Malverne Public Library Blog

2010-01-13T13:18:00.000-05:00

Welcome to the January 2010 edition of Page Turners.

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October 09 Page Turners

2009-10-14T11:42:00.001-04:00

Welcome to the October 2009 edition of Page Turners.

Page Turners August 09

2009-09-10T11:21:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the 2nd year of Page Turners!

1st Anniversary Celebration of Page Turners

2009-08-11T14:01:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the August edition of Page Turners. Please join us as we celebrate our first anniversary!!

Welcome to the July 2009 show - the final show of the first year of Page Turners!

2009-07-13T10:14:00.001-04:00

Welcome to the June 2009 edition of Page Turners

2009-06-08T17:02:00.000-04:00

May 2009 Page Turners

2009-05-18T12:26:00.001-04:00

Welcome to Page Turners and a discussion on Bestseller Lists.

2009-04-07T11:18:00.001-04:00

Welcome to Page Turners 109.

2009-03-12T12:15:00.001-04:00

Welcome to Page Turners 108. Please join us in an inspiring interview with children's author Kelly Ann Lynch.

Page Turners 107

2009-02-10T15:43:00.002-05:00

Welcome to the February 2009 edition of Page Turners. We hope you enjoy the show. Happy Valentines Day!

Page Turners 106

2009-01-09T12:56:00.001-05:00

Welcome to the January 2009 edition of Page Turners!

Page Turners 105

2008-12-08T11:45:00.003-05:00

Welcome to the December edition of Page Turners! Happy Holidays!

Page Turners 104

2008-11-07T10:24:00.006-05:00

Welcome to the November edition of Page Turners! This month we discussed books and magazines that can make excellent holiday gifts. Happy reading--- and shopping!

Page Turners 103

2008-10-02T15:17:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the October edition of Page Turners!

Page Turners 102

2008-09-25T15:01:00.008-04:00

Welcome to the second episode of Page Turners, which airs on MalverneTV. (Cablevision 18, Verizon 30). This is the September Librarian recommended reads. We hope you enjoy!

Page Turners 101

2008-08-06T11:42:00.005-04:00

Pilot episode. A new show with book reviews and discussions at the Malverne Public Library.

Computer Kindergarten for Grownups

2008-07-06T14:44:00.001-04:00

Wednesday, July 30, 2008
6:30 PM - 8:30 PM
This is a slow-paced, user-friendly workshop for first-time computer users. Using PC computers, this unique class covers the basics in a way that even the most inexperienced user will understand. We will cover turning the computer on, the Windows desktop, using the mouse, opening programs, understanding windows elements, inputting text and saving a file, and turning the computer off. Windows 95, 98, ME and XP will be addressed. There is a $5 fee at sign-up. No phone registration. Registration begins Friday June 20th for Malverne library patrons & Thursday, July 3rd for non-patrons.

AARP Defensive Driving Course-Sign up Now!

2008-05-04T15:07:00.001-04:00

Tuesday, June 24th 9:30 to 5:30 PM

AARP 55/Alive Defensive Driving course is now open to Malverne Cardholders ages 50 and older. The fee is $10 and must be paid by check, NO CASH accepted. Registration begins on Saturday, May 3rd, 2008 for Malverne Cardholders. If any spaces remain, non cardholders may register beginning on Saturday, May 17th, 2008.

New Short Story by Local Malverne Author R. Duke Liddell

2008-03-15T14:18:00.004-04:00

Mr. Lucky
by R. Duke Liddell

The Old man and young boy, grandfather and grandson, stood side by side on the ancient footbridge. The man’s elbows resting on the railing seemed lost in the furrows in which his once large frame had etched over a lifetime of visits. The youngster was just tall enough to fit his tousled head beneath the top rail and like his elder, had begun his own imprint on the middle rung. They watched casually as the current pulled their fishing lines away toward the middle of the deep stream. A few quiet hours passed, with one or two bites and an almost catch, which fell off the youngsters hook just before his grandfather could get the net under the fish. More...

Barbershop Quartet

2008-03-03T16:14:00.003-05:00

Barbershop Quartet

Wednesday April 23, 2008
7:00 PM - 8:00 PM

The Long Island Express is a quartet that has been together since 1998. Their "singouts" include quartet singing a capella and harmony, joke telling and sing-a-longs. Their repertoire consists of traditional barbershop standards and a variety of contemporary songs like "Let Me Call You Sweetheart". It's lots of fun and their way of encouraging and preserving a truly American musical art form.
Sign up at the Library.

By Local Malverne Author, R. Duke Liddell

2008-01-31T13:05:00.000-05:00

Allie the Swan

According to the weather report, this past Saturday was going to be sunny, a beautiful autumn day, so I checked out my Greenbelt Hiking Guide and found that there was a singles hike in Connectquot State Park on Long Island. The instructions were to meet at ten thirty in the parking lot. From there, we would follow the trail to the fish hatchery, stop for lunch and proceed back at a leisurely pace. This walk which I’m familiar with, usually takes around three hours and affords those of us who are single, an opportunity to socialize and have some light hearted conversation, while enjoying the outdoors.

As usual, I arrived early and waited outside my car. Armed with my binoculars, I scanned the sky hoping for a glimpse of an osprey or red tail, displaying their aerial acrobatics. It wasn’t long before I concluded that something was wrong. It was past ten thirty and I was the only car in the lot. I realized, I must have gotten the date wrong and was not going to have any company, other than my own. Being in the wrong place is not uncommon for me, so I remained stoic and persevered. I picked up a map at the entrance booth and began to follow the white trail blazes northward along the eastern shore of the river, in the general direction of the hatchery.

I was determined not to waste this beautiful morning due to my mistake, but rather turn it into a bird walk—alone. This way I could spend a little more time on the trail and perhaps enjoy some new sightings. It wasn’t long before I caught up with a family of robins, who had been foraging peacefully, until heavy footed, I stumbled over some brush, sending out an alarm spurring the ring eyed thrushes some yards ahead; just enough, for them to feel comfortable with my presence. I have witnessed this numerous times when wandering through the woods. Many birds, rather then fly to another area, will move forward in this manner, until reaching the end of their territory, will abruptly take wing and return to where they were when originally disturbed.

In a little over an hour, I was crossing a wooden bridge to the west side of the river, just a few hundred yards from my destination, the hatchery. In a few minutes, I was sitting comfortably on an old bench at the end of a boardwalk that dissects the river. On the left is a dam which serves as part of an enclosed water pen, where the fully grown rainbow trout can swim about, preparing for their impending release, into the open stream.. There is a small dispenser, like a bubble gum machine, where for twenty five cents, visitors can buy a handful of food to throw to the fish; watching them leap, with mouths agape grabbing a quick meal. On the right side of the boardwalk are two low slung wooden sheds, where the new fry are kept out of harms way. Next to the sheds is another pond covered by a wire mesh that serves as protection to the fish that have achieved the size of six inches or more. Here they can swim about with impunity, while various predators, such as great blue herons and snowy egrets, land on the wood poles that hold the wire encasement in place. I watched as a great blue, balanced atop one of these poles—his large claws wrapped around the weathered wood. The gaunt faced bird stood erect, motionless, his beak cocked, harpoon like at the water, waiting patiently for an opportunity to strike the innocent prey, while his mute form took on odd shapes in the rippling liquid. His dark, cold eyes, wide, unblinking, stared as if in thought, perhaps wondering if he might find a way to squeeze his great fame between the foot square openings of this watery cage. It reminded me of the mythological Sisyphus and his impossible task.

I opened my knapsack, took a drink of water from my canteen and began to eat my favorite trail mix of raisins and roasted almonds. There was a large swan at the other end of the boardwalk when I arrived, but at first, I didn’t pay much attention, since there are swans everywhere on the river. As I sat there, I saw that the bird seemed to be looking at something inside the shed on the right side of the deck. For a minute I thought he must be watching the little fry, but couldn’t understand why, since I never knew swans to be interested in fish. Finally, my curiosity reached its limit, so I left my lunch on the bench to investigate what had this large white creature so fascinated. I moved cautiously, along the outside edge of the deck, and stopped a few yards behind the white mammoth, praying not to upset him. I had heard stories about swans attacking people when their space was invaded and I knew that I was testing that scenario. I pictured myself being bumped and pecked off the narrow walkway into the holding pond filled with trout, while the angry forty pounder beat me over the head with his powerful wings. After getting into position, I soon realized what his fascination was and why his serpentine neck was bobbing and weaving, as his yellow bill clicked off a cacophony of sounds. Like narcissus, he was entranced by his own reflection in the sheds window, which was covered inside by a black shade, that created a life-sized image of himself. His great white torso, moved with a rhythmic gyration. The dark window mimed his every movement, and undulation, never veering from the inevitable outcome. He was indeed mesmerized with his own image and I doubt that he was ever aware that I was but a few steps behind, entertained by his futile display of courtship. He continued the manic movements for some time, before I decided to go back to my bench and observe from there.

A little while later one of the park rangers came along, and so I asked, what the story of this leviathan creature was. He explained that they call him Allie and that Allie for some reason had been ostracized by the other swans, so he comes here every day and looks in the window; perhaps hoping for the company of one of his own kind. I watched for a while until he slid his formidable, feathered, frame off the dock into the water on my left, joining the adult trout. He faced me from across the pond and began to stretch his wings into snowy v shapes. Up and down they flapped, pounding the water, as he gained momentum sending his ponderous body slowly forward, like an old sea plane, whose propellers are revving up for takeoff. The unfortunate fish darted and jumped in every direction attempting to dodge the alien’s movements. Then before I could get my bottom off the bench and make a run for cover, he turned off his engine and glided softly across the water, as if nothing had happened.

“Cant he fly?” I said to the ranger, as he got into his jeep.. .

“Oh sure he can, I think he does that for exercise. Have a good day.”

“So long,” I called out as he drove away leaving me alone with Allie.

I sat a while longer watching, until it was time to head back to my car and home. As I started down the trail, I turned and took one more look at the lone white figure and wondered if perhaps, we didn’t have something in common.

R..Duke Liddell.

New DVDs @MPL

2008-01-01T14:11:00.000-05:00

A Soldiers Story by Duke Liddell

2007-10-19T14:40:00.000-04:00

A Soldiers Story by Duke Liddell

The day, August 25th, 1943, the time 1400 hundred hours, the place North Africa..

A wounded soldier lies by the roadside, propped against the wheel of his disabled jeep. Two casualties, one mechanized, the other human, both have paid the price of war. His left leg is outstretched, twisted and broken. Its mate blown off at the knee, wrapped in a make-shift bandage, slowly oozing blood into the sand beneath, while hungry flies dart about congregating on the feast of human carrion. Jealous buzzards glide above, looking down with envy at the possible repast, which for now is unattainable. Instinctively they know that time is on their side, they are patient creatures.

His mind wanders back to a few short months ago, at home on the family farm in Kentucky, where he and his younger brother would sit astride the old John Deere, plowing the one hundred acres for spring planting. His brother leaps from the belching machine into the clods of black dirt, pretending to be a paratrooper, while their dog Jesse barking with excitement, runs alongside the smoking machine, chasing the field ice who were unceremoniously being evicted from their winter habitat. He smells the perfume of the earth, as the tractor blades release the dark clumps, awakening them for another season. He recalls the cool early morning mist that would bite his cheeks and the thermos of coco his mother prepared before dawn. What he would give to return to that way of life.

Long, hard days and wonderful happy nights around the kitchen table. He remembered, how when visitors came for dinner, his father would begin tugging on his suspenders, signaling that another story was about to be told. His favorite was the one about old, Mrs. Higgins whose one legged chicken saved her blind cow from a fire. No one believed it, but everyone had a good laugh. Life was simple, there was love and most of all there was family.

He closes his eyes as a gust of wind whips the sand stinging his cheek. The tiny grains bounce off the metal, echoing sounds of miniature gunfire, reminding him of the battle that took place hours before. His rifle barrel is sunk into the sand, serving as a hanger for his battered helmet and as a crutch on which he steadies himself to adjust position.

A cigarette dangles loosely from his parched lips, glowing brightly as he takes each thankful drag, sucking in the nicotine, hoping to ease the constant throbbing. His dog-tag hangs loosely around his neck, slightly bent and covered with grit. The number 44700 U.S Army and the letter J are all that can be read. His short black hair mixed with sweat, lies matted to his head. The dark eyes that once housed the look of fear have grown dull with benign detachment.

He is not alone. Spread around him, just twenty yards from the main road in the desert infirmary lie his wounded comrades, some conscious with minor wounds. Others, more seriously hurt, stare blankly skyward from their resting places on the sandy floor, as each hour pecks away another young life. Cries of pain ring out across the arid air, calling names of loved ones far away. Harried medics move from man to man, like robots on an assembly line, injecting morphine, packing wounds, applying tourniquets, wiping brows, holding hands in final prayers Supplies are short, blankets and ponchos provide some scant shelter from the searing rays of the pounding sun. They have been here for five hours, waiting for ambulances or anything with wheels to carry them back to the base hospital in Algiers. So far, the rear command has been unable to get support to them as the war against the Germans escalates.

The Germans, led by the illusive General Rommell have taken on a super human persona, fueled by news reports of the dramatic out maneuvering of the allied forces. Dubbed by the was correspondents as the desert fox, he strikes without warning and Just as quickly is swallowed up by the rolling dunes, leaving behind a swath of destruction. He has managed to keep the allies in check, along a hundred miles of barren desert. The Americans and British troops have pushed dangerously beyond their supplies, in the fruitless attempts to catch the wily commander. This afternoon is no different, as the allied forces continue their manic drive forward, as if being pushed by some invisible force, leeching them into the arid, windswept sands. They must find and destroy this human ghost; they must kill the fox and his fast growing legend. The enemy can have no heroes.

The soldier watches the road from his lowly perch beside his vehicle, as the columns of new young, fresh faces march along. Some with thoughts of God and glory, their jaws set with determination, others think only of survival, unable to hide the look of fear; the same look that once crossed his solemn face. They know their mission is right and just, as their boots pound a rhythmic cadence along the hard hewn road. Many wave to him with thumbs up, letting him know that they will carry on where he has left off. Others glance into his dark, painful eyes, at the mutilated leg and begin to understand that he was once one of them. They look past him at the sorrowful scene of wounded dying men, then swiftly turn away, as their youthful banter drops into silence. He understands only too well that he has become their reality, their look into the future. Before today, their reality was from, “Uncle Sam Wants You,” posters and Hollywood propaganda movies, where Americans always won, bugles sounded valiant charges, crowds cheered, homecomings were beautiful and even funerals were grand. Everything was white, guns shot blanks, blood and guts were paint and props, pain was faked. Handsome actors played soldiers, beautiful actresses their sweethearts, always waiting faithfully, for, ‘Johnny to come marching home.’ With each boot step forward they begin to realize, that perhaps what they saw in the movies was no where close to the truth, but rather one big lie. Each man in his own way begins to understand, but it’s too late to turn back. Some can still hear their old drill Sergeant shouting out his familiar phrase, “Remember war is hell, he who kills first lives to kill again.” Today those words take form in the mind of many as they march into the unknown.

***

The soldier’s head jerks up into consciousness as the static from the walkie talkie crackles across open space, carrying the sound of a broken voice far away. A few feet away a medic kneels, hunched over the radio, his pleading voice desperately asking for help and supplies. He has a list of items that he repeats over again into the microphone, hoping to make sure there’s no mistake. The list is short, water, bandages, plasma, penicillin, stretches and in sotto voce, he asks for body bags. The voice comes back stating that vehicles are being dispatched from a division close by and should arrive before nightfall. After a moment the distant voice asks the medic to repeat the stretcher and body bag count. Aggravated, revealing days without sleep his reply is wavering and tense, as he watches death march through his camp. He is suffering wounds of a different kind, a kind that will bury themselves in his soul, for as long as he is lucky enough to live. He shouts into the speaker, “Thirty stretchers and six body bags.” There’s no point in being quiet, he just wants to get it done. He realizes how foolish it is to try and hide death from the dying.

The soldier tries not to listen. He reaches back into his clouded mind, to find a better place. He’s standing on the porch with Leslie his childhood sweetheart, their hands held together like two young vines. Her dark eyes look up at him with her dimpled smile, the smile that melted his heart from the first day they met. A red ribbon neatly tied, holds her long chestnut hair, as the wind gently caresses her brow. This good bye is painful, there s no more time left. In one last moment of passion he embraces her tightly, feeling the dampness of her tears on his cheek. From the street comes the blare of his buddies’ car horn, reminding him it’s time to go. He steps back taking one last look, then turns away towards the waiting car, watching her grow smaller in the mirror, as he drives away.

***

He no longer stirs to the crackling sound of the radio. His head rests back on the wheel of the jeep. There are no more drags on the cigarette, as it smolders down to the butt end, singeing his lips with its final grey ash. His dark eyes, orb like, stare ahead with an emptiness that comes with death. The only sign of life is from the reflection of the marching parade and the distant thumbs up sign, held in their glassy stare.

In a few minutes, the walkie talkie comes to life as the medic orders one more body bag for 44700.

“A Soldiers Journey” is copyrighted exclusively by R. Duke Liddell 2006/2007

The Malverne Public Library introduces NextReads!

2007-09-02T18:43:00.001-04:00

Independent Film - The Island

2007-08-02T16:23:00.000-04:00

Independent Film - The Island
Friday,
August 24, 2007
2:00 PM - 4:00 PM
Synopsis: Somewhere in Northern Russia, in a small Russian Orthodox monastery, lives a very unusual man. His fellow monks are confused by his bizarre conduct. Those who visit the island believe that the man has the power to heal, exorcise demons and foretell the future. However, he considers himself unworthy because of a sin he committed in his youth. A parable about faith and salvation, The Island combines the realities of everyday Russian life with monastic ritual and routine. Language: Russian with English subtitles. Running Time: 112 Minutes