"Flowers" for Cameron County: Ray Vercellino Stands Up for the Freedom to Read

As a librarian who purchases children's books, I am deeply concerned about recent surges in book-banning as documented by the American Library Association, PEN America, and other organizations. One incident that made headlines all over the country, in part because of the large number of titles it involved, took place just down the road from me in York County. Although censorship isn't new, one thing that feels new, is how some groups and individuals are taking what I'd call the "nuclear approach," seeking purges of sweeping amounts of material (as occurred in York) and demanding that librarians be criminally prosecuted for making them available the public. Some librarians have faced online harrassment and even death threats for speaking out about it.

With these issues in mind, my attention tends to zoom-in whenever I uncover historical examples of  censorship. This week, while I was digging within old records at the Barbara Moscato Brown Memorial Library, I found a fascinating example from Emporium, a tiny borough in Pennsylvania's smallest county. The year was 1977, and the book was Daniel Keyes's Flowers for Algernon. Flowers is award-winning science fiction novel that was developed into a movie (Charly) in which Cliff Robertson gave an Oscar-winning performance. It was also adapted into a Broadway musical, Charlie and Algernon, that was nominated for a Tony award and was a popular choice for drama clubs in the 1980s. When I was in school, Flowers was also one of the most frequently banned books in the country, largely because of portions that describe the main character's sexual thoughts and experiences. However, this is part of a larger, valuable exploration of the lives of people with disabilities and how intelligence relates (or doesn't relate) to happiness. The broader themes within Flowers are why Cameron County High School and other secondary institutions sometimes assigned it. 

From research I've done elsewhere, I already knew there was a significant backdrop to Emporium's/Cameron County's story. I won't rehash how social and publishing norms changed during the period, but court cases and legislative action in Pennsylvania are important because they figure within the controversy that unfolded. Miller v. California (1973) was (still is) the most relevant Supreme Court case related to book bans based on obscenity, and the "Miller Test" which was derived from it emphasized the definition of obscenity in state law. In response, some Pennsylvania legislators pushed for changes to our Crimes Code. As of the mid-late 1970s, the PA House and Senate had passed SB 727, which was vetoed in March 1974 by Governor Milton Schapp. The state Supreme Court, in Commonwealth v. McDonald (1975) ruled that the unrevised code was unconstitutionally vague -- a problem that was addressed by SB 199, which passed the legislature in 1977 and that Schapp signed into law. SB 199 defined obscenity as any materials which, "to the average person applying contemporary community standards, has as its dominant theme, taken as a whole, an appeal to prurient interest." Though the law goes on to define what types of sexual depictions are prohibited, the bits about "average person" and "community standards" give everyday Pennsylvanians some voice in determining what is acceptable. That wording remains in present law.  

During the mid-1970s, when Pennsylvania didn't seem to have a workable obscenity law, some citizens advocated for new rules at the county and local level. The incident in Emporium was spurred by a group called the Elk-Cameron Citizens for Decency through Law (ECCDL) that formed in Spring 1976 because of ongoing concerns about pornography. Inspired by the national Citizens for Decency through Law, they established their own chapter and obtained assistance from the Elk County District Attorney's office, producing a proposed anti-obscenity ordinance modeled on ones that had been developed in Luzerne County and in Monroeville (Allegheny County). They also worked to gain seats on the boards of public institutions and suppress objectionable materials that way. ECCDL even succeeded in driving out Ted Smeal, a long-serving public librarian in St. Mary's who resisted creating a separate section for "adult" books and who spoke unabashedly about his concerns to the press (see David Venditta, "Librarian Casualty of Censorship War," Bradford Era, June 6, 1977, and "Smeal Resigns Library Post," Bradford Era, June 9, 1977). 

Raymond E. "Ray" Vercellino,
Librarian at the Cameron County
Public Library. Image from the
December 14, 1989 issue of the
Cameron County Echo . 

In Cameron County, CCPL librarian Raymond E. "Ray" Vercellino was definitely aware of what had happened in St. Mary's. Within the library's administrative files, there is a folder on "Censorship," labeled in Vercellino's handwriting, that contains newsclippings (cited above) about Smeal's troubles. Given what had happened to his colleague just a few miles down the road, Vercellino could have chosen to keep silent. In fact, when I read the clippings in the folder, that's what I had expected he'd do. Certainly, the American Library Association's strong stance in favor of intellectual freedom had existed for decades -- see its Library Bill of Rights, adopted in 1953, and its Freedom to Read Statement, adopted in 1953. However, during the 1970s many rural Pennsylvania library employees were not professionally engaged at the national level. Some were struggling even to meet the education requirements that the State Library of Pennsylvania had recently implemented as a condition for state aid. Moreover, Vercellino was relatively new to librarianship. He had a bachelor's degree in Electrical Engineering and had worked at Sylvania Electronics from 1948 to 1970. The monthly and "year-end" reports that he wrote tended to be statistical and straight-to-the-point, focused on quantitative information that technical-types tend to understand. For CCPL to receive its share of state funds, he took correspondence courses in librarianship through the University of Utah and he attended in-state trainings when opportunities became available. But I couldn't guess how much of the library profession's ethical beliefs he had absorbed by the time censorship raised its ugly head in Emporium.

However, when I looked at CCPL Board of Trustees meeting minutes from the 1970s, I found that  Vercellino had an interest in free speech, or, at least, he was opposed to censors usurping decisions that were his or the trustees' prerogative. In 1973, he informed the board that J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye had been removed from the Smethport (McKean County) high school's reading list after a parent had objected to it. Even though the book remained on-shelf at Smethport's public library, Vercellino felt the incident was worth knowing about because it was "the first censorship problem in the Seneca area" (CCPL Board Minutes, April 26, 1973). Two years later, there was another (unspecified) "censorship problem" in St. Mary's -- likely the opening salvo that ultimately led to Ted Smeal's downfall. In response, Vercellino prepared an addendum to CCPL's Materials Selection Policy that created a procedure for public complaints and he urged the board to adopt it. When I read it, I was surprised at how relevant and useful it was, even in the present day. Like current policies of this kind, it asked complainants to include quotations and page numbers, indicate the general theme of the book, seek out reviews, and make other efforts to inform themselves about the overall content in addition to describing their dislikes. 

Cameron County Public Library's 1975 policy and procedure for handling book challenges.
From the Administrative Office Vertical Files, folder "Censorship."

As it turned out, Vercellino had acted just in time. Less than 2 years later, conflict erupted in Emporium when a high school English teacher, Richard Onorato, chose Flowers as a reading for his 11th grade English class. Immediately upon complaints from a local minister (likely John Coppick, the pastor of Rich Valley Wesleyan Church) and 3 parents, the Cameron County School Board removed all 70 copies from Onorato's class, pending further action. An ad hoc committee of three teachers was asked to evaluate Flowers and they affirmed its literary value. Cameron County's School Superintendent Robert Morrison and High School Principal Gordon Meredith also recommended that the book be retained as a course reading. It appears that the 5-member school board was divided over the issue. As a "compromise" measure, they voted 3-2 to withdraw the book from the curriculum, but keep a copy in the school library as optional reading ("School Board Meeting Draws Different Views," Cameron County Echo, March 16, 1977). At some point, the town's radio station, WLEM, hosted a one-hour broadcast about Flowers which included a call-in by author Daniel Keyes. Unfortunately, the station doesn't have a recording or transcript of the program, but a newspaper account notes that Keyes said he "would be very saddened if the experience of Charly were denied to the people of Emporium." The reporter also said that other callers were "about evenly divided over the ban" (David Venditta, "Dispute Lingers on in Tiny Emporium," Bradford Era, June 6, 1977).

In collaboration with various priests and ministers in the region, the ECCDL declared March 20th, 1977 as "Decency Sunday" to "give people an opportunity to seriously reflect on the problem of obscenity in the community" and "enlighten the community about what can be done" (ECCDL, editorial, Cameron County Echo, March 16, 1977). Ministers circulated petitions among their congregations and placed copies in local business, obtaining "hundreds" of signatures within the week. While the petition only called for an obscenity ordinance that would "preserve our Traditional Judeo-Christian Heritage," Flowers was clearly a focus of the group's concerns. Citing pages 140-146 as "corrupting to minors," one clergyman argued that the school board is "our elected body" and that "we hope they will be responsive to the needs and standards of the communities that pay their salaries" (John D. Alden, editorial, Cameron County Echo, March 23, 1977). 

An Associated Press story picked up by the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Dispatch, and other papers around the state make it seem like religious leaders and the school board had little opposition. But judging from editorials in the Cameron County Echo, Ray Vercellino chimed-in on at least 3 (possibly 4) occasions. And he was not mealy-mouthed about it. For the March 16th issue of the Echo, he and J. Lynn Gross co-signed an opinion piece submitted by Richard A. Sarrick (another CCPL library employee) that sarcastically suggested that all the community's objectionable books be gathered up and publicly burned. They then pointed out similarities between the school board's actions and "recent world history" (probably a reference to authoritarian regimes in Germany or the U.S.S.R.). They ended with a strong statement that the decision to censor belonged to "individual parents, not to a group of vigilantes who wish to impose their standards on others and their children." On pg. 14 of the same issue, an article entitled "Freedom to Read" articulated CCPL's official position that censorship efforts "rest[ed] on the denial of the very fundamental premise of democracy: that the ordinary citizen, by exercising his critical judgment, will accept the good and reject the bad." The library believed that "Americans [did] not "need the help of censors" and "[were] not prepared to sacrifice their heritage of a free press in order to be 'protected' against what others think my be bad for them." In short, CCPL "most emphatically support[ed] free enterprise in ideas and expression." This piece was very likely written by Vercellino, because it reprints, verbatim, a letter that he had composed to Bruno Carnivale, the Vice-President of Emporium's Borough Council. 

The following week, has Vercellino heard misinformed comments in everyday conversations, or he read them in other editorials, he dispensed with them one by one in the pages of the Echo. For example, after someone posited that teachers and librarians censor when they decide not to purchase or retain certain works, he flatly rejected that idea as "pure nonsense." A key difference between educators and censors, he reasoned, was that educators look for positive reasons to buy or keep a book, and they trust the public's intelligence in judging materials on their merits. Censors, on the other hand, cherrypick "objectionable" features, and only believe in their own "superiority." (Vercellino, editorial, Cameron County Echo, March 30, 1977). Then, on April 7th, after a resident charged that schools and libraries were only allowed to purchase items that appeared on left-leaning, state-authorized lists, Vercellino spoke up again. Noting that this was "absurd," he asserted that "neither the Cameron County Commissioners nor the Pennsylvania State legislators have ever attempted to dictate to us on materials selection" (editorial, Cameron County Echo, April 6, 1977). Insofar as he was speaking about public libraries, I believe he was correct, though the state certainly had a significant history of producing bibliographies of recommended titles that could have been perceived as conveying some kind of proscription. 

To Emporium's credit, most of the opinions published in the Echo in March and April 1977 criticized the school board's actions. The three teachers who had been asked to evaluate Flowers's suitability for classroom reading -- Mary Kuhn, Douglas Bleggi, and Charlotte Woodley -- cited portions of the Cameron County School Code which gave teachers the authority to select instructional materials and well as giving them a responsibility to defend students' freedom to read. They also noted Richard Onorato's professionalism and integrity, his 16 years of service in the district, and the fact that books were removed from his classroom before he'd had the opportunity to defend himself. Other residents chimed in too. For example, Conny Noah, whose 5 children had been educated in Emporium public schools, assured administrators that her kids' strong "morals and mental fortitude" would not be corrupted by one book, and while she believed that those who objected to Flowers were well-meaning, the board should not have acted in such a "drastic" and "off-handed" way (editorial, Cameron County Echo, March 16, 1977). Laura Reid also wrote with concern that most students, teachers, and parents weren't consulted, and that the decision to ban Flowers robbed teenagers from learning about the "big, bad world" they were about to enter (editorial, Cameron County Echo, April 6, 1977). Dolores M. Rinehuls worried that individuals' "rights were being eroded" and that banning Flowers was just "the first step toward total censorship." She adamantly urged her neighbors to "Stop!!!" and "Think!!!" before they signed the ECCDL's petition to create an obscenity ordinance (editorial, Cameron County Echo, April 6, 1977). Significantly, the high school's Student Council undertook a survey of 11th and 12th graders -- an admirably thorough effort to establish exactly what average people applying contemporary standards thought. They found that the board had "bowed to a vocal minority" and had "failed to take into consideration the majority views of [those] directly involved." According to Student Council President Kelly Baker, 73 of the school's 118 students had read Flowers, and among them, only 3 felt it was objectionable ("Survey Results Presented to School Board," Cameron County Echo, April 20, 1977). 

Although I made reasonable efforts to track down all the facts about this fascinating story, some gaps remain. It appears that the Bradford Era provided the most thorough coverage of book banning controversies in the region, but I don't currently have access to that paper beyond the clippings I found in Vercellino's files (the Era been digitized by NewspaperArchive, but the site has been down for months). I also haven't had an opportunity to search newspapers in Smethport or St. Mary's because they are not available online. I didn't even have time to hand-search issues of the (undigitized) Cameron County Echo beyond March and April 1977. Most importantly of all, I didn't tap any of the people who lived through 1977 events. While most are deceased, I suspect that Vercellino may still be living. If he is, I'd love to talk to him!

One burning question is how Vercellino's attitudes toward censorship and free speech developed, and what moved him to speak out publicly despite the terrible consequences such action could have had. I'd also like to know if the Warren Public Library, which served as the District Library Center for the region and provided professional consultation and educational programs to district librarians, helped to cultivate the strong Freedom to Read ethic that Ted Smeal and Ray Vercellino espoused. I'm also curious how long the Elk-Cameron Citizens for Decency through Law lasted, and whether Flowers was ever reinstated in Cameron County High School's curriculum. 

Although my knowledge is incomplete, I can say that this story ended on a positive note, at least for Ray Vercellino and the Cameron County Public Library / Barbara Moscato Brown Memorial Library. He remained in his position until 1989, and to this day the library has a copy of Flowers for Algernon. It is in a back storage room along with other literary classics and historical items -- not popular enough to take space away from more recent fiction in public areas, but not yet ready for the book sale or dust bin. In fact, BMBML's copy may be the very same one that was available in the 1970s. It is a low-cost 1970s reprint of a 1967 Bantam edition, and it shows signs of heavy use. It is rebound in green buckram and the date-due card, still tucked within an inside pocket, is covered front and back with stamps that show it was borrowed dozens of times. 

In the 50 years that have passed, many more books about people with disabilities have been published, and there surely are other titles that better speak to today's students. But, at least for Emporium, this beat-up copy of Flowers for Algernon is an important local history artifact. Some of its markings date from 1978 and later, affirming Vercellino's belief that at least some people in town continued to want to read and judge the book for themselves, despite what their pastors and neighbors said about it. 

Barbara Moscato Brown Memorial Library's copy of Flowers for Algernon.
Strong support of the book by librarian Ray Vercellino
and others at the library helped keep it on-shelf. Photo by the author. 

Emporium Exposure

In the early 1990s, I occasionally watched a dramedy called Northern Exposure which had a classic "fish out of water" premise. In it, a young New York doctor named Joel Fleishman accepts a position as a general practitioner in a remote Alaskan community called Cicely. Because I had been an international student, the stranger-in-a-strange-land element of the show intrigued me. Significantly, at the start, Fleishman seems rather smug about his own intellectual and social superiority. But gradually, the eclectic mix of characters demonstrate that they have a lot to offer. Northern Exposure got me thinking about how the U.S. is vast and diverse enough to encompass significant cultural differences, and how we all have something valuable to share. 

Later, when I moved to Pennsylvania and started to research the history of its public libraries, I found that there can be significant cultural differences within each state, too. Through James Carville's famous political quip about Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Alabama in between, and through the hit TV series Orange is the New Black which includes a character named Tiffany "Pennsatucky" Doggett, many people are superficially aware that the Appalachian center of the Commonwealth is quite distinct from its two largest cities. Living near Harrisburg, I am nestled between the edge of those mountains to my west and miles of farmland to my east, with Philadelphia about 2 hours' drive beyond that. Situated where I am, I learned quickly that one-liners and caricatures don't do justice to the natural beauty of Central PA, or to the people who live there. 

After 20 years, I am still discovering communities that offer something special. This week, I wound up in Emporium, in Cameron County. When you first drive into town, it's all too easy to pick up the cues of the "Rust Belt" narrative that is so often used to describe Pennsylvania. Just about every municipality in the Commonwealth has its big company that closed down, leaving both an enduring imprint and a sense of loss. Emporium's seems to have been Sylvania, a manufacturer of electrical/electronics equipment founded in the early 1900s that drew hundreds of new faces to the area during World War II then closed in 1990. The borough's population rose and fell in step, from about 2,500 residents at the turn of the century, to a high point of nearly 3,800 during the 1940s, down to just 1,900 people today. Institutions that were once there -- including many of the stores, large hotels, and theater -- are gone.    

However, as I spent the week in Emporium, I noticed how the remaining residents truly love their community. And this tiny town is worth that. 

[By the way, I'm writing this as I scarf down another cookie from Allegheny Baking Company. Holy moly, are they tasty!]

A Mason Hill Cornbread Cookie from
Allegheny Baking Company.
Photo by the author. 

To be sure, I had my share of Fleishman-esque comedic moments in Emporium, starting the moment I arrived. My Airbnb was on 5th Street, uphill from the main drag, and my GPS didn't warn me about the one ways in that part of town. For added fun, there is a 5th Street Extension, too. After a 3 1/2 hour drive, my gut was overfull, and as I rounded a certain corner for the umpteenth time, I nearly lost my $h!t in every way. I gave up, drove in the wrong direction, and earned a shout from a guy who was watering a patch of flowers in his yard. The one-ways, I later realized, are necessary because hillside streets in Emporium are so narrow. Road construction is hard work, especially on rocky, slope-y ground, and I guess that the first crews to pave Emporium's streets left well enough alone as soon as they could accommodate a Ford Model T with a little extra room to park. 

It was good exercise (and less frustrating) to leave my car behind and walk any place I wanted to go. In a town of just 1,900 souls, most people that I passed by stared at me -- whether because I was a stranger, or because I am strange-looking, who can say? Late one afternoon, I was exhausted from hours of the get-up-and-sit-down that it took to explore and photocopy historical documents from 3 back-office file cabinets. So I quit a little early and trudged toward home. I was gimping along when an older man drinking beer on his front steps hollered at me, "Hey! Are you alright?"

"Yeah ..." I said with a wince. I stopped and rubbed my bad knee.

"If you've got a bum leg, why are you walkin'?' he said with a chuckle.

"I guess somebody's got to use these sidewalks," I replied wryly.

"Ain't that the truth!" He thrust his bare arm into a cooler, pulled out a Straub's, and limped over to me. 

I tried to refuse politely: "oh, thank you, but I don't drink ..."

"Church lady?"

"Not exactly ..."

"Are you from Potter?" 

"No ..." 

"Clearfield?"

"Uht uh." 

[I later learned that Clearfield and Potter Counties, which border Cameron, have some "dry" boroughs and townships.]

"Well, whatever. You can use it to ice down your knee, then," he said kindly. "That's what I do, when I've drunk enough."

That's exactly what I did.

Another funny moment happened when I was at the ShurFine (a.k.a. Emporium Food Market). Seeing what folks in Emporium pay for basic groceries, the rest of us don't have any right to complain. There isn't another supermarket in the entire county, the next-best option is Walmart in St. Mary's (Elk County), and the company prices its products like they know it. Many of the shelf-stable items that I rely on when I'm on the road, including medium-sized boxes of Sun-Maid raisins, Pop-Tarts, Cheez-Its, and Frosted Mini Wheats, were in the $5-7 range, a dollar or two more than I pay in Harrisburg. As I was checking out, I didn't have enough cash, so I pulled out my debit card. The person at the register chirped, "Hey! Hold on! I forgot to give you your discount!"

"Discount?" Although there are ShurFines where I live, I don't have a loyalty card. 

"Yeah! We give all seniors 15% off!" 

I choked on the Altoid I had just popped into my mouth. 

[I'm 50ish. And in the moment, I realized that that little tin of wintergreens cost me $3.99]. 

Maybe the celeb-trend of going gray and the retro-cool of eating "curiously strong" British mints hasn't hit Emporium yet. But I took the money and ran.

Now, you could read these interactions as examples of rural innocence. But there's an easygoing generosity of spirit in Emporium that deserves to be noticed and appreciated. Besides the folks who'll give you a free beer or cheaper groceries if you look like you need them, you can spot other types of warm-heartedness all over town. While I was doing research at Barbara Moscato Brown Memorial Library, I learned that the Emporium Foundation contributed to it repeatedly over the years, built the nursing home (Felt Manor) across the street, and has funded more than $10 million worth of other projects -- so much for a community Emporium's size! As I thumbed through weekly newspapers, I saw that there was a long tradition of honoring deceased loved ones by donating "Memorials" (cash gifts) to local organizations. Sometimes, the papers ran ads listing all Emporium's worthy charities and urging people to give. In the present day, I encountered a former schoolteacher who hand-makes and sells hundreds of sloppy joes every month to raise money for the library. I also overheard a teenage "library kid" offer to replant flowers and greenery around the building. At some point, someone else painted colorful murals in the town's crosswalks, boosting the library, the senior center, and the high school football team. Even radio station WLEM has the motto "We Love EMporium." As I was searching online for aerial views, I came across a YouTube video that a local photographer had developed in hopes that HGTV Hometown Takeover would help the area revitalize. The emotion in his voice as he describes what Emporium means to him is a touching example of how residents feel about their community. 

Even on the days when my huggy side wasn't in full effect, there were lots of other things to appreciate. The Pennsylvania Wilds region, of which Cameron County and Emporium are a part, is well-known for outdoors recreation, including hiking, wildlife viewing, fishing, and hunting. But it has an appeal, even for the less-rugged among us. Coming from Dauphin County, which has the worst air quality in the United States, the first thing I noticed was how refreshing Cameron County felt to breathe in. Sometimes, when I walk to and from work at Penn State Harrisburg, I find myself wheezing. But as I made my way between my Airbnb and the library, I took Emporium's steeper hills in stride. A second thing I noticed was how dark and quiet the area is at night. There are few floodlights from commercial buildings, most streets are unlit, and the thickly-forested hills tend to dim whatever lights shine from people's houses. A few evenings, I sat quietly on the porch of my apartment, staring in awe at the blackest black I've ever seen on the East Coast. Astronomy fans from all over the country come to visit Cherry Springs State Park, which isn't far away. My eyesight is too poor to stargaze, but the lack of noise and light pollution made Cameron County a sleeper's paradise for me. 

A street sign in downtown
Emporium. Photo by the author.

Much like Joshua Brand and John Falsey, the Emmy-winning writers behind Northern Exposure who could spin funny and thoughtful stories from little details, my creative side buzzed as I observed scenes that could give my writing a richer sense of place. For example, some of the tops of Emporium's street signs are shaped like bears and deer. Each day at noon, the Emporium Volunteer Fire Company's siren wails, a vestige of industrial times when it was a helpful community service to let workers know when it was lunchtime. Also, each night at 6, the bells of one of the town's churches provide a 10-minute concert, perhaps reminding everyone to devote part of their day to God and family. Near the ShurFine, there is Tubby's Tavern with live music and monster-sized subs, and it's on the same block as a more upscale Rich Valley Wines, which is located in a former church and where a "Jesus Saves" sign hangs above the door. There are regional events, such as the annual 100-Mile Yard Sale and the Sinnamahoning Snake Hunt that suggest plenty of comedic possibilities. I could also do something with the fact that Cameron County is the "divorce capital" of Pennsylvania because of its super-low filing fees and its efficient staff. Judging from past newspaper articles, no-fault divorce was an important revenue stream that the county government used to "market"; even now, it contributes about $90,000 to the county's $6 million budget.

Part of an old Snake Hunt program that I found at the library.
I'm not sure if the rules are still the same, but, I'd love to find out!
Photo by the author.

On my last day in Emporium, I drove up a winding road to an overlook that several people had recommended. The weather wasn't ideal and a budding tree obstructed my view of buildings below. But watching residents live their lives in a small town cradled (and, sometimes thrashed) by the Sinnemahoning Creek was a tender way of saying goodbye. While I've conducted site research at other  libraries that hold larger troves of historical documents, I enjoyed Emporium more than any other Pennsylvania community I've visited along the way. As Joel Fleishman wrote to his New York friends after he'd gained a greater appreciation for Cicely, Alaska, "I [felt] very lucky to be [t]here. Very, very lucky."

Emporium amid Pennsylvania's "Endless Mountains." Photo by the author.

1996/1997: The Year of the (Public Library) Internet

Sometimes, I regale my students with stories from the "early years" of the Internet. As it turns out, people currently in their late teens and early 20s are fascinated by the "retro-cool" of using arrow buttons on a keyboard to explore the entirely-textual World Wide Web as it existed before graphical user interfaces (notably Mosaic) were developed. My students especially crack up in laughter when I tell them how rapidly -- and embarrassingly -- we learned the importance of using correct URLs, such as when we mistakenly typed whitehouse.com rather than whitehouse.gov. 

For me personally, the Internet "began" in Fall 1994 when I was working at the Information Desk at a college library. One afternoon, just after I arrived for my shift, I noticed that a student was using it and I asked her what it was. She told me to imagine all the world's knowledge in a huge book, and being able to jump to any page that interested me, rather than having to read the book from beginning to end. Even better, imagine there are infinite books, and being able to jump from the middle of one book to another! As I tried to make sense of this, it seemed that the Internet was simply a less-linear or less-structured way of reading. It appeared to allow you to follow intellectual pathways more at your own whim, rather than being shackled to tables of content or indexes. In the moment, I didn't imagine all the other things that the Internet would end up doing for us, or to us. 

While researching the recent history of Pennsylvania's libraries, one thing I've learned is how privileged I was to have such early exposure to the Web. I wasn't on the bleeding edge of technology as Computer Science majors were, but, by working at and attending a college in the mid 1990s, I got a 2-3 year head start compared to many public library users. Also, in the academic environment, I was somewhat sheltered from the thorny questions that public library colleagues had to grapple with when serving more diverse populations.

Last week, while I was doing research at Scranton's Albright Memorial Library (SPL), I got a taste of the challenges that the dawn of the Internet posed to public librarians. In the Director's office, I stumbled over a 3-ring binder labeled "Reference Mid-1990s," which turned out to be an employee manual for SPL's Reference Desk. Inside were print copies of memos that Scott Thomas, who was Head of Reference at the time, wrote to his coworkers. Some of them summarized administrative meetings, while others conveyed policy changes. Some described new information resources available within the department, while others provided step-by-step workarounds for temperamental machines or difficult patrons. As it turned out, memos from 1996 to 1998 were filled with references to the Internet, because the Internet involved higher-level decision making, policy formulation, new tools, glitchy technology, and customer service challenges.

One of the manual's earliest references to the Internet appeared in an April 1996 memo about upgrades to SPL's Local Area Network (LAN), which allowed the library's staff and patrons to access various reference sources on CDs. Some, like the 1990s U.S. Census, American Business Disk, and the Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature, were newly available from any terminal connected to the LAN, but other CDs could only be tapped on certain workstations, or had to be loaded into the CD tower upon request. Thomas's memo provided extensive instructions for clearing print queues -- apparently a frequent challenge that frontline staff encountered. Almost as an afterthought, he mentioned that the "Internet computer" would be upgraded in a few weeks, it would include the Netscape browser, and it would be connected to the LAN so that Netscape could be used from various computers. However, since SPL only had one telephone line available for public Internet purposes, only one person at a time would be able to go online. Thomas didn't say this, but I would infer that the costs of the technology, or the difficulty of installing it within an 1890s-era building, or uncertainty over how the public would respond to it, or new workloads the Internet might present to library staff, may have played into SPL's one-at-a-time approach. 

A few months later (November 1996), another memo from Thomas conveyed "Basic Facts About the Internet at SPL," including some of the library's policies and procedures. By that point, it seems that the Web was simultaneously accessible through several machines, since customers could reserve time on one of three computers, or use others that were designated "first-come, first-serve." Interestingly, the Internet could be used by anyone aged 12 and older who had an SPL library card, but younger children had to be accompanied by a parent. Everyone's access was limited to 1 hour per day. Reading between the lines of the "Basic Facts," it seems that staff had already encountered some customers who demanded too much attention, because the memo noted that users had to be familiar with a computer keyboard, mouse, and Windows, and that staff assistance was limited to helping them open the Internet and showing them where to type URLs and search words. There may have been patron issues with excessive and "dud" printing, too, since patrons were allowed up to 5 free prints, then paid 10 cents for each page thereafter. Thinking back through my years in academic libraries, I don't remember having to show many college students how to use the hardware, but dealing with printer mishaps was one of the banes of my professional existence. I felt for SPL staff on that point!

The part of me that knows some of the rest of the story -- especially about the Children's Internet Protection Act -- smiled wistfully when I read that SPL used to allow kids 12 and older to use the Internet without adult guidance or filtering software. In public libraries, those days of unrestricted access didn't last long. Unsurprisingly, a couple of Thomas's later memos are subject-lined "pornography" and "more porn." As the courts weighed library customers' first amendment rights against parental concerns about developmentally-appropriate content, SPL and other public institutions revised their Internet use policies repeatedly. As of 2001, when CIPA started to take effect, Scranton still had a few workstations that provided unfiltered Internet access for adults, and that changed. For me and for others working in college/university environments, Internet filtering wasn't as prominently on our radars, partially because we served the over-18 crowd, and partially because our institutions did not participate in the federal e-rate program which provided discounted telecommunications pricing to K-12 schools and public libraries (and required institutional participants to adhere to CIPA). So, it was interesting for me to watch how CIPA unfolded at the ground level in another type of library. 

Scott Thomas now serves as the Director of SPL, and when I visited, we swapped stories about various technologies and workaday procedures that we've seen come and go. He's wonderful to talk to because of his thoughtfulness, his gentle humor, and his deep experience. Those qualities were evident 30 years ago, when, just a few days before Christmas 1996, he sat down to reflect on the challenging months gone by and compose what was probably his last staff memo for that year. He started by thanking his colleagues for their "hard work, loyalty, resiliency, and public service ethic." While he mentioned blizzards, floods, budget cuts, and staffing/scheduling issues, he devoted more of his words to technology, especially the Internet. He predicted that, "with all its implications good and bad," the Web would soon be "fully absorbed" into SPL's "service menu." The heavy usage that they were experiencing was organic -- "zero publicity" -- and he foresaw that staff would have to more strictly enforce customer time limits to ensure everyone who wanted to surf the Internet had the opportunity. 

A year later, in December 1997, the Internet loomed even larger as a driver of change in Thomas's department. He noted that "no 12 month period during [his] ten years [at SPL] could equal 1997 for the radical changes that [had] a direct impact" on their work. Within that short time, SPL went from a single computer with text-based Internet browsing to several public computers with Netscape, plus a training lab equipped to teach customers how to access and use the World Wide Web. Perhaps more importantly, Thomas found that the ever-present concern of marketing library reference services encompassed a new challenge. "The Internet has allowed us to attract new patrons," he wrote, "but we may have lost some old ones in the process." Library customers were starting to turn to SPL's computer workstations before they asked Scranton librarians for help, and some were not going any further if they believed they found satisfactory answers online. "Obviously, these people still had need of a library," Thomas argued, "but what about the people who feel they have no use for the library now that they have the Web in their home? What can we do for these people?" He surmised that SPL would continue to fulfill the crucial function of paying for, and providing access to, commercial databases that were impossible for individuals to afford. 

I feel that Thomas was right about that. Even in 2026 -- after 30 solid years of wide Internet availability -- many information creators do not offer subscription or per-use plans that everyday people can afford (if they offer individual pricing at all). As I think about a different emerging technology that is currently entering the public sphere and causing seismic changes, I feel that libraries' financial brokerage between content creators and content users just might be the "AI-proof" element that enables us to survive.

"Durable, Dedicated": State Librarian Ernest E. Doerschuk

A few weeks ago, a colleague at the State Library of Pennsylvania (SLP) asked me which State Librarians were "the best." Among those who served up to 1945, I'd point to Thomas Lynch Montgomery, who was so highly regarded within the profession that he was elected President of the Pennsylvania Library Association (PaLA, 1904) and the American Library Association (ALA, 1917/1918). As I've written in an article about SLP during the 19th/20th century, Montgomery served an unusually long tenure (1903-1921) and expanded SLP's mission to include library development. Also, during his time in office, a confusing morass of enabling legislation was replaced with a single, comprehensive code (1917) that guided library establishment, donation, and referenda for the next 50 years. 

Picking a favorite State Librarian from World War II and later is more challenging for me, because I am just starting to become familiar with later periods. Still, I think I can make a strong case for Ernest E. Doerschuk, Jr. (served 1964-1978). Whether or not he was "the best," he was certainly one of the most impactful. 

Ernest E. Doerschuk, Jr. at a 1967 meeting of PaLA's Northeast Chapter.
Image courtesy of the University of Scranton and DPLA, https://archives.scranton.edu/digital/collection/p9000coll6/id/3784. 

Born in 1914, Doerschuk wasn't a Pennsylvania native -- he was raised in Ohio. However, in time he became well-prepared to lead public libraries in the Keystone State. After graduating from college, he worked at New York Public Library, served as a cryptographer during World War II, and returned to NYPL. He then moved to Pennsylvania to become the Director of the Lancaster Public Library, where he served from 1946 to 1957. At LPL, he oversaw construction of a new building to replace a donated residence that the library had occupied (and been constrained by) for decades. Through these experiences, he certainly gained insights on large municipal library operations, as well as community relations and library advocacy in smaller cities. 

Doerschuk was also active within PaLA, which doubtlessly informed his understanding of libraries beyond Lancaster. In the early 1950s, for example, he chaired a Survey Committee which examined data that had been collected for the Public Library Inquiry (a national study). The result was How Good Are Pennsylvania's Public Libraries, a "preliminary" report which found that our libraries were struggling and justified the need for more intensive examinations and planning that came later. 

In 1956, Doerschuk was elected President of PaLA, which happened to be a crucial time. First of all, there was a significant leadership gap at SLP: from the retirement of Alfred Decker Keator in 1951 through the appointment of Ralph Blasingame in 1957, the position of State Librarian was essentially vacant (staff were acting in an interim capacity). In those years, the Department of Public Instruction (now the Department of Education) sometimes turned to Doerschuk and others on PaLA's Executive Committee when the department had library-related concerns that required professional authority and statewide perspective. Secondly, in 1956, the U.S. Congress passed the Library Services Act, which provided federal funds to develop libraries in rural areas. Since dollars were distributed proportionally according to each state's population, Pennsylvania's program had the potential to be one of the largest in the country. Oversight of LSA grants was delegated to state libraries, though, and at the time, SLP did not have the legal authorization to handle federal grants. LSA also required matching funds from the states, and Pennsylvania did not have a state aid program that supported municipal libraries. So, there was a need for substantial changes to existing state codes and regulations. 

PaLA proved to be up to the task of securing a new Library Code -- largely through the association's advocacy efforts, Act 188 of 1961 was passed, which expanded SLP's mandate as needed, provided funds to enable the state to pursue LSA grants, and provided annual support to libraries that met state standards. PaLA's leaders, including Doerschuk, had significant influence in DPI's hiring of State Librarian Blasingame as well. Yet, while Blasingame had been born in State College and educated at Penn State, he was academically-oriented and his previous post had been at California's state library. In  other words, he did not have a record of service within PaLA, nor any experience working in public libraries. Fortunately for all concerned, though, one of the first people Blasingame hired was Ernest E. "Ernie" Doerschuk. He started as Director of Extension, then became Director of Library Development in 1962. Following Blasingame's departure for a faculty position at Rutgers, Doerschuk was appointed State Librarian. 

As Director of Extension, Director of Library Development, and State Librarian during the late 1950s-late 1970s, Doerschuk played a crucial part in creating and overseeing the bureaucratic machinery that implemented the 1961 Library Code and any other state and federal funding opportunities that were channeled through the State Library. As a Library Journal article by John N. Berry reveals, SLP's staff swelled in the early years of Doerschuk's tenure, particularly as LSA/LSCA expanded to include all types of public libraries (not just rural), and various titles offered funding for innovative programs, building construction/renovation, interlibrary cooperation, and other efforts. Thus Doerschuk wielded substantial power. For example, by selecting district library centers and holding them accountable for how they spent state funds, his office ultimately positioned 30 particular libraries to receive thousands of extra dollars per year, as well as state-purchased technologies, that other institutions did not receive. Also, because there was never enough federal grant dollars to approve every LSA/LSCA application, Doerschuk and his team determined which institutions could proceed with pilot projects, which libraries could use federal funds to enhance their buildings, and the like. 

I can't speak fully to Doerschuk's prerogatives or to his style of leadership at SLP because I haven't finished reading all his writings or used SLP's archival records. But based on what I've seen so far, I would say that Doerschuk was intellectually rigorous, a believer in studying context and data prior to formulating an action plan. It isn't clear to me whether he or Blasingame initiated the landmark 1958 study by Lowell A. Martin that set us on the path toward the public library system that we have today. But according to David C. Palmer, who was on Martin's research team, Doershuk was a key member and his "well-founded reputation in Pennsylvania helped close the credibility gap" between  researchers and those who "saw the portents of change as a threat." A cache of 1970s documents concerning the creation of state standards for district library centers, found within the Montgomery County - Norristown Public Library's historical files, similarly demonstrates Doerschuk's data-centric approach. Among other things, he sent the Governor's Advisory Committee a 30-page, single-spaced report which included each of the proposed standards, checklists showing which DLCs currently met them, and the DLCs' estimated costs for rectifying areas where they fell short -- a document Doerschuk developed through surveys, meetings, and conversations with staff at Norristown and other centers.

Given Pennsylvania's large population, its geographic diversity, and the sorry condition of many of its public libraries, Doerschuk faced logistical and political challenges that I'm only just beginning to comprehend. One problem that particularly seemed to vex him -- and, a battle he ultimately lost -- was an effort to regionalize and consolidate library services. As early as 1959, when he wrote about the Library Services Act for PaLA's Bulletin, he noted that LSA's focus on populations of 10,000 or less was a "serious obstacle to system building" and that rural communities were better served when connected with stronger libraries that were typically located in urban areas. The network of 25-30 district library centers that he helped establish in the early 1960s was an attempt to address this need, but it seems he wanted coordination over even larger geographic areas. Interestingly, he also hoped the service regions could encompass research, school, and special libraries as well. Writing for Wilson Library Bulletin in 1968, he noted that:

Our state's biggest problem was "the entrenchment of institutions and governments in patterns that don't fit the new scene. The larger unit of library service, like the larger unit of government, is a goal whose value seems almost self-evident, but the existence of small libraries, historically supported by small municipal units stands in the way. The desirability, even the necessity, of library networks that embrace all resources can be demonstrated, but the integrity of the institutions that own the resources cannot be violated. School and public services, the litany repeats, must be coordinated; but each institution has its own history and inertia.

A Master Plan promoted by the Governor's Advisory Committee and SLP in the mid-1970s would have essentially replaced the existing district library centers with regional libraries, but political opposition from DLC librarians, their constituents, and from the school library community defeated it.

Despite any frustrations Doerschuk's regionalization efforts might have caused, hundreds of his colleagues gathered at the Penn-Harris hotel in March 1978 to honor him as he headed toward retirement. A celebratory citation from PaLA noted the collaboration he encouraged between the association and SLP, as well as his ability to foster cooperation between SLP, the Department of Education, the state legislature, and the Governor's Office. After he left SLP, he remained in Pennsylvania for a time. Then, in 1982, when his first wife, Helen "Sandy" (Monks) Doerschuk passed away, he moved to North Carolina, remarried, and lived there until his own passing in 2006. According to Doerschuk's obituary, he was buried in Millersville -- not too far from the Lancaster institution where he got started in serving Pennsylvania's library community.

I would have a very long way to go if I were to write a full-length article about Ernest E. Doerschuk, Jr. -- including using records at the Lancaster Public Library, the State Library of Pennsylvania, and any family resources that exist. But as one of our most "dedicated" and "durable" public servants, he'd definitely be worth it!

Some articles by and about Ernest E. Doerschuk, Jr.:

• Berry, John. "A Day at a State Library," Library Journal, vol. 90 (October 1, 1965), 40123-4018.
• Doerschuk, Ernest E., Jr., "After Six Years!" [about the construction of the Lancaster Public Library], Library Journal, vol. 78 (May 15, 1953), 799. 
• Doerschuk, Ernest E., Jr., "Certification Comes of Age," PLA Bulletin, vol. 5, no. 4 (September 1970), 265-268. 
• Doerschuk, Ernest E., Jr., "Facing Realities: The Pennsylvania Library Manpower Survey," PLA Bulletin, vol. 27, no. 1 (January 1972), 21-24.
• Doerschuk, Ernest E., Jr., "Finding the Mix of Services," Wilson Library Bulletin, vol. 42 (April 1968), 801-804. 
• Doerschuk, Ernest E., Jr., "Library Services Act in Pennsylvania," Pennsylvania Library Association Bulletin, vol. 15, no. 1 (Summer 1959), 142-145. 
• Doerschuk, Ernest E., Jr., Memo to Barbara Bruno, Chairperson, DLC Standards Committee, and Members of the Governor's Advisory Council, re. Survey of District Library Centers' Status with Regard to Proposed DLC Standards, n.d. [1976]. Copy available in Administrative Office Files, Montgomery County - Norristown Public Library, folder "Minimum Standards for DLC." 
• Doerschuk, Ernest E., Jr.,"Pennsylvania's Standings in the Public Library League," PLA Bulletin, vol. 26, no. 3 (May 1971), 151-154. 
• Doerschuk, Ernest E., Jr., and David C. Palmer, "Current Concepts in State Aid to Public Libraries," Library Trends, vol. 9 (1960), 35-51. 
• "Leaders Honor State Librarian," PLA Bulletin, vol. 33, no. 2 (March 1978), 5. 
• Pennsylvania Library Association, How Good Are Pennsylvania's Public Libraries: A Preliminary Report, 1951. 
• Raber, Douglas. Librarianship and Legitimacy: The Ideology of the Public Library Inquiry. Greenwood Press, 1997. 
• "Ralph Blasingame Appointed to Position of State Librarian in Pennsylvania," Pennsylvania Library Association Bulletin, issue no. 3, pg. 1.

Different Ways to District: A Preliminary Look at the History of Pennsylvania's District Library Centers

Many years ago, when I was a newcomer to Pennsylvania, I encountered various features of the library landscape that I hadn't seen in other states. When I was growing up in Massachusetts (1970s-1990s), for example, my own city's library was the (only) library for me. There was no Bristol County Public Library, and I didn't know that I had any right to use the State Library in Boston. Similarly, when I was in graduate school in New Jersey (1990s), there was no Middlesex County Public Library and no hearty welcome to use the State Library in Trenton. However, when I moved to Pennsylvania, I discovered that I could use both my local public library and the Dauphin County Library System in Harrisburg. What's more, DCLS was (still is) a "District Library Center" that provides services to Dauphin, Cumberland, and Perry Counties. The idea of "out-of-county" residents being able to borrow materials from a municipal library was completely foreign to me, though the generous side of me that believes in "access for all" certainly loves the idea.

Although District Library Centers (DLCs) don't seem to be common in other states, they have a significant history and play important roles in Pennsylvania. Their origins can be traced at least as far back as 1958. Up until that time, public libraries were established only insofar as municipalities, county governments, or community organizations had the oompf to pursue them. In 1931, a matching grant program provided a small amount of state funding for rural county systems, but many counties didn't take advantage of it. Thus there were millions of Pennsylvanians who had no meaningful library access. It was well understood that most townships did not have sufficient tax bases to support bricks and mortar libraries, and not every county could sustainably provide bookmobile services, even if assisted by state grants. Where local and county libraries *did* exist, collections, opening hours, and knowledgeable staff were inadequate. Thus, a study commissioned by the State Library and led by Lowell A. Martin, Dean of Rutgers's School of Library Service, recommended increased state funding not only for local libraries, but also for strategically-located "central" libraries that would serve everyone within larger geographic areas.

Martin's study provided intellectual rigor and an actionable plan that the Pennsylvania Library Association and other advocates could use to gain lawmakers' attention. Act 188 of June 14, 1961, now known as the Pennsylvania Public Library Code, created Pennsylvania's first statewide subsidy for libraries and sought to strengthen them in various other ways. One of its provisions empowered the State Librarian to designate up to 30 DLCs, many of which still exist today.

Pennsylvania's current DLCs. Image courtesy of the State Library of Pennsylvania, Bureau of Library Development, https://pa-gov.libguides.com/ld.php?content_id=84408565. 

As shown on the above map, all the present DLCs are public libraries. State-level library planners of the 1950s-1970s, however, envisioned a cohesive network in which public, college, school, and special libraries collaborated extensively. According to a Re-Survey that Martin published in 1967, 5 college and 24 public libraries were receiving state aid to provide district services at that time. While the Re-Survey doesn't include a complete list of DLCs, a 1975 study by William F. Donny and Francis J. Reardon does, and it also provides a map of respective territories. Back then, Clarion University and Indiana University of Pennsylvania served much of the area that is now covered by the New Castle and Oil Creek districts. While Penn State continues to serve as a Statewide Library Resource Center, Schlow Centre Region Library is now the DLC for Clearfield, Centre, and Mifflin Counties. Other boundaries have shifted as well. 

Pennsylvania's District Library Centers and their service areas, 1975.
Image from Donny and Reardon, Evaluation of District Library Center System in Pennsylvania.

An important facet of my current research project is to better understand how DLCs changed over time, and how they influenced public library services in their regions. So far, I have visited 2 -- Easton and Norristown -- and I plan to go to Altoona and Scranton as well. But I've already found some interesting material in the Pennsylvania Library Association Bulletin, in the State Library, at Easton and Norristown, and in other resources that tells me that DLCs have fascinating stories.

One thing I have already observed is that, throughout the1960s and most of the 1970s, there were few, if any, standards for DLCs that were strictly enforced. As Martin's Re-Survey points out, as of 1967 only 6 of the DLCs met even half of the state's criteria for budget, collection size, staffing, and number of seats for readers. While too-small collections were a problem for nearly half of the libraries, charts in the Re-Survey show that each institution had a different mix of strengths and shortcomings. Despite the fact that some DLCs were struggling, by 1978, the State Library published Minimum Standards and Guidelines for Pennsylvania District Library Centers Receiving State Aid which included additional expectations. In addition to books and periodicals, DLCs had to offer AV materials. They were also charged with employing consultants who provided "counseling and continuing education" for local librarians, and assisted in publicizing library services that were available throughout the district. Perhaps most importantly, district services were expected to be responsive to the needs of local libraries, who had input through formal advisory committees. 

Such differences in DLCs'  resources and their constituent libraries' needs seems to have led each DLC to fulfill its purpose in a different way. For example, it appears that the Easton Area Public Library emphasized hands-on assistance to small and emerging libraries. According to the monthly Librarian's/Director's monthly reports, one of EAPL's early (1964) projects was to assist in weeding and classifying collections at Barrett Friendly, a township library in Monroe County. A few years later, Easton provided "pool" (deposit) collections to both Barrett Friendly and the Riegelsville Library, beefing up both locations' selections of nonfiction and summer reading titles. In the 1980s, EAPL collaborated with local officials in nearby Palmer Township to pursue a Library Services and Construction Act grant to build a branch -- a building that the township continues to own, but EAPL continues to staff. 

Although Montgomery County - Norristown Public Library became a DLC at the same time as Easton did, its approach to assisting local libraries had at least one different emphasis. It certainly developed collections and delivery services to meet the informational needs of Montgomery County's diverse residents. But, perhaps due to MCNPL's award-winning flair for public relations, one of its first district initiatives was to develop collaborative publicity campaigns. In the early 1960s, it formed a county-wide committee of librarians to work together on booklists and other promotional items. By pooling funds, labor, and talent, they were able to compile, print, and distribute much snazzier pamphlets than most could have produced individually. 

"The Outer City," a booklist on suburban social problems that Montgomery libraries co-produced with Montgomery County - Norristown Public Library, their district library center.
Copy available in Administrative Office Vertical Files, folder Montg. Library District PR Committee.

In 1965, MCNPL obtained an LSCA grant to purchase a poster printing machine, a portable projector, and other equipment that local libraries could borrow for publicity and outreach activities. In later years, the group developed portable display kits for promoting libraries at community events. They even advertised through billboards and parade floats! As MCNPL's stockpile of equipment grew, it provided a list of "properties" that colleagues in local libraries could borrow.

The cover and first page of a list of borrowable display equipment that Montgomery County - Norristown Public Library offered to local libraries within its district, ca. 1968.
Copy available in Administrative Office Vertical Files, folder Library District Services.

Pennsylvania's 67 counties, overlayed by geologic features, roads, economic stratification, unevenly dispersed populations, and cultural/social differences, invite endless tinkering with district boundaries. Even back in 1967, Martin's Re-Survey recommended a change to the 1961 Code to allow the State Librarian to appoint 10 more DLCs. Martin especially recommended ones for suburban counties around Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. I can't say whether that idea would have stood the test of time, but if I had been in the State Librarian's shoes in the 1960s, I don't think I would have invited 30 libraries to become DLCs, knowing that the law allowed me to designate up to that number. I probably would  have wanted a few "open slots" to fill later on if growing areas within the state needed it. Call me conflict-avoidant, but I'd rather hold back some of my thunder rather than face the uphill battle of squeezing more money from the state budget or, worse, have to demote or strip funds from existing DLCs to provide for other ones!

My understanding of DLCs is still dim at this point, especially for more recent years, because I have just begun to uncover professional literature, government documents, and archival materials from the 1980s and beyond. But, I will say that as much as district library centers may have been devised to provide equitable service to all citizens of the Commonwealth, I wouldn't be surprised if the system still encouraged/encourages innovation, individuality -- and consternation. It definitely did in the 1960s and 1970s!

The Donuts Abide

This week I was at Easton Area Public Library, and while my research was productive, after a few days I was feeling ragged. Since my time at my research sites is limited, I push myself hard. I typically hunch over my laptop for 10-12 hours during the day, deciphering and scanning reams of old records. After a quick dinner and call home, I then prop myself up in bed for 2-3 hours more, uploading and organizing my scans. I willingly do this -- it's part of the job of being a historian. But Easton was just a little harder. 

From April 13th through 18th, ye gods that grant researchers peaceful sleep and protect us from technological glitches did not smile upon me. My Airbnb was in a rowhouse, sharing a wall with a couple who argued loudly and long into the night. An unexpected heat wave pushed daytime temperature above 90 degrees, leading me to discover that the air conditioning and fans in my apartment weren't working. Then, on Friday, someone driving through the neighborhood hit an electrical pole and blacked out every home and business in the West Ward. Though my host was responsive and addressed everything as best he could, my last bit of resilience evaporated when I arrived at EAPL early on Saturday morning, only to find out that the Internet was down throughout the building and that the library had to close.

For a few minutes, I sat in my car and squinted at my phone, trying to gauge whether the Northampton County Historical Society was open and whether it might hold anything that could be relevant to my work. But then I rubbed my sore eyes, arched my stiff back, and yawned deeply.

"I give up," I sighed.

I googled "donuts near me."

The first business on the list was a placed called "No BS Donuts" on Nazareth Road, "the best old-fashioned donuts in Easton." 

"No BS," I chuckled. "That's my place!"

As I pulled into the mini-mall parking lot, though, something seemed off. It was Saturday, in the 9:00 a.m. hour, but the windows of most of the shops were dark. Some had their doors propped open, and employees were sitting in chairs outside. 

Another yutz hit another pole? 

"Cooooome ooooon!," I groaned. 

I was just about to throw my car in reverse when I noticed a grinning, gap-toothed kid skipping out of No BS with a box in hand.

Hope renewed and curiosity piqued, I got out of my car and walked into the shop. I was greeted by a jubilant older man in a green t-shirt -- Bill, the owner. In the semi-darkness, he informed me that all the donuts were fresh, made that night, and that he could take cash or charge. His wife, Siobhan -- the "S" in BS -- reminded me to use wax paper as I overeagerly nabbed a chocolate glazed from a self-serve case. Then I hot-footed it to the sales counter and picked out a mix of cinnamon buns, crullers, and specialty donuts to enjoy with Mike when I got back home. At 10 dollars for a half-dozen, I felt like I was stealing from somebody. I thanked Bill and Shiobhan, and she told me that the donut shop was her husband's dream, not hers -- that she still works another job full-time. "He loves the store so much, though, and seeing him happy makes me happy." Their joy, despite the lack of electricity in the neighborhood, really shone.

Bill and Siobhan, the owners of No BS Donuts,
and one of their employees. Photo by the author.

Of course, I didn't wait for Mike to sample what I bought. In fact, my chocolate glazed didn't make it to the parking lot. I scarfed down a second, raised donut with peanut butter frosting and jelly filling in my car. As I relished my breakfast, a chatty woman in a Honda nearby told me that she lived a couple blocks away. Everyone heard a  "KABOOM!" at around 5 that morning and their power had been out since. 

The outside of No BS, and a half-dozen box.
Photo by the author.

Heaven in a box: a chocolate glazed, a cinnamon cruller, a peanut butter and jelly,
a cinnamon bun, a strawberry with sprinkles, and a jelly powdered. 
Photo by the author.

No BS's donuts were delicious and they provided just the oompf that I needed for my 2-hour drive home. More important than the satisfying heft of the cakes, the crunchiness exterior of the crullers, and the airy texture of the raiseds, though, was Bill's and Siobhan's resilient spirits. A few minutes before I entered their store, I felt like I was going home in defeat. But after meeting them, I was reminded that I did the best I could with what I got. I'm so grateful for trail angels like them when I encounter them in my travels. Lights may flicker out, but positive attitudes (and donuts) abide. 

"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.