My mom, Martha (a.k.a. Marty), worked at the Ridley Park Public Library in the late ’60s and early ’70s. A mother of six, she was thrilled when she got a part-time position in the children’s library on the ground floor. She led story hour for a time, reading aloud to dozens of kids with all the dramatic flair she could muster. What she really wanted was to work upstairs, in the main library, reached by climbing the wide steps of the stone building. There, among dark wood bookcases and heavy wooden tables and chairs, she’d have access to all the new books. She did move up (literally) and for years enjoyed the quiet, calm work of covering new books, shelving returns, and finding a favorite author for a neighbor. She bonded with her community and with her colleagues — Berniece, Irma, and Betty — all avid readers turned good friends.
When we sat down to talk about the library, Mom wasn’t certain of the dates. But then she remembered that early on, the head librarian asked her to read a new book and provide a summary. The book was Rosemary’s Baby. We checked the publication year: 1967. She had her timeline right. I asked my staunch Catholic mother what she had thought of the book. She explained: “I never liked the occult. If I hadn’t been asked, I probably wouldn’t have finished it.”
Today, at age 94, Marty is seldom without a book. She starts and ends her days reading. Her favorites? Thrillers, mysteries, and suspense.
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