Here Back East

The Hudson Avenue Library

Last week my friend Arnie, one of my oldest pals since our schooldays in Rochester, forwarded an article to me from the local paper there. The subject was a building fire in what was once the Pulaski Library — known to me always as the Hudson Avenue library — and the subsequent plans to demolish what was left of it. The library was closed in 1994, long after I left my hometown, but the news still took me aback. It was this library that forever left me with a love for books and the desire to always be surrounded by them. It was the closest library to our home in the north end of the city, grandly situated at the corner of Hudson Avenue and Norton Street.

Once I achieved vehicular freedom on my Bar Mitzvah birthday, after Dad negotiated the purchase of my beloved Indian British racing green bicycle, I had the means to travel on snowless days after school and during the summer to the branch. It was a majestic edifice with lots of beautiful wooden walls, tables, and old-fashioned seating. I recall vividly when I received my first library card with my name embossed on it. To think that someone trusted me to borrow real books. I was only limited by what I could carry on my bike.

Today I frequent the libraries in East Hampton, Kennebunk, and Palm Beach. Recently I joined the New York City Public Library on Fifth Avenue and the New York Society Library on 79th Street. In college and law school I spent long hours in the library at both schools. Especially today as I work on my columns and research my books in progress, I seek out specialized libraries wherever I am. I have even built a library of my own at my fishing camp, to house my always expanding lifelong collection of books. It is sad that my childhood library is no longer, but it hadn’t been in use as a library for thirty years. Like local daily newspapers, so many municipal libraries have closed as the internet replaces ink and paper. But some things will never change with me. I am still library bound and look forward to my visits, if only for a few minutes when I run into the Palm Beach library to check if they received this week’s Mountain Messenger paper.