When I was 7 years old, I thought I’d found the pot at the end of the rainbow. It was the Cedar Rapids Public Library.

The building itself was dark and uninviting, like it had to keep its treasures hidden from view. That didn’t stop my sister and brothers and me. We explored every inch of the children’s section on Saturdays choosing our limit of books, taking turns with a stereoscope so we could see faraway places in 3D, listening to librarian-read stories, and checking out the bulletin boards for more free goodies. Example: we learned to play the ukulele when my sister saw a notice on the board for free lessons at the nearby Coe College.

We also learned the value of pestering the librarians. (The real name of one of them was Miss Story – it was, honest!). From them, I was able to figure out this little gem of wisdom: librarians want you to ask questions, and they will walk through fire to help you. Even if you’re a grubby little kid. Remember that! It may serve you well some day – whatever age you’re at – when you need it most.

When I was 14, I got a job as an elevator operator at a hospital near my home. I worked 20 hours a week during the school year, and full time during summers and Christmas vacation so I didn’t have time to haunt the library as much. I didn’t mind though, because I loved having a job, and I thought I was getting rich. I was making 40 cents per hour.

I was nearing the end of my sophomore year in high school when one day, Sister Eileen, the Superintendent of the hospital got on the elevator. I was concentrating on my Otis elevator-ing skills to get to the floor she wanted when she said, “Patty, as soon as you learn to type, I’m going to promote you to a job in Information Services. Would you like that?”

Would I like it? Would I like a swanky dream job as an information clerk? It may not be customary for an elevator operator, but I was floored! Dazzled! Dumbstruck! Delighted!

Dazed, I failed to realize till much later that Sister intended it to be when I was in 12th grade – the year kids in my school were allowed to take a typing class. But blissfully ignorant, I thought she meant NOW! As soon as I could learn to type! . . . And I knew just what to do.

After my shift ended, I couldn’t get to the library fast enough. I headed straight for the Business section and breathlessly told the librarian, “I need to learn to type! Do you have a book like that?”

Following what seems to be the custom of all librarians everywhere, she dropped what she was doing and steered me to a shelf of books. Together, we picked out a tall manual that included lessons, exercises and typing tests. Then she set me up for a reserved hour at an available typewriter and helped me get started. I hunted and pecked at the keys till my time was up. Before I left, she told me how I might be able to rent a typewriter from an office supply store so I could practice at home whenever I wanted. It’d be perfect!

The next morning, I called Sanford’s Office Supply store and was able to rent an Underwood office typewriter for (gasp!) $5 but for one whole week! They delivered it to our house the next day.

The next seven days and nights were an unholy marathon. I learned to drink black coffee that week. I remember my family seemed to be tiptoeing around me and my mother kept bringing me toast. Every available minute of that week found me feverishly attached to that typewriter. After the first basic lessons, the library book was designed to be stood up erect on the table so I could practice my feeble typing attempts. It wasn’t long before I realized where the expression “working one’s fingers to the bone” came from. I’m certain it came from Skill Building Typing Exercises. At the end of each exercise, I fearlessly took a “typing speed test”. Over and over. Creating a blizzard of paper which was typed on both sides.

By the end of the week, I was probably touch-typing about 20 words a minute – feebly – but with what I hoped was reasonable accuracy. The time had come to report back to Sister Eileen on my progress. Atremble, I went to her office to tell her, “Sister, I just learned to type, so I was wondering if I could start the new job now.”

After what seemed like a long pause, Sister said, “Are you saying that you didn’t know how to type last week, but that now you do?” So I explained it. I think there was another very long pause, and then Sister stood up. “Show me, Patty,” she said.

She led me down the hall to the Information office. Two women were busy at work but when Sister Eileen said why we were there, one of them carefully rolled one of their 3-part forms with carbon paper (!) into a typewriter and positioned it for me. Horrors! I had only practiced on plain typing paper. And what Sister wanted me to type wasn’t even words like “The quick brown fox.” It was somebody’s name, address, employer, insurance. And NUMBERS! Which I hadn’t even practiced!

All I remember of that nightmare scene was that the very first name I typed had an error ! ! ! Which I had no idea how to correct. I think I mumbled something like “Er, I don’t think the book explained about correcting carbon copies”.

“Continue!”, said Sister firmly. I did, all the while sure that the three people observing me were snickering at my progress, or lack of. Mercifully, that one form was the only one Sister asked me to type.

When the ordeal finally came to an end, Sister took the form out of the typewriter and studied it. “That’s it for now, Patty. Come see me tomorrow and we’ll talk about it”.

And I did. Actually, I got the job! At the time, I hoped it was – maybe – because the form didn’t look so wretched, after all. Looking back though, I think it more likely that Sister just felt guilty that I had misunderstood her offer. She had intended it for an 18 year-old successful typing student, but since I had gone to such effort “learning to type”, she followed through with what she had haplessly offered that day on the elevator. She gave me the job.

For the next two years, I must have been the happiest information clerk Mercy Hospital ever employed. And the worst typist. When I was a senior in high school, I was promoted to be a registrar in the Admissions office, but I never forgot my original good fortune — and I knew it was due to that librarian. For her interest and encouragement in helping such a naive, knotheaded kid! Who to this day has never taken a proper typing class.

That was the first – but not the last – time an encouraging librarian helped me get and keep a job. An important work carried out in our public libraries today is that very activity — helping people find work. That’s one of the tasks librarians do! Ask a librarian for help, and you’ll get it. But there’s WAY MORE GOLD THAN THAT WAITING FOR YOU AT YOUR PUBLIC LIBRARY. . .

To be continued next week . . .