<br><br><center>*A library was nothing without its people. You say library and there’s this iconoclastic image of an old-lady librarian telling people to be quiet and not to run. But the thing was, that lady—that iconoclastic lady—was with us when we met. She wore blue jeans, too. Maybe she was what people thought about when you said library, but she didn’t make the library. People made the library. Without them, all the sacredness was gone. It was just a building with books.*
― Scott Douglas</center>
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*Nat*</center>
<br><br> Every book in a library is a brick and each one added to another helps build up the House of Being where I really want to live—not in a shadowland of imagination and desire but in the real world whose history is recorded.
After my head trauma, I was a man lacking a personal history and needed others people and places to help me remember so I’d live in the real world not imprisoned in the Cave of the Psyche.
But places contain only traces that spur memories and people are unreliable and have their own histories and secret agendas, so I needed an objective, authoritative record and knew I could find it in the public library.
<br><br> The West Harbour library was housed in an ancient stone structure that looked more like a church than a public building and curiously, that gave me great confidence that I’d find some answers there to my questions about the town and people.
As the great oak door creaked open, I peered into a spacious room lined with bookcase after bookcase of hard cover books none of which seemed printed in this century. I wasn’t sure if I should feel sad or glad.
A few of the locals sitting at tables looked up from reading their books or newspapers but most paid me no heed. I preferred that. I liked being a background character—another face to ignore.
<br><br>”Welcome to the Inner Sanctum”, a male voice whispered behind me. I turned to gaze into the friendly face of a young man with unruly black hair, and oversized horn-rimmed glasses. He was nattily attired in jeans, a stupid shirt and a black knit vest.
His sunny smile and open demeanour totally disarmed me.
“I’m Nathan Cohen, local librarian and antiquarian—anything I can help you with?”
“Marcus Sterne,” I smiled back. “I’m new in town and would like some information about a local heritage house called. *Whitehern*”
<br><br> His eyes grew wide with delight. “Ah yes, a most interesting site. I can direct you to a few books but you’ll find most of the really juicy information in the vertical file—there are files of newspaper clippings and photos you may find informative and entertaining.”
“That sounds great!” I enthused.
“As I mentioned, I’m also a local antiquarian which simply means I’ve got a thing about history and local trivia.”
“Sounds like you’re a resource in your own right,“ I laughed.
“I am,“ he laughed, “Buy me lunch at *The Copper Kettle* and I will tell you everything.”
“You’re on!” I grinned.
<br><br> “Marci, take the wheel,” he called out to a slender, bookish-looking girl who was on the main desk.
He grabbed a light windbreaker from a coat rack. “The cafe is just up the street—we can walk there.”
“Weather’s great today. A walk outside will be enjoyable.”
I was totally outside my usual comfort zone, but Nathan was so damn likeable I just knew we’d end up friends.
<br><br><center>To be continued…</center>
<br><center>© 2020, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>
<br><center>[ Photo](https://images.app.goo.gl/22y5aXmS6kNcjhmN7)</center>
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