The (not so) good old days of research

I have fond memories of the days when “research” meant a trek to the library with an extra-durable bookbag over my shoulder... browsing through the reference section... getting distracted or inspired by related, but not quite pertinent titles along the row... coming home to sit down to a cup of tea, a notebook and pen, and a stack of knowledge.

Nowadays, I usually just open my laptop.

That's not to say I don't miss the old way. So, yesterday, when I needed to find a book on everyday life in eighteenth century Europe, I decided to resurrect a past way of life. The sky was the brightest of blues against the remaining orange and red leaves on the sugar maples; my daughters were in cheerful, singing moods; I was full of energy. After packing a four-year-old, two-year-old and four-month-old into their carseats, my energy had only dimmed slightly, and we set off for the library. All three of us who are currently verbal sang, “We're going to the library!” in a made-up tune and the random harmonies two-year-olds singing always seems to create.

The one thing I dislike about our local library is that it doesn't have a parking lot. And apparently most of my neighbors had been similarly inspired by the weather, because there wasn't a single spot to park near the center of town. This didn't deter me—like I said, the day was beautiful, and I had come prepared with my baby sling and super-duper double stroller. I got the toddlers packed into the stroller, baby into the sling, locked the car. Forgot my diaper bag. Unlocked the car, got the bag, set down the street.

In the library, I was faced with a decision: try to keep two kids in control in the reference section, or try to wield a double stroller through the narrow aisles. I opted for the second choice...shortly regretted that when I realized that the aisles are incredibly narrow. So I sort of squeezed the stroller into one end of the 900's, sprinted around to the other side and met up with the end where my two-year-old's feet were kicking wildly.

In a New England library, there is no shortage of books on America in the eighteenth century. They don't seem to care about Europe so much. Although I found plenty to interest and distract me about other regions, other time periods, and random fascinating figures—some of which were provided my the two-year-old who just didn't take the “Don't. Pull. Books. Off. The. Shelf.” warning to heart—I couldn't find a single book pertaining to what I needed.

So we strolled to the children's section, piled out of the stroller, played for half an hour...tried to get everyone back into the stroller, only to meet arguments that they had “met a girl named Rose who needs someone to play with! She's two years old, just like Zoe!” So we gave Rose a few more minutes while my energy decreased proportionate to my children's energy increase.

Finally we were packed back up and on our way back to the car. Suddenly that lovely bright blue sky seemed a trifle too bright, and the orange leaves started to hurt my eyes. After the girls were buckled in, I began to fold up the super-duper stroller to fit it in the trunk. And I quickly realized that I don't know how to fold up the stroller—this was the first time I'd used it by myself, and somehow my husband always seemed to do the folding the other times. I squeezed the red button, the stroller collapsed—but the drink tray in front was still poking up when I tried to get it into the trunk. In a moment of inspiration I remembered, “Oh, yeah, the tray has to come off first!” but all my efforts to pull it off were unsuccessful. I tugged, yanked, pushed—stomped down on the frame while pulling the tray upwards—nothing worked. I began to get funny looks from people in passing cars, while I grumbled to myself that at least someone was entertained by this. The baby and the two-year-old were crying impatiently, and I felt that I wasn't far from such a reaction myself. I got to my knees in front of the thing, ostensibly to look at it more closely, but actually to beg God to help me figure out the blasted machine before all three girls were screaming.

Oh, look, a lever. Ten minutes later we were back home, girls were calmed, and a big glass of water did a great deal to help my pounding head.

I opened my laptop. A quick Google search for “everyday life eighteenth century europe” met with over 59 million results. One of the first was a book, which I quickly requested through inter-library loan, so that next time I just have to get the stroller up to the front desk.

This Thanksgiving I will remember to say a little prayer of thanks that the good old ways are not the only ways.