The Tragedy at Central Library

Years ago my parents owned a store on Hill Street. Every Saturday I would go downtown with them. I’d spend the mornings at the library, lunch at Melody Lane Piggly-Wiggly (Welsh rabbit, always) and the afternoons ushering at either the Biltmore or Philharmonic theaters (ushers saw the shows free).

My mornings at the library started when I randomly selected one of the painted blue, green, yellow or red lines and, like those searching for the source of the Nile, would follow one of them to my destiny for the day.

I loved the marble steps, indented from so many feet before mine. I loved the drama room where I vowed to read every play on the shelf and undid that vow before I got out of the “A’s.”

Later I worked in an advertising agency and did a column (50 years ago) for a client that allowed me again to spend time with the microfilm (and get paid for it).

Now. What can I do to help?

JOAN MARTIN

Woodland Hills