Preservation of American Hellenic History
Preservation of American Hellenic History
by Jason C. Mavrovitis
Timidly, I took the book to the woman at the desk. She smiled, asked my name, and whether I knew my address. I did. She wrote my name, address, and other words on two cards. One she kept and the other she handed to me while she quietly said: "This is your library card. Bring it whenever you come to the library and borrow books you would like to read. You must return them in two weeks. Do you understand?" I thought I did, mostly.
She stamped the due date on a card in the back of my book, explaining that it was the date the book was to be returned. I was a little confused, did not thank her as I left, and was not completely sure about the arrangement.
With the book under my arm, I continued on to meet Mom at Thea Anastasia's apartment where she was visiting for afternoon coffee. On arrival, I kissed and was kissed by the ladies present, given cookies on a plate, and a glass of cold water flavored with a tablespoon full of dark, sweet cherry preserves, and allowed to sit in Jimmy and Anesti's room at the back of the apartment. Once comfortable, I opened Stratosphere Jim and entered the world of reading.
What an adventure. The story was about a secret cave in the Rockies that hid development of a super bomber that Jim used to conquer evil. It was action-packed and exciting. I read for an hour until Mom collected me to walk home. I read before dinner and after dinner and finished the book before I went to sleep.
The next morning, Saturday, I asked my mother if I could go to the library. I told her about my experience at the library the previous afternoon. She gave her approval and off I went. By noon, I returned home with three books, the maximum permitted, and began my exploration of the worlds opened to me the previous day.
By the time I was twelve, I had read everything that interested me on the second floor, the children's floor, and under the supervision of the librarians, began to take books they approved for me out of the adult section on the first floor. At thirteen, I was allowed to select any book I wanted from the first floor. The librarian had spoken to my mother on the telephone and received permission for the library to let me make my own selections.
Historical novels were my first interest. Then, I found books and plays of social commentary. These provided a mountain of ammunition to attack the status quo, and lots of air to inflate my sense of moral indignation. I must have been insufferable, especially to my conservative father. He listened to my ranting about the ills of the world that he and his generation perpetuated as we drove to and from hunting weekends.
The Bay Ridge Public Library is still located at the corner of Seventy-third Street and Ridge Boulevard, opposite the lawn of Christ Church. The old building is gone, replaced by a modern facility. No matter. I can still see the red brick, the steps, and the gray-haired lady beckoning me to come in.
Visiting my godfather's shop in the fur market was always a treat. He had entered business for himself after leaving the partnership with my Dad at the start of the Depression. My Nouno was a salesman, not a designer, matcher, cutter, or operator. He performed some simple manufacturing tasks, repairing a skin in a garment or a silk lining. His forte was catering to the vanity of the women who came to his shop to buy furs wholesale. Many, if not most, of his customers came from the contacts that his brother-in-law, Uncle Louis, provided: rich insurance clients, executives of Metropolitan Life, and their friends.
[Skip the navigation links: Jump to the Citation Guidelines.]
[Skip the citation guidelines: Jump to the Bottom of the Page.]
(This is the bottom of the page.)