Jonathan C. Lewis
Little Library
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
My dad’s name is Noah. One of his ancestors built an ark.
He made me from old fence planks. Sitting atop a post at the end of a residential cul-de-sac in Davis, California, I’m roughly the size of a large birdhouse. I have two glass doors which swing outward. The door handles are plastic kitchen drawer knobs.
My name is Little Free Library.
Once, I listened to him tell a neighbor, “my little library is like an ark for books.” That made me proud.
Nearly everyone on my street stops by to drop off a book, pick one out or smile at me. As the proverb goes, “it takes a village to restock a free library.”
Not to brag, but my blood line includes a pretty famous relative. The Library of Congress has 32 million books. Depending on their thickness, I hold about 32 books. The Library of Congress and I do the same job.
My brothers and sisters are the other 175,000 little free libraries in 121 countries around the world. My kissing cousins are bookstores. They sell what I trade for free. We all get along just fine, each in our own way spreading knowledge.
Every book I lend out is an explorer’s map. When Kyle from the blue house at the end of the block read about the history of salt, he went off to Austria to tour the underground salt mines there. Mrs. Hanover read about South African apartheid, and became an ardent activist for racial justice. The teen twins around the corner borrowed a book on the Incas, and that summer climbed Machu Picchu.
When I overheard them each thanking Noah for building me, I felt like a real librarian. I nearly unhinged my doors with happiness.
In the house with black trim, a family of four lives. The dad only borrows murder mysteries. From his dour face and shuffling walk, he’s got to be a mortician who, I’m guessing, mentally measures people for their coffin size—or compares me to one of his pine boxes. He gives me the creeps, but I’m glad he’s a reader.
Yesterday morning, a young couple with a stroller walked past me. She was ambling along, soaking up the balmy weather. I heard him snarl, “Can’t you go any faster?” If they had stopped, if only they had stopped, I could have helped with a book about couples communications. It was tilted sideways on the middle shelf.
A few years ago, Betty died. Even in hot weather, she wore a hand-knitted green beanie. She used to paw through my selection looking for self-help books on estate planning. Days would pass without a visit. Then weeks at a time. Finally, I saw a For Sale sign on her front lawn. I miss the way her hands gently opened and closed my doors.
Two hundred years ago, only twelve percent of the world was literate. Today, eighty-six percent of the world are readers. They need me.
So does my friend Billy. With a sidewalk jig, here he comes. I’m helping raise him. His parents, who work overtime just to make ends meet, can’t afford books.
Whenever he wants, Billy can take whatever books he wants. No questions asked because my middle name is Free.
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Author’s Note: The inspiration for this story comes from the Little Free Library just two houses distance from where I read and write. In the pictures, it’s the green chalet. To the community-spirited neighbor who built and maintains it, thank you!
