A CHUNK OF DISCARDED CONCRETE

Sitting in front of me on a bookshelf overlooking my desk is an old piece of concrete with a broken fragment of dark green clay tile on one side and a smattering of light grey stucco on two other sides.  It’s not a piece of the Berline Wall that came crashing down in 1989 or a piece of the East Wing of the White House that Trump had demolished in 2025.  A piece of either one of those structures might be worth some money. 

This discarded piece of an old building has no international or national historical value or significance.  It only has significance to me.  No doubt it would look like nothing more than a piece of junk to anyone who might see it sitting here at eye level above my computer. 

If my kids were to come upon it after I’m gone, they might wonder what the hell was going through their mother’s mind this time when she decided to hang onto such an odd little piece of broken concrete.  That would not be a new thought for them and I must admit it’s kind of fun to leave a few things around that I know will cause them to question my thought process.  

Anyway, I have many treasures sitting around my house that could easily raise a questioning eyebrow or two, most of which have special meaning to me.  They are memory joggers.  They either gently nudge me into a relaxed state of fond memories or serve to bring to the surface recollections of past events that I might choose to include in my memoir.

A dried up old Ginkgo leaf, its yellow color greatly diminished sits shriveled and misshapen next to the piece of concrete.  It reminds me of how much, as a kid, I loved lying on the ground, looking up at the Ginkgo tree in Monmouth’s City Park.    At the time that was the only Ginkgo tree anywhere around.  Now I see them all over the place.

What made that tree special along with the way its leaves turned a brilliant yellow in the Fall was learning in school that the Ginkgo was a prehistoric tree, originating in China millions of years ago.  Its species was preserved by Buddhist monks in Chinese temple gardens.  How amazing that there was one just two blocks from my home in the tiny town of Monmouth.  Lying under that tree made me feel connected to the world in a way that I’ve never been able to describe. 

As for that concrete old chunk of junk, it reminds me of another way in which my world was expanded as I was growing up in Monmouth, and what led me to a series of circumstances that was to change the direction of my life.    

On August 6, 2022, my daughter and I drove over to Monmouth to witness the beginning of the demolition of the old Monmouth City Hall. 

While it seemed most of the people in the crowd were focused on the new city hall that was to be built, my mind was focused on the memories running through my head of the old city hall that would soon be tumbling down.  As we left the demolition ceremony, I bent down on impulse and picked up a piece of that old building.  That’s the concrete that sits before me now.

From 1922 until 1968 the city library was housed in the city hall building, and that’s where my little world really began to expand by leaps and bounds.  I spent many hours in that small one room library mesmerized by the vast amount of information that was at my fingertips. 

The city hall was located just a little over three blocks from my home, a shorter distance than I used to walk to kindergarten by myself before I was old enough to go to the library.  So, walking to the library on my own was no problem. 

As soon as I could sign my name, I was able to get my own library card.  With that library card I had access to hundreds and hundreds of books – and they were all free – provided of course, I returned them on time. 

The library became my personal haven that brought me out of myself and into a much broader world, making my everyday challenges feel small and insignificant.   

Yes, even in the golden days of the 1950’s when life in America seemed Ozie and Harriet perfect, little kids sometimes had to deal with a lot of crap.  Life had not gone the way my parents had expected, and there was a lot of frustration that was often brooding within my family.  The library was my great escape both literally and intellectually. 

It was a safe place that enlivened and nourished my curiosity.  I felt I belonged at the library, and it was there, at that tiny city library, that my lifelong passion for books and reading began. 

Throughout my life wherever I’ve lived and in whatever stage of life I’ve been in, the local library has always provided me with a grounding sense of connection and stability. 

In times of stress going to the nearest library was and continues to be my way of undergoing a mental reboot, a change of attitude.  Refocusing my attention on learning something new melts away my stress and gives me renewed enthusiasm for life.  I don’t need a fountain of youth, just give me access to a library.

There was one particularly stressful period in my life when frequent visits to local libraries not only settled my nerves but also resulted in me pursuing a new passion that spun me around, setting me on a new course that has led me to where I am now. 

During my late 40s I worked in western Oklahoma and far West Texas for RL Polk, a publisher of city directories. My job was to go into a small town of 9,000 people or less, set up an office, hire, train and supervise a crew of local temporary employees to go door-to-door updating the information that would be published in the city directories. 

Then in six to eight weeks, I’d close everything down, say goodbye, and it was on to the next motel in the next small town.  There I would start the whole process over again.  I did this for two years.  The only constant during that time was my cat, PK, who traveled with me. 

Those were my gypsy years.  Being a lone gypsy, I often had the feeling of being disconnected, of constantly being a stranger in a strange town. 

My saving grace was that every little town had a city library, like the one in Monmouth.  For some of them I didn’t have to be a resident to get a library card.  I just had to sign my name on the card. Spending time in those small-town libraries made me feel a little more at home in whatever new location I found myself. 

I began learning about the local history of each place.  I was surprised to find that learning about the location’s history made me feel even more connected to the place and its people in a way that I hadn’t felt since leaving Monmouth. 

That’s when, much to my surprise, I became a real history buff, but not the history I learned in high school.  Back then I hated history.  It was too boring to even begin to keep me awake.  I simply couldn’t relate to the stuffy old characters in history books.  But learning the history of the everyday people in small towns seemed more real, more personal, and far more interesting.  

This is when I first realized that I wanted to write about history in a way that brought it alive and made it personal for me and for others.  My newfound love of history and my love of research naturally came together in the writing I wanted to do.

At age 50 I ended my gypsy years and returned to college.  I majored in history with a double minor in women’s studies and religious studies.  I thought I could learn how to write through workshops and self-study, so I chose a degree plan that would teach me where and how to do research. 

Now here I am, after several starts and stops, sitting at eye level with that old piece of discarded concrete, writing my memoir.  Later I’ll be sitting in the same place writing about my family history, putting both into the context of a place and the history of that place. 

Lucky for me, combining personal history, family history, and local history of a specific place means many, many future trips to libraries both large and small.  There are genealogy libraries, small town libraries, state archives, university libraries and state historical society libraries, just waiting for me to dive into all that knowledge and incorporating it into my writing. 

It took me a while to get here, but as I glance up at that chunk of discarded concrete, I realize that this journey started many years ago in that little one room library in Monmouth Oregon.  So, while it may lack national or international historical significance, that ugly little chunk of personal history reminds me of where and how I started down the path I’m on today.  It inspires me to keep on writing whether I feel like it or not.  To me that piece of old demolished building is priceless.

Playing little jokes on those I love also keeps me young.  So, now that I’ve told the story behind that little piece of concrete, and why it holds a place of honor above my computer, I’ll have to find some other weird piece of junk to place somewhere in my home to keep my kids wondering about their mom’s strange habits.