The Little Library

I saw him out of the corner of my eye as I filled the case.

My town is mostly populated by white people. I should know, since my ancestor founded the town. It’s only been in the last decade or so that the older generations have deigned to shuffle off their mortal coil, and their kids didn’t want their houses, so the unwanted properties are sold off, and the sibs split the profits. Better to put the money where you’re established, than relocate and fix up something that might not be able to be fixed.

The boy was new.

Unfortunately, I could tell, because his skin color wasn’t the same as mine.

I don’t care, honestly, but plenty in the area do. Me, being the oldest of the old blood in the area, decided to put that completely misperceived “advantage” to a real advantage – I made friends with all the newcomers to the area.

And that includes all the minorities, of course. Pure white skin didn’t help my racist ancestors, most of whom are dead. Maybe it’ll help turn the green freshly-dead skin color to gray, with how fast they’re spinning in their graves?

We’re in an area where there’s some ICE activity, so we watch out for the neighbors. Yes, I say “we,” because if someone who’s of the “old blood” is watching out for the newer families, what can the rest do? And considering most are various degrees of cousins, well, let’s just say that the family gossip tree is convoluted, and can be played to advantage. Normally I don’t care and let those sleeping dogs lie, but in this political climate, I will play dirty if it means people behave better towards their fellow people.

To shove it home, I put up a little library.

Cut funding to the three local libraries, and threaten to have ICE stationed nearby to further intimidate people trying to better themselves? Oh bleep no. Not on my watch.

I have tons of books.

Many are duplicates, copies of old friends, as I wear down the first set. A few sets were massively scuffed by lending to others, and they, I don’t know, let their cats chew on them or something? No, these people are no longer friends. But I didn’t want to just recycle them, knowing they were too damaged to donate.

I set it up, added some good books, and wandered off. I noticed things were moved around whenever I’d add a book or two, and I also noted that certain books never returned.

I don’t care, but I know at least two of the missing books are part of a series.

This time, I took a bag of books. Time to switch things up a little.

I pulled out the old books, and sorted through them, tucked them into an empty sack. The full bag had plenty to refresh the cache, so to speak, with some good reading material.

We live in a safe area, but I didn’t always live here. I could feel that I was being watched.

Eventually I realized that the bush at the end of my driveway was sporting an old and ratty pair of sneakers.

Normally those sneakers belong to the youngest child that lives on the house at the corner of the alley. Hand-me-downs only; they didn’t have any extra money to waste on new things for a child who will outgrow them in days.

But with books, he could have something to call his own.

Hmm.

I sorted, selected, and filled the little hutch, and watched those sneakers shift impatiently.

And I made a decision.

On a whim, I had brought the rest of the books, from the two series where Book One was missing. The rest of C. S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia, and The Dragon Jousters series by Mercedes Lackey, were still in the bottom of the bag.

How appropriate, I thought. C. S. Lewis wrote The Chronicles of Narnia for evacuees of World War Two. As an escape from reality, a place where kids could be safe. And The Dragon Jousters quartet was all about the aftermath of war, and those who would profit off the misery and death it caused, and those who fought back.

I have plenty of bags.

It was an easy decision.

I scooped out those books, fanned them out, so the bush could see the titles. My Spanish is rusty, but I should remember enough, here goes… “¿Hola, tienes el primer libro para estos?”

The bush rustled a bit. “Sí.” It was almost a sigh on the breeze.

I gently folded all the books into a neat stack, patted them, and tucked them back in the bag. I then wrapped the bag around itself, made a neat package, and placed it at the base of the pole holding up the library hutch.

“Un regalo, para ti. Por siempre.” I grabbed the other bag, and ambled back to my house.

I knew what would happen; I didn’t have to look.

Sure enough, when I walked by later to grab the mail, the little library had been thoroughly raided. Over the next few days, the books I’d placed inside returned, things shuffled around, others vanished, to be returned later. But the gifted books didn’t, as it was meant to be. I knew others used the library, but I also knew who was the primary reader.

Later, I heard that a certain local kid was volunteering to read to other kids. To improve their English, apparently.

I couldn’t help but smile. Who knew?