"MOD"ernizing Library Service: Pennsylvania's Experiment with Books by Mail

Many people my age and older fondly remember Sears's Wish Book, Columbia House's Record/Cassette/CD Club, and other entities that marketed themselves by sending printed catalogs of their products to potential customers. In the days before big box stores and Amazon.com, catalogs enabled everyone to learn about this season's styles and hot new music, regardless of whether our communities could support bricks-and-mortar clothing or record stores. Backed up by the U.S. Postal Service, which delivered orders directly to everyone's doors, catalog companies also enabled us to obtain desired items regardless of whether we had access to transportation. So, for anyone who felt constrained by the limited shopping available in their home towns -- including me! -- companies that reached you with their catalogs freed you. 

With such thoughts in mind, it was fascinating to learn about a books-by-mail program that the State Library of Pennsylvania initiated in the early 1970s: the Mail Order Delivery Library Service (MODLS). Oddly enough, I first heard about it through a folder of correspondence in the office files of the Montgomery County - Norristown Public Library. It wouldn't seem that MCNPL, a well-established library system in the Philadelphia suburbs, would be a involved with a program that targeted people living in rural areas. However, Pearl Frankenfield, MCNPL's director, was well-connected with colleagues at the State Library and was motivated by MODLS potential to reach home-bound elders and people with disabilities. Thankfully, she kept tabs on the project through its 3-year lifespan and retained some documentation.

As I describe in my book about the early history of Pennsylvania libraries, our state has long been challenged in providing reading materials to our large and far-flung rural population. In fact, from the late 1890s through the early 1920s, the Pennsylvania Free Library Commission, operating out of the State Library, loaned "traveling libraries" (portable wooden cases of preselected books) to boroughs, townships, and villages with fewer than 1,000 residents, asking only that the communities pay for shipping costs and that responsible people take charge of circulating and returning the items. So, the idea of mailing library books wasn't entirely new to us. Yet traveling libraries faded in importance as Pennsylvania's road system developed and it was believed that bookmobile services would be the answer to reaching isolated residents. As the 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s unfolded, however, some counties never developed library systems., Also, in sparsely-populated areas, bookmobile stops proved too costly for the small numbers of people that congregated. Thus, by the 1970s, thousands of Pennsylvania residents did not have reasonable library access and forward-thinking practitioners like Pearl Frankenfield were looking for a different approach.

According to a June 1971 memo sent by Marvin W. Mounce, then Director of the State Library's Bureau of Library Development, previous studies of library service in Pennsylvania had suggested mail-order as a possibility to explore. Thus, in Spring 1970, when BLD staff had noticed an uptick in the professional literature about it, they decided to compile further information and present it at a meeting of District Library Center staff to obtain their feedback. At the time, efforts in Kansas, Michigan, and Washington State seemed to be pathbreakers, while a program operated by the Wyoming County Library System in Avon, New York, appeared to incorporate the most helpful elements of the earlier ones. A follow-up questionnaire to the District Library Centers indicated that the majority favored a centralized (rather than decentralized) project, and that 7 centers would be able to participate if the program began in September 1971. Mounce tapped Theresa Nagle, a BLD employee who had gathered published information and had visited the Michigan project, to begin to organize Pennsylvania's service. Harrisburg was chosen as the headquarters due to its mid-state location and mailing facilities.

Other documents in MCNPL's office files provide further details about the project's planning stages. For example, minutes of a planning meeting that took place in January 1971 indicate that an important question that District Center Librarians and BLD staff discussed was whether their objective should be to stimulate library funding/establishment in areas where there was none, or whether the program should extend scanty library services that already existed. A related question was how the state's service should interact with existing libraries. Should mail order try to drum up interest in district, county, and/or local library use by promoting it within publicity about the mail order program? While the answers aren't crystal-clear from the minutes, it appears that BLD wasn't interested in getting credit, or in mail-order becoming a permanent State Library function. 

Unsurprisingly, MODLS was developed as a "demonstration" project -- a temporary, experimental effort that would begin with a few selected counties to determine whether statewide service was feasible. It was funded through a 2-year, $164,000 Library Services and Construction Act grant, with the Lebanon County Library acting as the fiscal agent. This financial support enabled MODLS to rent its 4,400 square-foot space in Harrisburg, about half of which was used for book storage, while the rest housed work areas, catalogs and supplies. 

Similar to Wyoming County, New York's books-by-mail service, MODLS compiled, printed, and distributed a catalog that listed, described, and pictured titles that users could request. Alas, MCNPL doesn't have a copy -- I would love to find one! Nevertheless, correspondence in MCNPL's files indicates that its children's librarian, Marian Peck, worked with BLD on developing the children's portion of the catalog, and that two librarians from Lebanon, Curtis Moore and Robert Marks, hammered out the offerings for adults and young adults. According to an undated letter from Therese Nagle to Pearl Frankenfield, likely written in May or June 1971, the first mail order catalog was intended to have 1,600 paperback titles -- about 500 for kids and 1,100 for adults. Nagle was especially interested in Frankenfield's advice on which titles to buy. She asked Frankfield to look over Peck's, Moore's, and Marks's work, recommend alternative titles, and mark whether items should be purchased in duplicates of 20-25, 40-50, or 70 copies, depending on their anticipated popularity. 

Fortunately, MCNPL's files also contain reports written in January 1972, March 1972, and October 1973 by William J. Mick, who became MODLS's administrator. From these accounts, one can glean further details about the the catalog, including that it was 64 pages long and 8 1/2 x 11" in size. Tucked inside the centerfold were tear-out postcards that customers used to request books. The catalogs, which cost about 25 cents each to produce, were paid for by the counties participating in the project, while LSCA funded staffs, books, and postage. Fulfilled orders were sent in "jiffy" bags that contained requested titles, return mailing labels, stamps, and even strips of tape so that customers could re-use the bags that the books had arrived in. In Winter 1971, MODLS mailed about 20,000 catalogs to residents in 8 counties: Bedford, Blair, Crawford, Erie, Fulton, Huntingdon, Lebanon, and Potter. Within just 3 days, they placed more than 600 orders!

Mick's reports also offer a clear rendering of how MODLS worked. As of March 1972, there was 1 professional employee (probably Mick himself), 3 full-time clerical employees, and one part-time clerk. They had established a well-organized book warehouse and efficient work procedures, though he  worried the operation was running out of space. MODLS been sending books for 3 months by that point, and it was filling 600-700 orders per week. At the time, Lebanon was the heaviest user, racking up more than 4,000 orders and nearly 13,000 books mailed between December 1971 and March 1972. That said, MODLS was apparently willing to honor requests from residents in any location, even from counties that weren't "officially" involved in the project. One clerk focused entirely on handling returned items, which arrived each day in 4-8 large "mail sacks." Mick noted that while many books were past their four-week due date, nearly every book was returned eventually. What's more, patrons often forwarded unsolicited cash payments to make amends for damaged or lost volumes. He stated that "the overwhelming honesty and cooperation, even affection" of MODLS customers was "most gratifying." He acknowledged various obstacles, including the state's foot-dragging on releasing funds, as well as "a leaky roof, a balky boiler, the peccadilloes of certain publishers, and a printer who went out of business as the catalogs were ready to go to press," but, not long after the project got started, staff were typically able to send out materials on the same day that requests were received.  

In Summer 1972, MODLS mailed a "supplement" catalog, listing about 300 titles, to residents in the 8 target counties. Then, in Spring 1973, 50,000 copies of a revised catalog, including items from the original and the supplement, were mailed to the same locations and this resulted in a "flood" of new orders. The public's avid use of books-by-mail apparently led Mick and others involved with the program to envision that townships or other political subdivisions might be able to contract with MODLS to provide reading materials to their residents, thereby offering helpful literacy and recreational resources in areas that wouldn't otherwise have them. Importantly, though, MODLS was never intended to substitute for regular library service. Users were limited to the selection listed in the program's catalog; non-book items such as vinyl records and periodicals were not lent. District and county libraries were welcomed to use a designated white space on each catalog to advertise themselves to MODLS customers, and it was hoped that residents would ultimately seek out the research assistance, public programs, meeting space, and other library benefits that books-by-mail could not offer. 

According to Mick, an evaluative study conducted by Teh-Wei Hu and others at Penn State showed that MODLS was "by no means cheap," especially in terms of stockpiling duplicate books and mailing out printed catalogs to prospective customers. Overall, the cost to circulate one book through MODLS was 60 to 70 cents, and the program required about $2.00 per resident to implement. In other words, to serve 10,000 residents required $20,000 or more in funding. The service seems to have been more successful in terms of its "hit rate." Due to savvy ordering of sufficient copies to meet patron demand, MODLS was able to provide about 80% of the titles customers requested from the catalog. 

While I haven't read Hu's study for myself, and I'd hope to find additional documentation from BLD to learn the full story about the end of the program, materials in MCNPL's files suggest that MODLS's demise occurred because of financial difficulties. In Fall 1973, as LSCA funding was coming to an end, the State Library surveyed libraries the that had been involved with the program to find out whether localities or counties were able to pick up the costs. Unfortunately, of those that responded, most were unable to continue the service. BLD had calculated that $50,000-$100,000 would be needed to continue MODLS, but it had received only about $25,000 in commitments (see memorandum from William J. Mick, MODLS Project Administrator, to Pennsylvania Librarians, November 2, 1973. Copy available in MCNPL office files, folder "Books by Mail"). So, MODLS ended in December 1973.

As I move on to research other Pennsylvania libraries, the handful of documents I found about MODLS during my research trip to Norristown open up more questions than they answer. As I mentioned previously, I'm eager to find a copy of MODLS book catalog, so I can discover which books were thought to appeal to rural Pennsylvania residents. Another question is why the state chose Bedford, Blair, Crawford, Erie, Fulton, Huntingdon, Lebanon, and Potter for the MODLS program. Certainly, the interest of librarians in those counties was part of the reason, but were there other considerations? I'm also curious as to whether books-by-mail continued to be most popular in Lebanon County, or whether usage picked up in other places. 

I also wonder if William J. Mick and Theresa Nagle are still living, and whether they remember any  revealing or humorous stories that didn't make it into official reports. And, most importantly, what did MODLS customers feel about it? Did the program open up any avenues for them educationally or recreationally that they hadn't thought of before?

Even though MODLS was short-lived, I'm proud that Pennsylvania libraries tried reaching people in a different way. Stories like this make the 1970s a fascinating decade for library history research.

What is "Amphiboly"?: A 1962 Dictionary Defines It ...

On days that I'm not elbow-deep in archival boxes, I can sometimes be found at Penn State Harrisburg's library, holed up in a back office on the 2nd floor. Often, I'm bobbing my head to obscure punk, rap, or other music on Rolling Stones's 500 Greatest Albums of All Time list while I am thumbing through and scanning pages from chunky reference books. Because my current research project focuses on the 1950s-1990s, I need to use a vast amount of material that wasn't born-digital and cannot be accessed through aggregator databases like HathiTrust because it is still protected by U.S. copyright law. Searching volumes by hand, making my own copies, and uploading them to Zotero is tedious work -- the kind of task that well-supported researchers hand off to graduate student assistants -- but being a library historian at an institution that doesn't have an LIS program is a threadbare and lonely undertaking. 

Fortunately, though, each day I uncover a little "gem" that isn't directly related to my topic, but is supremely entertaining. Lately, I have been thumbing through 1960s editions of The Bowker Annual -- now known as Library and Book Trade Almanac -- and it is loaded with them. Bowker's/LBTA is an annual publication that many younger librarians "heard about" when they were in library school, but have never actually used because the $300-400 price tag is too steep for most institutions. That so many of my colleagues haven't had the joy of playing with Bowker's is unfortunate, because the overview essays, lists, and statistics it provides are authoritative and fascinating for anyone who wants to nerd over history and trends in our profession. I have been using it mainly because of its succinct, annually updated information about the Library Services and Construction Act, a federal program that funded dozens of library buildings, cooperative networks, and innovative projects in Pennsylvania during the 1960s through the 1990s. However, Bowker's can be helpful for many other inquiries.

1960s editions of The Bowker Annual,
a classic in the field of librarianship.
Photo by the author.

A decade ago, when I was researching the history of public librarianship during the 1900s-1940s, I struggled to wrap my head around a subfield called "Documentation" which was emerging at the time. As best I could tell, it was of high interest in academic, government, and special libraries where users were keen to find journal articles, technical information, government records, statistics, and other materials that weren't easily searchable in library card catalogs. While librarians are infamous for speaking in "Librarianese" that everyday people don't understand, documentalists used a dialect that can be inscrutable even to fluent Librarianese speakers like me! 

Too bad that I didn't have the 1962 edition of Bowker's at my side, because, in it, there is "A Dictionary of Documentation Terms" that *only* appears that year. Compiled by Frank S. Wagner, a librarian at the Celanese Corporation of America (a chemical company in Texas), it consists of 14 pages of concisely defined terms from "abridgement" to "Zipf's law." I spent 20 minutes of my lunch break poring over it and having a blast.

Some of the words may not have been on the tip of every librarian's tongue in the early 1960s, but they are quite familiar to librarians of today, especially to those who frequently use periodicals databases. For example, Wagner's dictionary includes "abstract," "keyword," "subject," and "thesaurus" -- terms that I use all the time when teaching students how to search ERIC, PsycINFO, and PubMed. There are other words that may have been highly familiar to librarians in the book-centric environment of 100 years ago, but are seldom used now unless you are in the rare books field: "collophon," "concordance," "forel," "imprint," "lacuna," and "virgule." Wagner also included plenty of words that flashed on and off the scene at mid-century. For instance, a full column of his dictionary consists of terms beginning with "micro" -- not only "microfilm," but "microcard," "micro-opaque," "microtransparency," and others that remind us that reducing texts into teensy sizes used to be the (only) solution for libraries that were running out of storage space. Finally, there are a few doozies that I'd love to use in casual conversation, like "amphiboly" (the condition of having 2 or more meanings), "filiatory" (hierarchical), or "penumbral" (partial interest or activity). 

The first full page of Frank S. Wagner's "Dictionary of Documentation,"
published in the 1962 edition of 
The Bowker Annual of Library and Book Trade Information.
Photo by the author.

Having worked in libraries for 35 years, all the while watching my profession transition from a print-based world to a digital one, there are 2 things that I greatly miss. Today, we obtain a lot of information from online sources where content is overwritten anytime the creator or host decides to update the site. Unless it's captured by an archiving initiative like Wayback Machine, we can't see annual snapshots and, through them, the long historical arcs that resources like Bowker's provide. Also, so many of our searches are initiated by keywords and processed by algorithms that lead us straight to what we ask for (or something kinda close!). It's definitely more efficient, but the joys of finding fascinatingly weird items such as "The Dictionary of Documentation" are farther and fewer in between. 

Call me an old crank, but sometimes I prefer my research old-school. 

A Pastor Brings Books to Bars, Prisons, Public Housing, and Thrift Stores

Over the past few months, I've found numerous books and articles from the 1960s-1970s about outreach to what were then called "disadvantaged" populations. While historians have found that libraries have been trying to engage with socially and economically marginalized people long before that time, the Civil Rights Movement, new federal grant opportunities, and a rising generation of activists refreshed these efforts during the era I'm researching now. It's an aspect of librarianship that keenly interests me, because I believe everyone should be able to benefit from the opportunities that publicly-funded institutions offer. 

This week, I found a fascinating example of such an outreach program within the historical records of Montgomery County - Norristown Public Library (MCNPL). For some, it may be hard to imagine Montgomery County as having "disadvantaged" residents -- certainly, the "Main Line" communities that run along Route 30 are some of the most affluent in Pennsylvania. However, Norristown, which lies a bit northward, currently has a poverty rate of 18.6%. I don't know enough about the area's history to say how and when this economic distress arose, but it is clearly present in the library's records from the 1960s onward. For example, it can be seen in a bibliographic pamphlet called "The Outer City" which the library developed ca. 1963 to help community leaders combat crime, drugs, insufficient tax revenue, and other challenges Norristown was facing. Strain is also apparent in incidents of burglary and theft that seemed to be happening constantly within the Norristown library's building and to parked vehicles nearby. Besides generating booklists and beefing up security forces, was there anything the library could do?

MCNPL had an interesting response. Its director, Pearl Frankenfield, was a public relations maven who had earned multiple recognitions through the American Library Association's John Cotton Dana Award program. Thus, unsurprisingly, her staff took a person-to-person approach. Previously, the library had invited city children to attend events held on Wednesday afternoons within its auditorium, but welcoming people to come inside the library was no longer good enough. Over the course of 6 weeks during the summer of 1970, Assistant Children's Librarian Dorothy Hawthorne (later Suchocki) donned a wide-brimmed hat, tucked picture books, games, and a stool under her arms, and provided pop-up storytelling sessions on city sidewalks. MCNPL wanted to reach kids who were "too shy" to find their own way. 

Dorothy Hawthorne providing an outdoor story hour to Norristown children.
Norristown Times Herald, August 5, 1970; Clipping from MCNPL Scrapbook, 1970, volume 2. 

Frankenfield apparently kept her eyes open to other Pennsylvania libraries that were reaching hard-to-reach constituents in fresh ways. Details in MCNPL's records are scant, but in a March 29, 1971 article in the Penn Hills Reporter, she stated that she was inspired by the work of a library in Upper Dublin that was doing similar work. That year, MCNPL won a 2-year $80,000 federal Library Services and Construction Act (LSCA) grant that enabled it to build upon Hawthorne's beginning and whatever ideas Frankenfield had gleaned from Upper Dublin. She hired Alan H. Reider, a former clergyman, to coordinate a multifaceted effort to place books in community gathering spots, engage with residents that the library hadn't connected with previously, and establish meaningful collaborations with county agencies and nonprofits that were serving them. Reider acquired a Dodge Maxi Van (camper van) and had it customized with a portable book collection, generator, film projector, and other equipment so that he could visit various areas in the county and not have to worry about power supplies and other logistics. Grant funds also paid for workroom furniture and thousands of paperback books, chosen upon the recommendation of Philadelphia and Baltimore librarians, especially to appeal to Black and reluctant readers. MCNPL received an additional LSCA grant in 1972, which enabled it to run the program at least through September 1973.

The centerpiece of MCNPL's outreach program was establishing freely-available book collections in places where lower-income families tended to gather. For example, Reider deposited materials at Rahway Cafe (a bar) and the Theist Temple in Norristown, the Tenant Relations Office and laundromat in Penn Village (a public housing project), the county's geriatric and rehabilitation facility, the Perkiomen Valley Child Health center, the Graterford Bible Fellowship Church at Collegeville, in a  Pottsville community center, a Schwenksville thrift shop, and in The Well (another thrift shop in Conshohocken). He used similar strategies at Crest Manor (an affordable housing project in Abington Township) and with Spanish-speaking residents in Lansdale and in the Telford/Souderton area as well. MCNPL also placed 200-300 books with the men's and women's prisons, the county "work farm," and at the county juvenile detention center. Tabulating statistics on a monthly basis, Reider calculated that users had borrowed more than 12,000 items over the 3-year life of outreach program. 

Alan Reider assisting outreach customer Fannie Johnson
Philadelphia Inquirer, August 5, 1973; Image from Newspapers.com, https://www.newspapers.com/image/180335861/ .

On the storytelling/public programming front, Dorothy (Hawthorne) Suchocki, known alternatively as "The Pied Piper of Norristown" and "The Story Lady,"  continued to provide outdoor readings, puppetry, and games. The library also collaborated with Head Start, which brought young children to the Norristown library, provided them with stories and crafts, and sent each child home with a balloon. Reider also collaborated with volunteers from a drug rehabilitation center in Eagleville to offer adult literacy tutoring. He organized outdoor film viewings, too. On Tuesday nights, the library showed films in Penn Village's playground and in other locations. By 1973, when the movie program was in full-wing, it attracted more than 100 people each week. 

I would love to learn more about Reider, and whether any of the people he interacted with were positively impacted over the long term by his efforts. In writing this brief account, I used several reports that MCNPL provided to the State Library, which oversaw Pennsylvania's LSCA grants. I also consulted Reider's monthly reports to Frankenfield, which are retained within MCNPL's administrative office files. I am also beginning to collect news articles from the library's scrapbooks and through online databases (see preliminary list below). But I'd bet there are many fascinating details yet to be uncovered!

Some news coverage of MCNPL's outreach:

• "Feature Story Lady," Times Herald, July 28, 1970
• "Montgomery Library Receives $80,000 Grant," The Reporter, March 29, 1971
• "For Children Only," Times Herald, July 22, 1971
• "Head Start Project Listed at Public Library, Times Herald, July 27, 1971
• "County Library Center Opens in Penn Village, Pottstown Mercury, July 16, 1971
• "Library Here Showing Films at Penn Village, Times Herald, August 4, 1971
• "Once Upon a Summertime ... There Was The Story Lady," Times Herald, August 5, 1971
• "Consho. Library Opens at The Well," Times Herald, November 30, 1971
• "Outreach Program Continues," The Reporter, April 10, 1972
• "County Prison Opens Library," The Reporter, February 8, 1973
• "Montco Library Puts Books Where People Congregate," Inquirer, August 5, 1973

Hit the Road, Jill!

In 2013/2014, I knew that spending 9 months on the road might be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, so I sometimes wrote about adventures and emotions that didn't have much to do with research. For example, I blogged about rooming in a fracker's hotel and about the depression that hit me during that year's overlong winter. For the first 4 months of my present sabbatical, I haven't had similar stories to tell. I have been doing much of my work from home, on a computer. Other than buying a membership at the Derry Township Community Center and taking up swimming as a new form of exercise, my life outside of my research has been much the same as it's been for years. 

Today, though, I packed up my car and drove to Norristown, where I'll be researching the history of the Montgomery County Norristown Public Library. Since this is my first "away" trip, I want to capture a little of what today was like. 

To be honest, it began in a nerve-wracking fashion. Yesterday morning, our cat Colbie started howling, refusing food, and hunkering down in a difficult-to-reach corner on the far side of our living room loveseat. This morning she wasn't any better, so Mike drove her to an animal hospital in Hershey while I stayed home and finished getting ready for my trip. After 2 hours, I relieved him and stayed with her until she was discharged -- several more hours, umpteen tests, and $1,500 later. Everything points to an infection, and the vet seemed confident that a shot of antibiotics will do the trick. But I've got a sinking feeling that a sad chapter in my personal history might be repeating itself. The last time I was on sabbatical, we lost 2 of our cats, Fili and Gabby, and while I powered through those hard times, I wasn't the better for them. In addition to their suffering, I haven't forgiven myself for not being by their sides, and neglecting Mike, while I was focused so intently on my work.

Canceling my research trip for what appears to be "just" a cat's temporary illness, especially when I have a non-refundable booking for a weeklong Airbnb, doesn't seem like a logical choice, though. So, by 2:30 p.m., I was standing by my car, hugging Mike tightly as he double-checked with me about the vet's aftercare instructions. To remind myself that I am taking a sabbatical from work, not from my family, I placed a small cat, built from LEGO, on the dashboard of my car, and I resolved to call home as soon as I was settled.

My travel companion
-- and a reminder of family

Then I slid into the driver's seat, tapped a Norristown address into Google Maps, and asked Spotify to play me some Smokey Robinson. When I was a kid, my parents listened to a lot of 1950s/1960s doo-wop and Motown, so I find crooners from that era to be comforting sometimes. I skipped over "Tracks of My Tears," but I let my shoulders loosen to "Just to See Her." After about 40 miles, I wanted  something more up-tempo, so I switched to Ray Charles. In time, a sassy smile spread across my face and I found myself hollering along to "Hit the Road Jack" and "What I'd Say." As I jetted eastward on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I noticed how farms in Lebanon, Lancaster, and Chester counties are starting to green up, and that trees along the highway are budding. Thinking about the daffodils and tulips that I'll see over the next few weeks brightened my spirits, so much so that my 90-minute drive passed by more quickly than a trip toward Philadelphia ever has. Thank goodness, I found and unlocked my Airbnb without trouble. As I unpacked my belongings, Smokey, Ray, and I sashayed around my new bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. 

After a quick chat with Mike and hearing that Colbie's well-being is no better, but no worse, I slapped together a ham sandwich, flopped into bed, and began to write. Now that I'm about to get ready to sleep, some of my words feel like prayers:

Please let Colbie recover.

Please give Mike an easy week.

Please let me reach the library safely tomorrow.

Please let this trip be successful.

Only time will tell if all my wishes are answered. 

A Library Fit for a Governor

Growing up in Southeastern Massachusetts, the state capital in Boston didn't feel like a substantial part of my childhood world. However, after I moved close to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, I became more aware of the special traditions that arise in cities that host substantial numbers of public buildings and government officials. One annual event that I enjoy is the Holiday Open House at the Governor's Residence -- an afternoon in December when just about anyone can walk in and rub elbows with the topmost political leader of our state. In years past, I've gotten a kick out of meeting Tom Corbett and Tom Wolf, and this winter, I am hoping to see Josh Shapiro. 

Each time I go to the Residence, the book-nerd in me feels compelled to peep inside the governor's library to suss whatever it could tell me about the person who uses it. Alas, I've never seen anything provocative before I've noticed suits with earpieces eyeballing me sternly and feel I should move along. However, due to an interesting story I recently uncovered in the Pennsylvania Library Association's archives, I have another reason to pay close attention during my visits.

In 1961, with the adoption of the Public Library Code, Pennsylvania libraries won a hard-fought battle to obtain state subsidies. Given the annual process of executive budgeting, legislative appropriations, and the haggling that occurs in between, the association's leaders throughout the 1960s took advantage of every opportunity to demonstrate the value of libraries and librarians to those who held (or tugged on) the purse strings. Thus, in 1965, when PaLA President Pearl Frankenfield learned that a new Governor's Residence was going to be built in Harrisburg, she appointed an ad hoc committee to reach out to officials, find out whether a library was part of the plan, and offer the association's assistance in designing it. Ultimately, the team included:

• Ralph W. McComb, University Librarian and Archivist at Pennsylvania State University (main campus), who served as the committee chair
• Joseph J. Kelley, Jr., Secretary of the Commonwealth, representing the Governor's office
• Joseph W. Lippincott, President of J. B. Lippincott Company, a prominent Pennsylvania publisher, who was also an author
• Rowland Slingluff, President of Pennsylvania State University Press
• Emerson B. Greenaway, Director of the Free Library of Philadelphia, a former PaLA President, and also a past-president of the American Library Association
• Keith Doms, Director of the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, also a former PaLA President
• Herbert Anstaett, former Director of Franklin and Marshall College's library, and another former PaLA President

At least part of the story is told in an article that McComb wrote for the July 1971 issue of Pennsylvania Library Association Bulletin. Additional tidbits appear in meeting minutes of PaLA's Executive Committee, where McComb occasionally reported on the group's efforts. Apparently, the librarians were repeatedly disappointed with the small amount of space that would be devoted to the library. At most, there was only room for about 500 volumes. Nevertheless, they threw themselves into the work of determining which titles should make the cut. Since the collection was intended to be a permanent feature of the Residence, the long-term usefulness of the books was likely a top concern. According to McComb, they decided that the library should include about 200 volumes on "the Pennsylvania experience," about 100 volumes on American history and culture, about 50 reference books, and some "general" titles. However, it seems that some state agencies and other entities got wind of the project and donated materials, leaving less and less shelf space for the items that the librarians would have chosen. 

Ultimately, McComb's committee concentrated its efforts on the reference collection, which was funded through a $500.00 contribution from PaLA itself. Staff at Penn State University Press designed a special bookplate for the purchased titles, and employees at the State Library of Pennsylvania took charge of ordering, plating, and transferring the books to the Governor's Residence. I have not yet seen a final inventory of the collection, but according to PaLA Executive Committee meeting minutes from December 3, 1969, the last item ordered was the Dictionary of American Biography -- a multivolume set first published in the 1920s and 1930s, re-released in the 1940s, then supplemented by new volumes from the 1940s through the 1990s. In the days before Wikipedia, the DAB was "the" first place to check if you wanted to learn something about famous, deceased Americans.

Within the Committee Files of the PaLA Archives, there is an additional folder of material that I haven't seen yet that could shed even more light on this project. I can only imagine what fascinating stories and thought-provoking insights those records might offer. One thing that strikes me is how the committee was entirely composed of white men. Frankfield's appointees make sense on some level, given that they were building a library for a government official who had always been, and continues to be, a white male. I can't help but wonder, though, if female or Black representatives might have advocated for biographical items beyond the DAB, as a reminder of the many constituencies a Governor should know about and serve. If I were on this type of committee, I would urge for something about the history of women in the Commonwealth -- maybe Janice H. McElroy's Our Hidden Heritage, Marie A. Con and Thérèse McGuire's Sisterly Love, or whatever their 1960s equivalents might have been.

At present, though, the topmost question in my mind is whether any of the books that entered the library decades ago are still there today, and whether PaLA or anyone else made attempts to refresh it. Fortunately, the library survived the April 2025 arson attack on the Governor's Residence, but if his library is like most others, some of its contents likely went up in smoke years earlier -- cast aside as outdated or no longer helpful. I also wonder if any Governors read anything on the shelves, or if the library only came to their minds when someone wanted a backdrop for a photo. 

Another question I've been mulling over is what books I would choose if I were asked to assemble a library fit for a governor in 2026. As the modest footprint of the library suggests, and from what I've already learned through my sabbatical research, increased access to professional and scholarly materials was already becoming a reality in the 1960s -- due in part to the 1961 Library Code. The need for Pennsylvanians to store books in their offices only diminished further as the decades unfolded. Perhaps latter-day leaders are less bookish than there predecessors were, too. There's a running joke, referencing the crassness of modern-day governance, that most American politicians' libraries contain just 2 books, the Bible and the Shooter's Bible. I personally believe that our leaders need more than that. But the question is, what? It would be interesting to know what McComb, Greenaway, Doms, and Anstaett thought about the intellectual requirements of the political leaders of their generation. 

“The End of an Era”: When State Rules Required a Long-Serving Librarian to Step Down

A few days ago, I was scrolling through social media posts from one of the professional groups I follow. Perhaps because this is the time of year when graduating library school students are in the throes of job-hunting, the perennial debate over whether librarians really need to have Master’s degrees arose again. It has been a hot topic at least since the early 1950s, when the American Library Association changed its accreditation standards and determined that a Master’s degree should be required for entry-level professional positions (for background, see Boyd Keith Swigger’s book, The MLS Project). Across the decades, many have argued that the MLS provides valuable standardized introductions to information organization, research, technology, leadership, and other topics that might not be sufficiently covered through on-the-job training (especially for those who work at poorly-performing libraries). There’s also value in coursework that exposes MLS students to less-visible career paths that they might not otherwise consider. However, particularly in the past 20 years, there are just as many in the field who note the soaring cost of graduate education, juxtaposed against a tight job market and salaries that are so low that some would be better off working at Amazon warehouses. There are also those who feel that the MLS enforces harmful class hierarchies and inequitable power dynamics that are artificial and are antithetical to the egalitarian spirit of our work. 

Where the rubber truly hits the road, though, is at the state and local levels, where government agencies may tie public funding to staff’s educational attainment, and where employers decide what degrees to demand of those applying for open positions. In Pennsylvania, for example, there was a certification system from the 1930s through the 1960s, administered by the Pennsylvania Library Association, but it was voluntary and was enforced (if at all) at the local level. Then, in 1961, a new Public Library Code and accompanying regulations stipulated that if a state-aided library serves an area with a population of 20,000 or more, that library must be administered by someone who is certified as a Professional Librarian by the State Library/Pennsylvania Department of Education. To be certified, one must hold a Master’s degree from an ALA-accredited program or another MLS program that is approved by the state. Pennsylvania doesn’t require the MLS, however, for positions in college or private libraries, or in communities with fewer than 20,000 people. It also doesn’t require graduate-level training for libraries that do not receive state aid, or for non-administrative roles. In all these cases, employers determine the necessary academic preparation for each position. 

This week, as I was searching for news articles about the history of the Cumberland County Library System (CCLS), I discovered some thought-provoking items that illustrate the impact of the state’s rules. Because I am still learning about the Public Library Code and about Cumberland, it’s unclear to me when and how the state’s requirements would have applied to each of the member libraries within CCLS’s federation. Nevertheless, by the early 1980s, the Mechanicsburg library’s funding was at risk.  

Founded by volunteers in 1961, the Mechanicsburg Area Library (now the Joseph T. Simpson Library) had no paid staff for its first five years. Nevertheless, it developed facilities and services through the efforts of devoted community members who repainted walls, organized pancake breakfasts, and provided other labors of love (for more information, see Simpson Library’s 50th anniversary booklet and timeline). One of those volunteers, Clare Walker, had canvased town streets pulling a small red wagon, gathering book donations for the new library’s collection. She also staffed the library’s bookmobile for a time. By 1980, she had become the institution’s director. Unfortunately, though, her tenure in that position was cut short.

As 2 news articles in the Carlisle Sentinel describe, Walker was “forced” from her leadership role in 1982 because state law required the Mechanicsburg library to be led by someone holding an MLS and Walker had not finished college (see David Stellfox, “Library Changes Forced,” Sentinel, October 2, 1982, pg. 5). Apparently, not only were the funds that the state provided directly to Mechanicsburg (about $10,000) in jeopardy, but additional money provided to the county system (about $16,000) was also under threat (see Dave Stellfox, “Rules Force Librarian Out,” Sentinel, September 24, 1982, pg. 5). In terms of sweat-equity, it appears that Walker would have been hard to replace. One article noted that she often put in 60 hours per week, even though she earned roughly half of what degreed librarians did. Walker stepped down from the administrative role and told the press that she did so without bitterness. In fact, she remained the library’s Assistant Director until the early 1990s. I haven’t uncovered the rest of the story, but despite its very small budget, Mechanicsburg scraped together enough financial support to recruit a degreed librarian. I would bet that a countywide tax levy, approved by voters in 1986, helped somewhat.  

Since my research at CCLS is incomplete (and especially since I haven’t tapped any sources Mechanicsburg might offer), it is not my place to weigh in on whether this situation was fair to Walker or whether it resulted in positive outcomes for the library and its users. Whether it marked the “end of an era,” as library board vice-president Mary Lynn Faries told the Sentinel’s reporter, is unknown. Still, I believe that the partial story I’m preserving here is worth remembering as I continue to research Pennsylvania libraries in the 1950s-1990s and I try to understand how the Public Library Code shaped services throughout the Commonwealth. What did the 1961 law give us, and what it may have taken away, is a question that many Pennsylvania library advocates ask. Stories like Mechanicsburg’s can help inform the answer. 

Seeing a Sentinel photo of Walker, grinning widely with her arms overflowing with books, also reminds me of an important emotional truth. We need to value all our library workers, whatever their credentials, regardless of how our libraries subsequently evolve. Regrettably, I’ll never get to interview her, since she passed away in 2007. I already know, though, that she deserves significant credit for the start she gave to Mechanicsburg’s library.