I can hear it! I can hear it, Pop-pop!

When I was a little girl, I couldn't WAIT for Wednesday summer afternoons. I'd gobble up my peanut-butter-and-jelly lunch, grab my books, and run out the kitchen door. I often made it to the start of the path through the woods before the screen door even slammed shut behind me. I'd scurry through the woods; my feet barely touched the ground!

As I climbed up the high cement stairs that led from the pond to their back porch, Heidi, the dashchund, would announce my arrival. Nanny would be cleaning up from their lunch, and Pop-pop would snap open a paper grocery sack, fill it, and take his keys out of his pocket as he headed out the door with his heavy load. I was always amazed at the bulging bag as I skipped out the door after him.

If it was early enough in the summer, I could still smell the pungent-sweet lilacs alongside the garage. The dark grey Studebaker would slowly back out of the garage and I would open the heavy door and eagerly hop up onto the front seat. It was long, long before the era of seat belts and airbags so even when I was six or seven, I sat up front next to Pop-pop. The short, stiff pile of the bench seat tickled the back of my legs; I'd trace my name into the fabric and then magically erase the letters with a sweep of my hand as we headed down Riverbank Road toward the firehouse.

I didn't pay too much attention when Pop-pop drove; I was too busy flipping through the pages of the books I'd soon part with. Actually, it wasn't until I was a bit older that I realized that Pop-pop wasn't a very good driver. At the end of our road, we needed to cross through a blind intersection. Pop-pop must have been thinking about his books, too; he simply drove right past the stop sign and pointed the car to the north.

As we approached the firehouse, Pop-pop would slow the car and pull to the side of the road. He'd put on the emergency brake and turn off the car's engine. I'd roll the window down just enough to catch a warm breeze but not let in any mosquitoes. The only sound was the ticking of the dashboard clock as the second hand moved around the face. We were always about five minutes early. I'd crane my neck to bring my ear up closer to the open window and listen. Hard. Pop-pop would suck on his pipe, now smokeless, and then turn it upside down over the ashtray. He'd rhythmically tap out the spent tobacco and gently place the pipe up on the dashboard. We didn't talk much, but there was certainly a routine to our waiting.

Suddenly, I'd hear a rumble in the distance. "I can hear it! I can hear it, Pop-pop!" I squealed, pulling my legs up under me to sit up even taller. Pop-pop grinned silently at me and reached for his bag. I eagerly stacked and re-stacked my books on my lap and leaned as far forward as I could to see what was coming. The bookmobile is here! The bookmobile is here! As it came into view, Pop-pop and I each opened our car door and slid out. I came around to the front of his car, and waited impatiently as the huge vehicle pulled in front of the firehouse bays and the diesel engine cut out. Then I quickly grabbed Pop-pop's hand and pulled him across the street.

We were always the first in line. The librarian lowered the folding steps and greeted us with a smile. "Hello, Kathe! Good afternoon, Colonel!" I proudly climbed the stairs, placed my books on the small circulation desk and ran to the back of the bookmobile---the children's section. Here was where I would spend delicious, Wednesday summer afternoons. . .savoring voyages to far away places where I could make new, strange friends in the pages of books.

Ah. Summer.