We are fortunate to own a historic home in the village of Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard. Holmes Coffin House. It has a plaque above the door and for many years, was down the block from the Martha’s Vineyard Museum, which has since moved to a large campus in Vineyard Haven, but the street retains the “Cooke Legacy Garden” with the oldest house on the island still in its original location, surrounded by lovely, historic gardens. People seem to enjoy the view over the fence to the carriage house (the Featured photo, a professional photo, used by our architect on his Instagram site, web page and print ads) and I frequently come home to find people snapping photos of my property.

I will stop and engage these strangers in conversation – “Do you like the view?” “Do you want to know more about the house?” “Yes, it IS my house, aren’t I lucky?” Then, if I have time, and the people seem interested, I may launch into a little history lesson about Holmes Coffin, the stone mason, who laid the curb stone at their feet, the foundation for this house and his brother Jared’s house across the street. Jared, who was the master builder of Edgartown, built his house six years earlier than mine, in the same style as ours. We are quite friendly with those owners, which is wonderful for all concerned.

We are very close to the commercial district, just a block and a half from Main Street. At the end of the block is the court house, and on one corner is St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church, where I love to watch all the beautiful weddings.

The original Baptist Church, built in 1839, designed by Frederick Baylies, Jr, son of the last missionary to the Indigenous people of the island, who also designed the Federated Church around the corner, and the Old Whaling Church (originally a Methodist Church) on Main Street, the three landmark churches of Edgartown, is across the street. After this church congregation joined with the Congregational, the building became a Masonic Temple, but has been a private residence since 1979. We have known the past two owners, as well as the current and have been in it many times. This is also a much-photographed building that draws many comments from those wandering down the street, so I add commentary about it as well, telling how there are multiple staircases leading to the four bedrooms which occupy the four corners upstairs. Everyone seems intrigued that it is a private residence, as it is an imposing building.

A few weeks ago, as we were all preparing for the coming of Hurricane Lee, which turned out to be a bust, I stepped outside to get some food and take photos for an upcoming Retrospect story. I ran into a nice young man, who noticed that I stumbled out the door. I muttered something about what a klutz I am and we laughed. I went around the corner for my first errand and lost sight of him. I ran into him again about 15 minutes later as I wandered up North Water Street (a main street in town). He seemed flustered. I asked if I could help. I introduced myself. He told me his name. It was unusual (and I’ve forgotten it). He said it is Chinese; he is half Chinese. He was in town for a cousin’s wedding, but people couldn’t fly in that Friday because of the storm – all the flights had been canceled (and by later that day, the ferry had stopped running as well). He seemed quite upset. I asked where the ceremony and reception would be. The ceremony was at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church on North Summer Street (the church that had welcomed the Venezuelan refugees that Ron DeSantis had illegally flown up to us a year ago). The reception was at the Edgartown Yacht Club. Both nice, close, easy-to-walk-to locations. I tried to reassure him that all would be fine. I didn’t want to alarm him that EYC is on the harbor and can flood during a big storm with high tides and large ocean swells, but I did not share that information with him. The storm was still hours away, though the winds had already kicked up. I tried to reassure him. I told him that he knew where I lived, that I’d be in all day and the next, if I could do anything to help him, just knock on my door. I did not hear from him, the storm wasn’t bad at all but I hoped that by talking to him, I calmed him down.

Strangers are only that until we introduce ourselves. Then we can get to know them and just maybe, have a bit to add to their day or their lives.

 

I loved to read as a child and would often take trips to my local library, the Sherwood Forest branch of the Detroit Public Library, as well as my school library. I remember the first book I ever read there: “Elizabeth Enters” about the recently deceased sovereign. Even as a second grader, I enjoyed learning about the British monarchy.

So it is not surprising that I would instill a love of reading in my own children, providing them with lots of books around our home, both their own, and borrowed from the public library. We were lucky to have access to two wonderful libraries throughout the years.

Edgartown was fortunate to have one of the original Carnegie libraries and it was a great place to hang out on a rainy summer day, or borrow a video to entertain the kids. But the building was in downtown, historic Edgartown, with no parking, no room for expansion and old facilities. A huge fundraising effort allowed the library to move to the outskirts of central Edgartown with this original building restored and maintained as a sort of visitor center/museum by the Preservation Trust, highlighting the historic properties they own.

The new library is modern, welcoming from front and back (you can see the enclosed playground area, just inside the fence). There are rooms for public book readings, a great children’s area, and large stacks; quite an improvement over the old space.

Newton also has a fantastic library with ample parking (though it is across from City Hall, so the parking gets used by overflow visitors there, as well). Public sculptures adorn the lawn, in particular, this trio of Pooh figures by renown local artist Nancy Schön, who also did the “Make Way for Ducklings” sculpture in the Public Garden. And the Children’s Reading Room is warm and welcoming. I frequently took out loads of books with my children here. I have a distinct memory of a nursery school teacher rolling her eyes when I proudly told her that I’d taken out 10 books for David. He loved them, but somehow she didn’t think that was appropriate for a four year old. I guess she’d think twice now, as Dr. Pfau (PhD in Computational Neuroscience, 2014, Columbia University) is much in demand at AI seminars all over the world.

Last month, my granddaughter Rosa’s daycare took her little group on its first field trip (the yellow vests are not a form of protest; they are easy identification of their group). Where did they go? To a library of course. Getting them off to a good start.

Does anyone remember the program “Reading is Fundamental”? It really is.

 

I come from Detroit. My family was in the automotive industry. My great uncle, Meyer Prentis (Uncle Meyer) was the Treasurer of General Motors when it was the largest corporation in the world. My dad’s oldest brother was it’s comptroller. My dad worked for the Chevrolet division in Flint, MI before WWII, but upon returning from the war, struck out on his own. With a partner, he opened a used car lot, which morphed into a DeSoto dealership (anyone remember that marque?), then a Chrysler dealership. You see his business card as the Featured photo. I used to joke that I had motor oil running through my veins.

Though I was a youngster at the time, I saw how unions helped to build out this country’s middle class. But I also know the power (and corruption) of the UAW and Teamsters (indeed, Shawn Fain, the current head of the UAW just came to power recently when the corrupt former head was overthrown).

My father already was in business trouble when the UAW went out on strike in 1967. His partner wanted to leave the business, insisting he be bought out. I believe my father completed that financial obligation in 1972. Long before that, he had expanded the physical footprint of the dealership, adding a large wing. In order to do so, took out a big mortgage on the business. With a long strike, he ran out of inventory to sell. He was forced to sell the dealership at a financial loss back to Chrysler. He went to work for a cousin who owned a Buick dealership (some years later, he left the automotive industry altogether; he turned to professional philanthropy for his living). I was still a kid at home and the finances of our family were not discussed with the children, but I felt the impact.

I am not asking for sympathy, merely stating the facts. No one thinks about who gets hurt during a lengthy strike. I have no documentation, but I would not be surprised if some of my wealthier relatives helped to pay for my brother’s and my private college tuition. Our aunts and uncles were proud of our achievements and wanted them to continue. Or perhaps my dad had savings set aside for the tuition. I don’t know and no one is now alive who can answer these questions. I only knew that I was filled with gratitude to be in the position I was in and didn’t want to waste a single precious moment that was given to me.

My dear friend Christie and I were visiting my parents before driving up for our first visit (of what became a decade-long tradition) to the National Music Camp when Jimmy Hoffa, disgraced, paroled, ex-head of the Teamsters went missing from suburban Detroit on July 30, 1975. For years after, we joked that we did it and we knew where the body was buried. (For sure, the Mafia did it and the body was never found.) The Teamsters were another huge presence in Detroit, one with big Mob ties. I was even quite familiar with Machus Red Fox, the restaurant where Hoffa’s meeting was set and he was last seen. It was a nice restaurant that my parents took me to on special occasions. Yes, Detroit is a union town, with all the ramifications.

In the aftermath of the market meltdown in 2008, the UAW gave the Big Three automakers huge concessions (the US government bailed out the car companies, but those loans were entirely repaid). Now the UAW is on strike against the Big Three. They are trying to make up what has been lost in the intervening 15 years. They are asking for close to a 40% pay increase over 4 years, a four-day work week, defined pension benefits, better health care, no-cut jobs, no more tiered hiring, limit to hiring temporary, non-union employees and more. They are worried about the coming revolution they foresee with the production of electronic vehicles. These seem like reasonable demands, given how well the auto industry has done in the intervening 15 years, yet the workers have not gotten commensurate increases as the auto industry is once again flying high, and in most industries, defined pensions are a thing of the past.

The pandemic hurt the car companies, with all the supply chain issues, and no one was renting cars, so the rental car companies shed their inventory and did not replace them for a while. But now, everything is booming. It takes a long time to source a car to purchase and prices have soared. I understand the UAW’s frustration and wish to catch up. But how much and how quickly? I have followed the deliberations as best I can. They certainly are entitled to their share, as they cut back during the time of distress. Time will tell how this all works and who pays the price (the consumer, the car companies, the workers themselves, as they lose weeks of pay?).

It is true that the wages have fallen in real dollars for work, while the CEOs are making huge salaries and share prices are soaring. None of this is fair, but the Union’s demands seem huge. They all must negotiate in good faith, rather than trying to “hold the other hostage”. Steve Rattner, Obama’s “car tzar” and an auto policy expert, wrote an op-ed in the NYTimes recently entitled, “Killing the Golden Goose”, positing that asking for too much and holding firm on the demands is a lose-lose situation.

Of course, I am not privy to the negotiations. The automakers have already offered a 20% pay increase. There are other demands that may not be met and the longer the strike goes on, the more it hurts their own workers, everyone in the supply chain (as it did my father, back in the day), the economy in general. Who does this help? Draw your own conclusions, but I would say, if the economy goes to hell, we are all losers.

This week, President Biden walked the picket line (with Shawn Fain looking on), offering full-throated support. TFG went to a non-union shop and talked about all that he did to support unions (pundits refute those claims, like everything else that comes out of his mouth; his audience, holding signs, was seeded with his supporters, who were not union members, just props for sound bites).

In August I heard an interesting panel discussion comprised of two members of the Writer’s Guild and one member of the Director’s Guild talk about the concurrent Writer’s and Actor’s strike and the various thorny issues being worked out that have risen to the top of the pile. Panelists were: Doug Liman, director of huge hits like “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” and “The Bourne Identity”, Misan Sagay who wrote “Belle” and Scott Frank, who has a long list of accomplishments, but most recently wrote, produced and directed “The Queen’s Gambit” (which, as the panel moderator said, “Got us all through COVID”). Misan lives in the UK, but is a member of the WGA, so does have that perspective. They covered an interesting set of topics that I will try to encapsulate for this discussion.

Major topics include size and usefulness of “writer’s rooms”, as a way to learn the craft, as a step ladder on a rung up to larger production jobs, as a creative outlet, or as a hindrance to creativity. Another topic is payment of residuals which has been blown apart with the move to streaming services. And the huge elephant in the room is the use of AI, both as a tool for writing, but also, instead of actors. So those were the big topics that were being negotiated. Each person on the panel had a point of view.

The topic of the writer’s room drew a mix of views. Doug Liman really liked them, thought they were a great source of creativity, but didn’t want the unions to set a fixed number of people to be present. Misan also likes them as a way to learn the craft and to be used as a stepping stone to bigger jobs. Scott Frank thought they were useless, a hindrance to his creative process. Doug’s warning was if they become like the Teamsters, where a set number have to be present, regardless of what they do or contribute and only add to the cost of production.

Residuals payment has changed dramatically with the streaming services. With networks, when shows were sold into syndication, residuals were paid in perpetuity and were a healthy way for actors and writers to earn a living. With the streaming services, writers are paid an upfront (frequently large) fee to write a show. There are no residuals no matter how many times the show is streamed. The network does not share that information. So the model is quite different and that is a major sticking point that is being hashed out.

Another big item is the use of AI, both in script development and acting. Doug Liman predicted that extras will be no more – they will all be generated by the use of AI. That was startling to hear. But the biggest fear was to hear the writers talk about chatbots writing scripts “in the voice of” famous authors. Some thought they might use AI to give them ideas, or a first draft, but THEY want to control that, not some Hollywood-type who is going around them. This is unknown territory and they want to get their arms around it now before it gets out of control.

Tom Fontana, hugely successful writer and producer of such hit shows as “St. Elsewhere”, “Homecide, Life on the Streets” and “Oz” was the subject of a large profile in the Washington Post on September 7. This is his fourth strike and he is angry! The stakes have never been higher. He says that at age 71, he’ll be OK, but the world he grew up in has changed so much that he wants to be sure that everyone he mentors will be OK.

The strike was just settled and the topics the panel discussed in August were resolved. Residuals will be paid on streamers, there will be writers rooms (I don’t know the exact terms of that part of the deal), something was negotiated about AI, but I don’t know exactly what. Actors and writers who are not at the top of the heap were desperate to keep their apartments. They can’t pay their rent. Big concessions were made; the writers got much of what they wanted. I suspect the actors will settle soon too. The talk shows will be back this week, but productions on scripted shows will take much longer to get back into production.

I saw in the paper yesterday that well-known authors like John Grisham and George R.R. Martin are suing OpenAI for training ChatGPT on their novels so that it can produce writing in these authors’ voice, using details that show the AI must have read the work, and is using it without copyright permission. AI continues to disrupt.

Now hotel workers in Las Vegas have authorized a strike. And the beat goes on…

 

Hitch hiking has transformed from adventure to a warning about self preservation.
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Overture.  The Middletown Ct. Police Station—Bartok’s Sonata for two pianos and percussion.

Before beginning my job as a substitute teacher, I traveled to the police department for a fingerprint security check.  The officer, a large friendly African American interviewed me.

“Where will you be teaching?”

“Middletown High School.”

“Oh,” he warningly replied. “Do you know that is a dangerous place? I would not let my son attend that school.”

My department chair, an elderly woman who had no interest in leadership but only in control, warned me not to wander in the classroom.  “Stay in your chair or next to your desk,” she warned.  Wrong: my first two weeks included an equal number of personal attacks: a forceful attempt to steal my phone, and wet spit on my shirt for enforcing a regulation.

I did not report either aggression to the SRO.  I had learned that the detention room was just a secure space that fostered antisocial behavior, not remorse.  For instance, the students played a blood game.  They took turns hitting other students on the knuckles with a quarter.  The first to bleed had to put money on the table. The last to bleed collected the money.

I informed the chair about this conduct.  Unbelievably, she claimed that during her decades of teaching she had never heard of this.  And she advised me to ignore it. After all, this was not a teaching responsibility.

One afternoon, I looked out the window.  There were four police cars next to the building.  I heard an uproar in the hallway.  Several policemen were escorting a gaggle of students back to their classrooms. The students were taking a recess without permission.

For me this educational experience was disturbing.  My chair told me to record the answers and grades on a test that was given by a teacher who had to leave for a medical emergency. The students had received credit for remembering that Japan was our enemy in World War 1.  I checked their high school text.  Their memory was right.  But the text was wrong.  The students did not care.  The test was knowledge of the book.  Perplexed, I complained to the chair who said the students correctly answered the question.  It was not up to me to question the book.  She refused to report this error to the publisher. This, and the refusal to teach evolution and other scientific facts added to my feelings of despair.

Where am I? Is this an educational institution?

 

Andante. A Low Security Prison for Juveniles—Stravinsky, Symphony in Three Movements.

President’ Johnson’s passage of the Civil Rights Act (1966) officially led to desegregation reforms through the country.  The American Friends Service Committee took advantage of this funded federal program to send community workers to report on prisons behavior.

I was the leader of 10 college students sent to the prison in Lexington Ky. We were to live a few weeks there to observe desegregation progress. Unknowingly, the AFSC chose poorly if they were seeking infractions. The juvenile center was a model prison. We had few negative observations. This facility was a shining example for the reforms. The staff included many social workers and counsellors who worked with the youth to change their behavior. Furthermore, it had a low percentage of black prisoners.  Unfortunately some were in maximum security cells.

For me, the most disheartening discovery was in revelations about the background of these youth.  During the orientation, older residents interrogated the newbies regarding about their criminal history. Most of them had committed much worse crimes than they had been convicted for.  Those caught for shop lifting or violent behavior had a personal list of car theft, arson, and rape.

While I was observing one such orientation, a resident asked the novice if he had sisters.

Answer: “none.”

The inquisitor’s face reflected shock, hurt, and anger. He never asked a question again.

Later, I asked the counsellor about this behavior.

“Oh,” he answered.  “The kid hoped he could rake the inmate over. He himself had been forced to admit that he had raped his sisters.  So, he was looking for another victim.”

The negative attitudes toward prisoners seemed more apparent before and after they were confined.  Many female prisoners were punished for prostitution.  Their prison record would further limit their ability to take part in society.

All former inmates would have difficulty in obtaining adequate employment, they could not vote, and their educational backgrounds and opportunities were squelched. Within the next five years their recidivism rate would be nearly 50%!

One positive escape: boys could enlist in the military.  The girls had no comparable alternative to prison.

When the residents were released, they would return to a hostile community. For instance, once I went with a black student coworker to eat at a local restaurant.  I had received a list of restaurants that accepted integrated customers.  We chose a drive-in.  Later, we realized we had not read the fine print that black customers had to remain in the car.  Because I was driving an uncomfortable VW bug, we went into the restaurant.  We waited for service.  In several minutes the sheriff and his crew marched into the restaurant, ordering us to leave immediately.  In the parking lot, I referred to President Johnson’s Civil Rights Act which protected integration. The Sheriff, who looked like an extra in a red neck film, pointed to his expansive chest declaring, “I am the law here.”

Without any evidence, I can only assume that if I had not been with him, and not identified myself with the local prison administration, the student would have been abused and even become a captive in the local jail.

To handle our anger, we went to a primarily black bar in a low-income neighborhood.  Since we looked young, the bar tender asked to see our IDs. Looking at my driver’s license he informed me that it had expired.  Because he had heard the story of my biracial encounter, he warned me that if the Sherrif had seen this ID, I would be in the county jail.  For only the first time in my life I fainted!

Coda:  Harlem.  The Police Marching Band for military and patriotic events. (Never in East Harlem)

I lived at 76 E 111^th Street for 18 months. My block was three avenues from the East River and one avenue from Third.  The nearest subway station to the south was on 99^th St.  This Street was on the southern border of Harlem.  It acted like a prison wall. Cabbies from Downtown often refused to cross the line when their fare wanted to travel uptown.

What is significant is that each street, like a cell block, had a clear identification.  Mine was known for alcoholics; our neighboring blocks nurtured drugs and prostitution.   One could usually recognize the various addicts by their violent behavior– the alcoholics engaged in group control, ownership of women, and simple theft.  The addicts were dormant during the day.  When they needed cash for a fix, they would engage in destructive behavior—breaking into a store crashing equipment and seeking to find something valuable to fence quickly for their addiction.

Harlem’s street grids marked clear boundaries from each other. Residents stayed on outdoor steps; gangs protected their neighborhoods, and police kept order.

The apartment sitters protected their domain.  The sidewalks were unattended and often littered with paper wrappers, beer cans, and cigarette butts. Strangers walking past were seen with some suspicion—drug dealers? Police? Gangsters?  The locals might yell at strangers.  When I walked my girlfriend through the neighborhoods, I positioned her by the curb.  I walked in front of the gawkers for her safety.

From my first-floor apartment window, I witnessed pick pockets, mugging, and rowdiness, Violent behavior was rife.  One incident which amused me was to find a small washing machine placed on the roof of my VW.  My most fuming gang member planted a nickel or dime bag under my door, then called the police. Later he murdered my replacement.

The mafia and police ran protection extortion rackets from the merchants and the vulnerable population. I detected several such incidents:  four mafia characters demanding their regular payment from a restaurant owner, police attending a youthful late night party threatening people who were on parole or underage with arrest if they did not pay up.

There were many who isolated themselves. A beautifully dressed young woman invited me to her apartment.  The rooms were decorated with bright wallpaper, high quality furniture, photographs, and displays of jewelry. A stunning bedroom harbored a four-poster bed.  During our conversations, I learned she worked in Wall Street as a secretary.  She was single.  When asked what she thought of New York City and her job, she responded that it was the beginning and end of her subway commute.  Other than that, her real life was in her apartment.

To me she appeared self-incarcerated.

 

Conclusion and Credits.

The symphonic program on incarceration was composed of three prominent types of cells: school, prison, neighborhoods.

Thanks to the Kagan Law Enforcement Think Tank for sponsoring this event.

 

Recent Photo of problems at the Lexington Juvenile Prison

The closest I can come to feeling imprisoned is how the pandemic impacted my freedom starting in March, 2020.
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Tanesha 

Raised in an upper-middle class home I’m sure as a child I had little understanding of how the other half lives.  Years later working in the inner-city I had a rude awakening.

As a newly licensed high school librarian I was assigned by the New York City Board of Education to a small vocational high school in the south Bronx,  a neighborhood made infamous by the 1981 movie Fort Apache, The Bronx.

The neighborhood was sketchy with empty,  burnt-out buildings,  graffiti everywhere,  broken bottles in the street, litter-filled lots,  and one morning a few blocks from our school a dead body found sprawled on the sidewalk.  The local bank where many of us cashed our paychecks was robbed so many times it finally closed.

In fact I came to think of our school – Jane Addams Vocational – as an oasis in the asphalt jungle – staffed,  I soon discovered,  by a faculty of passionately dedicated teachers,  many who became lifelong friends.  And all who shared one mission – to educate kids who were among the most disadvantaged in the city, pulling them up by their bootstraps,  and giving them the compassion and support they deserved.  (See Magazines for the Principal, The Diary of a Young Girl,  The Parking Lot Seniority List,  Mr October, and Educator of the Year – Remembering Milton)

Our student body was predominantly Black and Hispanic,  many were recent immigrants who spoke little English,  and most whose families were on Welfare.  In addition to lunch we served our students breakfast, a meal many would not have gotten at home.

And our school was one of a few in the city that ran a day care program in the building so students who were young mothers could finish high school while their infants were well cared for.

Many of our students were from broken homes or single-parent families, some lived with grandparents or older siblings,  some were victims of abuse and neglect, and some were involved in the court system.

We also had students who lived in homeless shelters,  and one of them was Tanesha.

Tanesha was bright and determined to make it despite all that was stacked against her,  and with the help of her teachers and counselors she did.

Tanesha graduated with honors and would go on to college,  and on the day she walked across the stage to get her Jane Addams diploma there were cheers in the auditorium and few dry eyes.

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

Imagine my shock as a kid when I saw my parents throw a set of luggage into the rising waters flooding our basement.
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Literacy for Incarcerated Teens 

When I retired after my long career as a high school librarian,  my friend Karlan called me.  Karlan was recently retired herself after working for New York Public Library as a young adult librarian.

“I’m heading a new organization called Literacy for Incarcerated Teens / LIT “,  she said,  “it’s a good cause,  won’t you join us?” 

LIT,  Karlan explained,  is a community-based non-profit committed to combating illiteracy in court-involved children and young adults.  Partnering with New York’s city and state agencies and school districts,  LIT raises and allocates funds for the creation of libraries and book collections in juvenile detention centers.  And equally important is the funding LIT provides for teachers and librarians to create literacy and arts programming including read-ins,  poetry slams,  museum trips, and art, music, and writing workshops led by visiting artists and authors.

Having worked for decades at an inner-city vocational high school,  I’d seen too many of our students with reading and other deficiencies who were in dire need of remediation.  Our faculty worked hard to help them,  and we celebrated those who graduated and went on to good jobs or to college.

But hard as we teachers and support staff would  try,  the deck was stacked against many of these kids and they took the wrong path,  sometimes landing in detention centers like the ones served by LIT.   So this organization was indeed a good cause and one dear to my heart,  and I joined Karlan on the LIT board.

Once during a writing workshop at one of the centers,  a visiting author read aloud to the kids from one of his books,  elicited their responses,  and then encouraged them to write short pieces of their own to read aloud.

One student, very pleased with the piece he’d just written,  eagerly asked the author if he could come back and lead another workshop.   The author said that indeed he would be coming back in two months.

”Damn,” said the kid disappointedly,  “my time will be up by then and I’ll be out!”

Hopefully he stayed out.

– Dana Susan Lehrman

The Great Jane Addams Library Flood

I’ve written about my years as head librarian at Jane Addams,  a New York City public vocational high school.  (See Magazines for the Principal,  The Parking Lot Seniority List,  Shelf List, The Diary of a Young Girl,   Early Session Commute  and Educator of the Year:  Remembering Milton)

Here’s another story.

Because of our large student body for many years our school had two sessions and all students and faculty were either early or late.  It happened I was on late session the year of the great Jane Addams library flood.

That fateful morning as I parked in the teachers’  lot I thought it was strange that no students were in front of the school or on the steps waiting for the late session bell.  For a minute I thought I may have made a mistake – as I once did! –  and had gotten up and headed for work forgetting it was a Saturday.   But there were other cars in the parking lot and so surely it was a school day.

And then I saw Eileen, my principal,  standing at the front door.    “I was waiting for you to break some bad news.”  she told me.  “Overnight something triggered the sprinkler system in the basement and I’m afraid your library is flooded.  We had to evacuate the building, and a cleaning crew is already down there.”

Our school had recently undergone an extensive renovation and the library had been relocated to a larger space in the newly refurbished basement,  where there were also several new classrooms and offices.  Eileen walked me downstairs to see the extent of the damage,  and that day and for many days to follow I felt I was in shock.

Then while the cleaning crew sent by the Department of Ed did their work,  my library colleague Merlene and I had an enormous task of our own.  We had to check every one of the thousands of books for even the slightest bit of mold.  Because mold can be a health hazard for some,  all the wet, smelly and moldy books had to be discarded,  and thus probably two-thirds of our collection had to go.

I applied for a grant to replace what was lost,  the new books arrived,  and eventually the library looked and functioned normally once again.

But for quite some time I had nightmares about that great Jane Addams library flood,  and I saw myself floating in the sea surrounded by thousands of moldy books!

– Dana Susan Lehrman