Yesterday I volunteered at Open Books. I’m becoming quite obsessed with this non-profit organization. They sell donated books to fund literacy programs in Chicago. Before yesterday, I’ve only worked in the warehouse, scanning books to be sold online for more money than they would otherwise be sold in the store and working the awesome book sale that was this last weekend. (To the book sale I donated money, as well, practically stealing 23 books and 2 DVD for a mere $30.) What I did yesterday, though, was much more Molly.
I volunteered for a one of Open Books’ Field Trip programs. A class of fifth graders made a trip to the Open Book classroom and spent two hours with me and a few of my new friends learning and writing about setting. The table of kids I was in charge of was funny and smart, much like I’m use to teaching with the kids at TT Patton. They wrote about the zoo, the Field Museum, their grandmother’s house; they wrote about places that made them very special. If I were in the fifth grade, I probably would have written about the floor space between my childhood bed and the wall. I use to lie there on my stomach for hours, reading books cover to cover or writing in the super-secret notebooks I kept hidden under my bed. Or I would have written about the 3-story tall holly tree beside my house on Elizabeth Street. I use to climb that thing to the weakest branches, barefoot, to scout out the neighborhood and pretend I was some great adventurer.
After volunteering; which of course left me with warm, feel-good vibrations that withstood my first really cold and windy (Did I mention rainy?) day in Chicago; I went on a little adventure to Old Town for some spices and stationery. When I walked into the Spice House I thought, “This would be a great place to write about. The smells, the tastes, the people—everything in this place has flavor!” Even though the day was less than gorgeous, the Spice House was packed with people, couples nagging one another to get or not get salt free spices, a man asking naïve questions to a sweet girl with four rhinestones lining each ear, and me, wondering around with a little notebook to write down all the spices I thought I might experiment cooking with. A place like that is just packed with potential—potential to make love in a pot, a cup, or a stew. I know that’s deliciously cheesy, but it’s true. You open that tall and heavy door, and a comfortable effect of contradicting smells lures you into a dream that reminds you of home cooking.
Yeah, I just got cheesier.
Back at my apartment, enjoying an afternoon glass of wine, I thought about how romantic my domestic setting was at the little round table positioned in front of a tall window, overlooking a rainy Chicago-street. For right now, this is my home. I felt really good yesterday, comfortable that this is now my reality and even though it’s not perfect, it’s not a mistake by any measurement.
And so I’m reminded of the book by that youthfully intelligent cad, Dr. Seuss: Oh, the places you’ll go!
