Life's Rule at the Talbot County Free Library

by Bill Peak

I've said it here before, but it bears repeating: at the library, we take our patrons' privacy seriously. Most people come to us with simple questions about the location of a book or the operations of our public computers, but every now and then their concerns are more personal and urgent (“I need to find out real fast all that I can about Cystic Fibrosis.” “Can you tell me what the early warning signs are that someone is using drugs?”). At the Talbot County Free Library, we view patron privacy as a solemn trust. Which is why in this column (and others) I've changed enough of the story to make identifying its main character impossible. And truth be told, you don't really need to know the personal particulars of this story's protagonist to get its gist. We all know people like this.

Internally, I used to wince when I'd see Ms. Stratford coming toward me at the Information Desk. She struck me in those early days as a bitter woman, one who saw everyone she encountered as co-conspirators in what she seemed to think was the world's ongoing effort to ruin her life. But working at the library, I'm not allowed to wince externally. It's my job—it's the job of everyone who works here—to treat every patron with respect and kindness. So I tried to look upon Ms. Stratford as a challenge. No matter how curt and complaining she might be, I would remain helpful and friendly.

Ms. Stratford listens to jazz CDs. Ms. Stratford listens to a lot of jazz CDs. Every time she comes to the Information Desk, she recites a long list of recordings she wants us to find for her among our Maryland libraries' vast stores. Actually, when you think about it, it's a remarkable feat of memorization that list of hers, but what's always uppermost in Ms. Stratford's mind is how long it's taking us to get the recordings she's already requested on previous visits. “I asked for that CD over a week ago!” she'll declare, looking at me as if I were personally responsible for the delay. “How in the world can it take that long for a CD to get here?!” She is outraged. Once again the world has failed to live up to her exacting expectations.

Ms. Stratford has a peculiar affect. When she's talking to you, she cocks her jaw to one side in an almost mannish way as if expecting a punch—a punch she fully intends to return in kind. I wondered where this strange, combative expression could have originated, and then one day, when I suggested she might want to read a Michael Connelly mystery that features some of her favorite recordings, she shook her head dismissively. “No,” she said, “since my last accident, I really can't read anymore.” I detected no embarrassment in this statement—it was just another in the long line of indignities the world had heaped upon her—but it did make me wonder. Last accident? How many accidents had this woman had? And what kind of accident could render a person functionally illiterate? Still, if such an accident had occurred, might that explain her need to find ever more jazz CDs to entertain her, to keep her occupied?

Over the years, with me smiling unrelentingly and greeting her every time as I would an old friend, Ms. Stratford's attitude toward me has changed. There is less of the complaining and more of a sense of camaraderie. I like jazz too, so we compare notes on our favorite artists and their albums. Recently, when I returned after a couple of weeks off, she asked where I'd been. It sounded as if she'd actually missed me. And then the other day, after we'd finished working our way through another of her long lists, Ms. Stratford looked down at me as she got up to leave and said in a way that managed to be both brusque and shy, “You have a blessed day.”

In the sixth century A.D., Benedict of Nursia wrote the monastic rule that most Christian monks follow to this day. In it, he admonished his followers to receive all guests to their monastery as they would Christ, for the brothers were to remember that Christ lives in every guest. Over the years I have come to realize that what sometimes seems a straitjacket of regulations, policies, and procedures in which the library confines its employees is, in reality, a sort of discipline. By adhering to the library's secular rule of friendliness, respect, and caring service, even our most troubled patrons eventually reveal themselves to be something more than they seemed. I thank the good people of Talbot County for giving me the opportunity, yet again, to experience life's remarkable ability to upend my expectations.