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.

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