The Fires of Ignorance

When I was in High School an injury forced me to resign from PhysEd and accept service in the school library. I learned so much: how to load the date stamps clipped to the end of the pencils; how to carefully letter the spine of new books for entry into the collection; how to shelve books in strict dewey-decimal order; and which binding glue was the happiest. You know: all those skills needed to support a library in the 1940s.

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Upper-Decker

I was dropped off early at university, a squeaky clean seventeen-year-old scholar, easily identified as a Southern California surfer dude with huaraches on my feet, knobs on my knees, and of course, a bushy, bushy blond hair do. My life now consisted of a single suitcase full of clothes, three boxes of books, an old typewriter, and a guitar (hey, it was the sixties).

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