Even though I was always a logophile and I taught English for a year or two, my first love in academe was history.

I think my love of history is in my DNA because my first exposure to historical texts happened before I could even read. Coincidentally, it was also my first act of defiance against The Man.

Actually, The Man was a woman, namely Mrs. Worthington, our seemingly-forever library director.

Supposedly, the phrase “the iron fist in the velvet” glove first referred to Napoleon, and then to Bismark. But it would never have referred to Mrs. W because it’s too mild a description. To be most accurate, I’d describe her as “the iron fist clamped ’round the brass knuckles.”

She was one of the Tough Old Babes of my childhood. Among the others were Louise Wilson, Adelaide Coyne and Eleanor Munn. It was a description that fit them perfectly, though I never would’ve dared to say it within earshot of them.

In all fairness, I knew Sweet Old Babes, too, and among them were Lilian Wilson, Jan Eldrett, Mabel Brickley and Sylvia Charland. They were my earliest and longest-lasting crushes and had the most beautiful smiles and loveliest dispositions. I’m sure I knew more Sweet Old Babes than Tough Old ones, thankfully, and while they were so much more fun to be around, they were also much less colorful.

For the most part, the TOB’s didn’t scare me, probably because my mother was one. It might’ve been a case of “The dictator you know, versus an unknown quantity,” or something like that. I don’t know. I do know I got along with them. I was unfailingly polite, which didn’t hurt and my oddball humor at the right time may have prevented a scourging at their veiny, talon-tipped hands. But while the other TOB’s were forces to be respected and reckoned with, they didn’t terrify me. Mrs. W., on the other hand, DID.

And it wasn’t just little kids who were scared of her: Adults trod lightly around her, especially when she was on the job (or maybe more accurately, on the quarterdeck).

Before its addition, the old library was the little building to the right of today’s entrance, with the white columns in front. When I opened the door and stepped in, there in front of me, behind her huge desk and rimless spectacles, was Mrs. W., boring through me with her death ray stare. To me, she was the above-ground equivalent of Cerberus. And even though she was two heads short of him, I figured she more than made up for it with unbridled ferocity, should the occasion demand. She also didn’t miss a thing … especially a library violation thing.

As a kid, I didn’t know much, but one thing I did know was my place in the world of adults. It was no act of brilliance on my part — all us kids knew our place, namely to be polite, follow the rules, do what we were told and if we had any complaints, to keep them to ourselves, thank you very much.

When it came to kids in the library, there were only two rules. One was if you HAD to talk (which, short of having a myocardial infarction or witnessing extraterrestrial invasion, you did NOT have to do), you did it in a barely audible whisper. The other rule was you were never to leave the children’s section — fire, flood and bathroom emergencies MAYBE to the contrary. You could THINK about leaving the children’s section, just like you could about getting a pony for Xmas — and having the same chance of success.

Obviously, I never got a pony. But I once escaped the children’s section … and lived to tell about it.

–

Breaking the shackles of babyhood

–

Talking to peeps from my childhood, I realize most of them absolutely adored being in the children’s section. There was a little table with matching tiny chairs (which I recall as sky blue, but may be wrong) and children’s books galore, on the table and the surrounding shelves. So what’s not to like about that? Well, I’ll tell ya.

First, it was cut off from the rest of the library, a view in any direction blocked by the bookshelves. Second, because its boundaries were so harshly circumscribed, rather than feeling sheltered, I felt trapped — and trapped in a nursery of sorts no less (Me, in a nursery? The nerve! I was no baby, having almost finished kindergarten!). And finally, splashed around everywhere were candy-ass colors — bright pinks, yellows, baby blues — enough to make me hurl.

I had to get out before I suffocated.

–

Cheap thrills and valuable insights

–

First, very slowly, I peeked out the entry of the childrens’ section, looked left and right. Then, when I saw no one looking back at me, I bolted across the aisle and into an adult section, which turned out to be where the history books were. The room reeked of 100 Percent, Authentic Adulthood, literally: The smell of old books, the lack of pukey pastels, the sheer seriousness of the room, showed me I was exactly where I belonged.

But I wasn’t alone: There was a man in the room. He was tall and thin, dressed in a dark suit. He stood by the bookshelf opposite me, book in hand, looking over his glasses at Yours Truly. As I felt my blood drain, I stood stock-still, unable to move or even think, afraid he was gonna rat me out. One very long moment passed. Then he went back to reading his book, as if I wasn’t even there. What a great man! I didn’t know who he was and never found out, but I’ve always remembered him as my first co-conspirator.

Near me, on my left, was a small set of wooden stairs on wheels so you could reach the books on the highest shelves. It was a very grown-up piece of hardware. It was also beckoning to me. Ever a fast study, I walked over to them, then up them and sat down at the top. After that, I did the only thing one COULD do — I took a book out from the shelf, opened it on my lap and looked at the page.

As I’d said, I couldn’t read. Or if I could, it was at a very simple level — not even Dick and Jane. But that wasn’t relevant to me because I WANTED to read. Actually, I’d wanted to read for years, but back then — for reasons that still elude me — the prevailing thought was children weren’t ready to be taught reading till first grade. So essentially, I was a victim of the educational philosophy of the day. But I was neither a willing nor an acquiescent one.

So even if I couldn’t read, I do the next best thing, which was I faked it. I looked over the page, maybe left to right, maybe right to left, maybe top to bottom, having no idea what I was doing, but feeling very grown-up nonetheless.

While I didn’t realize it at the time, or for a long while afterward, I’d just discovered why almost every institution run by humans is a bloody mess: The jamokes in positions of command, while they may WANT to run it well, are as clueless about how to do it as Little Dopey Boy was to read that musty tome.

After maybe a minute or two of looking at those mysterious marks on the page, I did the only thing I could — I gave up. I closed the book and put it back on the shelf and went down the stairs. Then, after I checked to see the hall was clear, I diddy-bopped my bad self back to the kids section. There, I dropped onto a chair and for the first time since I’d begun my epic adventure, I relaxed.

As brief as my time in the history section had been, I’d learned a couple vital Life lessons.

First, wanting to read versus being able to read, were two totally different things. And if I ever wanted to read adult stuff, like what was in the history book, I first had to be able to read the stuff in the kids’ books, no matter how dippy I thought it was.

Second, while it’s important to know where you belong, it may be even more important to know where you don’t. Sure, being in the history section was a triumph of sorts, but it was also full-on nerve-racking. It didn’t take years off my life, because I didn’t have many to begin with, but it aged me considerably, I’m sure.

And third, by dint of getting away with my rascality, I learned that adults — even scary ones like Mrs. Worthington — are not omniscient. They can’t be everywhere at once, they can’t see through solids and they can’t read your mind.

And so I concluded smugly, neither she nor my mother knew I’d violated the First Commandment of the Children’s Section. And you can bet your bottom dollar, I never told them either.