By Janice Lindsay
Contributing Writer
You might think that a baby couldn’t cry throughout the whole car ride from Massachusetts to New Jersey, but that seemed to be baby Andrew’s intent as we set out on that warm summer morning.
We included my sister, 14, our three brothers under five, and me, 16, sandwiched into the back seat. Our parents sat in the front with Andrew, three months old and bawling.
We planned to stay in a small New Jersey town for three weeks while Dad attended a job-related program in Philadelphia. I don’t know if Dad had said, “I would like you all with me” or whether Mom had said, “You’re not leaving me alone for three weeks with six kids.” But away we went, aiming for a house they had rented, sight unseen.
We found that we could calm little Andrew only if we sang. You might think that two grown-ups and two teens couldn’t sing all the way to New Jersey, but sing we did except for the rare blissful minutes when the little one slept.
We arrived to find the house pleasant and modern, but dirty, dust everywhere, grime in the kitchen, with the overriding odor of rotten eggs. A previous tenant had left eggs boiling on the stove, but the water had boiled away before the eggs were cooked and the mess sat there, smelly, in a ruined pan. Mom said, “We’ll stay the night and go home tomorrow.”
But we didn’t. The next morning, we settled Andrew and Douglas, age 20 months, into the baby carriage, marched to the hardware store, bought cleaning supplies, and set about scrubbing.
Andrew made it clear that he was not going to break his crying record. He wanted only to be home, and we weren’t. Fortunately, we didn’t have to sing for three weeks because we discovered that he could be comforted if we put him in the baby carriage and jiggled the carriage, which had springs and could be rocked, in a fashion, back and forth. So we planned to jiggle him for three weeks, unless he was eating, being entertained, or asleep.
Here’s where the library came in.
On our trip to the hardware store, I discovered to my great joy that the very next house to ours was the town library. I’ve loved to read ever since I learned how. I had secured a library card as soon as I was old enough. Wherever I’ve lived, I’ve been a library patron. As a teen, I spent my summers reading. I couldn’t pack many books to take to New Jersey. I was prepared for three book-deprived weeks.
I was a shy person. It took a great deal of courage, but when the cleaning was done, I forced myself to go the library. I threw myself on the mercy of the librarian, a kind, thin, gray-haired, book-loving lady who sympathized when I explained my situation. As a three-week resident, I wasn’t entitled to a library card. But she let me borrow books anyway.
There I was, happy with books. And there was baby Andrew, unhappy, who needed to be jiggled. Sometimes in universe, things click, like two Lego pieces fitting together.
I could stretch out on the couch, with one foot resting on the carriage, jiggling back and forth, back and forth, while I read one book after another.
That is how the library saved my summer. And Andrew’s.
At the end of the three weeks, we drove home, singing.
The very second that Mom placed Andrew in his own crib in his own room, he stopped crying. Home at last.
I went to the library.
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