My world was quite limited for a good, long time. My stay-at-home mom monitored everything I ate, did, and yes, pooped. She lectured me on posture, behavior and disciplined with a heavy hand. She expected me, even when quite small, to assume household duties.

            But not my siblings. My brother, by virtue of being male, was not supposed to spend time doing chores, but rather studying. He was expected to do well in school in order to get a good paying job.

            My younger sister was allowed to be a kid, playing kids’ games and acting like an immature child. She had petit mal seizures that came on unexpectedly. She’d be in the midst of a sentence, freeze with clasped hands, eyes glazed, then unfreeze and continue on as if nothing had happened.

            It freaked me out but my mom latched onto my sister’s condition, believing it was due to having her later on in life. My mom blamed herself, her own mental illness during pregnancy. I was seven years older, aware enough that my sister was treated special, excused from all responsibility for her behavior and for helping around the house.

            My brother somehow, learned to read before beginning first grade. Considering that there were no books in our house except for the occasional magazine Mom bought for herself, that was an incredible feat. It solidified, in my mother’s mind, how gifted my brother was, and that he would go on to do wondrous things.

            My sister benefited from borrowed and gifted books that family bequeathed us once they understood our situation. I don’t recall how she learned to read, but she did.

            Me, on the other hand, did not. By the time I was kindergarten age, I didn’t know letters, numbers, shapes and the names of most of the colors. Looking back, I can’t accept blame. There were no books in our house and no one ever sat down with me and taught me any of the needed skills for success in school.

            My parents saw no future for me other than marriage, and so made no effort to teach me a thing. Except how to be submissive, shy and quietly seething.

            I never hear discussion about schooling for me, but when my brother entered first grade, my mom drove me for miles to a preschool. This was my introduction to exactly how stupid I was.

            Until that time, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. But when your classmates recite the alphabet in unison and you can’t recognize a single letter, not even the ones spelling your name, it doesn’t take a genius to understand your deficits.

            I tried my best. While the other kids met in reading groups, I sat alone at my desk tracing letters and numbers, learning to cut with scissors and coloring shapes. Sometimes a teacher would stand by my desk, but usually all that any adult did was walk by and toss more worksheets my way.

            By the time that year ended, I had learned the basics. My classmates, however, were reading primers.

            I did learn that I was a social outcast, even at that young age. After all, no one wanted to befriend an idiot, and that’s how they treated me. Like I had a contagious disease.

            I struggled through first and second grades. I am not sure how or why I got promoted. It might have been out of sympathy or maybe because that way the Catholic school would continue to receive tuition money. I did finally begin to read basic words, but not much beyond the Dick and Jane books that were popular at the time.

            Before third grade began, the principal asked to see my parents and to bring me with them. My mom stayed home with my siblings while my dad, a very stern and cold man, drove me into Dayton for the meeting.

            The principal must have known when we were to arrive, for she was standing outside the school when we parked. I remember being terrified when her black robes billowed behind her as she floated down the steps. Her habit gleamed bright white in the August sun. Her glasses reflected the sunlight, making it impossible to see her eyes. She was a frightening image for a child who was used to being ridiculed.

            I didn’t know what to expect, and from the way my dad reacted, he didn’t either. The nun bent down to the open window, rested a hand on the door frame, leaned in, and in a no-nonsense voice, informed my dad that I could not return until I had glasses.

            No one in my family that I ever saw wore glasses. I’d seen people wearing them, but didn’t understand their purpose. Except for sunglasses.

            I am not sure why, but my mom didn’t take me to a local optometrist, but rather one that was several bus rides away, into Dayton itself. I don’t recall the visit, but looking back, it probably involved reading different sized letters, just like is done now.

            A few weeks later we returned to the optometrist’s and then left with a pair of glasses on my face.

            I’d never truly seen a leaf or birds flying in the sky. I’d never seen how straight trees were, buildings were, telephone poles were. Or how flat streets and sidewalks were.

            It wasn’t until many years later that I understood that I had astigmatism that distorted my impression of the world.

            I also could not see long distance, which meant that when school began, wearing my glasses, for the first time I saw writing on the chalk board. Think of all I had missed! The letters, words, phrases. The numbers, the calculations, the solutions. Instructions in science and social studies. Anything written on that board hadn’t existed until then.

            And, now with glasses, I could consistently distinguish the differences between letters, the lines of letters were straight and I could track from one line to the next.

            I began to read, slowly at first.

            It wasn’t until my brother, now in grade five (which meant I was in fourth) had to do research for a report that I had entered a library.

I didn’t know such places existed. Imagine the look on my face when I entered the building and saw shelves and shelves full of books. Everywhere I looked, blue and red and green bindings lined the shelves. Some books faced out, revealing intriguing covers.

Because I had no idea where to begin, and because my mother stayed out in the car, and because my brother took off and left me, I stood, mesmerized, until a person I came to know as librarian came to my rescue.

She asked what I was interested in, and I told her Indians (sorry, but that’s the term we used back then). She asked why and I shared that my mother insisted she was part Indian.

The librarian took me to the nonfiction section where books on that topic were shelved. I was allowed only two books since this was my first library card.

At first, I simply perused the black-and-white drawings. But I wanted to know more, to learn what the books had to offer.

When I was allowed reading time, which was only when my chores were complete, I’d bend over the books, running my fingers along the lines of letters, trying to sound out the words.

Phonics ruled teaching back then. I never understood the difference between long and short vowels and why some words sounded different even though spelled in a similar fashion.

The library books freed me from phonics. I began to learn words, whole words. Words that imparted knowledge. Words that opened up the world to me.

Words could take me anywhere, could allow me to learn anything, at any time.

Because my brother was allowed to check out more and more books, my mom took us back to the library every few weeks. I took advantage of his permission to read by checking out as many books as I could.

I went from reading nonfiction to fiction, primarily books with horses on the cover.

From there I grabbed whatever appealed to me.

We lived out in the country. Imagine my surprise when a huge bus (which now I understand was more like today’s RVs) came down our street and parked a few houses away.

Imagine my surprise when my mom let us go check it out. And then what my eyes must have looked like when I was allowed inside and saw books galore. Being brought right to my house.

Glasses opened up the natural world for me, but the library saved me from stupidity and ignorance. The combination of being able to see and having interesting things to read instilled in me a love of books and an imagination that took me to places and stories I fabricated and tried to write down.

Once I learned to love reading, to love the feel of a book, the smell of a book, the heft of a book, there was no holding me back.

I went from not really being a student to being one of the best in my class. My grades went from pathetic to being perfect. By the time I entered high school I was allowed in the college-prep track even though, back then, a lot or girls married while still in school.

I credit the library for developing a lifelong love of the written word. Those that others have put on paper, as well as my own.

I am so proud of Dolly Parton who understands the importance of books and so donates millions of books to underserved children all over the world.

Whenever I see a Little Library in someone’s front yard, I smile, because it means that the neighborhood is offering free materials to not just kids, but to other adults as well.

I frequent my public library, taking advantage of all that it has to offer, especially if circulation has anything to do with it remaining open.

We often don’t stop to honor those that help us along the way. This is my tribute to libraries, for without the library, I might never have developed a love of learning, which I then imparted to my children, and which now is being given to my grandchildren.

Yeah, for libraries!