The Brewster’s Ladies’ Library started
by two ladies 150 years ago
is still going strong. My mother
volunteers there, holds the record
for the most volunteer hours worked
during the year.
“I love this place,” she says
as we leave the book stacks and wander back
into the newspaper reading room
with its musty newspaper smell. An old man
in a heavy brown coat, slouched down
like a crumpled walrus in a big leather chair,
doesn’t even glance up from his newspaper
as we enter the room.
But I can see the slight smile
as he overhears my mother’s reverent voice
talking about the library, with its quiet corners
and sacred spaces. “I love this place,”
she says again as she takes
my arm, the color rising in her cheeks.
My dad would be proud of her I think,
taking such good care
of all these books.
About the Author Michael Estabrook: I’m a Marketing Communications Manager for a tiny division of one of the biggest companies in the world, and man, going into an office every day can be excruciating. The stuffy air, the florescent lights are killing me. Thankfully I can retire in 10 or 12 years (maybe). But I still think that somehow I’ve got to get myself on some boat collecting phytoplankton, or into the rich brown hills of Montana searching for TRex bones. Then again maybe I simply should’ve stayed on Northfield Avenue where I belong and learned to fix cars like my Daddy did.