Rockwell Branch Library, Wichita, KS

I ventured to the Rockwell Branch Library on a mission: Mom had never seen The Force Awakens and I could not let that stand. It's not a perfect movie by any stretch, but it is a lesson that yanking the wheel away from the series creator can sometimes be a good thing. I am sorry, George. I really am. But you need to sit down and rake in your millions and just be very, very quiet. Framework stuff, sure, but NO narrative input otherwise and may God help you, NO DIALOG, or I swear one of us will drown you in the lake on Naboo.

Online searches led me to Rockwell, but after a thorough check of the shelves and the trolleys of newly-returned DVDs, we could not find it. The Very Handsome Gentleman helping me seemed quite abashed (not personally crushed, but similar to "business-sheepish") and went to the computer to figure out where The Force Awakens might be. It was indeed supposed to be there, so when he found another copy at the Linwood Branch across town, he called ahead to ensure that it was, in fact, physically there. I was charmed by the chummy back and forth between library staff; even though I could hear only one side of it, it was clear they were familiar with each other and carried on a collegial, spirited collaboration across the Wichita library system.

Having worked in libraries in the past, I will be the first to tell you things aren't always collegial, not between linked libraries, and sometimes not even within the same library. You know you've got shit leadership when departments under the same roof are backbiting and acting a fool, unashamed and unchecked. The ground level supervisors I worked with the most (at Anschutz--forget Watson, that place was a snakepit) were lovely people that make my heart all warm and glowy (turn on your HEARTLIGHT) whenever I think of them now. I won't pile on and label anyone an antichrist, but the administrative wing of that particular library could not have been more detached, remote, and whitewalker cold if they tried. The lead whitewalker had all the warmth and charm of an icespider, with an unmistakably sadistic mean streak she didn't even attempt to conceal. For all I know she's still perched up there, glaring down at the Entitled Brat Youths and doling out Ugly Memos on Feel Bad Fridays as we speak. Just saying: It doesn't have to be like that. And this doesn't just apply to libraries, folks.

The Rockwell Branch is the next-closest to where I live and is a bit larger than my neighborhood branch, Angelou. I've spent time writing there and have dropped in several times to check out books and DVDs. I adore how unapologetically 70s it is (1976, America WOO HOO, brick and mortar stars and striiiipes) although someone might want to apologize a little bit for the overall awkward shape of the thing for it does strain to earn a place on the endangered list being so blandly fugly on the outside, at least.

Rockwell definitely suffers from the mismatchy mistakes that happen over years of service, where furniture gets used and abused and broken or outmoded pieces are often replaced based on cost rather than aesthetics or even quality. The branch features every stain of wood imaginable, but most grating are the blond parquet floors that are made all the more offensive when you look up.

Rockwell, you see, has a secret. A beautiful, breathtaking, gobsmaking, heartbreaking secret: The ceiling is a wonder. A beautiful wood inlay that rockets Rockwell from a dull wallflower to an effervescent sprite. Every time I walk in, my gaze bounces away from that hideous floor and upward at the heavenly beauty above.

I don't know why the architects decided to make this one extraordinary feature inside an otherwise very ordinary library, but it has an effect. As I sat for hours, photo editing, writing, reading and rereading, my gaze would drift upward to study the ceiling. It is lovely to look at, but it is also conducive to thinking, when that's really where you need to be, instead of getting distracted by your surroundings or the people murmuring, talking, laughing and just existing in it.

For example, I am currently writing this post from the Andover public library--Andover is a small town immediately east of Wichita (we used to be separate, now we're smooshing into each other as the developments grow ever outward). This is a newer, very large library, with an unmistakable aesthetic. The ceilings are high, corrugated-looking steel, and there are sweeping, angular decorative flairs I am sure plenty of designers would find inspired.

It's hard to focus here. The lights are too bright, the noises are too piercing, and the number of workspaces available in a building this size are, frankly, lacking. By comparison, Rockwell has plenty of space and on the last day I was there the place was packed with people hustling to get projects done and check out materials before the long holiday weekend. Patrons were making noise but there was something about the environment that allowed me to get into the zone and stay there. Even when I was yanked out of my writing reverie, I fell right back into it quite easily...and often with the help of that beautiful--dare I say mesmerizing--ceiling. Weird? Weird. But also wonderful.

Another wonderful thing about the Rockwell Branch Library is location, location, location. It is in east Wichita, right next to Edgemoor park, with its sweeping hills and large trees. It delights me to do anything in this town after ten p.m. since it might as well be 2 a.m.--you have the roads to yourself and as long as you're abiding by traffic laws you probably won't get pulled over. I like returning DVDs and books to this branch on "late" night runs because the park is quiet and shadowy, and the neighborhood seems all locked up for the evening, and it kind of feels like I am out in the wilderness dropping off spy materials or something. I feel like I should be in a trenchcoat and fedora, but I'm usually in exer-pants and a pony bun.

Rockwell could definitely use some improvements, but it would be break my heart (and I would bet quite a few patrons' hearts) if anything happened to that magical ceiling. The parquet floors, however, can choke. No one would blink if someone accidentally dropped, I don't know, an ax or something on top of it. An anvil maybe. Patrons! They do the durndest things.