Читать книгу Thursdays at Eight - Debbie Macomber - Страница 11

LIZ KENYON

“You may be disappointed if you fail, but you are doomed if you don’t try.”

—Beverly Sills

January 19th

Here it is Friday night, and I’m nestled in front of the television watching Seinfeld reruns and munching on popcorn while writing in my journal. I’m almost tempted to feel sorry for myself. Even Tinkerbell is showing signs of sympathy by sitting in my lap. Steve never did understand my affection for cats, but he liked Tinkerbell.

Work this week was dreadful. I hardly had a chance to deal with one crisis before I was hit with another. I don’t even want to think about the nurses going out on strike. I didn’t get home before seven once this entire week, so it’s no wonder that all I want to do is hibernate in front of the TV tonight!

The weekend’s already arrived, which means an entire week has vanished. It makes my word for the year, time, all the more significant. I’m feeling a sense of panic—a sense that if I don’t do something now, the weeks and months will slip through my fingers. Spring will be here, and then autumn and I won’t have accomplished any of what I’ve planned so carefully—travel, catching up on the books stacked by my bed, doing some charitable work, learning a new skill.

At the Soroptimist meeting last week, before everything at the hospital went to hell in a handbasket, Ruth Howe, the head librarian, talked about a program at the juvenile detention center. The librarians are taking turns reading the Harry Potter books over the loudspeaker system each night. There are only three librarians, and Ruth came to the meeting hoping to find more volunteers.

It seems she read about such a program in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spoke of the difference this had made in the young people’s lives. When she first proposed the idea here, the detention center told her there was little they could do to control noise. She was welcome to come in, but the staff couldn’t guarantee that anyone would listen.

Ruth and the other librarians weren’t dissuaded. As expected, their reception was lukewarm in the beginning, but they faithfully showed up every night, despite the hoots and hollers of protest. Apparently the disruptions didn’t last long. According to Ruth, the reading period is the only hour of the day or night when the facility is absolutely quiet. For many of the teenagers, this is the first time in their lives anyone has ever read to them.

I knew right away that it was something I’d like to do. Ruth got a couple of volunteers at the meeting, and I was tempted to sign up right then, but I hesitated…

A while back, I read something smart. The exact wording escapes me now, but I remember the meaning: I need to stop and consider my options before volunteering for something. If I say yes, then I need to think about what I’m saying no to first. In other words, if I were a volunteer reader at the detention center tonight, what wouldn’t I be doing? The answer is obvious—sitting in front of the TV watching reruns, writing in my journal and fighting Tinkerbell for the last of the popcorn.

Where would I rather be?

But after a work week like this, would I feel like trekking all the way to Charleston Street to read a chapter or two aloud? I don’t know how good I’d be. Reading to my grandchildren is vastly different from trying to entertain adolescent felons. Still, it appeals to me and is something I’m going to consider.

I’m afraid this whole year will speed by, and I won’t have achieved anything. I’m determined to make some kind of contribution to society.

When I volunteer for an activity, I’m going to do so wholeheartedly and with absolute commitment. That means I have to pick the right one…