Lou’s View

By Lou Bernard

There are the occasions that come and go, sometimes without anyone even noticing. And then there are the big ones that you remember—The anniversaries, the birthdays. And then there are the ones in between, where it means something to someone, but it’s not a big screaming deal.

May 24, 2022, is one of those in-between ones.

It’s been ten years for me—A decade of working at the Ross Library. I first started at the library on May 24, 2012, and at the time, I said my goal was to make it at least twelve years. I’m getting pretty close to that, at the moment, so if I can last another two, I’ve managed. (Not that I have any plans to go anyplace after that.) At the time, I’d been just turned loose in an all-new building, so I had to get busy exploring the place and learning the history of it. I gave myself something of a crash course on the Ross Library at that time.

When you talk about the library’s history, everyone always immediately thinks of Annie Halenbake Ross. Hold your horses; we’ll get to Annie. But the building didn’t begin with her. It began with Mayor Robert Bridgens and his wife, Elizabeth.

The property was just an empty lot at first, as most properties are in the beginning. I found one source that said it was used as a circus ground, which, okay, I can see the logic to that. Robert Bridgens came along, though, and bought the place.

Bridgens built the old part of the library in 1887, which made it a hundred and twenty-five years until I got there. (Now, that means the oldest part of the library just turned a hundred and thirty-five. I just had an article about this a few months ago.) Bridgens lived there for a couple of years until he died in 1890, and Elizabeth sold the place to Frank and Annie Halenbake Ross.

Frank died in 1897, giving the house an unlucky track record right from the start. Annie lived there for another decade, slightly reclusive, which I can understand. She was loved in the community, but she preferred to sit and read her books, rather than doing anything that required her to leave the house. From Main Street, she could often be seen through her window, sitting in her rocker and reading, particularly classics, a favorite genre of hers.

Annie died in 1907, and her funeral was held right about where my desk now sits. The microfilm readers are there, too, which gave me an interesting moment when I found that out. Her obit said that her funeral was held in the front room of her house, and I remember thinking, ”The front room of her house…So, about….here.”

Annie’s will left her home to the city on the condition it become the public library. City council promptly leaped into action and discussed it for three years. They appointed a committee to determine the use of the building, and the committee toured the place and decided, Nah. But then her lawyer made an impassioned plea to city council, who shrugged and decided to open a library.

The library opened on Thanksgiving Day of 1910, and there wasn’t enough space, a problem we still face a hundred and twelve years later. So they built an additional wing on in 1916, and another one in the 1950s, and another one in the 1970s. This is why, when you stand on Main Street and look at the building, part of it looks like an awesome library, and part of it looks like your grandma’s house.

And as of now, I’ve been there ten years. Trying to add to the history of this place, a little at a time. Maybe one day, in the future, someone will note that Annie’s funeral was exactly where my desk sat, and then take everyone to the brand-new wing that was built in 2036.