The Lady in the Library

It was a summer day with a menacing sky that threatened severe thunder storms. I’d been running errands all day and had hoped to make it back home before the rain, but lines at the post office and grocery store were longer than usual, and the tourist traffic in my small mountain town was bumper to bumper. Dropping by the public library was the last thing on my “to do” list. I was tempted to put it off, but the books that I wanted had been on reserve for more than a week.

Just as I was ready to exit the library with my books in hand, a loud clap of thunder shook the windows and the power went out. I glanced out of the windows to see the rain coming down in diagonal sheets. Lightning and thunder seemed to compete with the furious wind, swaying the electric and telephone wires. Trees waved their branches back and forth in the air, looking as though they might snap at any moment. I decided to sit in the lobby to wait out the storm. In the darkness, the library had become quieter than usual, with librarians speaking in hushed tones and stamping books.

Suddenly, I thought of the sheets I’d left hanging out on the clothesline. They would be soaking wet when I got home. Having a clothesline took me back to long, hot nostalgic childhood summers when my grandmother and I would hang the laundry in her backyard, very early in the morning, and then rush out to quickly bring them inside at the first sign of an afternoon storm. Although my grandmother had passed on decades earlier, I still thought of her almost everyday and missed her. Earlier that same day, I’d read in the paper that Hillary Clinton would be running for president, and I remembered how my grandmother was such an advocate for women’s rights.

As I was thinking about these things, I noticed a woman gazing out of the lobby doors, as though waiting for a ride. Where had she come from? I wondered. She hadn’t been there when I sat down in the darkened lobby, but then I shrugged it off. After all, I had been deep in thought and looking out the window. Her hair was snow white, in a neat coil at the nape of her neck, and she stood very straight, with her shoulders back. I almost gasped aloud as she turned around and looked at me. She bore a striking resemblance to my grandmother. Her demeanor was calm and she wore a neat little navy blue dress and a red print scarf that reminded me of something from the 1920s.

She walked over and took a seat directly across from me. The subtle scent of roses filled the air and I immediately noticed her sparkling wire-framed glasses. They were very similar to the ones my grandmother wore. I had always loved my grandmother’s glasses! Although she wore this particular style of frames long before Harry Potter was created, a child I suspected that her sparkling specs might have carried a bit of magic. Once, when I hinted at this possibility, she just laughed. She told me that someday I could have her glasses, and if there was any magic left in them, I could use it as I saw fit. When my grandmother passed away, I wanted her glasses as a keepsake but, in the whirlwind settlement of her estate, they were misplaced.

The lady and I made polite conversation and she asked if I was waiting for a ride. I told her that I was waiting for the storm to subside so that I could walk out to my car. She laughed, telling me that I sounded like a sensible young woman. I told her that she bore a striking resemblance to my late grandmother and she seemed very pleased to hear this. I also told her about my grandmother’s glasses—how she promised them to me, but they were misplaced. I also mentioned that my grandmother had been strongly influenced by the writings of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony, preeminent advocates of women’s rights. Grandmother strongly believed that women should be allowed to excel in business, hold political positions, and reap the same opportunities that were reserved for men.

“I agree with her wholeheartedly. By the way,” she asked, leaning slightly forward in her chair, “did your grandmother wear hats?”

Continued on page 2: 'Storms have a way of skipping certain things...' »