I was 5 years old and I could write my name. I had been practicing how to write my name for what seemed like weeks, although it was only a day and a half. But now I was ready. I wrote my name one last time on the piece of “practice paper” that my mother had given me and it seemed perfect. It fit on the lines and I knew that everyone — EVERYONE — would be able to read it. So I took the paper with the childish scrawl to Mama, who examined it carefully while I held my breath. And then she pronounced the words, “That’s fine, just fine.”
And so I got my jacket, my scarf and my wool hat and, holding Mama’s hand ever so tightly, we walked the eight blocks to the public library. I knew the way almost blindfolded because I had rehearsed the steps in my mind each day — maybe each hour — over the past several weeks. Then we climbed the steps, pushed the heavy wooden door open and entered.
Slowly we walked to the desk. The room was filled with complete silence and there was that special scent of books, not musty but special, that pervaded the air. The librarian looked up, her white hair in a tight bun, and glasses resting on her nose. All she said was, “Yes?”
I thought that Mama would answer for me, but she only joined the general silence. If I was old enough to come to the library, then I must speak for myself.
I cleared my throat. I was afraid my voice would never make it through my lips. I was practically trembling with a mixture of fear, anxiety and excitement. Finally I opened my eyes wide and spoke, “I should like a library card.” I had rehearsed those words a dozen times, practicing the right inflection and the correct tone. I wanted to be audible, but I didn’t want to disturb the solitude that pervaded.
“And how old are you?” the librarian asked.
“Five years old,” I answered. That was easy and so I added. “I was 5 on November 12th.” And then I continued so that there would be no doubt concerning the truthfulness of my response, “My birthday November the 12th.”
“And can you sign your name?” I knew that question was coming. Again I was prepared.
“Oh yes, my whole name. All of it.” I didn’t know if I should reveal that I had been practicing all week. I wasn’t even sure if I should have brought the practice paper with me. But I had no chance to continue. The lady in the brown dress, the white hair and the glasses on her nose held out a card and said in a voice that was not quite a command, but more than a request, “Here, child, sign your name.”
I took the card and the pencil that she proffered and, my heart beating loudly — would that heartbeat cut though the silence and would I be scolded for making too much noise? — I carefully wrote my name — my entire name — in the space allotted.
And then SHE looked up, adjusted her glasses, scrutinized the signature on the card and then like the rainbow appearing after a sudden shower, there appeared on her face just the slightest, just the hint of a smile as she said (or was it Mama who said the words? I couldn’t be sure), “That’s fine, just fine.”
And the card was stamped and handed back to me. And now I could borrow books — no more than two at a time — and I must return them in two weeks or else there would be a fine of a penny a day for each book. And I must keep my hands clean whenever I came to the library, and I must only speak in a whisper so as not to disturb the other people, and I must never bring in food or worst of all chewing gum, and and and
There were many other “ands” that I was told. But none of that mattered. I now had a library card and the world of books suddenly opened up. I looked around at all the shelves and stacks of books and one day I would read them all. All this was now mine because I was 5 years old and I could sign my own name.
One day I would read Ecclesiastes (or perhaps you know the scroll by the title Kohelet). And there I would read, “Of piling up books there is no end.”
But did Kohelet or Solomon whoever know what it was to be 5 and to write your name and to have your own library card? If he did, would he have still written that verse? I am not certain, but I am certain, that one day many years ago, I did.