The Annual Librarian's Cruise

We’d like to believe that what they say about librarians isn’t true. That we’re bitter old spinsters who like to shush people all day. And when we go home at night, we get into comfy terrycloth robes and floppy bunny slippers, microwave a TV dinner, and watch political news, screaming obscenities like ‘hussy’ and ‘floozy’ at the young, blonde newscasters.

This sensitive subject came up during our annual librarian’s convention cruise. The guest speaker was none other than Harriet Stein Reed, so revered in the librarian community, that any self-respecting librarian had a five-by-seven frame of her on their checkout desk.

“My fellow librarians,” she began after the silent clapping died down. “I know you’d all like to believe that what they say about librarians isn’t true,” and everyone nodded, their long, dangling earrings bouncing against their necks. Harriet looked around the room. It was a sea of gray chignons held in place with a knitting needle. “I’m here to set the record straight.” There was a long, expectant, hopeful, pause.

“How many of you own a cat?” All hands shot up. “Two cats?” Everyone. “How many of you are considering getting another cat?” Again, we all raised our hands. “Hmm,” Harriet murmured.

She looked down at her notes. “Raise your hand if you own ten or more cardigans.” All hands went up. “Now keep them raised if you wear a cardigan in the summer.” All hands stayed up. “Okay. Keep them raised if you’ve bought a cardigan from Sears.” Since all remained raised, she said, “Okay, put your hands down.” There was a great audible sigh of relief. “Right,” Harriet said.

“How many of you have ever found a book in the wrong place, on the wrong shelf, and certainly not in its correct location according to the Dewey Decimal System, and felt like kicking something?” But as hands went up, I stood up.

“Pardon me, Ms. Reed, but that seems like a rhetorical question. That’s true every minute of every day. It’s like no one has the least bit of respect for the Dewey Decimal System! You don’t take a book on earthworms and put it back in poetry. That’s just common sense.”

A woman piped up. “Well, there’s The Humble Worm by poet Penelope Hoover! That’s a lovely poem!” and many mumbled in agreement.

“Okay, bad example,” I said. “But you get my gist. And yes, some of us actually kick something, but it’s usually the tire on our car when we leave for the day.” Exuberant nods.

Someone else stood up and we all admired her smart, gold-framed spectacles before she spoke. “I hate it when someone folds down the corner of a page for a bookmark.” Loud, audible groans.

“And when they return a book four years later,” someone else said. “Then quibble about the late fee.” There were small conversations breaking out all around the room.

Harriet Reed cleared her throat. “Quiet!” There was an immediate hush. Every librarian had this word embroidered in flawless needlepoint on a sampler above their kitchen stove.

“Now I know most of you look forward to this annual librarian cruise each year,” and there were vigorous nods of agreement. “But, did you know that a cruise ship has many fun amenities?” At this, her audience seemed flustered and confused. “I know the many trials and tribulations of being a librarian – gum stuck between pages, spaghetti sauce on the cover, doodles of ill-drawn male genitalia …”

As her audience dabbed dainty handkerchiefs at their eyes and fanned themselves with their agendas at the thought of these things, Ms. Reed continued.

“I have here an itinerary of events and many other amusements you may not be aware of!” Ms. Reed exclaimed. For example, did you know there’s a swimming pool?”

We all looked at each other. The unsaid question in all our eyes was whether or not any of us had even brought a bathing suit. But Ms. Reed was way ahead of us. “You can actually purchase a bathing suit at a very reasonable price in one of the many boutiques - for the few who forgot to bring one.” Bless her, I thought.

“Now, I know when twilight descends (we could all appreciate exquisite language as opposed to ‘when it gets dark’), you probably turn in, go to your cabins, don flannel pajamas, and settle in with a good classic.” Oh, she knew us well. “But did you know,” she continued, “that there’s a hundred things to do on a cruise ship at night?”

One woman spoke up. “I wouldn’t mind a rousing game of Bingo,” she said.

“Scrabble or pinochle would be fun,” said another.

“I hear there’s even a library on the ship somewhere, if you want some additional reading,” another exclaimed, and there were inquiries as to where this library was, exactly.

“Ladies, ladies,” and Ms. Reed sighed heavily. “If you truly wish to transform the librarian stereotype you’ve all been, and I must say, unfairly typecast into, you must embrace a little bit of change.” There were astonished gasps rippling through the audience, and some struggled to keep from fainting.

“You can start slow, work up to the more daring activities,” she said. “For example, one evening you could dress up in a pretty gown and heels and attend a Broadway play, followed by a late supper of steak and lobster in one of the many fine dining areas, then do a little slow dancing with a man to an old-fashioned orchestra, if you’re still not tired. Finish off the night by ordering something decadent like a triple chocolate truffle tart, using the 24-hour room service.”

Everyone got stuck on with a man but quickly caught up to the rest of Ms. Reed’s suggestions. Now we were all abuzz. Surely if there were boutiques that sold bathing suits, there would be others that sold pretty gowns and high-heeled shoes. And didn’t a triple chocolate truffle tart sound absolutely marvelous!

“I took the liberty of printing out some of the other things available on this cruise,” she said, pleased with the reaction. “And don’t forget all the wonderful things to explore in the ports of call.”

“We can leave the ship?” was the next question circulating around the room.

After having spent ten glorious days on our annual cruise, our group of tanned, chattering librarians began to disembark, and I noticed that all of us, in one way or another, had taken up the suggestions of our dear Ms. Harriet Stein Reed. Some were dressed in colorful moo-moos and strapless sandals, while others wore logo T-shirts and flowery shorts. Arms were laden with sombreros and bottles of red wine. There was exciting talk of having snorkeled, wind-surfed, and zip-lined. And trophies were held high for best disco dancer, rock-climber, and country-western karaoke singer. One librarian even had a man on her arm.

You can believe what they say about librarians. But the next time you see one re-shelving a misplaced book, give her a little, reassuring, silent, thumbs up.