Swept from the corners of my mind…
I grew up in Nordale. When the one-room schoolhouse closed, we were bused to town schools. There, my friendships tended to be with other introverted book worms. There were four of us who spent time together during the week, but only Carrie and I regularly met on weekends.
Midway between my home in Nordale and hers near Riverside School stood the Prince Albert Public Library—a natural Saturday meeting spot for girls who spent more time reading than talking. Located a block west of the foot of the bridge, the two-story brick building had begun its life in 1913 as a gentlemen’s club. A short brick fence separated it from the street, protecting the stately structure with its balconies, pillared porch, marble windowsills, and hardwood floors.
Downstairs was the adult section; I dimly remember rows of books and the circulation desk. We would cross the main room to the beautifully carved mahogany staircase, climbing to the children’s section time and again, each step creaking loudly beneath us.
In a recent Museum Musings (PA Herald, April 16, 2026), Fred Payton featured the history of the old building. On April 21, Cory R. posted a Facebook video showcasing the old building and the brilliant red roof it now sports. Every time I see that stately building, my mind returns to the summer when I was thirteen.
Carrie and I often met at the library, each choosing a bag full of books—mostly Science Fiction or Fantasy. Then we would wait for our rides at Kresge’s on Central Avenue. We’d sit at the long white lunch counter, our bags at our feet, sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on the sweet biscuits that came with it. Carrie usually paid; years later, she confessed it was because she found it hilarious that I burned my tongue on the hot chocolate every single time. She had such a good poker face that I never suspected.
As the weather warmed, we switched to bicycles—more reliable transportation, since adults never seemed to understand the urgency of getting us to the library. I can’t remember what Carrie rode, but I had a slightly-too-large secondhand woman’s bike, solid as a tank, which I upgraded myself. I spray-painted the bike navy blue with sparkles and added friction-powered lights that ran off a small generator that could be flipped against the front tire. The faster you pedaled, the brighter they shone, casting a small circle about six feet ahead. The taillight clamped near the back tire, connected by a thin wire. The final glory was a silver wire basket sturdy enough to safely hold a full bag of books while bouncing over tracks and gravel. Carrie, lacking a basket, made do with a backpack or swinging the bag on her handlebars.
Both prolific readers tried to visit the library as often as we could over the summer, including one steaming hot day when the heat released that familiar scent of old books and older building. Even inside, it was too warm. After gathering our next treasure trove, we decided to skip hot chocolate and instead bike to Safeway in the South Hill Mall to buy a watermelon.
We slowly climbed Second Avenue under the relentless sun, cursing our gearless bikes and lack of hats. Each pedal required standing up, leaning forward, and forcing the crank downward against the steep incline. Our calves burned. Between gasps, we spoke of how delicious the watermelon would be. With every yard gained, the anticipation grew sweeter.
Reaching the top was glorious. We sped to Safeway, where a display of watermelons greeted our hungry eyes. We examined them carefully—thumping for resonance, checking for yellow spots, hefting each one—until we agreed on the perfect candidate. We pooled our money and purchased our prize.
Outside, we faced a new challenge: how to get both the watermelon and our books down the hill. Eventually, the books were crammed into Carrie’s backpack, and the watermelon was wedged into my basket.
After mounting—requiring the usual hop and awkward bum wiggle due to my bike’s oversized frame—we set off, guiding the heavy basket down Second Avenue. Traffic was light, the sun hot on our faces, and soon we gave in to the temptation to coast faster and faster, relishing the breeze.
Then, as now, Second Avenue was riddled with potholes. I avoided most of them, but about three-quarters of the way down, my front tire struck one. The handlebars jerked sharply; the tire jammed and skidded sideways. The green globe began to bounce. My sturdy blue steed tilted—and crashed. I clung on as my knees scraped across the pavement.
The watermelon, alas, did not fare as well.
There we were: two young teens, bikes flung beside us, halfway down Second Avenue, surrounded by the gory remains of our prize. The melon had shattered like Humpty Dumpty, its coral flesh glistening in the summer sun. Bits of ruby-red pulp lay scattered in a ten-foot radius, clinging to mottled green rind or lying loose in a sticky pool. Cars bound for the lake crept cautiously past.
Resolutely, we each ate a few chunks – just to say we had – but our dreams of a perfect summer treat were as broken as the fruit itself.
Wordlessly, we gathered what fragments we could salvage, tossing them back into the basket. Most of our prize lay ruined on the hot pavement. We remounted and carefully coasted the rest of the way down the hill.
We had spent all our money. I had skinned knees and a slightly bent wheel. We were hot, sticky, and left with nothing but a basket of pulpy scraps where our longed-for treat had been. At least our books were intact.
And then we realized—we hadn’t brought a knife to cut the watermelon in the first place.
Cathy Bendle finds humour in the quirks of everyday life, from training teachers to dodging housework. When not writing, she’s either laughing at her pets, frantically Googling for her work assignments, or playing on her iPad. Her column appears every other Wednesday.
