Rites of Passage

The other day I drove past an elementary school and noticed the bicycles chained higgelty piggelty to the bike rack in front. That one little glance sent me hurdling back in time to my neighborhood parochial school.

There were no school busses. We got to school by walking or getting a ride from our parents. That is until we reached the seventh grade, when a third option presented itself, the bicycle.

It was no small matter because only the seventh and eighth graders were permitted to bicycle to school.I was bursting with pride when I hopped onto my blue Schwinn racer, slung the chain and lock across my chest like a bandalero, and zipped down the street past all the "kids" who had to walk.

It was the same year I went from wearing a white blouse, green jumper, and matching beanie to wearing a white blouse, green plaid skirt and a plaid tam (fancy name for dorky beret!) I mean, does it ever get better than that?

All of this remembering, took me further backwards in time, to the day my second grade class went to the library, and eack kid got a library card. It was a cold, rainy day; the building was like a cathedral of huge limestone blocks with a slate roof. Golden light glowed behind floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows; inviting us to come in and get warm.

The floors inside were shiny wood. The library smelled like lemon furniture polish and BOOKS! Thousands of books, all waiting to be checked out by me using my very own library card. It never occured to me then that someone had written those books. They were simply there, waiting for me to choose which ones I'd take home.

And here I am, many years later, writing books, with high hopes they'll someday make it to those same library shelves. I am sure the seven-year old me would have been astounded if she could have seen where that library card was going to take us.