My first memories of Mustard Hall are of the library. I was born in 1939 and it seems that by the time I could walk, my parents were taking me to the library with them. They were enthusiastic readers and they encouraged their three children to like books, too. I am not sure how much this affected my two siblings, but I spend at least two hours every evening with my nose in something printed with text. There are shelves of books and magazines neatly organized by my side of the bed.

Library patrons entered through the left-hand door of Mustard Hall where the librarian's desk, in the early 40s, was on the left side of the front in an open area. The stacks of volumes stretched to each side and back, although not very far back where the dining area was for the lodge.

On our visits to the library, my parents retreated to the stacks, which always seemed so dark and crowded to me, to look for the latest books by Hemingway and Steinbeck. I, long before I could read, was a habitue of the children's section, all of maybe four feet of children's books positioned on the lowest shelf and in view from the librarian's desk, certainly deliberate so the "ladies" could oversee the youngsters who came to see the books. I was as young as two or three years, so I sat on the wooden floor in front of the books. By the time I was done, I had pulled them all out. My first lesson from the librarian in library etiquette was to look at one book at a time, put it back and get out another. My idea was to keep them out until I was done with them - and I wasn't ever done with any of them. I recall the close eye the ladies kept on me.

My favorite book was one of fairies, not Tinkerbell fairies, but old homeless hobo fairies with broken wings and tattered clothes and old shoes that flapped on their feet. I have no idea what the story or title or author was. I can only remember that the fairies seemed to be wandering, looking for a place to rest and eat. My heart wanted to care for them, to give them homes and warm blankets, wash and repair their clothes - I was so concerned for them. My parents took that book out for me time after time, but finally, as so often happened with my innate enthusiasm, my passion got the cork. My second directive from the librarian was that I was forbidden to take the book out anymore. Other children might want to read it, she said.

Eventually, the book was gone and I have never known what book it was that I loved so much. It still matters very much, perhaps because it has been a nearly life-long mystery to me. I can take consolation in the books I own today, of course, due to that early habit of going to the Broad Ripple Library with my parents and being swept away if only by just the pictures.

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