{"id":1017,"date":"2021-05-03T23:06:35","date_gmt":"2021-05-03T23:06:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/english.illinoisstate.edu\/euphemism\/16-2\/?page_id=1017"},"modified":"2022-02-08T00:34:02","modified_gmt":"2022-02-08T00:34:02","slug":"the-last-little-library-located-in-little-rock-arkansas","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/the-last-little-library-located-in-little-rock-arkansas\/","title":{"rendered":"The Last Little Library, Located in Little Rock, Arkansas"},"content":{"rendered":"
Mallory Leininger<\/span><\/strong><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

The last little library, located in Little Rock, Arkansas<\/span>,<\/span>\u00a0overlooks a\u00a0<\/span>small,\u00a0<\/span>cracked blacktop parking lot<\/span>. T<\/span>he<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>few, yellow-painted<\/span>\u00a0parking lines faded from the sun and interrupted by potholes the size of moon craters.\u00a0<\/span>Wispy v<\/span>ines grow up the side of the quaint brick building and onto the A-Frame roof<\/span>, making their way under the shingles<\/span>.\u00a0<\/span>Red\u00a0<\/span>paint is flaking off the crooked windowsills that frame foggy windows, and the door sits on rusted, once brass-colored hinges that creak in protest<\/span>\u00a0when disturbed<\/span>.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The area around the last little library has been overtaken by its surroundings. A creek trickles behind the run down building an arms-length away, where the crickets sing and the frogs croak. A few\u00a0<\/span>steppingstones<\/span>\u00a0are placed to cross the creek, left by an adventurer from eons ago and leads to an overgrown desire-path that was much more defined a\u00a0<\/span>lifetime<\/span>\u00a0ago than it is now, spotted with moss and stubborn weeds. The trees in the area, magnificent oaks and maples and hickories have grown tall, taller than anyone could imagine, without the careful<\/span>, meticulous<\/span>\u00a0pruning that\u00a0<\/span>the\u00a0<\/span>dwellers\u00a0<\/span>of Little Rock\u00a0<\/span>once took\u00a0<\/span>to curb it. The fruit trees, humble plums and rambunctious cherries, drop their fruit on the ground, and the animals skitter off with the<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>fallen\u00a0<\/span>gems<\/span>\u00a0without appreciating the tree\u2019s thoughtfulness to share.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The tree\u2019s roots\u00a0<\/span>h<\/span>ave grown into each other, twisting and merging, unable to distinguish wh<\/span>ere one tree\u00a0<\/span>ends<\/span>\u00a0and another begins<\/span>. They\u00a0<\/span>tangle together<\/span>\u00a0like\u00a0<\/span>intertwined<\/span>\u00a0hands, warm and loving, and growing in tandem with each other\u2014supportive. The roots budge\u00a0<\/span>into\u00a0<\/span>and crack the foundation of the last little library, but no one takes notice.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Tallgrasses\u2014big bluestem and switchgrass and Indiangrass\u2014provide shelter for the limbless and the small and conceal what once was the entrance to the little library\u2014the last one\u2014in Little Rock, Arkansas.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Still, the<\/span>\u00a0lone<\/span>\u00a0librarian wakes\u00a0<\/span>with the sun at five am, prepares herself a bowl of\u00a0<\/span>plain<\/span>, unsweetened<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>oatmeal, dresses for the day, and curls her thin, white hair. She remembers to grab her cheaters on the way out the door, slipping them around her neck as they sit on a\u00a0<\/span>beaded\u00a0<\/span>chain.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The librarian walks the few blocks to the library and listens to the\u00a0<\/span>birds<\/span>\u00a0chirp and<\/span>\u00a0<\/span>the\u00a0<\/span>caterwauling<\/span>\u00a0of the cicadas as they start to wake with the day\u2019s growing heat. The sidewalks are barren, no one to share them with, sun bleached and crumbling<\/span>. S<\/span>he is very careful not to trip<\/span>\u00a0and fall since no one would be around to help her if she\u2019d broken her hip<\/span>\u00a0on the way down<\/span>.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Her quiet steps lead her to the library. She knows she\u2019s made it when she spots the small, unobtrusive cairn she had stacked herself, when she first realized\u00a0<\/span>how things were going<\/span>. The grass parts, a stage curtain, as she slips into the foliage\u00a0<\/span>and follows the flattened grass\u00a0<\/span>path<\/span>\u00a0she\u2019s unintentionally carved herself<\/span>, leading<\/span>\u00a0to the jagged railing to the library\u2019s door.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The library is never locked\u2014there\u2019s no need, and the librarian simply opens the door with a firm shove<\/span>,<\/span>\u00a0and\u00a0<\/span>she\u00a0<\/span>swats at the dust that rains on her head.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She trots to the checkout desk and checks the returns collection bin. There\u2019s no incoming material, as usual. Still, she sits at the counter and prepares the new books for shelving. There\u2019s only two, this year. Both about clock and watch repair.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She takes a book off the oversized, vastly vacant cart, and removes the dustjacket. She thinks it\u2019s nice she was given a hardcover, this year. The paperbacks are much harder to prepare, in her opinion. She swivels in her chair to face the lamination press and covers the dustjacket in a thin layer of laminate, for\u00a0<\/span>it<\/span>\u2019<\/span>s<\/span>\u00a0protection. Swiveling back to the desk, she opens the top drawer for the thick tape,\u00a0<\/span>distinctly different to the thin tape,<\/span>\u00a0and tapes the dustjacket to the book to\u00a0<\/span>keep them bound as one; she doesn\u2019t want them to get separated and lost, as so many have before them.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the second drawer down to her left, she gently picks a return card and sleeve from its neat, nearly full box with her thumb and index nails, which she keeps longer than her others for this express purpose. She peels the backing off of the card sleeve\u00a0<\/span>to expose the adhesive\u00a0<\/span>and sticks it to the inside of the book cover<\/span>. Careful not to bend it, the blank return card is slotted into the sleeve, and left to\u00a0<\/span>eternally\u00a0<\/span>wait for\u00a0<\/span>it\u2019s first<\/span>\u00a0borrower. The librarian brands the book with the old \u201cproperty of\u201d stamp, the ink faded. She closes the book with a soft, self-satisfied smile and switches it out on the desolate cart with the other new arrival\u2014also a hardcover, to her pleasant surprise\u2014and starts the process back over again.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

With the books prepared, she carts the books over to the 600\u2019s section and nestles the books between a book\u00a0<\/span>about\u00a0<\/span>Shetland waist knitting and\u00a0<\/span>a\u00a0<\/span>farrier\u2019s manual.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Satisfied, she returns to her desk and sits, waiting for a patron. And all day, she will sit, waiting, until the clock hits five in the evening.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The library\u2014little and the last\u2014sits stagnant. Only an o<\/span>ld<\/span>\u00a0wooden ceiling fan makes any noise. The books sit\u00a0<\/span>neatly\u00a0<\/span>on their shelves, silently, unable to beg to be opened, and collect thicker layers of dust. The library moans, occasionally, like a call for visitors, even if the logical explanation is the wasting foundation.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The history section in the back right of the library has sat unused for a handful of decades, no one perusing the shelves for women\u2019s history as it once had, books being pulled from the shelves by the dozens to be piled for further examination on the generic table directly to the right of the scant shelves.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The alcove archived magazines, newspapers, and town histories has gone unentered for longer, with no content to be added. Unfortunate, since the alcove gets the best sunlight, soft streams of light spreading over the tables like a spotlight as it sneaks through the windows.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Downstairs, the children\u2019s books have all but been forgotten.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Yet the Librarian, with her short stature and calm demeanor, sits at the desk with her hands clasped, glasses around her neck, with a smile on her face as she waits patiently.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She knows that, yes, no one will visit. There is no one\u00a0<\/span>to<\/span><\/i>\u00a0visit.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Because in Little Rock, Arkansas, she is the lone resident. Still, she remains optimistic that someone will pass through town, eventually.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

She knows that there are other<\/span>s\u00a0<\/span>out ther<\/span>e\u2014there must be\u2014as<\/span>\u00a0new books show up on the cart next to her desk\u00a0<\/span>annually\u00a0<\/span>from who-knows-where, and that means that\u00a0<\/span>someone<\/span><\/i>\u00a0will eventually visit.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

And the librarian smiles as she goes to bed with the\u00a0<\/span>moon<\/span>, excited to get back to the library in the morning.\u00a0<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Mallory Leininger   The last little library, located in Little Rock, Arkansas,\u00a0overlooks a\u00a0small,\u00a0cracked blacktop parking lot. The\u00a0few, yellow-painted\u00a0parking lines faded from the sun and interrupted by potholes the size of moon craters.\u00a0Wispy vines grow up the side of the quaint brick building and onto the A-Frame roof, making their way under the shingles.\u00a0Red\u00a0paint is flaking… Continue Reading The Last Little Library, Located in Little Rock, Arkansas<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":40,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1017","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1017","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/40"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1017"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1017\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1018,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1017\/revisions\/1018"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/16-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1017"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}