting words of the considerably chastened Miss Beedle, “Happy reading!” Somehow, I sensed she didn’t really mean it.

I felt wonderful! I went immediately into the stacks and found the books I had been reading when Miss Beedle had caught me, marched up to the desk (the big desk, the adult desk), pushed the books across to the checker, and waited to see what she would do. She looked at me. She looked at my library card. She looked back at me. No doubt about it, same chubby face, same goofy smile. Without a word, she stamped the books, removed the cards from their little jackets, and sent me out with my prizes. I kept them the full two weeks.

After that little episode, I resumed my periodic treks to 9th and Broadway, but entering from the front, now. I would climb up the huge granite steps leading to the massive twin doors, tug one side open with both of my chubby-but-not-yet-strong arms and march into literary heaven. My life was complete. Over the years I got better at opening the doors, lost a lot of the chubby, and treated that place like it was my own personal library.

That is, until that warm spring day in 1969.


Part Two

I drove my ‘cuda (well, it felt like mine) over to 9th and Broadway, found, miracle of miracles, an open meter, and loped up the front steps to the library entrance. I was surprised to find the doors locked. Peering through the beveled glass windows that had been set into the massive, ornate doors, I could see that the lights were out and no one was inside. What was going on? I wondered. Where was everybody? In sudden panic, I quickly turned back toward the street. I was relieved to see cars driving down Broadway and people entering and exiting the A&P. Whew! I thought, too much Twilight Zone.

OK. If the world hadn’t ended, then why was the library closed? I looked out at the bust of Mr. Carnegie. I asked him the same question. And, just when I had decided that he wasn’t going to be any help, I saw the paper taped to his chest. Trotting down the steps, I zipped over to the bust and grabbed the sheet of paper. It was a clipping from the Paducah Sun-Democrat, our local newspaper. The headline said, “Library Moves To Temporary Quarters”. The picture showed people moving boxes of books into some building, familiar looking but recognition was just out of reach. Perusing the article I came to learn that we would all be getting our books from the old Paducah Junior College building until the new library was completed. New library? Looking around at the building and grounds of the Carnegie Library, I thought, What’s wrong with this library?

By the time I had finished the article, I knew the whole story. Apparently, while I was blissfully reading along all those years, the old building had been falling apart. City engineers had decided that it could not be saved. It would have to be torn down. I went back up the steps to the wide portico which fronted the building. I sat on the top step and thought. I let the memories wash over me. This building was a huge part of my life. We tended to be a long lived bunch, so I had yet to deal with a lot of death. I had lost my Grandfather just a couple years prior, my Dad’s Dad. Perhaps surprisingly, considering how many books I had read, the whole idea of endings was still a bit new to me. But, that’s what this felt like to me, a kind of death. The life we live on this planet is not like a book. You can’t just pick it up again and re-live it. Sitting there that day, I knew that I would miss this place. I also knew that I would have to find some way of letting it go.

And so I began to actively remember. The clash I had with Miss Beedle when I was eleven was not the only adventure I had had here. I remembered all the commando missions I had planned, and executed, which had earlier allowed me temporary access to the forbidden realms of Adult Books, the sneaking in and the sneaking out, the times I was caught, and the many more times I was successful. Later came the times when I would take an adult book down to the Children’s Section so I could read alongside my friends. That was another battle to be fought with officialdom. “No Adult books in the Children’s Section, “ Miss Beedle had thundered. When I had pointed out that I doubted she would say that to a parent, she called me “impertinent”. I cherish that particular memory.

Perhaps I was impertinent, but I won. In time, word got out that I had an adult library card (How? Gee, I dunno…). Many of my geek friends wanted the same access (we didn’t have the word “geek”, yet. Mostly we were called “Hey, brain!” Or, “Hey, four-eyes!”). We knew, instinctively, that knowledge was power. The only place poor kids could get that kind of power was the public library. It was a little revolution there in the early sixties, a herald of what was coming in the decade. We were impertinent, we wanted access, and we were not going to take “no” for an answer! And, in time, we won. Soon, parents all over town were arranging for their children to get the special adult library cards. It was a coup.

Those are the kinds of memories I dwelt on that afternoon. When I finished, I was a little closer to saying goodbye to the Andrew Carnegie Public Library. As I returned to the car, a new thought came to me. And I realized that I had to go, right then, and make sure that the books were OK.


Part Three

It was a short drive, just one block further east on Broadway. The newly dubbed “Paducah Public Library” was occupying the first floor of the old PJC building, at what would have been the corner of 8th and Broadway had 8th actually connected through to Broadway. I parked across the street in the Liberty SUPER Market parking lot, directly beneath the “Parking For Liberty SUPER Market Patrons Only” sign. Since Broadway had been turned into a one-way street (going toward the river…Jefferson was the one-way that let us drive in the opposite direction), the traffic moved in waves, governed by synchronized lights at all downtown intersections. All I had to do was wait for a wave to pass, then I could safely saunter across.

Once there, I stood on the swath of green grass which grew between the sidewalk and the street. The old PJC building had been empty since the University of Kentucky had conspired with our city fathers to build the brand spanking new Paducah Community College out on Blandville Road, north of town. Looking at it, with all the people moving in and out of it, people sitting out on the lawn and on the few benches intended for that purpose, I thought, This must be what it was like when Dad went to school here.

What did I know about this place? It had been there, looking more or less the same, all of my life. It looked like it had been built post-World War II, but I knew different. This was just a new façade. The building had been there since the thirties. The basement and the entire first floor had been under water during the ’37 Flood. It had been built for the purpose of being the town’s college. As narrow-minded, short-sighted, and downright cheap our city fathers had been over the years, this was one of their true jewels. It held several classrooms, an auditorium, a gymnasium, and even had an Olympic-sized swimming pool in the basement. It had established Paducah as a place of learning and advancement at a time when many communities were still struggling to throw off the malaise of the great Depression.

I also knew that, a few years back, the First Methodist Church had purchased the building and the surrounding property. This gave them control of everything on that side of the block between 7th and 9th streets except for the A&P. Rumor had it that the Methodists planned to expand their facility to cover all of that land. From the newspaper article I had read earlier that afternoon, I knew that the Methodists had leased the building’s first floor to the city for one dollar a year until the new library could be built.

By this point in my reflections, I had moved to a point about halfway up the walk. I was just standing there, staring at the building which would be the home of a sizeable portion of my heart for a while, when a voice said, “Well, hello there Stephen Orr.” Bringing my gaze back to the world, I saw before me a slender woman. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, was dressed in unremarkable shades of brown and beige, and, for some reason, seemed to blend in with her clothing. Beyond that, there was nothing about her that would have gotten my attention had she not spoken to me. As I looked down at her, a small smile began to form at the corners of her mouth.

I began to get the feeling that I should know her. Something about her looked familiar, but that was no help. I had been born in Paducah, Kentucky. As had both my parents. Between cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc., I had innumerable relatives spread all over McCracken County. And, they all had friends, coworkers, and neighbors. Most likely, this woman was one of those. It was quite common, in my experience, for perfect strangers to stop me on the street and go on and on about something, thinking I knew them. Usually, they knew me, but that was the extent of the relationship. Just the week before, I had been walking down Broadway when, right in front of the Paducah Dry Goods Store, an old lady had captured my arm. She reached up and grabbed my neck, pulling me down into the visual range of herself and her two companions of similar age. “Look” she cooed, as she forced my lips open, “Aren’t those the nicest teeth you have every seen?” With nods all around, the trio patted me and moved on. I’m pretty certain they were friends of my great-aunt Vera, who often displayed my teeth to her friends. Deciding that this, too, was just such a situation, I murmured, “Hello,” and moved quickly toward the entrance to the library.

My last view of her was a sidelong glance as I moved past her. Her smile had grown, but was still a small one. She looked … pleased. As I strode into the library, that began to nag at me. What was it about that encounter that would make her look so pleased? I had every intention of following that thought out to some sort of answer. But, it was not to be, not then, anyway. The events of the next few minutes, hours, and days were about to drive her from the forefront of my thoughts.

I had not gone far into the building before I realized something was wrong. Where were all the books? I’ve always had a bit of a problem staying focused. This was one of those times. As I began to wrestle with the apparent absence of about three-fourths of the library’s books, I forgot all about the woman. The game was afoot, and I couldn’t be distracted by idle curiosity about some relative’s friend. As I looked about me, I could see that there were only three small rooms of books. At the front and to my immediate left, with windows looking out onto the front lawn, was the all new Children’s Section. It had lost that slimy dungeon quality, but, somehow, the sunlight made up for the loss. Next came a room full of non-fiction; biographies, reference works and the like, and, perhaps appropriately, no windows. Finally, at the rear, with windows peering out onto the back wall of the A&P, which was about four feet away, was the fiction room. Zooming up and down each aisle, I quickly determined that none of the alphabet had been left out. But, it was clear. Most of the books were just not there.

Now I had a real dilemma. I either would remain in the dark or I would have to ask someone. However, I had long since learned that this particular library staff fell, loosely, into two camps; those who don’t know and those who won’t tell. Ask the first group and they get flustered. I was never the one to torture the easily flustered. But, in light of my current consternation, I was tempted. Ask the second group and they will grill you with questions until you flee in defeat. They see themselves as the guardians of information. If you can’t demonstrate a need-to-know, then you will not be told. There was nothing to do but gut up. I was going to have to go see Miss Beedle.

These little reunions, intentionally kept to a minimum by both of us, were never pleasant experiences. She had never forgotten me, and, I am certain, never forgiven me for the results of our early clashes. She ruled her domain with an iron claw and I, impertinent upstart that I was, dared to rock the boat. I’m guessing her thinking went something like this: it was difficult enough having to deal with Mayors and city councils, Library Board members, and the overly-helpful, but well off, volunteer matrons. How dare a mere citizen, and one not even old enough to vote, ever question anything she had done?

When we did meet, we were excruciatingly polite to one another. On this day, I, having developed some sense in the intervening years, veiled my questions in the form of an interview for my school newspaper, The Tilghman Bell. A head-on assault would produce nothing in the way of useful information, and I might actually write a short article for the paper if she gave me some answers. So, after a few polite “How’s the move going” kind of questions, I snaked my way around to what it was I really wanted to know.

“I see that you have a lot less space, here. What are you doing with the rest of the books?” I asked this with all the innocence of a cherub. But, perhaps some of my concern had leaked through. Her back stiffened even more, if that was possible. Tilting her head down a little, she peered at me over the tops of her half glasses. The rouge circles began to glow. I kept the innocence on my face, but I felt the sweat begin to run from my underarms, down the inside of my shirt, and into my waistband. If she realized that, I really would be sunk. Suddenly, my hands wanted to fidget. I could feel the onset of the fight or flight response, and I’m pretty sure it was gonna be flight.

She continued to stare at me for what seemed like centuries. Then, just as I was about to throw in the towel, she leaned back in her chair and said, grudgingly, “That is pretty observant of you. No one else has noticed.”

Relief washed over me. I said, “Really? How interesting.” Emotionless filler, only, but maybe it would get her to continue with the revelations. She stood up, somehow looking just as imposing as she had when I was eleven.

“Come with me,” she said. It was am imperative. Taking one of the largest rings of keys I had ever seen, she led me out of her office, up a short stair, and through a door. Once on the other side, I followed her down a long, empty hallway. Soon, we came to another door. Without looking, she flipped to the correct key and unlocked the door. We began a long descent down metal stairs. Eventually, the stairs joined with a metal catwalk. Lighting was limited to barely enough to ensure safety. Still, as we moved along the catwalk, I could see below us the fabled swimming pool. The only sounds were our individual treads along the catwalk and the swish of her long dress. Without a word, she led me to another locked door. Repeating her key trick, she gave us access. Inside was a very large room, and inside the very large room was row upon row of book boxes. There had to be more than a thousand of them. I noted the damp along the walls, the musty odor which filled the air, and the look on Miss Beedle’s face. A look so filled with pain that, for a moment, I considered that it might be actual, physical pain. After a few minutes, she caught me looking and the mask returned. We left then, retracing our path back from the netherworld. When we got into the upstairs hallway, Miss Beedle stopped me before we returned to the library proper.

Fixing me with her gaze, she said, “Mr. Orr, you may be in a position to do me a favor.” My eyebrows shot up. Despite many hours diligently observing Mr. Spock on Star Trek, I was still unable to raise only one. The question plain on my face, and probably the surprise as well, Miss Beedle, continued. “I would ask that you forget that we were together, today. But, I ask that you remember what you observed. I can do nothing about what you just saw. However, the right word in the right ear could save those precious treasures.” That encounter was as close as I ever came to seeing real emotion in Miss Beedle.

I held out my hand and said, “Thank you, Miss Beedle. I’ll do what I can.” My gesture flustered her, but she recovered enough for a very short handshake. Turning without another word, she led the way out into the main lobby of our makeshift library. I don’t know, for certain, what that was all about. Honoring her first request, I never revisited these events with her. Perhaps Miss Beedle and I had, somehow, become reluctant comrades. Perhaps she had finally recognized in me someone who loved books as much as she, though not necessarily in the same way.

Regardless, I took my second charge seriously. I arranged to meet a friend who worked, part time, at the Sun-Democrat. He wanted to be a newsman and was, for the moment, helping write the stories in the Sports Section. He got no byline, because high school students just didn’t. But, he was happy to be getting the experience. I explained what I knew, but not how I had come upon the knowledge. I told him I had to protect my source. He understood that. The next day, he took his story (citing “an anonymous source”) to the Sports Editor, who recognized a hot potato when he saw one. He took my friend and his story to the Editor-in-Chief, who, in short order, led them all into the office of the Publisher.

The Publisher had gone to high school with the Mayor. He called the Mayor, read him the story over the phone and asked him for a quote. Before the Publisher waved everyone out of his office, my friend could hear the Mayor yelling over the phone at the Publisher.

The story never ran.

But, within a few weeks, the Methodists had “found” some additional space on the second floor and had graciously decided to include it with the previously established lease price. In short order, all of the books were out on shelves and available for public use.

In the midst of all this upheaval, I completely forgot about the woman who had greeted me as I was about to enter the library that fateful day.

Decades went by, many of them. Then, recently, for no good reason, I recalled that strange little encounter in front of Paducah’s temporary library. And, suddenly, I knew who she was. It was Mrs. Bunchman, my second grade teacher. And, then, just as unexpectedly, in one long burst, I remembered it all. I saw the connections as I never had before, and I knew I would have to write all this down.


THE NEXT SECTION IS INCOMPLETE.


Part Four

When I entered the Second Grade at Andrew Jackson Elementary School, the three-block walk from my house seemed to have lengthened. More likely, my pace was just slower. Without being able to isolate the actual cause, I was beginning to like school less. There was something wrong, but I didn’t seem to be able to figure out what that was. I was a year older and certainly more experienced. It would probably be a stretch to say that, at the age of six, I was jaded. But, I had made some less-than-happy discoveries during the previous year.

Perhaps I had seen Dick and Jane “Run. Run. Run.” one time too many. Or, maybe it was the lackluster antics of Spot and Puff. Like I say, I was not the best at personal introspection in those early years. Boiled down to its essentials, though, I guess you would say that I had a problem with day-dreaming. Try as I might, I could not sustain attention for very long periods of time. My mind, in the words of Mrs. Ayers, my perfectly nice First Grade teacher, wandered. I couldn’t help it, really. There always seemed to be some pretty interesting things going on inside my head. Whereas the stuff on the outside was less than consistent in its appeal to my attention. I was pretty sure that if my mind didn’t wander off on its own, I would have just taken it off somewhere myself.

What I sensed, even if I could not explain it, was that I was not as sharp as I had been one year earlier. I was no longer reading as well as I had when I entered the First Grade. I was slipping.

****** UNFINISHED ******

Inside each of us there is a fire. This is the part of us that is unique. What feeds that fire are our accomplishments. Another way to say it is that we all have something at which we want to be good, something for which we especially desire to be praised. God puts this within each of us. And, not to be cruel, He also puts within us the ability to excel at that thing.

For some it’s in the realm of sports, for others its mechanics, for still others its reading. There are a host of possibilities for what this could be. The best we can do is try to identify categories; mathematics, sciences, human interactions, writing, strategy, poetry, dramatics, on and on. The particulars are, as I said, unique to each of us.

I’m not talking about our general desire to be praised. Being made in God’s image, we desire praise. We enjoy it, and it can be good for us. We are often encouraged when others praise us. But, we respond in a special way when we are praised for doing our special thing. It feeds the fire. It fans the flame.