My First Love by Dawn Amory

"It was 1978, I was six years old and thought    our new house on       Peachtree Street         was haunted."

We had moved into the city limits from the county, from the only house I had ever known, into this new house with the scary upstairs, tiny yard and the neighbors that you could reach out and touch.  We had only been there a few months when Dad left in the middle of the night.  I was frightened of my upstairs’ bedroom, so I was asleep on the couch downstairs. I woke up as he was leaving and asked him where he was going.  He said he was leaving for a while.  I didn’t see him again for several years.

I was the baby in the family and I loved my Dad fiercely.  I knew that he came home some nights, smelling funny and laughing too loud.  Sometimes, he would be fun and throw me in the air and give me candy from his pocket.  Other times he would yell, and my mother would cry.  The next morning, she would wake with bruises.  In his absence, all I could think of was the Saturday morning when he took me to the park and the library.  We got books and he taught me how to read.

The only redeeming quality I could find about the new house was that it was exactly 6 blocks from the park and the library.  The park was a vast wonderland covering two city blocks, with a train that ran on weekends and snow cones for a quarter.  There were swings, slides, merry go rounds, and an old cannon that we could climb all over.  But the best part of the park was the little red bridge that led to the public library. One Saturday, after Dad left, when Mom was at work and my brothers and sister were otherwise occupied, I walked those six blocks, running when the barking dogs made me jump, with a determination I didn’t know I had.  I reached the park and tried to pretend I was a little blond girl, happy and skipping, swinging and laughing.  When I felt the cautious eyes of the parents playing with their children, I decided to try the library.   

I walked through the automatic doors that led to the reception desk where the unsmiling clerk sat. To the left was the adult section, all orderly rows, monotone, and intimidating. When the lady behind the desk asked me if I wanted help, I said I just wanted to look at the books.  She pointed me towards the children’s section on the right.  It was a fairyland with brightly colored carpet, shelves of books arranged by age and interest, captivating pictures depicting the adventures to be found within.  There were bean bags, foam squares, and chairs, in red, blues and greens, begging me to flop down on them.  I walked along every section, as I had when I came with Dad, engrossed in the titles and pictures, carefully pulling a book from the shelf when my interest was piqued. I decided I wanted them all, so I walked back to the front desk and waited until the lady saw me.  I asked if I could check some books out, but she said I had to be seven years old and have a parent sign for me to get a library card. She said I was welcome to stay there and read if I wanted.  

She must have made me feel welcome because I went back and found Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Ronald Dahl and a blue foam cushion by the window and I started to read.  I was transported, I was no longer in that library, I was Charlie with his sick grandparents, praying for a golden ticket.  I could taste the chocolate on my tongue and see Wonka’s wonderland.  There were some words I didn’t know but I kept going, devouring the phrases I understood to garner the meaning.  I remember being stiff at times so I would get up, stretch, and walk around, never taking my eyes from the page.  I don’t know how long I stayed, I don’t know where anyone thought I was, but I finished that book that day and floated out of the library. I made my way home, giddy from the adventure I just taken.

That was the beginning of my love affair with words, stories, characters, places that took me far away from my little town, scary house, and missing parents.  I’ve never felt lonely with a book in my hand.