It’s always a little strange when someone dies and you knew them well enough to be upset enough to want to cry, but not well enough to physically let the tears cleanse the hurt. You mourn them, quietly. Your heart hurts a little, but you’re not sure why. Then you remember. There’s one less great person in the world.
The head librarian at the Free Library of Philadelphia’s Greater Olney branch – Ms. Jan Kalaminsky died this past Friday. Sixty three days shy of retirement. She’d been a librarian for 38 years.
I feel awful. Awful because she was a great librarian and a great person and she will be missed. But also awful in a selfish way. You see, she was a librarian that I never got to know.
I love librarians. I’ve also had a certain reverence and awe for librarians. They’re mystical, nether-worldly creatures to me. They navigate the Dewey decimal system in ways I can’t imagine. Their biblophilia surpasses my wildest dreams.
Ms. Jan was no exception. I didn’t know her first name. Nor her last. I simply knew her as a person who loved books with a certain wild passion that I’d had as a child and am forever searching for as an adult. I knew her by her desk – which was forever strewn with stacks of books, pictures frames, plants and stuffed animals. I remember odd details. Her glasses. Her maroon sweatshirts. The day she printed out directions for me on her computer. That evening she found me that Lisa Scottoline book.
Her Harry Potter obsession surpassed my own. She was unabashed about her love for books on tape. Her cats. Broadway.
Last week, as I was rushing out of the library – she happened to be at the checkout counter as I presented the CDs I was checking out.
“Interesting selection,” she said.
I paused.
Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Across the Universe. The Sound of Music. (Also some country music I’m too ashamed to publicly admit I listen to:) )
“I love musicals,” she said. “If you’d ever want a list of recommendations, I’d be glad to make one up for you!”
“Absolutely!” says I. “I’ve been looking for someone like you to introduce me to the world of musicals.”
I could’ve stayed. I could’ve chatted longer. But time is always a’ nippin’ at our heels.
I promised her I would come back and get the list from her.
I saw her after that. A couple of times. But I was too busy.
Always too busy.
And then. I had all the time in the world. And she didn’t.
What a wonderful moment that must have been for the two of you, especially for Ms. Kalaminsky, who sounds as if she was a true “teacher”; which is to say, someone who quietly observes a “student’s” interest in a particular area, then, no doubt, without pushing, offers her guidance.
As you know, recently, I “lost” a colleague – and close friend – and that forced me to process, once again, the reality that there is no “one size fits all” way of dealing with the death of someone who was important to you. It’s overwhelming; one moment they are here, and the next moment – without fanfare – they are not. They are gone and the living are left with our silly attempts to make sense of it all.
More important, I think – judging by your words – is that you understand that 99% of those times we are “too busy” to chat, or to listen, or to simply laugh with someone else are times that are being wasted on some sort of nonsense we think is important.
I was very moved by your tribute.
Thank you Doug. I was also thinking of other folks we both knew who passed in the last ten years. I try to be a little less “busy” now.
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