December 18, 1991 - Food for Fines

We're closing in on the winter solstice. That may not mean much to you, but here at the LaRue household, this is a major astronomical event.

After the winter solstice (December 21), days start getting longer and better. So does my wife's general mood. And frankly, the sooner the sun rises, and the better my wife feels, the happier I am too. I also get out of bed earlier, or at least I'm more inclined to. This is just one of the many reasons we do not live in Alaska.

The winter season, of course, is known for other things. In both the Jewish and the Christian traditions, winter is a time of giving, forgiving, and remembrance.

In keeping with these seasonal sentiments, I'd like to suggest two stocking stuffers.

1) GET YOUR CHILD A LIBRARY CARD. There are many things you can give your child, but a library card is the gift that keeps on giving. From that first proud moment that your children print their names, they can know the thrill of an INTELLECTUAL credit transaction: the borrowing of knowledge, with the understanding that the physical item itself must be returned to its source. Trust me -- getting your child a library card is the soundest and cheapest investment in your child's future that you'll ever make.

2) GIVE FOOD FOR FINES. Let's be frank. Sometimes, when you check out a book, you don't get it back on precisely the day you were supposed to. Don't fret: You are not alone.

The Douglas Public Library District has some unusually understanding policies. If you bring your books back within a week of the due date, we don't charge you anything at all.

If you don't return a book until a week AFTER it was due, we charge you a whopping nickel a day: just thirty-five cents. The most we charge for most books is just $3.00. You see, we WANT you to read.

Nonetheless, despite our shockingly generous natures, it seems that on occasion people are reluctant to return their books, especially when they fear exorbitant fines.

So from now through the end of the year, any Douglas Public Library District branch will accept a single can of food for full payment of library fines. (Although you can certainly give us MORE than one can of food, and you don't HAVE to have any fines, either.)

In other words, we're offering you the opportunity to turn the sins of your past to the blessings of someone else's future.

Why are we doing this? There are two main reasons.

For one thing, we want to keep all of our books moving. Once a year, we run a list of all of our books that haven't circulated within 12 months. Sometimes, we buy books that nobody checks out. In that case, we pull them, and recycle them through booksales. But other times, a book got checked out a long time ago and never made it back. In that case, we probably need to replace it.

In short, although we want you to take our books home, we also want to encourage you to bring them back. If, for whatever reason (and we've heard some doozies), you COULDN'T get it back on time, we want to make it easy for you to 'fess up, to bring back your books without a stiff penalty. The bottom line is that it's cheaper for us to forgive a fine than to buy a new copy.

The second reason is that we'd like to do the rest of the community some good, too. The food you give will be distributed to Douglas County families that have special needs this year.

Please note that our Food for Fines program does NOT let you clear your record of any LOST materials. You can only settle up your fines -- charges for materials brought back late.

So happy season's greetings from the Douglas Public Library District. And let's get those books back, shall we?

December 11, 1991 - The physically challenged Barbie

A couple of weekends ago, my wife, 4 year old daughter, and I went to see Disney's latest animated film, Beauty and the Beast.

As usual, the Disney people mucked about quite a bit with the story line. We've read about every version there is to Maddy, and haven't run across a single mention of Gaston, the handsome but arrogant braggart that plays the heavy in the movie. In the books, Beauty's real name is Beauty. In the movie, her name is Belle. In the books, Beauty has sisters; in the movie, she's an only child.

But none of that stuff really matters, because the Disney version, much to my surprise, is BETTER -- packed with drama, wringing even more nuance out of the old archetype of the sweet young girl and the enraged and ensorcelled young man. And as my wife points out, in the movie version, not only does Belle learn to love the Beast slowly, over time, but the Beast himself goes through some changes. All of this is a lot more realistic -- and a lot more sensible -- than the usual fairy tale falling in love at first sight.

Besides, I particularly liked the fact that Belle was always walking around with her head in a book. I'm all in favor of cartoon characters who encourage kids to read more. In fact, I'm strongly in favor of fairy tales generally -- for many generations now, these old yarns and legends have insinuated themselves into children's imaginations, serving many important but generally disregarded purposes. The most important, to my mind, is the bond forged between the parent reading the story and the child thrilling to every word.

Some people, such as the late Bruno Bettelheim, believe that fairy tales have an even deeper meaning. In these ancient stories, children gain their first insights into life. They learn to identify the basic human problems. From Cinderella they learn to bear the death of a loving father and the cruelty of strangers. In the Frog Prince, they learn to seek beneath the surface for the abiding love of a husband.

All that may sound fanciful to you. But consider Santa Claus. He too is a sweet story, picturesque and compelling. And in Santa's season, it may be that people are a little nicer to one another. Do not underestimate the power of the fairy tale.

But I wanted to talk some more about this idea of "realistic" fairy tales. Several times over the past couple of weeks, I've heard women talking about their deep and abiding love-hate relationship with, I'm serious, Barbie dolls, who's something of a fairy tale herself.

There was a "Kathy" cartoon about it not long ago that seems to have really captured something. In turns out that many, many women are out-and-out angry about Barbie dolls. Why? Because those pixie-featured, leggy, platinum blonde, high-bosomed caricatures, so false to fact, so rare in nature, not only weasled their way into young girls' closets -- but into their self-images as well.

Like fairy tales, this simple doll lurks almost invisibly in the unconscious memories of many women -- until suddenly, usually when women are standing in front of full-length mirrors, out leaps .. Barbie!

To a certain extent, I understand all this. Don't get me wrong, I never had a Barbie doll (although I do have a vague memory of getting stuck with a character named Poindexter -- instead of Ken -- in a board game called Barbie). But I did, and do, read comic books.

When I was almost 13, I particularly favored a series called X-Men, about a group of young people who, at about the age of puberty, suddenly developed remarkable powers. They sprouted wings, turned invisible, emitted powerful rays from their fingertips, stuff like that.

Every morning, I fully expected to wake up with one of those abilities. I'm still waiting.

My wife may not look like Barbie, but then, I don't look much like Superman.

Nonetheless, I truly don't think our daughter will have much trouble with Barbie. Mainly that's because Maddy's first glimpse of Barbie was on top of a chocolate cake, where the cake was the skirt. This is a far more realistic picture, I believe, of what happens to people as they grow older.

After we nibbled awhile, we gave Barbie a tug and discovered that she was the special Baker's Barbie -- no legs. She was designed to be poked into cake tops. Well, the baker did provide a set of legs, but they were sort of substandard. More recently, they fell off again and got lost. One of her arms, too. In short, Maddy plays with a Physically Challenged Barbie, which might not be a bad thing either.

In the meantime, we'll keep reading Maddy the classics, I'll keep reading comic books, and ladies, for the record, I think the current toystore Barbie is no Beauty.

December 4, 1991 - Two pieces of mail and a policy change

Sometimes your mail is so wonderful that you just want to pass it around to everybody. Today is one of those days. I'm just sorry that the second piece of it won't get out as early as it ought to.

Here's the first one, from a weekly newsletter called "Library Hotline," 11/25/91, page XX-47. "SISTERS REUNITED BY COINCIDENCE IN LIBRARY'S GENEALOGY DEPARTMENT: Two sisters from out of town went to the Pensacola Public Library, FL, looking for clues to the whereabouts of the half-sister they had never known. The two sisters had been raised in Savannah, GA, by their grandmothers after the death of their mother in 1922. Their father moved to Florida and remarried. Before she died, the grandmother told them that their father's second family lived in Gull Point, FL, an area that is now part of Pensacola. After years of delay, they decided to go to Pensacola to look for the family. By an incredible coincidence their search took them to the library on the same day that Doris Rice decided to work on her own genealogical research. Librarian Dolly Pollard found that all three women were researching family in the Gull Point area. She suggested they talk to each other. Moments later, amid hugs, tears, and exclamations of amazement, they discovered that Rice was the sought-after half-sister."

Here's the second one, from a November 18, 1991 press release: "Because reading aloud to children is so important, Newsradio 85 KOA (850 AM) wishes to share a special `reading aloud' opportunity with children via their Elementary School teachers. Starting Thursday, November 28th (Thanksgiving), Newsradio 85 KOA will air the first segment of the children's radio program, `Mrs. Bush's Story Time" from 5:00 p.m. - 9:00 p.m. `Mrs. Bush's Story Time" will feature First Lady Barbara Bush reading children's stories. Join Mrs. Bush in reading stories will be General Norman Schwarzkopf, Gloria Estefan and Peter Jennings.

"Ten weekly (10) half-hour programs will then begin on Sunday, December 8 at 8:00 p.m. and an additional four hour holiday special is also planned for Christmas Day (8:00 a.m. - noon). With young students in mind, we suggest that teachers use `Mrs. Bush's Story Time,' as it is broadcast on Newsradio 85 KOA, as a means to stimulate children's imaginations.

"Along with the lively stories, music and celebrities, Mrs. Bush will be offering reading-aloud tips based on years of training that the Children's Literacy Initiative staff (a non-profit organization) developed in Philadelphia. In the long-run, it is our hope that Newsradio 85 KOA's broadcast of `Mrs. Bush's Story Time' will encourage family reading and convey the message that reading aloud to our children can contribute to a more literate America."

Amen to that.

I've been thinking about KOA lately, anyhow, as I called them some time back (Tuesday, November 19, at about 6:30 in the morning) to report that the libraries were shutting down due to what looked to be a big and particularly nasty snowstorm. A remarkably perky gentleman took the call, and said KOA would announce the information.

The trouble was, the snow was pretty well melted by about 1:30 that afternoon, by which time it was really too late to round up any employees.

This has precipitated a policy change. I've talked it over with my branch managers, and we've decided that rather than closing libraries all over the county when we've got what looks like bad weather, we'll announce DELAYED openings -- open at noon. The county is big enough, and with enough bizarre and inconsistent weather patterns, that we'll let each branch manager decide whether or not it's safe to open our buildings after that.

I do apologize for any inconvenience on the 19th -- but hope that the new policy will make things easier, and ensure longer hours of useful service -- in the future.

November 27, 1991 - Final Exit

For many years, my mother was the head nurse of a geriatrics ward of a Veteran's Administration Hospital. During college, I worked for some time as a nursing home orderly.

One night, my mother and I talked about our experiences. Most of mom's patients were over 80. Many of them hadn't spoken or stirred in over a decade. And at least once a week, one of those patients started to die.

Now there are two things a nurse can do in that situation. One of them is to follow procedure: hit the Code Blue button. Instantly, a team of specialists would descend on the body to revive it, using whatever steps might be necessary.

After watching this team "restore" several people who hadn't shown any signs of life for years, my mother became more and more opposed to this practice. One day she decided that if a patient said he was ready to die, or if the patient had been comatose for a long period, then according to her own, long-seasoned judgment, she would chose the second and unsanctioned option: she would let him die. In every case, she would also sit holding that person's hand until he was long past the point of recovery. Only then would she hit the button. I don't know exactly how many people my mother allowed to die -- several dozen, I think.

All of this came back to me one day when suddenly I was the one making that decision. It was in the anxious days just after my mother's stroke. I had a dream that my mother died. I woke up, then sat shaking till dawn. Exhausted and stricken, I didn't go to the hospital to see my mother the following afternoon. So I was the only person home when the call came.

It was her doctor. He said that the only way my mother could continue to live was if he hooked her up to a life-support system. Immediately. All of my family had just left the hospital, and wouldn't be home for an hour. He was just calling to inform someone that he was about to do this.

I took a deep breath, then forbad the doctor from taking any extraordinary measures. He said, "I don't think you don't have the authority to decide this." I said, "My mother and I have discussed this issue at length. I am the executor of her will. I know her feelings. If you attach her to a life-support system, I'll sue you."
I had never made such a threat in all my life. And I don't like lawsuits. But I did know that I was honoring my mother's wishes.

After a pause, the doctor said, "All right."

Then, of course, I tried to make the drive to the hospital before she died. I was too late. But sitting in that room with her corpse, despite my sorrow, I had no regrets.

I mention all this because I recently directed the purchase of a book that is bound to upset some people. The book is called "Final Exit: The Practicalities of Self-Deliverance and Assisted Suicide for the Dying," by Derek Humphrey, which at this writing occupies the number one spot on the bestseller list (and has been requested by several of our patrons). Sponsored by the Hemlock Society, "Final Exit" tells people how to assume responsibility for their own deaths. Let's take that one step further: this book tells people how to kill themselves (although as a review in the November "Wilson Library Bulletin" points out, "the Society is careful to make it clear that it does not encourage suicide for emotional, traumatic, or financial reasons").

The publisher of the book, Stephen Schragis, has his own story. In the August 30, 1991 issue of "Publisher's Weekly," he wrote, "In 1989 my wife and I faced a nightmare I will never forget: the American medical system, which insisted on keeping our newborn child `alive' despite a near total lack of brain function or ability to think, reason, or even move. A decision that ought to have been ours alone was being made by others."

So he published a book that instructs people -- adults, in some very strictly defined circumstances -- how to end their own lives, mostly through prescription drugs.

You may not agree with the idea behind this book. Some of you surely do not. But it is the mission of a library to provide information, to set before the body politic those choices -- and opposing viewpoints -- that matter.

Naturally, the library does have materials representing more traditional viewpoints. But "the right to die" is an issue now under discussion all across the country, and "Final Exit" is a catalyst for that discussion.

Sooner or later, it's a subject that all of us will need to face.

November 20, 1991 - A Tale of Three Computers

In 1983, I bought my very first computer. It was called a Kaypro II, and it cost $1,795. At the time, that was a heck of a deal. Most computers cost at least $2,500 back then, and often twice that. The Kaypro even included a full complement of software: a word processor, a spreadsheet, a database program, and a couple of programming languages.

I put a lot of time into that computer. So much time, in fact, that my wife and I began calling it "Baby Kay," because I was always giving it midnight feedings.

But in retrospect, Baby Kay was pretty crude. She (it only took two days for "it" to become "her") had two disk drives, which TOGETHER provided more or less permanent storage of just 180,000 "bytes" of information. (That's 180K, as we say in computerese, where one byte equals one letter or mark of punctuation. To look at it another way, Baby Kay could work with a maximum of about 90 pages of double-spaced text at a time.) She was a "portable computer," as in portable sewing machine, weighing in at about 18 pounds.

I bought my second computer in 1987, which I put on my desk at work. This machine, also made by Kaypro, was an IBM-XT compatible, which meant that it had one 360K disk drive, and a "hard drive" that stored 20 megabytes of data -- that's 20 million, 360 bytes -- an 112-fold increase. This computer I christened "Butch" -- on account of he was a lean, mean, computing machine. Cost: $1,795. Again, I got a terrific bunch of software bundled in with him.

Well, these days, the most popular computer is something called a 386SX -- a computer whose "brain" runs rings around Butch, and usually comes with a 40 to 60 megabyte hard drive. Cost: about $1,795 (including a top notch color monitor, a snazzy new operating system called Windows, some extra "memory," and a good printer). It happens that the library will be buying a couple of these newer machines before the end of the year.

In less than a decade, the personal computer has gone from a barely legitimate and scarcely tolerated business intrusion to an absolute business necessity. In libraries, not only does our central computer system provide our circulation and cataloging system, our desktop computers are in constant use for everything from budgeting, to comprehensive and detailed policy manuals, to connecting to other library databases through phone lines.

Meanwhile, at home, I did break down and buy myself yet another computer. This one is a Toshiba "laptop."

It's not quite as "pumped up" as Butch. But it only weighs about six pounds, and folds to the size of a regular three ring notebook. It does have a 1.44 megabyte disk drive, a wonderfully legible little screen, a keyboard that is a sheer delight to use, and can run on batteries for about two hours. Cost: about $500. Now I can carry my computer into the living room, or take notes when I'm at meetings or doing research somewhere. I'm writing this column on it, right on the dining room table.

The new computer, incidentally, is called Basho -- a tribute to the Japanese poet who defined the verse form called haiku, and to the Japanese technicians who have built such a light, elegant, and compact computer.

In short, the computers of today are now smaller, faster, do more, store more, and cost less than ever before. The automation industry is at last approaching maturity: the product has not only become more affordable, it's become less intrusive, more ordinary, and as indispensable as the typewriter was just 10 years ago.

And I have decided that I have all the computers I need -- at least for now.

November 13, 1991 - On reading slowly

Most people don't read very fast. They "subvocalize" -- that is, they say each written word in their minds, just as if they were reading aloud. Often, their tongues actually form the sounds. (Check yourself as you read this column. Odds are, your tongue and your lips are making barely perceptible motions.) Most people read about as quickly as they speak.

I'm not really sure where the idea came from, but in fifth grade, I decided that I wanted to learn how to read faster. So I went to the Waukegan Public Library and checked out a couple of books on the subject.

According to those books, the object was to break the pattern of subvocalization. There were lots of tricks: place a ruler under a line of text, then start pulling it down the page, struggling to go faster and faster. Set your finger at the top left edge of the page, run it right along the first line of text, then left along the second line, then right along the third, alternating directions with each line. Watch your finger, not the words. Then set your finger at the exact middle of the page, and run it straight down. See how much you pick up. Always, the point was to go faster and faster.

I remember the first book I tried all this stuff on. It was a social science textbook. It was a good choice, because like many textbooks, it had two columns of text per page. Each column had fewer words on a line than the lines on an ordinary typeset page. Short lines -- like those you find in newspapers, incidentally -- are conducive to scanning.

Nonetheless, it was hard going. I got caught up in the exercises, but then would find that I'd gotten to the end of a page with scarcely a clue as to what I'd seen. It was frustrating -- sometimes I would have to go back and re-read everything at the usual speed. But that had begun to bother me, because I had glimpsed, barely, how fast I MIGHT be reading. So I'd try again.

After a couple of months of this, I began to discover how surprisingly flexible and quick the brain is, and what an incredible amount of information we can take in from our peripheral vision alone. Gradually, over time, I did break the pattern of subvocalization, splitting what I saw from how long it took me to say it.

There are lots of advantages to reading quickly. I soon learned that I could read whole textbooks in a week or so, then just skim the chapters again on the way to school. (Sometime I ought to do a column about how to read while walking through busy intersections, something else I got fairly good at.) But this kind of thing -- whether it be reading quickly, or reading and walking at the same time -- doesn't really take a whole lot of brain power. It's a skill, easily learned. It just takes practice.

I practiced a lot. So by the time I was a high school senior, I was churning through an average of 14 books a week, mostly science fiction, but with a fair sprinkling of classics, philosophy, and non-fiction, too.

More recently, I've found that reading fast is a good way to get up to speed in a new job. Or to immerse yourself in a subject: About 15 years ago, I read the Bible in three weeks, mostly on Tucson buses. And when I first dabbled with computers and modems, it was nice to discover that I could easily keep up with a 1200-characters-per-second connection.

But there's a downside to all this.

To really savor something, to really retain the flavor of a book, you don't WANT to read fast. In the past couple of years, I have found myself struggling -- particularly when I'm reading fiction -- to gear down, to go back to sounding each syllable in my mind. Strangely, the more tired I am, the faster I read.

The most satisfying reading, I've discovered, is reading aloud. Try this sometime. Check out, for instance, a book called "Sarah, Plain and Tall," by Patricia MacLachlan. Read it aloud to your spouse as he or she prepares dinner or fixes the car. The experience is utterly compelling. If you don't believe me, stop part way through, and observe your spouse's reaction.

Again, there is a lot to be said for learning to read quickly. But in this age of the sound bite, the video, even the book-on-tape, it just might be that the best entertainment to be found is listening to someone you love read from a book you're just about to love.

November 6, 1991 - How to Open a Book

This week's topic is deceptively simple: How to Open A Book, particularly a new book.

First, wash your hands. When you do it right, opening a book is both a blatantly sensual and profoundly intellectual experience. It demands the utmost cleanliness and attention.

Second, hold the book in both hands and examine the front cover. Some books have paper jackets, some do not. But look at the cover. Think about it. The cover is a book's face.

Third, tilt the spine (the binding, or "backbone" of the book) upward. Hold the covers of the book in one hand, one thumb on one side, the remaining fingers on the other. Now read what appears on the spine. Think about that, too. The spine is the book's soul. (The spine is also a book's profile: On a library shelf, the spine defines the book.)

Fourth, run the palm of your other hand along the length of the spine, top to bottom, firmly but gently. You might let your thumb and forefinger linger in the gutters on either side of the spine. A well-bound book should feel smooth, even, and tight.

Fifth, set the spine of the book on a smooth, flat surface, holding both covers up, your palms pressed together as if in prayer.

Sixth, gently open the covers of the book, and run your hand along the inside edges of the binding, lightly pressing down against the underlying surface. What you're doing here is breaking in the book slowly, getting it accustomed to the feel of its first reader. Too often these days, books have brittle spines. A little care now can prevent a lot of damage later.

Seventh, reach in from each side toward the middle, using your thumbs to grab a few pages at a time. Ease these sections down along the covers, then again draw your forefingers along the inside edge or gutters, slowly and thoughtfully. Now you're getting the book used to staying open, evenly and easily.

Eight, repeat this process, thumbing a little bit more of the book with each pass, working to the middle of the book. Once you reach the center, again with a firm but gentle pressure, smooth the pages down, first along the inside edge, then from the middle outward.

Ninth, close the book, setting it down on its back cover. Press down on the surface with both hands, just to let the book know for the first time what it feels like to be closed again, to take a breath, to wait.

Tenth, immediately heft the book, so that the spine nestles comfortably against your palm. Consider its weight.

Eleventh, open the book again, this time to the very first page. And page by page, with reverence, attend its words, savor its typography, contemplate its structure. Open yourself to its deep meaning.

That's how to open a book.