Growing Up in the Library
I grew up in libraries, or at least it feels that way. I was raised in the suburbs of Cleveland, just a few blocks from the brick-faced Bertram Woods branch of the Shaker Heights Public Library system. I went there several times a week with my mother. She and I would walk in together, but as soon as we passed through the door, we each headed towards our favorite sections. The library might have been the first place I was ever given autonomy.
Even when I was maybe four or five years old, I was allowed to head off on my own. Then, after a while, my mother and I would reunite at the checkout counter with our finds. Together we'd wait as the librarian pulled out the date card and stamped it with the checkout machine ― that giant fist thumping the card with a loud chunk-chunk, printing a crooked due date underneath a score of previous crooked due dates that belonged to other people, other times.
Those visits were dreamy, frictionless (没有摩擦的) periods that held the promise of leaving me richer than I’d arrived. It wasn’t like going to a store with my mom, which guaranteed a tug-of-war between what I wanted and what my mother was willing to buy me; in the library, I could have anything I wanted.
After we had finished checking out the books, I loved being in the car and having all the books we’d gotten stacked on my lap, pressing me under their solid, warm weight, their Mylar covers sticking a bit to my thighs. It was such a thrill leaving a place with things you hadn’t paid for; such a thrill expecting the new books we would read. On the ride home, my mother and I talked about the order in which we were going to read our books, a serious conversation in which we planned how to pace ourselves through this charmed period of grace until the books were due.
When I was older, I usually walked to the library by myself, lugging back as many books as I could carry. Occasionally, I did go with my mother, and the trip would be as engaging as it had been when I was small. Even when I was in my last year of high school and could drive myself to the library, my mother and I still went together every now and then, and the trip unfolded exactly as it had when I was a child, with all the same beats and pauses and comments and daydreaming, the same perfect rhythm we’d followed so many times before. After my mother passed away two years ago, I plunged into a deep shadow of grief for a long time. When I miss my mother these days, I like to picture us in the car together, going for one more magnificent trip to Bertram Woods, during which we talked, laughed ― as if she were still in my company, giving me inexhaustible strength
36. In this passage, the word “
autonomy” (paragraph 1) is closest in meaning to “__________.”
A.vitality | B.freedom | C.inspiration | D.entitlement |
37. After the author and her mother left the library, __________.
A.they would plan to read their newly-borrowed books with feverish enthusiasm |
B.they would have a serious conversation about which book attracted them the most |
C.they would be anxious to recommend to each other the books they had borrowed |
D.they would agree on buying the books they had just borrowed if they enjoyed them |
38. What would the author most likely go on to write about in the paragraphs immediately following the last paragraph of this article?
A.One specific memory of a childhood trip to the library. |
B.The fond childhood memories of her mother taking good care of her. |
C.How her affection for going to the library has endured into her own motherhood. |
D.Why her own child made up their mind to become a librarian after finishing college. |