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Oral History: H-B Woodlawn Beginnings

Arlington Voices the Oral History Collection

Interview with Ray Anderson, H-B Woodlawn Principal

It’s back-to-school season, so we're sharing a segment from a recent oral history recorded with Ray Anderson, former principal of the H-B Woodlawn Secondary Program.

H-B, as it’s commonly known, started in 1971 and spent almost fifty years on Vacation Lane in Cherrydale. This year the H-B Woodlawn Secondary Program moved to an entirely new building in Rosslyn to accommodate the growing number of students who want to attend the school.

The photo caption from the 1996 H-B Woodlawn yearbook reads, "It provides a good place to experiment and grow. It is a place where being different is not only accepted, but is the norm."

We wish all Arlington students and teachers a good start to the school year!

1996 H.B. Woodlawn yearbook, page 1.

Narrator: Ray Anderson
Interviewer: Emily Curley
Date: January 23, 2019

RA: I decided I—conventional school was too conventional for me and I was lucky enough to write up an idea, after two years, for a separate school. And in fact, I have the memo I wrote with me and in January of 1971, I commented on the racial, economic and social diversity of Arlington [0:07:00] and conditions in the schools and particularly at Wakefield. I made some recommendations about Wakefield and the last half of my memo started, “I recommend a system of rigid and closely supervised discipline.” Wow. Okay? “Since many of our present students and faculty will find that such system inhibits the learning process for them, I further recommend the establishment of a new high school in Arlington.” And then I go on for a couple of pages on what that would be.

It got passed around in Arlington, people wrote me notes and stuff like that. By March of ’71—because this is all reflecting the times, right?—the school board was having a hearing because they had three elementary schools they were closing to open the new Glebe School and they were closing Woodlawn, Langston, and Lee. Lee is now an art center on Lee Highway. Langston is still in the school system and used for educational purposes and a community center as well. And Woodlawn is now the hospice.

So I went to the school board and I gave them this memo, which is entitled, “A Proposal for an Experimental Free High School to be Created by the Arlington County School Board.” And it’s three pages long. That was kind of interesting but I didn’t expect anything to happen.

You can find Ray Anderson's interview in its entirety in the Center for Local History - VA 975.5295 A7243oh ser.3 no.425. Photo: 1996 H.B. Woodlawn yearbook, page 1. Call number: VA/X371.805 H431y 1996. Cover photo: Community Archives, Arlington Structures and Places, 1996-2006, H.B. Woodlawn, 1996, Object 933.

You can learn more about the history of H-B Woodlawn, including the new building in Rosslyn, on the H-B Woodlawn Secondary School website.

On This Day in 19th Amendment History: Mary Church Terrell

September 23, 1863

Celebrate the 100th anniversary of the 19th Amendment with stories about the people and events that led to the passage of women’s suffrage in the United States.

On September 23, 1863, renowned civil rights activist Mary Church Terrell was born in Memphis, Tennessee. A tireless champion of women’s rights and racial justice, Terrell was especially active in the Washington, D.C. area, where she lived for much of her life.

Mary Church Terrell, photo taken between 1880 and 1900, printed later. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

Mary Church Terrell was born to two former slaves turned successful entrepreneurs. Her father, Robert Church, was known as the South’s first black millionaire.

Her privileged upbringing placed Terrell among the rising black middle and upper classes who used their position to fight racial discrimination. She was one of the first black women to earn a college degree, and her studies at Oberlin College exposed her to the growing suffrage movement in the United States.

In the wake of Plessy v. Ferguson, the 1896 Supreme Court decision that upheld the constitutionality of racial segregation under the “separate but equal” doctrine, black women from across the country gathered at a three-day convention in Washington, D.C. This convention resulted in the birth of the National Association of Colored Women, which consolidated several advocacy groups into one. Terrell was elected the first president of the group at the end of the convention, serving until 1901 and coining the group’s motto, “Lifting as we climb.” As president, she toured the country giving lectures, and wrote various essays that were published in papers across the nation including “Lynching from a Negro’s Point of View,” which ran in the North American Review in 1904. An accomplished educator, Terrell made history as the first black woman on the D.C. Board of Education from 1895-1911.

Terrell was an active member of the National American Woman Suffrage Association (NAWSA), through which she developed a lifelong association with Susan B. Anthony. At the 1898 NAWSA convention, Terrell specifically appealed to the organization to fight for the enfranchisement of black women. Between 1904 and the ratification of the 19th amendment in 1920, she was active in the suffrage cause as a lecturer, writer and organizer in Washington, D.C. and across the nation. In 1904, she was the first black woman to attend the International Congress of Women in Berlin, where she delivered her speech in German, French, and English. She was a founding member of the NAACP, signing onto its charter in 1909.

In 1913, the day before Woodrow Wilson’s inauguration, Terrell led the Delta Sigma Theta sorority of Howard University in a strike organized by NAWSA in support of women’s suffrage. Two presidential terms later, she was involved in the Republican Party’s organizational efforts, campaigning for Warren G. Harding in 1919. Harding won the 1920 election, the first in which (predominantly white) women could vote. While the fight for women’s suffrage was settled, many black women, particularly in the South, remained disenfranchised. It would be decades before the Voting Rights Act overturned discriminatory voter registration laws. Knowing the fight was not over, Terrell remained a dedicated activist for the rest of her life.

Mary Church Terrell, three-quarter length portrait, seated, facing front. Harris & Ewing, photographer, taken between 1920 and 1940. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

In 1950, long after the fight for suffrage had been won, Terrell again gained visibility as an activist, this time in the fight for racial justice. That January, 86-year-old Terrell entered Thompson’s Restaurant in Washington, D.C., which was still segregated. The restaurant refused to serve Terrell and her companions. This set off a 3-year court battle, ultimately resulting in a unanimous ruling in District of Columbia v. John R. Thompson Co., Inc., which formally desegregated Washington, D.C., restaurants.

Learn more about Mary Church Terrell in “Just Another Southern Town: Mary Church Terrell and the Struggle for Racial Justice in the Nation's Capital” by Joan Quigley, available at the Library.

2020 marked the centennial of women’s suffrage in the United States. 

Everyone Has A Story: 2019 Short Story Contest Winners

Congratulations to our Winners!

We had an incredible 129 entries into this summer's Everyone Has a Story short story contest.

Now that our committee of readers has had a chance to review each one, we're excited to present the winners:

We hope that you enjoy reading them!

2nd Place Short Story Contest Winner: Jess Stork Glicoes

The High Cost of Coupons

By Jess Stork Glicoes

Many people think perfect motherhood is impossible. Piper Winterbean believed they just weren’t trying hard enough.

A mother of three, she crafted stunning organic, gluten-free bento box lunches for her two school-age children, daily. As an active member of the PTA, she single-handedly organized a successful peloton-themed fundraiser that saved organized sports in the district.

Piper accepted nothing less than perfection.

When her husband’s company transferred them halfway across the country, she accepted this challenge in much the same manner that she approached other challenges in family life: with a neatly organized spreadsheet and lots of packing tape.

Nothing was broken or misplaced in the move.

Piper knew she would continue life in her new suburb in much the same manner as her old. Forty-eight hours after moving, she attended her first PTA meeting.

“Have you gotten the grocery ads for the week?” asked Tricia, a mother of a fourth grader with a sucker permanently tangled in his hair.

Piper put on her polite smile. “I can’t say I’ve kept track of coupons in the past.”

Tricia nodded eagerly. “The regular ones aren’t worth your time of course. But the Super Saver Booklet that you can get in the mail—I reduced my bill by ten percent using that.”

Piper looked at Tricia’s mismatched socks and thought surely she could do better than that.

“There’s a website where you can request one,” said Tricia. She wrote the address on the meeting agenda and ripped it off. Her greasy fingers smudged the writing. “Every little bit helps, doesn’t it?”

Piper nodded graciously, careful not to touch the greasy print as she accepted the scrap. They both turned back to a serious discussion about what type of headgear should be allowed in toddler rugby.

The booklet arrived two days later in the mail.

At first, Piper just clipped for staples like toilet paper and bread. They needed those anyway. But the more she looked at the booklet, the more possibilities she saw.

By the end of the month, she had the bill down a hundred dollars, just by using coupons.

Piper hadn’t been this excited since she scored a deal on gourmet sushi catering for the neighborhood block party. She bought a rhinestone-studded fanny pack for the coupons, clipped together by section. She practiced extracting stacks of coupons in the mirror. A month in, she could find the latest two-for-one butter coupon in three seconds flat... without looking.

One cold November morning, she managed to corner a college student at the grocery in lane 6 with her newest achievement.

The cashier seemed confused when she hit total after scanning all thirty-seven of Piper’s coupons.

“But—how can your total be zero?”

Piper brushed a speck of dirt from her coupon fanny pack and smiled. “Double coupons,” she said. She loaded her cloth compostable bags into the cart and breezed back to the van.

Late that night, Piper was sprawled on the couch snipping coupons. Her children were all at prearranged sleepovers, armed with homemade vegan cookies. Her husband was dutifully working late. She was free to relish in her task, the coupons spread around her like a halo on the coffee table.

There was a knock at the front door.

Piper bolted upright. Had one of her children forgotten something? Impossible. She had thought of everything.

She’d made lists.

When she opened the door, the porch was deserted. A thick fog covered the street. Something skittered in the darkness. Piper stepped onto the porch and shoved her hands on her hips. She had no fear. She was a capable mother of three and she could handle dangerous situations. Like when the clown had shown up drunk to her youngest son’s birthday party.

She scanned the yard and porch and finally noticed a cream envelope lying on her welcome mat. Her name was written in calligraphy. Piper slipped the razor end of her scissors underneath the envelope flap.

Inside, a thick ivory card was embossed with the words, “your presence is requested.” On the back, was an address, a date and time. Piper suspected a prank, possibly by neighborhood teenagers. Still, she was intrigued.

So, on the allotted night, she kissed her husband and slipped out the door.

The address was a laundromat.

It was dark inside. Business hours were clearly over. But, the back door was ajar.

The hairs on her neck prickled, but she shook it off. Much in the same manner she had shaken off a promising career as a marketing executive when she became pregnant.

Light was coming from the back office.

“Piper Winterbean,” said a voice. “Enter.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’d like you to know that I played volleyball for four years in high school and I took state-approved self-defense courses with my daughter.” Her voice echoed back to her oddly from the silent rows of dryers.

She pushed the office door open.

Inside were four robed figures. Their hoods fell in shadows across their faces. Candles were arranged on the desk next to packets of powdered detergent.

Piper mentally ran through the contents of her purse. She thought she had pepper spray in there…somewhere.

The central figure in a faded grey robe chuckled. “We’ve noticed your talents.”

Piper looked around at the darkened office, the candles and the robes. Was this a swingers club? “I appreciate the flattery, but I’ve got a grocery list to plan—”

“This isn’t flattery,” said the grey robe. “This is a secret society. An ancient masterful order…”

A hand appeared from the folds of the robe. In the palm was a pair of silver clipping sheers.

“We are The Society of Advanced Coupon Clippers.”

The scissors were a thing of beauty. Perfect edges, comfortably angled handles. Piper’s hands itched to grasp them in her slender fingertips. With those excellent points—she could skirt the edge of the dotted line, avoid those clipped corners she hated so much. She could practically hear the cool sounds echoing off the blade, “snip, snip, snip.”

“You crave them, don’t you? You’re clearly a gifted clipper. That’s why we’ve decided to extend membership to you. We bend sales to our will and meet to share in the triumph of our conquests. All that remains is for you to take the oath.”

Piper would have promised anything to get her digits through those finger holes.

“Do you swear to use your powers only for the good of your family and not for personal triumph or glory?”

Piper nodded and the palm held the scissors out to her.

She snatched the proffered scissors and tested the edge with her pointer finger. Razor sharp. The weight of the blade was magnificent. Perfectly balanced.

“Bear in mind, this is not a light oath. There are consequences for your actions.”

Piper had stopped listening. She was fanaticizing about all the perfectly clean edges.

“Of course,” she said, absently.

Membership to the secret society had perks. Access to gold level store membership cards. At meetings, she learned about different apps to organize digital coupons, though she still preferred paper. Something about the satin feel of the weekly ads beneath her fingertips. Deals for platinum credit cards arrived in the mail with money back rewards.

All of the added intricacies took time, so Piper implemented a few shortcuts. She decided to give up organic foods. She realized that processed foods offered more of a challenge when it came to coupons anyway. She donated her gluten-free cookbooks to the library, leaving the stack of books late at night next to the “No Donations Accepted at the Moment” sign.

One night her husband came and stood next to the couch as Piper snipped two for one deals on toilet bowl brushes after a dinner of jalapeno poppers and mozzarella sticks.

“Sweetheart.” He paused, shifting from one foot to the next. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Inwardly, Piper rolled her eyes. She did not have time for conversation.

“It’s just—you don’t seem yourself.”

Piper had no idea what he was talking about. She shifted the piles on the coffee table. She wondered if maybe she should start working on the dining room table for more room. They could eat on TV trays instead.

He hesitated. “I’m just concerned… that you want to skip Thanksgiving this year.”

“I have too much preparation to do for Black Friday.”

“But your parents are coming to visit. From across the country.”

Piper didn’t say anything.

He took a deep breath. “Okay, maybe, you should take a break from this coupon thing for a bit.”

Piper brandished her silver scissors in front of her. The tip glistened in the lamplight. “Don’t. Ever. Say that.”

He blinked, astonishment flashing across his face. Then it was gone and his face fell flat. “Fine.” He went off to the bedroom.

Piper didn’t follow.

Piper threw herself into her task with more zeal. She cut all the distractions that had plagued her in the past. Laundry piled up in corners and behind the couch. The kitchen counters overflowed with dishes and crumbs. In a moment of clarity, Piper quit the PTA because it interfered with a weekly sale on dishwashing soap.

Later that week, a summons arrived from the Secret Society wrapped in the weekly grocery flyer.

Piper donned her own charcoal-colored hood pulled from the trunk of her minivan. It sat next to an emergency pair of travel scissors. Just in case there were instore flyers.

A circle of robed figures waited for her in the back office.

“Piper Winterbean, it has come to our attention that you quit the PTA.”

Piper made a disgusted noise in her throat. She was missing valuable shopping time for this.

Her hand shook slightly at her side. She hadn’t snipped a coupon in a full hour and she itched for the cool steel and that… snip, snip, snip.

“Piper,” the grey hood held up a flat palm. “Do not lose yourself in the glowing allure of double savings. Remember your purpose. Remember your oath.”

“Use savings only for the good of our families,” intoned the other figures in unison. “Not for person glory or gain.”

They reminded Piper of a Greek chorus she’d heard in a play once with her daughter. She’d read in a news article that knowledge of classical Greek literature had a high effect on test scores.

Her words were sharp and clipped. “Is that all?”

“If you keep drawing attention to yourself—your actions will have consequences.”

Piper threw up a hand—still shaking. “I get it. You’re scared. That I eclipsed your silly society. Maybe, I’ve outgrown you.” She finished with a triumphant smile. Piper had always wanted to say this to several people in high school. Somehow, she felt she’d finally gotten the opportunity.

She staggered out of the laundromat, grabbing her emergency scissors from the trunk. Running her fingers over the smooth edge helped her calm down a bit.

The next week, Piper threw herself into clipping with renewed vigor. She would show those idiots in the secret society. She visited five grocery stores, forgetting to pick up her kids from school. She skipped dinner to drive to a new store on the other side of town, acquiring a jumbo pack of Q-tips.

When she got home, her husband informed her that a reporter had stopped by to do a story on, “her coupon thing.” He hesitated, the piece of scrap paper in his hands with the woman’s phone number.

Piper wrenched it out of his hands.

She arranged to meet the reporter at the store, the cameraman following her around as she shopped. She slid through the aisles, checking deals out of the corner of her eye and chatting with the reporter.

“And how did you get this good at using coupons?”

Piper laughed. “Well, I’ve always been competitive at heart. Just chasing that perfect deal, I guess.”

“That must take a lot of time and effort. Is it hard on your family?”

Piper stopped with a can of cooking spray clenched in her fist. She turned a bright smile at the cameraman. “They manage just fine on their own.”

At the cash register, Piper pulled out her special money-back platinum credit card. There was a beep as the cashier ran it through. He cleared his throat as the screen flashed red.

“Try it again,” said Piper cheerfully.

The cash register beeped again.

“Do you—have a different card?” asked the cashier.

Piper rolled her eyes. Honestly, these cashiers. Enrolled in college and couldn’t even run a simple credit card without messing it up. She slid another card onto the conveyor belt.

More beeping.

She pulled card after card, until she’d used every credit card in her wallet.

An uneasy feeling was growing in the pit of her stomach.

The reporter’s smile faltered. “Do you have any cash?”

Piper didn’t. She’d stopped going to the ATM, labeling it just another waste of time.

Finally, the cameraman produced a couple of crumpled bills. The reporter’s smile was icy as she thanked Piper for the interview. Piper didn’t care. She needed to get home.

Her hand shook on the steering wheel.

On her welcome mat at home, she found an ivory envelope. Inside the card said simply: All privileges of membership are hereby revoked.

Piper shoved open the door. The mail was on the table, but there were no weekly ads. Her stomach lurched. She raced around the house, pulling open drawers and cabinets, looking for her silver scissors.

They were gone.

And so were every other pair of scissors in the house.

She couldn’t even find the emergency pair in her minivan.

Both her hands spasmed. She needed to clip. Now. She needed that clear dotted line. That neat box that made everything clear and organized and perfect in her life.

Tearing apart the newspaper, she finally found a coupon for tires at the back in the sports ads. When her husband arrived home from work, he found her hunched over the kitchen counter, her finger pressed against the dotted line like a ruler. In her other hand, a butcher knife sliced slowly down the line, just catching the edge of her finger. And around her, a stream of red blossomed against the newspaper print.

Snip, snip, snip.

3rd Place Short Story Contest Winner: David Slater

Windows

By David Slater

The window that day was smaller than usual, but I was puny back then and squeezed through headfirst with no problem. I felt that rush that always swept over me while crawling into a strange house. Like I was perched on my bike at the top of a hill, not sure if I was about to have the ride of my life or plant my face into a rough-barked tree.

Below the window, within arms’ reach, was a sturdy cabinet with a smooth marble top. I braced my hands on the cold surface, and as my feet cleared the window frame I glided from an awkward handstand into sort of a sideways flip. I landed on my feet, steadying myself against the dining room table.

A shiver went through me as I surveyed the room to get my bearings. The shades were pulled against the afternoon sun, but enough light broke through for me to see that the house was a ritzy one. The dark dining room chairs were heavy and unscratched. Even a fine layer of dust couldn’t hide the matching table’s polished shine. As I moved from the room, I slid the small, folded stash bag from my back pocket. Then I froze.

To the right of the fireplace, a man who looked to be around sixty stood unsteadily in front of a plush armchair. His head was cocked at a weird angle and he held a gun loosely in his hand.

I may have been stupid back then, but I was no fool. Many nights that year I had gone to bed thinking about what would happen if I ever got caught in one of those strange houses. I worried about the cops, worried about ending up in a juvie home. But never had I considered that I could get shot.

I stood there now, dust specks dancing around me in a beam of sunlight, and literally tried not to piss my pants. The man motioned me into the room with a jerk of his head and pointed the gun at the plump, pinstriped couch. “Sit down, son,” he said softly.

I sunk into the couch, eyeing the gun and the off-kilter look on the old guy’s face, hoping that maybe the worst that was going to happen to me was that I’d soon be in a police car.

The man plopped wearily into his chair. I remained still as a rock as he sized me up. I was slight and looked young for sixteen, and I could tell he was having trouble getting a bead on me.

He had a thick head of silver hair and a long, thin face. His nose was straight but slightly large. His tie was loosened and his stiff white dress shirt was open at the collar. I could see where it had rubbed his neck a raw pink. His black wing tips were sturdy and neatly polished. Despite the expensive clothes, he looked slightly rumpled, like he’d been up all night with a toothache.

Across the room, I saw his suit jacket thrown over the back of a stubby couch. Lots of questions ran through my mind. Why is this guy home from work at two in the afternoon? How recently did that bottle of brown liquor on the table become near empty? And how the hell did he get to the gun so fast? At this point in my life, I hadn’t been in too many houses like that, but I assumed the families who lived in them didn’t usually keep a piece in the living room.

“What’s your name, son?” When I hesitated, he added, “Your first name will suffice.”

“Richard, sir.”

“Why are you breaking into my home, Richard?”

“Well…to rob it, sir.”

He squinted at me while he decided if I was being a smartass. I wasn’t. I was nervous and just being frank.

“Do you rob homes often?”

He seemed genuinely curious, so I was tempted to tell him the truth. But of course I knew better. I said, “I swear to God, sir. This is my first time and I’m so sorry I ever did it.”

“Your first time. I guess you’ve got my kind of luck,” he said, without smiling.

I just raised my eyebrows.

“Well, if it’s your first time, then I should assume it was not you who broke into my neighbor’s house two weeks ago? Three doors down toward Donaldson Street?”

Now, let me tell you. That had been a righteous score. A kick-ass stereo, expensive watch, and $300 cash right on top of the dresser in the first bedroom I went into. We were in and out in ten minutes.

“Absolutely not, sir,” I answered.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he laid the gun on the end table and poured the remaining liquor into his glass. I noticed that his knuckles were slightly swollen and wondered if that’s what arthritis does to you.

Then he said, “You see, son, there’s a good-looking young man who lives in that house. He, too, is a thief. And he stole something that is precious to me.”

I wasn’t sure how he wanted me to respond, but I took a stab at it. “Was that thing taken from the house recently, sir? Maybe I could talk to some people I know? See if they’ve heard anything about it?” What an idiot I was.

“Oh, you could make inquiries, could you?” He looked into his glass and snorted. “No, Richard, the thing that Teasdale took from me, let’s just say he’s still in possession of…it.” He took a drink. “And I’m not, and perhaps never was.”

His eyes were unfocused and a dribble of booze slipped down his chin. He took a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and wiped his face. Then he narrowed his gaze at me.

“So now you’ve come to steal from me also,” he said, his voice rising. “Well why the hell not? It seems that everything I have is being taken by boys…”

He stared off in the distance for 15 seconds or so. I didn’t say anything. A few minutes earlier I had been afraid I was going to get shot. Now I was starting to worry about the old guy. He thinks his day can’t get any worse? I thought. Wait ‘til Dante smashes through the kitchen door. The guys in town didn’t call him “the Animal” for nothing.

And then I heard it. Not the sound of a door caving in, but a car starting up in the alley behind the house. Dante’s muscled-up Camaro.

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I tried to show no reaction, but the man’s eyes burned a hole through me as the roar of the muffler became fainter.

“You thought he was coming to your rescue?”

Why shouldn’t I have thought that? He had always told me he would have my back. I didn’t think he was someone who would ever leave me jammed up like this.

“How’d you know I wasn’t alone?” I asked.

“I might not look like much anymore, Richard, but I’m still coherent enough to know a child your size doesn’t jump through a ten-foot window without assistance.” He frowned and cocked his head. “How old are you?”

I trimmed off a year for good measure. “Fifteen, sir.”

“You have lots of nerve.”

“Sir, I’m so sorry…” He cut me off.

“Quit the ‘sir’ nonsense,” he snapped. “I meant it as a compliment. Nerve is something I’ve always lacked. Would you believe I’ve spent my whole life being afraid? Always feeling like I was ten minutes late, rushing to meetings and hurrying home from work so I wouldn’t inconvenience Margaret…” He took another sip and became quiet.

I looked past him to a large, framed photo on the mantle above the fireplace. Obviously, the guy’s family. Four of them, sitting on the front steps of a house. On the first step, a boy of around 12 and a girl who looked a bit younger. Behind them, a fine-looking tanned mother, and the man, looking probably ten years older than her, but much younger and happier than he looked now. The whole thing was like a TV ad for a life insurance company.

The old guy must have caught me staring at the photo. “Ah…you’re admiring the old family portrait? Thomas is the boy. Haven’t heard from him since I made his last college payment. And my daughter? It seems like the only chance of seeing Julia would be at one of her meetings. Children of Frigid Parents or some such…”

He trailed off, took a sip of his drink, and whispered, “Lovely girl, really. Just needs to work a few things out, she says…” Then he looked at me, sat up straight, and cleared his throat. “And Margaret? Well, I believe I told you where she is. So now you know the entire family!”

I didn’t have any clue what to say so I just sat there, scared and alone. When Dante and I had started this stuff six months earlier, I thought it was a game or something. We were a team, like a couple of circus acrobats. The way we could get me through any window with just a few precise moves was beautiful. Dante would crouch below the window – you’d be surprised how many people leave a window cracked open, or at least unlocked – and make a stirrup with his hands. I’d put my foot into it and he’d quickly hoist me up to the ledge.

And then would come that rush, better than a bong hit. It was the danger, sure, but also the unusual feeling that I was good at something, and that Dante needed my help.

Of course, by the time my head had cleared and I’d opened the door for Dante, I would want out as soon as possible. But Dante never seemed nervous. While he filled his bag, he would check out people’s bookshelves, go through their closets, try on their hats, that sort of stupid stuff.

After every job, Dante and I used to go to the Meadowlands Diner, right off Route 17. We always sat in the same booth, next to a window that even back then was made translucent by years of accumulated grease. We went there often enough that the waitress had our order down pat. Dante got onion rings and a bacon cheeseburger with a fried egg on top. He called it a “one-eyed cheeseburger.” No matter what time of day it was, I got steak and eggs with home fries. Dante never gave me any grief when I poured warm syrup over everything on my plate. But he also never had much to say to me when I tried to draw him into a conversation.

I looked again at that photo on the mantle and thought back to a month earlier, in a big house on Elmwood Place, when Dante pulled me over to laugh at a framed picture of two square-jawed brothers in matching V-neck sweaters and blazers. The older one had his arm around his brother and their similarly cocky smiles made it clear that they knew they would rule the world someday. Believe me, I never wanted to be like those guys, either. But I remember how, as I pulled away, I saw Dante’s and my reflection in the glass. He looked handsome and imposing, with his dark skin and longish, slicked-back hair. I was even trying to wear mine that way, but I looked at my reflection that day and realized it just wasn’t working. Nobody was ever going to mistake me for a young Dante. And the truth was, I already had a big brother. But he had left town two years earlier, just like my dad three years before that. And I knew neither would care even if they found out I was skipping school and getting boosted through windows by the toughest and dumbest guy from our neighborhood.

For the first time in a while, I thought about my mom, who had been busting her ass behind a receptionist’s desk her whole adult life, and always gave me her last dollar, no questions asked, without ever complaining. And as I sat there in that dark house, I realized how it was going to kill her when she found out about this whole racket I was involved in.

I could feel my eyes dampening when the man clapped his hands loudly. “How else can I entertain you, Richard? Would you like to hear the one about how I lost my desk at work today?”

“Your desk…?”

“Yes. My desk. A younger man got that, too. A desk I’d had for nearly twenty years. And my office with it.”

There in that living room, I looked up at him, and his shaking hands and his gun that he just kept picking up and putting down, and I asked myself what the hell I was doing there. I started getting dizzy just thinking about how I’d been left hanging by Dante, and about how my mom’s heart was going to sink when she got the phone call from the Lyndham police. I looked at the old man again, at his tired face and the gun he held loosely in his hand. And I really wanted to tell that poor guy how sorry I was for breaking into his house; how truly sorry I was for making such a mess of everything. But I didn’t say a thing.

He stared intently at me, and I felt like he could see right through me, see how weak and worthless I was. He buttoned his shirt and slid his tie back into place snugly against his neck, like he must have done a million times before. Then he cleared his throat and whispered hoarsely, “I don’t suppose you want to hear any more about my life, son. I’ve probably told you more than enough.”

I figured he was heading for the phone. Instead, he sent me a tired flash of a grin and said, “You’d better leave now, Richard. Just close the door behind you -- and promise me you’ll only use doors from now on.”

As I stepped off the porch, I noticed a large tree in the manicured yard. In my dreams, it’s an oak, but I don’t really remember what species it was. What I do recall is the symphony of bird song that came from deep inside it. I couldn’t actually see the birds; all I noticed were the leaves shuffling in the breeze. When the shot echoed through the open dining room window, what seemed like a hundred starlings exploded out of the tree. They cast a long shadow of shame over me as I ran.

1st Place Short Story Contest Winner: Kelton Russell

Takakura in Decline

By Kelton Russell

She knew the name was important. Through an hour on the train and another wandering the unfamiliar streets in a cold early autumn rain she held it, as though it were the memory of a dream, liable to vanish the instant it slipped from the tip of her mind. She muttered it over and over, a mantra to steel her nerves, as she found her way to the humble church at the edge of the village and knocked on the parsonage’s door.

“Makoto Takakura… Makoto Takakura… Makoto—”

The door sprang open and she jumped backwards on the rickety stairs.

“Yes?” asked the old man. He was tall, though time and toil had bent his shoulders, like a willow stooping to reach a stream. He was thin everywhere but his round, watery eyes, which reminded her of blue springs. The ends of his quilted gown flapped in the breeze.

“I’ve come for…” But when she reached for the name, it was gone. She hadn’t expected a Westerner in Japanese clothing to answer the door. “I’ve come to care for…”

“Father Takakura?”

“Yes,” she said with relief. “Can I see him?”

“Of course.” He held the door open, “Please, come in from the rain.”

Though it was as bare as a monk’s cell, the parsonage filled with a friendly warmth. She looked for Takakura as they walked to the kitchenette, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Let’s get to it then,” the foreign priest said. They sat across from each other at the Formica table, sipping hot tea and listening to the jazz spilling from the transistor radio. “What tasks can you perform?”

“I am a capable homemaker and nurse.”

“You hold a degree?”

“From the prefectural hospital.”

“I go there often.” He watched her through the steam. “I haven’t seen you.”

“My last patient required home care, like Takakura.”

“Perhaps I shall call him for a reference?”

“She’s passed.”

He paused. “I’m sorry.” There was genuine remorse in his voice. “Are you a Christian?”

“No. My mother was, before the war.”

“And after?”

“After the war she wasn’t much of anything.”

The priest studied her for a moment, before reaching for the breadbox at the end of the table.

“Well, I should like a demonstration of your skills.” He slid open the box’s accordion door and withdrew the few items it contained: a pat of butter, half an onion, and two eggs. “Do you think you can fashion something edible?”

She stared at these paltry ingredients, vexed by their simplicity, until the whisper of a childhood dish sounded in her mind.

“Yes.” She smiled. “I know just the thing.”

Soon, with the cottage filled with the buttery aroma of browned onion, she hovered beside the table, chewing her thumbnail as the priest took his first bite.

“Well…in all my years in Japan, I’ve never had anything quite like this.” He skewered another piece and studied it like a newly discovered insect. “Where did you learn it?”

“My mother.”

“A clever woman. She was your previous patient?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what afflicted her?”

She looked down at her hands. “I don’t wish to exhume the past.”

“Fair enough.” He popped the piece into his mouth. “Alright, Yoshiki. The job is yours.”

“Truly?”

“A woman who can cook so much from so little must be kept at all costs.”

“That’s wonderful!” She beamed. “When do I meet Takakura?”

“You already have.”

“I have?”

“Well, not formally.” He bowed his head. “Father Makoto Takakura.”

She froze. “You’re Takakura?”

“A pleasure.”

“But…what’s your real name?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know, the name your parents gave you when you were little and pink and new to this
world.”

“Takakura is my only name.” Something between them had changed; a bit of warmth had
left the room.

“But surely—”

“You bury your past”—his chair screeched as he pushed away from the table—“and I shall
bury mine.”

The next morning, she woke to find the cottage cold and still. Takakura, too, had changed. A
sharp stiffness had crept into his joints in the night, which made it impossible for him to rise from bed unassisted. As she worked her small frame under his arm and levered him onto his feet, she prayed his wobbling legs would not give way. The collapse of so large a frame would
leave them both shattered on the floor.

As the weeks slipped by and his health only worsened, she realized the strength he’d shown on that first day had been an act. He’d prepared for her arrival, gathering his strength about him like a cloak, but now that she was with him always, he could no longer hide his pain. Gone was the genial, energetic priest she’d known only for a day. But she stayed by his side, sponging his
forehead as she tried to not think of the last time she’d seen so swift a decay.

Her only respite came when they traveled to the city for his checkups. She hadn’t meant to snoop, but once, while the priest was changing into his paper gown, she’d caught a glimpse of his medical chart. What she saw there confirmed her worst fears. The doctor poked Takakura’s throbbing knees, told him to drink more water, and sent him on his way again.

Later that same day, as they walked through the forest behind the parsonage, Takakura told
her, “I saw you looking at my chart.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Do you know what afflicts me?”

“Fatigue, flu-like symptoms, joint pain…”

“But do you know the cause?”

“I’ve suspected,” she stared at the leaves crunching under foot, “you are a Hibakusha. A
survivor of the bomb.”

“Hibaku-sha. Explosion people. Ours is a literal language. And you’re familiar with…” He closed his eyes. “Of course,” he sighed. “Your mother…”

“Yes.”

“Had you known I was like her, would you have taken this job?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “No. I wouldn’t have. The way she wasted away… I can’t watch that again.”

He stopped. “And now that you know what’s happening to me, will you stay?”

“I don’t know.”

The trees went bare, days grew short, and Yoshiki stayed. If asked why, she couldn’t have said. Every day spent watching Takakura’s deterioration was torture, a grim reminder of her failure to ease her mother’s passing, but still she couldn’t bring herself to leave, not yet.

On an unseasonably warm November morning, Father Takakura decided it was time Yoshiki learned to drive.

“Everyone should know how,” he declared at breakfast.

“Why?” She dunked a triangle of toast in her coffee. “I’ve made it this far not knowing.”

“Only someone who’s never experienced the thrill of the highway would ask that. I still sometimes dream I’m steering a Mercedes down the Autobahn.”

“That would explain the strange noise you make in your sleep.” The toast dropped from her hand. “So, you are German?”

“No. I am Japanese, same as you”

“But you said Mercedes and Auto—”

“I have the citizenship papers to prove it.” He rose shakily. “I’ll get them right now.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Let’s go driving.”

“You want to?”

“It would be good to enjoy the weather.”

“Excellent.” Takakura shuffled towards the door, his slippers scuffing the floorboards like fine-grit sandpaper. “I’ve already borrowed the keys from Mr. Yamato.”

“Does he know that?”

“Perhaps not, but if an old priest knows anything, it’s how to ask for forgiveness.”

She learned the basics of operating the car easily enough, but when asked to try anything more complex, tempers flared. By the time the lesson was over, the only sound in the car was the squeaking of brakes and grinding of gears. But when they pulled into Mr. Yamato’s driveway and saw his toad face ripening like a tomato, they both fell into a fit of laughter.

“It would appear Mr. Yamato thinks we’ve ruined his car,” she said between cackles.

“He can afford a new one,” said Takakura. “He tithes only five percent.”

Winter made up for its late arrival. They spent a week inside, trapped by falling snow that refused to end. Cut off from his fresh air and exercise, the priest’s strength ebbed.

“It’s been so long since I’ve performed a baptism.”

“Mhhm?” Yoshiki didn’t look up from the wool socks she was knitting for him. “Baptize someone in this weather they’ll catch their death.”

“A family of lizards has taken up residence in the font.” His grin erased forty years from his
face. “I should like to fill it and give them relaxing grotto.”

“But who would you dip? You’ve picked the village clean of willing converts.”

“There is one that I’ve yet to convince.”

“Is that so?”

“You know who I mean.”

“I cannot read your thoughts.”

“It would be small. No one would know besides you, me, and God.”

“Perhaps.” She set aside her needles. “If you answer my question.”

“Which?”

“You know which.”

“I’ve told you. That life is off limits.”

“It’s only a name.”

“I am Japanese.”

“You are not Japanese,” she scoffed.

“What?”

She didn’t need to look to know she’d hurt him. She searched for a way to take back her careless words. “I only meant, that since you weren’t born here, you can’t really be Japanese.”

She was chest deep in the quicksand, her flailing only sinking her deeper. “I just mean, people here will always see you as foreign, no matter what you do.”

“My whole life, I’ve tried…” He trailed off, his face twisted with a new kind of pain.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Were you so nasty to your mother before she died?”

“What?”

“Is your cruelty what killed her?”

Now it was Yoshiki’s turn to hurt.

She couldn’t be there any longer. The cottage was too small, its walls too close. She dashed towards the door, threw it open, and disappeared into the growing storm.

The house was empty without Yoshiki. Takakura turned the radio up as far as it would go, but the blaring jazz only reminded him of her absence.

“Forget her,” he said to no one. He’d lived for seventy years without a caretaker. He could manage just find without a nurse. And he was sure she’d be back soon. The storm had turned into a blizzard. She’d come crawling back any moment, cold and contrite.

But as the sun fell and Yoshiki failed to return, he began to worry. What if she’d gone into the forest and gotten herself lost? The snow was deep enough to cover their usual path. How would she find her way back to him?

Yoshiki returned after dark with a bag of noodles from Takakura’s favorite food stall.

“I’m sorry. I had to clear my head and the weather turned nasty –”

Takakura’s chair was empty. So too was the rest of the cottage.

She stepped outside and yelled his name into the frigid night. The snow, falling softly now, had turned the whole world into a quiet room. Her voice carried for miles, but she received nothing but silence in response.

At the corner of the yard she found a single set of footprints. Slipping her own feet into the twin impressions, she looked up and saw that they pointed to the forest.

She found him under the branches of a maple tree, half-frozen and wholly incoherent.

“Ah.” One eye was frozen shut. “There you are.”

“What are you doing out here, foolish old man? Do you have a death wish?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Well you found me.” She opened her coat and pressed her chest against his.

“That’s right,” he said, slipping back towards unconsciousness. “I found you…”

“Takakura has fallen,” she told Mr. Yamato. “You have to drive us to the hospital.”

“The bottle of wine I had with dinner says I don’t.”

“Won’t you help?”

“Sure.” He underhanded the keys. “Bring it back in one piece this time.”

Takakura woke only once on the way to the hospital. “Ah,” he said blearily from the back seat. “Du fährst ein auto.”

“What?” But when she turned to look, he was already gone.

_____________________

“You stayed.”

Yoshiki awoke to find herself slumped over in a chair beside his hospital bed. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” She wanted to tell him something, that maybe she’d realized the
only thing worse than dying is dying alone, but she couldn’t find the words. Instead, she took a
jug of water and a clean bed pan from the nightstand.

“What’s this?”

“A baptismal font.” She filled the pan. “Do it quick, before I change my mind.”

“At long last.” He smiled. “But first you must confess your sins.”

“Really?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“Fine. I once stole a watermelon from Suzuki’s Grocery.”

“Anything bigger?”

“Bigger than a watermelon?”

“I meant metaphorically.”

“Oh.” She bowed her head. “I once hurt a dear friend with my thoughtless words.”

He looked up at her, his eyes for a moment clear. “You are forgiven.” He dipped his fingers and flicked drops in her direction. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. The words…”

“That’s okay,” she said, wiping the water from his hand. “That’s all I needed.”

He shifted as a new thought occurred to him. “That dish you made me all those months ago.”

“Yes?”

“My mother used to make something just like it, when I was a boy in Essen. Back when my
name was—”

“You don’t have to say,” she gently interrupted.

“But you’ve always wanted to know.”

“That’s alright.” She smiled. “I already know it. And besides, I’d rather hear about your life here.”

“Truly?”

“Of course.”

“Settle in then.” He smiled. “There’s a great deal to tell.”

He told her of his flock and the fine church he’d built for them before the war. He told her of
the first wedding he officiated, and of the last funeral—a Hiroshima Maiden who died on an operating table in New York trying to regain her stolen beauty. He told her everything he could, for hours and hours, until they both felt sleep approaching.

“You’d best go,” he said, his eyes drooping. “There’s a couch in the hall.”

“What if you need me in the night? I’d rather be here with you.”

“My vows… sharing a room…”

“I phoned the Father Superior before you woke.” Only a Christian for a few hours and she
was already lying. “He said it would be fine, given the circumstances.”

“Good.” He closed his eyes and shifted to make room for her on the narrow bed. “That is a relief.”

The room was cold when Yoshiki awoke. So, too, was Takakura. She stayed with him until the
nurses forced her to go. As she left, she stopped in the doorway to take one last look at the man named only Makoto Takakura.

His face was relaxed and finally free from pain.

Hoover Airport

Arlington has had congested traffic conditions for almost 100 years...

Cars driving on Military Road as a small plane flies in to land at Hoover Airfield, mid-1930s

In 1925, Thomas Mitten, head of the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Company, sought to begin daily passenger flights between Philadelphia and Washington, D.C. as part of the 150th celebration of the Declaration of Independence.

Finding no appropriate airfield in the District, Mitten selected a new site in Arlington to build an airfield, at the present-day site of the Pentagon. The land was just large enough for a single runway and a small hangar.

Plane flying over Military Road to land, 1935

On July 16, 1926, 150 years after the signing of the Declaration, the airfield was christened Hoover Field (after then-Secretary of Commerce Herbert Hoover) and started passenger and mail air services.

Herbert Hoover (4th from left), Secretary of Commerce, at the opening of Hoover Field with one of the three Fokker Planes of PRT Flights to Philadelphia Sesquicentennial Expo, July 16, 1926.

Hoover Field quickly became known as one of the most dangerous airfields in the country. Multiple problems plagued the field including a major road—Military Road— that ran along the east side of the field, poor visibility from the nearby landfill that burned trash, and a site that was too small to viably hold an airfield.

Hoover Airplane

Fokker F-VII Trimotor "Wilbur," operated by the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Air Service between Philadelphia, Washington, and Norfolk, VA for transportation of mail, freight, and passengers at Hoover Field, 1926.

In 1927 a second airfield named Washington Airport opened on land directly adjacent to Hoover Field. The two airfields operated jointly for a time and in 1933 they merged under the name Washington-Hoover Airport.

Washington-Hoover Airport did not yield better safety results than Hoover Field, as they had a reputation of having the poorest aviation ground facilities of any major city in the United States.

Military Road now ran between the two airfields, so airport management attempted to stop traffic on the road to allow planes to land and take off, but were fined by county officials for obstructing traffic. It took a congressional act to allow the airport to install traffic lights, but even with these lights, the road caused dangerous and confusing conditions for both pilots and drivers as seen in the first photograph.

Eventually Military Road was rerouted around the airport.

Washington-Hoover Airport remained open until 1941. With the opening of the much larger Washington National Airport (now known as Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport), Washington-Hoover was no longer needed. The land was purchased by the United States Department of War, and became part of The Pentagon’s grounds.

Hoover Airport (lower right) with Blimp Hangar and two plane hangars; Washington Airport (center lower left); Military Road bisects the two fields, mid-1930s.

To learn more about Arlington's history, visit the Center for Local History on the first floor of the Central Library.

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News to Use, September 2019

Talking Book Newsletter

Volume 1, no.1

Play the audio version of the News to Use Talking Book Newsletter

Welcome to the first edition of News to Use, the Arlington Public Library Talking Book Newsletter, produced by the Talking Book Staff at Arlington Public Library.

Meet the Staff!

The Accessibility and Collection Team is led by librarian Jennifer Lewis. Jennifer Odlum, who also manages the Books by Mail service for homebound patrons, supports the team. We apologize for the confusion of having two Jennifers on staff - it confuses our colleagues as well!

New to the team are Bridgette Wisdom and Brittany Ham. Bridgette also manages our periodical subscriptions at Central Library while Brittany is in charge of our Interlibrary Loan service. Meanwhile, Daniel Ramos, who has been helping us for over a decade, has just retired. We will greatly miss his experience, energy, patience and good cheer. Many of you will surely miss him as well. Look for staff and volunteer spotlights in future editions of the newsletter.

Blind and Low Vision Resource Group

We're happy to announce the new Blind and Low Vision Resource Group. This is our first recurring program for our Talking Book patrons and for the wider blind and low-vision community. This program will meet approximately one time per month and will feature an invited topic expert. We hope you will be able to attend on a regular basis, both to learn something new and also to connect with fellow patrons. The Talking Book staff plans to attend and we’re looking forward to meeting you in person. Light snacks will be provided.

Our first meeting will take place on Friday, October 11 at 2:00 p.m. until 3:30 pm., at Central Library.

The guest speaker will be Alex Castillo from the Department of the Blind and Visually Impaired in Fairfax. Mr. Castillo is a rehabilitation teacher and will be speaking about navigating life with a vision impairment. He will also share information on resources available both at DBVI and throughout this area.

This should be a very interesting and useful presentation and we really hope to see you there! Feel free to invite friends who are interested in learning more about this topic.

2019 Survey Results Are In

Thank you to everyone who completed and returned the survey. We had an approximately 24% return rate. We’d love to increase the participation rate next time. If you have suggestions for how we can encourage a more vigorous response, please let us know.

Results included the following:

  • On Service: 42% of respondents were satisfied with your ability to reach staff but there is room for improvement. Fortunately, you feel that we call you back in a reasonable amount of time. Some respondents thought that perhaps we did not have enough staff. Luckily, with Bridgette and Brittany joining the team, we should be well-covered. That being said, you will still likely get a voicemail upon first calling us. Our office was recently reconfigured, and we don’t have a staff member seated at the phone. But we will continue to do our best to return your call promptly.
  • On Mail Speed: There is some patron dissatisfaction with the US Postal Service. We feel your pain! It seems that mail service has improved in recent months, but please let us know if you are experiencing problems. We will continue to alert USPS when mail delivery slows, and we’ll also keep the National Library Service informed of any problems.
  • On Braille and Audio Reading Download (known more commonly as BARD): Many of you are not aware of BARD and we need to do a better job of informing you. Continue on for more information about BARD later in this newsletter.
  • On the Most Popular Genres: Not too surprisingly, the most popular genres, in descending order, are: Mysteries and Detectives, Best Sellers (Fiction), Historical Novels, Classics, Best Sellers (Nonfiction), and Biographies.
  • On Future Programs: The program most patrons indicated an interest in are presentations about low-vision products and services. Other programs you were potentially interested in included a Support Group about living with low vision, in-person technology assistance and a book club in that order.

We responded to this feedback and hope that you will be able to attend our new Blind and Low-Vision Resource Group.

Reading Recommendations from Staff & Patrons

We’re excited to tell you what we’re reading, and we’d love to hear what you’d recommend.

I recently read "Born a Crime" by Trevor Noah (DB 86608), narrated by Trevor Noah. The popular host of The Daily Show on Comedy Central, Trevor Noah tells the story of his South African upbringing.

Under apartheid, interracial relationships were prohibited and with a black South African mother and a white German father, Trevor Noah was quite literally the product of a crime. He tells the story of how he was affected by his circumstances and overcame these challenges to become a highly successful comedian, social commentator and talk show host. His narration is authentic and engaging and his story is a unique and fascinating window into life under apartheid. Be aware that there is some profanity.

cover of "born a crime"

Do you have a book you’d like to recommend? Please call or email us with a brief description of the book and why you liked it.

Download the BARD Mobile App and Get Instant Reading Gratification

The Braille and Audio Reading Download (BARD) is a way to access Talking Books immediately online. BARD gives you digital access to the complete and vast Talking Book collection. You can use BARD Express to download books using your computer and a cartridge, or you can use the BARD Mobile app to download books directly to your digital device. Talking Book staff use BARD on our iPhones to read books in the car or while taking a walk.

The BARD Website can be found at nlsbard.loc.gov/FAQ.html

If you need help, you can also call our staff at 703-228-6333. We can try to walk you through the process by phone or email. If that doesn’t help, we’ll be happy to meet you one-on-one at the library.

Stay Informed by Getting a Library Card and the Library eNewsletter

Some of you may not have an Arlington Public Library card. If you don’t read printed material, you might wonder why you would want one. When you sign up for a library card and add your email address to your account, you automatically receive the Arlington Public Library’s monthly eNewsletter, which highlights special programs taking place that month. So, if you don’t have a regular library card, consider getting one! Also remember to check the online Arlington Public Library calendar which can be found at library.arlingtonva.us/calendar

Arlington Public Library offers programs this Fall on a wide range of topics that may be of interest to you including movement classes and Aging Well workshops. Health-related programs include presentations about hearing aids, how to use digital tools to improve your health, and highlights from the latest Alzheimer’s International Research Conference.

Upcoming financial programs include topics on retirement planning and reverse mortgages. The Library offers lots of arts and crafts and maker programs year-round. Knitting and sewing are just a couple of programs in this category.

We also offer day-time movies, garden talks, and a huge number of book clubs. If you miss being around small children, there’s a Seniors and Kids Together Storytime on Tuesday evenings.

Upcoming lectures include speakers such as author Tommy Orange and political commentator Chuck Rosenberg; we also have upcoming lectures on Voting and Elections.

From Microsoft Basics to Introductory coding, technology and computer classes are a mainstay of the library, but did you know that we also offer 30-minute, one-on-one tutorials by appointment?

Remember, everything we offer at the library is free.

Here are a few programs we want to highlight:

  • Sharpen Your Networking and Interviewing Skills, presented by AARP, Tuesday, September 17 from 1:30 pm until 3:00 pm at Shirlington Branch Library
  • Reverse Mortgages 101, Tuesday, September 24 from 2 pm until 3:30 pm at Central Library
  • All About Hearing Aids, Thursday, Sept 26, 11 am until noon at Westover Branch Library

In Our Aging Well Series

  • Falls Prevention, Monday Oct 7 from 1:30 pm until 2:30 pm at Central Library
  • Pain Management with Dr. Michael Byas-Smith of the Adler Center for Caring, Monday Nov 4 from 1:30 pm until 2:30 pm at Central Library
  • Our NEW Blind and Low Vision Resource Group, Friday, October 11 from 2:00 pm until 3:30 pm

We Want to Hear from You

We invite you to be participate in the production of this newsletter.

There are many ways you can contribute.

  1. Let us know what you think of this newsletter. We welcome constructive comments.
  2. Submit a reading recommendation for your fellow patrons to read. Please keep your submissions under 100 words.
  3. Think about contributing an article to one of our upcoming editions. Do you have tips or resources you’d like others to know about? Do you have a topic on low-vision you’d like to write about? We’d love to learn from your experiences.

The Talking Book Staff is hear for you. We can help you select books, download books, register for library programs or connect you with other information you may be looking for.

You can reach us:

  • By Telephone at 703-228-6333
  • Or By Email at TalkingBooks@arlingtonva.us

And that concludes the September 2019 edition of the News to Use newsletter. We hope you found it enjoyable and useful.

Get Your Tickets for Women’s History Trivia Night

Join the Friends of Arlington Public Library and former Jeopardy! contestants for a night of fun and challenging trivia as we celebrate the 19th Amendment and women’s history. The top trivia teams will win prizes and all participants will learn a thing or two while enjoying friendly competition.

This special trivia event will be held on Friday October 18 from 7 p.m. until 10 p.m. on the 2nd floor of the Central Library (1015 N. Quincy St. Arlington, VA 22201.) Doors will open at 6 p.m.

Tickets are $30 for an individual, $160 for a table of 6, and sponsored tables are available for $350. Sponsors will receive premium seating, recognition during the event, and one free drink per person. Individuals who do not have a team will be assigned to a team prior to the event.

Beer and wine will be available for purchase from the Ballston Business Improvement District. Refreshments and hors d’oeuvres are included with ticket price.

All proceeds from this event benefit the Friends of the Arlington Public Library in their mission to support Arlington Public Libraries and strengthen literacy in the community.

Remembering September 11: Cards for Firefighters

Eighteen years ago, children from around the country showed their support for Arlington's first responders with homemade cards filled with drawings and words of encouragement.

Drawing of a red firetruck with heart on the side; child's card from the Center for Local History Community Archives.

On September 11, 2001, terrorists hijacked a west coast-bound plane taking off from nearby Dulles Airport and crashed it into the Pentagon. Within minutes of the attack, firefighters and first responders from Arlington County, Fort Myer, and Reagan National Airport arrived at the scene. Arlington County Fire Department took the lead, establishing an Incident Command System (ICS) across the Washington-metro region to respond to the emergency. Firefighters managed to get the fire under control on the first day, but it took three days to fully extinguish the fire, and reach, as Arlington County Fire Chief Edward Plaugher described it, “the heart of the crash site.”

In total, 189 people died in the attack on the Pentagon, including the 64 passengers and crew on Flight 77.

These attacks devastated our community, but support flowed in to Arlington from around the nation. Children from across the country—from as far as Washington state to as close as Arlington, VA—sent homemade thank you cards to the Arlington County Fire Department in appreciation of their efforts to fight the fire and rescue survivors.

Drawing of firefighter using a water-hose from firetruck to put out a fire from a burning building; child's card from the Center for Local History Community Archives.

The card pictured below, from a child not named, features an American flag and a firefighter putting out a fire. The child thanks the firefighters for saving lives and being there for the people at the Pentagon. This is a theme for almost all of the cards.

Child's card from the Center for Local History Community Archives.

Zack Barrett made a pop-up card thanking the firefighters for keeping our nation running.

5th grader Ryan drew a picture of a firefighter on top of a building, and thanked them for risking their lives.

Children's cards from the Center for Local History Community Archives.

These, and the hundreds of other unsolicited drawings and letters sent to the Arlington County Fire Department, are preserved in the Community Archive at the Center for Local History.

Some of the young artists and writers no doubt have children of their own today, but the emotions remain as fresh and powerful as the day they were put on paper and mailed from places like Renton, WA, Toledo, OH, Clarksdale, MS - and more locally Ashburn, VA and Washington DC.

Child's card with two yellow stars and an exclamation point that says "Stand tall America! Thank you for helping." From the Center for Local History Community Archives.

Read a detailed account of the Arlington County Fire Department emergency response to the attack on the Pentagon in the blog post, "Attack on the Pentagon - Sept. 11, 2001," published Friday, March 18, 2005 by Arlington Fire Journal & Metro D.C. Fire History.

Listen to oral history interviews with first responders and Arlingtonians about their experiences on Sept. 11, 2001, and the days that followed.

To see more of the Children's Cards, or to learn more about Arlington's history, visit the Center for Local History on the first floor of the Central Library.

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