It’s time for this month’s new Museum of Me exhibit, my unsung hero. I didn’t have to think long and hard about this one because my unsung heroes are, not surprisingly, librarians.

Librarians, and I’m mostly thinking of librarians who work in public libraries, promote life long learning and are the protectors of the people’s university. They hold reading in the highest regard, of course, and are committed to matching any and every reader to the book that’s just right for them. Beyond reading, they are also promoters of cultural enrichment through arts and music, providers of free and valuable programs and entertainment, and are often trailblazers for human rights and social change .

Librarians are staunch defenders of democracy, ensuring free access to all types of information with an equal voice for all. They remain neutral, procuring and presenting materials to help individuals make their own informed decisions, while also doing ensuring that the information available is factual and accurate. They often act as teachers by instructing in the use of technology and computers, as social workers by navigating housing and healthcare and financial forms, as advocates of social justice by sharing books on human rights and personal choice, and as detectives by finding the book with the red cover that’s about 2 inches thick and tells the story of a beloved dog but the patron can’t remember the author or title.

And yet, despite all this good, the librarian is the butt of many a joke. Librarians are portrayed in movies and television as old fashioned and lacking style, as quiet and mousy, as unwelcoming and rude. These stereotypes couldn’t be further from the truth as the librarians I know are fun and quirky, friendly and welcoming, and some of the smartest people I know.

Today’s librarians are facing more challenges to books and censorship than ever before. They need our support as they hold the line against an intensely polarized political landscape. I urge you to celebrate the unsung heroes in your community: your public librarians! Tell them you appreciate them. Bring them a sweet treat. And don’t show up with a whole pile of things to photocopy when it’s 2 minutes before closing.

Thanks for visiting this month’s exhibit.

Hello and welcome to the latest exhibit in the Museum of Me Series. This month we’re showcasing what I most looked forward to about growing up. And, trigger warning, this post is a heavy one.

While for many children the dreams of being a grown up include things like staying up late, eating lots of dessert, and not having homework, for me, what I most looked forward to was a home that felt peaceful and safe.

I had a chaotic childhood fueled by alcohol abuse, financial insecurity, and mental illness. I spent a lot of time in my room, hiding from the fighting, or conversely, I spent my time trying to keep everyone happy to keep the fighting at bay. (Side note: is it any wonder I’m a people pleaser who relishes alone time and reading?) When I visited my friends I was awestruck by the happiness and lack of tension in their houses; the energy was completely different than what I felt at home. I also spent all that time away from home quietly worrying about what things would be like when I got home.

So, yeah, what I looked forward to most was having a home where things were peaceful and safe. Where I could talk about my feelings without being ridiculed, where dinners were free from tension and screaming or stony silences, where I could, quite frankly, go into the kitchen and get a snack without having to tiptoe past a grown up who might yell at me or expect me to listen to a litany of their problems. Where I didn’t have to worry about paying the mortgage and taxes and bills. A home I could walk into after being away and not have a pit in my stomach as I wondered what the mood would be like when I opened the door.

I’m happy to say that I have created that home. It took some doing on my part, some fits and starts, because you don’t grow up in that sort of atmosphere and automatically have healthy boundaries and normal reactions to stress, but with a lot of patience on the part of my husband, and some really great therapy, I’ve done it. My home is peaceful. It’s my safe haven from the world. It’s cozy and warm, mealtimes are happy, and shouting is limited to yelling at the tv during a football game.

It’s a childhood dream come true.

Is there a month more deserving of a new museum exhibit than September? I think not. And is there a topic more deserving of September than my thoughts about school? I think not yet again. So settle in and get ready to hear all about my years in public school through the timeline of my school photos.

Here we have, from left to right and top to bottom, grades one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, and my senior photo from my high school yearbook.

And here are some thoughts on each year . . . these are the things I would tell you if you were sitting beside me and we were looking at these photos together.

First grade: My teacher was Mrs. Sykes and I adored her. She was older and she and I just . . . clicked. I wanted to please her in every possible way and she set me up for a truly successful school career. My favorite subject was reading, of course. I loved that dress, too. It was soft and not only did it have a ruffle at the neck but there were ruffles at the cuffs as well.

Second grade: I don’t remember my teacher’s name! Actually, I don’t remember specific names with most years after first grade. But I do remember that dress with the smocking and the black velvet ribbon on the sleeves. I’m not smiling the way I am in all the other photos because I had lost my front teeth and my mother told me to smile with my mouth closed.

Third grade: My hair is a little shorter but still brushed back and secured in the back with a single barrette, my mother’s go-to style for me. I did not like that dress at all. It was a sweater dress and it was scratchy. I distinctly remember going to the school library at this age and being able to check out books and bring them home.

Fourth grade: Oh, that hair. I was growing out a very unfortunate short cut. My mother tried to curl it and give it some style but it was futile. I don’t remember that dress specifically but I think it was this one I had with a dropped waist and plaid skirt – it looked like a sweater and skirt but it wasn’t, you know? My teacher was Mrs. Leroux. And, funny story about that . . . a few years ago Dale and I attended a 50th wedding anniversary party for our dear friends, Roger and Alicia. I’ve known them for years from town and because they were library patrons and Dale and I became good friends with them through Kiwanis. Anyway, we’re at their party and I look up and there’s Mrs. Leroux. And I said to Alicia, why is my 4th grade teacher at your anniversary party? And as soon as I asked I made the connection . . . she was Alicia’s sister! I realized in that moment that there voices were exactly the same. Anyway. I loved 4th grade.

Fifth grade: I call this the Laura Ingalls Wilder photo. I loved that prairie style dress and my hair was (thank goodness) long again. I was firmly established as the teacher’s pet by now, staying after to help with clean up, bulletin boards and more. I also worked in the school office. Of course.

Sixth grade: The beginning of the awkward years. Braces. Stick straight hair. And a 3 piece suit. Good grief. I remember that suit so clearly. There were pants and a skirt plus the vest and the jacket. I thought I was all.that when I wore it. This was the year I got in trouble for talking in class and the teacher threw a piece of chalk at me.

Seventh grade: Braces and messy hair. Could the photographer not have given me a comb to smooth it down in the back there over my shoulder? Sheesh. I was completely devoted to the preppy look by then hence the plaid shirt and navy sweater. I was wearing grey corduroys with them and . . . wait for it . . . penny loafers. This was junior high and I was fairly miserable. Almost all of my friends from elementary school went to a different junior high and I was so lonely and it was very hard to make friend at that point. It was rough.

Eighth grade: My braces are gone and I’ve just got a retainer at this point. I loved that super soft yellow sweater and always paired it with a plaid skirt and boots. My hair was about the longest it’s ever been and things were sort of better with school. I loved music class and social studies and even math . . . because my math teacher was very handsome. He made us memorize the definition of a polynomial in x and I can still recite it to this day, which he actually predicted all those years ago.

Senior year: I hated this photo then and I still hate it today. The bad perm. The awful teal sweater. The phony background. Ugh. But I was pretty happy in high school and this is the culmination of all those years. I was working at the library, getting good grades, dating the guy who became my first husband, and about to go to the college of my dreams.

And there you have it . . . my school years in one post . . . errrr . . . exhibit. I hope you enjoyed it!

Welcome to the new monthly exhibit of the Museum of Me. Thanks to Kym (who has a brand new and amazing blog right here – check it out!)for another great monthly exhibit topic, this month we are showcasing a photo (or in this case photoS) from my childhood that most captures the me of today.

I was looking for a particular photo and couldn’t find it but instead found 3 gems and, when I couldn’t decide which one to choose, I decided to share all 3. I’m a multi-faceted person, after all.

A set up at my Nana’s and I’m playing library, circa 1969 and I’m 4 years old. I played library and school frequently and in this particular photo I appear to be putting on a puppet show for a children’s program. I can still feel that scratchy wool blanket that I’m using as a table cloth. And I love that photo of my brothers hanging behind me.

In my backyard, circa 1974 and I’m 8. My love for spring flowers and gardening started early, too, and his continues to this day. I loved the tulips that came up every year along the fence and would check on them every day to make sure they were thriving. I’m dressed up for my grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary.

Sitting in front of the fire in my childhood home with my first Siamese cat, Simba, circa 1976 and I’m 11. My love for Siamese cats goes back so many years and Simba was such a love. He was a big cat (George reminds me a lot of Simba) and I adored him.

Early signs of who I was going to become. Librarian. Gardener. Cat lover. Constants in my life for sure.

Thanks to Kym for another great monthly exhibit topic.

Well, hello, and welcome to the latest exhibit in the Museum of Me. This month’s exhibit is inspired by the season and we are showcasing a favorite family vacation.

My family did not have a lot of money and any vacations we took were a car ride (never a plane ride) away. The place we went to most consistently was Cape Cod and for many years, 1970 to 1975 or so, my Nana rented a cottage for all of us for the month of July at a place called Mashnee Village. If you’re familiar with Cape Cod, this area was over the Bourne Bridge and immediately to the right, across the causeway from Pocasset.

The cottage we had was right on the water, you just walked down a little path of wildflowers and there was the beach. In those days, all the cottages in the village were the same. A living room in the middle, a kitchen to the right, and two bedrooms and a bathroom to the left. My Nana and Bumpa, my mother and I, and my brother Donald were always there. My dad came on the weekends and my oldest brother, who was 18 by then, rarely came because he was too cool for family vacations at that time in his life.

I have so many wonderful memories of our time there.

There was a family of skunks that would come every night and my mom would put out our leftovers in a tin pie plate and they would eat them. I would sit in my grandfather’s lap in the twilight and watch them with awe and a little bit of fear.

There was a village clubhouse and they had happy hour for the grown ups every afternoon. On Tuesday nights they had weenie roasts. There was also a pool (which in my youthful stupidity I preferred over the ocean) and when it rained they showed movies. I remember one very rainy and windy afternoon, I went with my brother to the movies and it was Godzilla. I was terrified but my brother wouldn’t leave because he loved it so I was stuck until it was over. I can still see my mom walking down the road to come and get us with a gigantic beach umbrella to protect us all from the rain.

One summer, probably 1971 or 1972, my mom took a bad fall off of her bike while we were out for a ride. It had something to do with the maintenance guy mowing the lawn and him not seeing my mom because a car was coming and she swerved to get out of the way and went over the handlebars. The road was macadam and my mom’s knees, hands, and elbows were hurt badly. We had to take my brother to Boy Scout camp and I remember the Scoutmaster asking her, with a sideways glance at my dad, if everything was okay at home.

It was all pretty idyllic. The days felt so long and I loved being there with everyone, including our first Siamese cat, Simba, who followed my mom around like a dog and would sleep under her chaise lounge when she was at the beach. It was actually at that cottage that my nana first attempted to teach me to knit. I never got the hang of it then (probably because she assumed I’d knit left handed and I don’t but I still consider it my first foray into knitting.) I remember eating lots of fresh striper and steamers, local corn on the cob and tomatoes, and blueberry pies that my mom would make from berries we picked.

Mashnee Village is still there . . . in a way. The houses are no longer owned by the corporation but by individuals. The clubhouse is long gone, of course. But in 2015 we visited friends who were staying at a house there. I was reminiscing about my summers there and wondered if I could find the cottage that we rented. We set out for a walk, knowing that many many of those cottages have now been converted to fancier houses, but I remembered my way around and as we came down a street I said, it’s going to be right up here around the bend if it’s still there. And guess what?

Yep. That’s the same place. I cried when I saw it and felt so grateful for all of the memories of those summers at Mashnee Village.