Alan and I arrived together at the library last night. It was the fourth Tuesday of the month, the day that the Ojai Valley Library Friends and Foundation board meets.
It was overcast most of the day and occasional drizzle made it feel as though winter was still with us, so I wore my Patagonia jacket to the meeting even though the temperature was in the mid-60’s. I’ve learned that most of the board members like it cooler indoors than I do, so I keep my jacket on in the meeting room until abundant sweat cascades down my cheeks.
Wearing warm things while others are happy in their flip-flops and t-shirts is attributable to my senior citizen status, lack of much body fat, and my mother’s caution that you can always take off what you’ve got on, but you can’t put on what you don’t have. I use that line when Jackie leaves the house with nothing much on, knowing full well that she will ignore me.
We walked toward the library entrance and stopped midway. Alan looked at the wall and noted the hundred plaques that were embedded in it. I had passed them hundreds of times since they were installed nearly twenty years ago, each in recognition of a contribution made to help in the acquisition of what is now the OVLFF bookstore and meeting room.
“Is your name on a plaque?” I said it was but didn’t spend much time looking for it. Alan found his with little effort and it seemed to bring back his memories. The relatively inexpensive masonry plaques have not aged well even though shaded by the covered entry to the library. I made a mental note to talk about it at tonight’s board meeting; maybe we could pay a handyman to clean them up. And then I forgot about it, an unsurprising common occurrence.
Next to the plaques is a prominent piece of art made up of large mosaic tiles. It’s a scene depicting the local Topa Topa mountains in the background and a prominent bird, likely a California quail, in the foreground. Unlike the aging masonry plaques, those tiles are enameled and have held up nicely over the years.
I asked Alan if he knew the history of the piece but, given his comparatively brief tenure on the OVLFF board, did not. Without much prompting, I launched into its history that featured the artist and my involvement in the commission of the work by OVLFF two decades ago. It seemed like just yesterday that I had argued and pled with the artist, worried that we had spent donated money without any real assurance that we’d receive anything in return. But we eventually did and treasured the result.
My historical rambling reminded me that I’ve been on the board over twenty years, longer than any other current member. I’ve attended 200 board meetings, made 400 bank deposits, and written almost 3,000 checks. All of which tends to be mind-numbing and devoid of any glitz.
Our current board includes marvelous people who are passionate about books and the library. I’m sure they would lay down their lives protecting the institution from book-Nazis and others intent on interfering with the unbridled distribution of ancient and contemporary masterpieces. They want to expand the reach of the library into the community and to fill the edifice beyond that permitted by the fire marshal. They are undeterred in their mission. For some, it is life itself. Compared to them I am a literary slug.
Hard copy books have disappeared from our home. The Kindle now reigns supreme. I have an avalanche of unread digital books that sit idle in my Amazon Prime inventory. Browsing through it is a nightmare since I can’t be sure if I’ve previously read or rejected any of them. I’m easy prey to any suggestion about a book I should read, which reinforces my feeling that I have different tastes compared to those who actually read all the books they purchase.
It usually takes me weeks to finish a book. I often forget its title while reading it; the author’s name might as well be Anon. I feel cast adrift while others discuss the latest books and recite footnotes from memory; I can’t differentiate between an op cit and an ibid.
All of which has helped turn a board meeting into an agonizing experience. Judy starts the meeting promptly at six and, bless her heart, strives mightily to end it at seven. She delicately balances the rights of people to speak at length while her own internal timer ends the dissertation of the most verbose.
Other than announcing a blazing fire on the premises, I generally lapse into total silence at the end of my two-minute presentation of the financial report. Anything beyond two minutes causes a mass glazing over of the eyes and unanimous exploration of the board members’ Facebook accounts.
I do, however, manage to keep myself awake by muttering. Maybe all 84-year-old men mutter under their breath to express their displeasure in group settings. Most importantly I have found there is an art to doing it properly without appearing senile.
One must not look directly at the person who has generated the need for my muttering, and its volume should be barely audible to make it unintelligible. It should only last a few seconds, so it does not become a substitute annoyance. Carefully spaced repetition of muttering is permissible if the annoying party prolongs their offending dissertation. I’m sure that the younger board members would also mutter but they do not have the excuse of old-age and are looking forward to many years of stimulating board meetings.
Occasionally, a truly worthwhile matter is brought to the board for serious discussion. Last night, for example, the proper use of the hyphen consumed the bulk of our allotted hour. The bookstore’s name is Twice-Sold Tales, a clever play on Twice-Told Tales a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne later made into a 1963 horror film starring Vincent Price.
One of resolute board members had found an inconsistency in the use of the hyphen in various bookstore publications. Armed with that information, she asked that the board adopt a pledge to always use the hyphen and abandon the grammatically incorrect absence of it. Another board member, rising from his slumber, objected. Back and forth it went until sensing the futility of supporting the hyphen-less version, the objector crumbled and joined the side of the hyphen-ers. It was a win-win all around. I found the entire discussion so fascinating that I had not muttered, even once.
Too bad Vincent Price is dead. It would have made a great remake of the original film.
Recent Comments