We know where you live!: chasing down overdues at Lancaster Public Library

Lancaster Public Library is proving to be one of the richest sites I have visited, in terms of documentation about its long history. Thusfar I have found hundreds of news articles, a substantial collection of legal documents, dozens of thought-provoking photographs, and various eye-catching pamphlets. Yesterday, I stumbled upon a delightful pair of artifacts: two "Messenger Books." These small notebooks list each title long-overdue at LPL from 1916 to 1923, and from 1931 to 1932. 



Messenger Book from Lancaster Public Library, 1916-1923

Messenger Book from Lancaster Public Library, 1932-1933

Entries include the overdue books' authors and call numbers, the dates they were checked out, and the names, library card numbers, and home addresses of the borrowers. Definitely a hot potato, because of Pennsylvania's laws regarding the confidentiality of patron records -- a right to privacy that has no statute of limitations. I informed LPL administrators of the books' existence, and they are now developing proper safeguards for such records.* Although I can't discuss individual borrowers, I will describe the library's efforts to reclaim its materials. The books include various notes which reveal the messengers' efforts and successes in tracking down each volume. 

Using LPL's newspaper files, I already knew that the library sometimes employed teenage boys to visit residences and retrieve overdue books. I had also discovered that the library used federally-funded workers for the same purpose during the Great Depression. Nonetheless, the actual notebooks, which no doubt became so tattered as they were continually pulled from and shoved into pockets, thumbed through and scrawled inside with rushed and sweaty hands, provide tangible clues about how the messenger boys operated.

Back in the days when mothers were often home and fewer people commuted long distance to work, in-person visits were apparently quite effective. Most entries are marked "returned," although fines often went unpaid. In some cases, intrepid messengers tracked borrowers across state lines. For example, one dutifully noted that a certain patron, who borrowed the library's copy of Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables in the winter of 1917, moved to Seekonk, Massachusetts. Apparently (s)he moved at least once in the Bay State, for beside one scratched-out address, the messenger penciled-in "wrote letter," and recorded the new location. There may have been even worse offenders than this particular borrower, for underneath some names is written a more omninous-sounding note: "constable letter." I didn't have time to make a scientific study of it, but it also seems that all kinds of materials and people crossed paths in the library. Let us say that men, women, and children failed to return all kinds of items, from children's picture books, to classic novels, to hydraulics repair manuals.

LPL's messenger books seemed laughable to me at first -- evidence of an earlier generations' inordinate obsession with collections and their care. Most librarians today wouldn't send staff across the hall, let alone across town, for a measly 65-cent fine! It is far easier to sigh deeply and buy a new copy. When I worked at Enoch Pratt Free Library years ago, some of my colleagues didn't blink when ordering dozens of duplicate Bibles or GED practice manuals. They'd stash the Ingram boxes in their offices, and when all shelf copies proved missing (i.e., at least once per month), they'd go to the back rooms, pull out a few fresh copies, stick on some barcodes, adjust the holdings records, and toss the fresh bait onto a reshelving cart. 

But after further thought, I could appreciate the older librarians' point of view. LPL's messenger books remind me of a time when cash-strapped libraries did not shrug off lost/stolen materials as a mere cost of doing business. Keeping items past due was enough of a threat to the library's well-being and an affront to the community to use scarce human resources to retrieve them. The small part of me who is sometimes weary of being tramped upon by overbearing customers couldn't help but smile over LPL's willingness, back in the olden days, to lay down the law.

*Note: LPL isn't unique in inadvertently providing access to confidential material -- over the course of 9 years of doing this kind of research, I have uncovered similar records many times. Such items were created long before Pennsylvania's law was in place, and are often stored with other "old library stuff" in eccentric closets or corners of the building. When new directors and staff replace veterans, the knowledge is often lost that such institutional records exist. My personal belief is that state statutes should be amended to provide exceptions for historical materials of a certain age, so that practitioners will not feel compelled (as some unfortunately do) to destroy them or strictly limit access. But as of today, I feel obligated to turn over anything circulation records I find to the library's administrators. 

Give us this day our daily Subway

Yesterday around noontime, I realized I did something really dumb. I reached into my bag, felt around for the customary brown craft paper and realized: I forgot my lunch. On the dining room table. No doubt my cats had already found it, gnawed through the ziploc baggie, tore my tuna sandwich apart, and batted bits of unwanted rye bread around my living room.

When I initially designed my project a year ago, one thing I had looked forward to was sampling local flavors while on the road. But as August 1st drew near and the implications of my sabbatical salary cut became clearer, I decided that eating out would be a rare and special occasion for the next 9 months. So, each morning, I carefully pack a hearty lunch and several snacks.

I admire people who can go without food in an emergency, but I absolutely cannot. Part of it is that I work out pretty intensely at the gym. I routinely burn more than 1000 calories on the elliptical, bike, and/or treadmill each day. And it takes substantial energy to haul my 230-pound carcass around. Later in the day, I knew I would have an hour-long drive home and being lightheaded wouldn't be an asset.

So simply skipping lunch wasn't an option.

I didn't know of any good eats in Pottsville, so I decided to try a place I passed everyday on route 209. As I walked in, I saw signage for Keno and a smoking area in the "tavern" which reassured me it catered to down-luckers like me. Unfortunately, though, I don't read menus like a normal human being. I may not always eat healthily -- in fact, I slip up every damned day -- but for the past 7 years, I have been trying very hard to lose weight by choosing balanced meals. So where you might see "hamburger, cheeseburger, and BLT," I see "saturated fat, saturated fat with cheese, and hickory-smoked saturated fat with lettuce and tomato." I thought I could even smell the grease hanging in the air and spy it spattered on the walls. I turned tail before an empty stomach and dripping taste buds got the better of me.

I drove up and down Centre Street and thankfully passed a Subway. Gosh, that franchise has saved me so many times! I must have cut an odd figure, counting out quarters, dimes, and nickels (my parking meter fund) from a purple change purse made from a child's sock. Thankfully, my turkey, ham, (baked) potato chips, and diet coke cost $4.24, and I had exactly $4.27. Feeling magnanimous, I tossed three pennies into the tip jar. Nine days into my sabbatical leave, and I was broke.

Such is the life of a scholar who gives all for her studies!





 

In search of Margaret E. Critchfield and other female librarians

If you have never heard of Margaret Critchfield, you're not alone.

In my experience, it is unusual for librarians to appear in the annals of a city's or county's history. Many such books, written in the 19th and early 20th centuries, give (male) businessmen, doctors, lawyers, and politicians pride of place. Occasionally, some outstanding librarians -- like Hannah Packard James of Wilkes-Barre -- are included (or segregated?) in journal articles or book chapters about notable women -- but even such mentionings are rare. Unlike James, Margaret Critchfield was not a leader within the American Library Association, a founder of the Pennsylvania Library Association, or (apparently) widely involved in her community beyond the library. Thus it's no surprise that narratives of Lancaster city and county life are utterly silent about her.

Yet, women like Critchfield deserve to be known. And we deserve to know them. I only stumbled upon Critchfield through happenstance. I was thumbing through a file cabinet drawer of newsclippings about Lancaster Public Library, I was surprised to encounter another woman staring back at me. The photo was grainy, but her warm, gentle smile compelled me to learn and write about her.


Margaret Critchfield, Librarian
at Lancaster Public Library.
From the New Era, January 23, 1932

So far, the details I know are gleaned from Lancaster newspapers. Critchfield began her work in Lancaster sometime in October 1931, after her predecessor, Helen Umble, left to be married. A blurb in the October 5, 1931 New Era states that she was educated at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, NY, and then worked at "Lock Haven State Teachers' College" (now Lock Haven University) and "another teachers school in Danbury, Connecticut."

Critchfield served at a difficult time, both in the library's and Lancaster's history. Operating from a cramped residential home that had been converted to a library several decades earlier, she monitored but couldn't fix its leaky roof. Several times during the depths of the Great Depression she made difficult decisions to cut opening hours to keep within a tight budget (New Era, October 3, 1933 and November 24, 1934). It seems full hours only returned sporadically, through federal funding. Even still, Critchfield and her three staff assisted hundreds of people displaced by unemployment. According to one end-of-the-year report she provided to the library's board, customers were most interested in books on "salesmanship, engineering, advertising, and mechanics, so they will be better fitted to take their places in the world during the reconstruction period" (New Era, February 4, 1932). In these desperate times, mutilation of books was a significant problem, and the Holy Bible was one of the books most commonly stolen (New Era, May 18, 1932).

In addition to confronting bleak economic conditions, Critchfield gave residents means of escape and events to look forward to. Articles in local newspapers note her work with a puppet collection, a "costume index," and an aquarium exhibit, as well as outreach to local fire companies, the Playground Association, PTA, YWCA, and other community organizations. It appears she was very resourceful, especially in taking advantage of the various "ABC" programs initiated by President Franklin D. Roosevelt and other New Dealers. When the State of Pennsylvania authorized new funding for public libraries to provide services to county residents, Critchfield applied for the program. Soon after the federal National Youth Administration program was created, Critchfield obtained seven young men who installed a new heating system in the library. NYA workers also canvassed Lancaster and compelled borrowers to return overdue books (New Era, April 1, 1936 and May 27, 1936). Later, she arranged for the Works Progress Administration to paint the library (New Era, July 10, 1936 and November 23, 1936). She even arranged for a representative from Gaylord to visit Lancaster and teach local Boy Scouts to mend the library's "tattered volumes" thereby earning the kids merit badges and giving old books new lives (New Era, May 17, 1933 and May 24, 1933).

And then, after some rather mundane reports published in the New Era from the late 1930s through the summer of 1941, Margaret Critchfield disappeared without a trace. An article in the July 8, 1941 edition announced the appointment of a new librarian, Clifford B. Wightman. Coming to Lancaster from Grand Rapids, Michigan, Wightman was heralded by the board as "the first step in the enlargement of the usefulness of the library." The article lauded his bachelor degree from the University of Michigan, his graduate coursework at the University of Chicago (this being a time when an MLS was not the required degree), and even the fact that his wife was president of the Grand Rapids YWCA. Regarding Critchfield, it merely states that she resigned on April 1st, offering no accolades, reasons, or forwarding address. Given that the woman served Lancaster for nearly a decade, the silence seems insulting. To me, it reads something like, "don't let the door hit your behind on the way out."

In spare moments I hope to figure out what happened to Margaret Critchfield. Did she take another library position in another state? Did she marry or die suddenly? I don't think it's at all crucial for my research, but somehow I feel the need to right a lapse in the historical record. In addition to contacting the college archives of Pratt Institute and Lock Haven, I can use various historical newspaper databases, Ancestry.com (especially the Social Security Death Index), and the Pennsylvania State Archives' collection of death records. But I suspect the road won't be easy. Maiden/married names and previous decades' lack of interest in women will be substantial barriers. Still, I will try. I think the world knows all too much about businessmen, doctors, lawyers, and politicians. It knows a bit about the most famous librarians. It knows nothing of everyday women who served their communities well -- the women who are most of us.

Microfilm goes hi(?)-tech

Yesterday while I was in a cavernous room using a microfilm reader, I became aware that someone was watching me. My eyes adjusting from my bright screen to the darkness, I spied an elderly woman smiling broadly at me. "Sorry to scare you, honey," she said. "I'm just amazed at how you handle that thing! You remind me of my grandmother at the loom, the way you're able to turn knobs, pull levers in and out and such, so fast without taking your eyes away from the screen!" I just shrugged and told her it is probably because I have been using microfilm for years. When I was in college in the 1990s -- i.e., the days before one could find U.S. Census records on Ancestry.com! -- I worked in the Microfilm Research Room of the National Archives. There were more than 100 machines in MMR, and my job was to assist people in using them. I believe most were NMI 2020's or a similar make -- they projected images from lenses overhead, down to a stark white tabletop, much easier on the eyes than other readers with backlit screens. Made of simple metal parts, and heavy as hell with sides of unscratchable faux wood veneer, they could withstand the abuse of thousands of frustrated, ham-handed genealogists. After my first week on the job, I could load film using my teeth or toes if I had to. And, like learning to ride a bike, once you learn to use one microfilm reader, you basically know how to troubleshoot them all. The first crucial question typically is "is this one an over-under loader?"

Many county historical societies cannot afford to digitize all their microfilm collections, so knowing how to use them is a helpful skill. Nonetheless, I was pleased to find that the technology has upgraded. Yesterday, I learned how to use the ScanPro 2000 (see photos below), a reader that creates digital images from microfilm.  Although loading the film still requires a certain touch, image adjustment and output options are far better than they were years ago. Refocusing and rotating images can be done with the click of a mouse (no need to pull lenses in and out!). And when you drag the edges of a cropping box around your article of choice to print it, the ScanPro automatically fits your image to 8x11" paper or uses several pages if necessary.

One of the added benefits of a sabbatical project like mine, in which I will use dozens of libraries, is the exposure to many different types of technologies, as well as new ways of serving researchers. I'm looking forward to encountering more of this while I'm on the road!

The ScanPro 2000 at LancasterHistory

Libraries and the land

Yesterday I got the "gear switch" or "over the hump" feeling that every historian gets when he or she has used all the major sources of information about a topic. On my checklist for Pottsville Free Public Library, I had crossed off the library's annual reports, board minutes, and scrapbooks, as well town and county histories, the index to the county historical society's journal, and newspaper indexes. I had searched for dissertations and other student papers in the library's online catalog, the historical society's finding lists, and WorldCAT. I had even sought biographical information about the library's founders and early librarians using city directories, obituaries, and vertical files. When you reach this point, it is time to check notes, develop a list of unanswered questions, and find creative ways to answer them. In other words, the real detective work begins!

For Pottsville,  one thing I continue to wonder is why Schuylkill never developed a county library system. Since 1931, Pennsylvania has provided funding for this purpose -- now called "county coordination aid." Schuylkill's neighbors to the south, including Dauphin, Lebanon, and Berks, receive tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars each year through the program. Yet this past year, the Pottsville Free Public Library was the only Schuykill library awarded money of this kind, and its grant was among the smallest, just over $10,000. Comparing state maps to the Pennsylvania Department of Education's recent Summary of State to Public Libraries, I saw that several other counties in mountain regions, like Carbon, Northumberland, and Perry, also seem to lack county libraries.

My thoughts sloshed and tumbled in my mind as I drove from Pottsville to Tuscarora State Park to go hiking. Instead of taking route 61 north to 81, I decided to take 209, which dates from the 1920s and passes northeast through a number of old villages and towns. Although MapQuest predicted the 16-mile trip would only take 30 minutes, it took me more than 40. Not only did I judiciously slow down as I passed through populated areas like Port Carbon, New Philadelphia, Middleport, and Tamaqua, but I often had to tap my brakes when descending steep, curvy grades, or when rustling foliage in the adjacent forest alerted me to the possibility of deer bounding across my path. Along the way, roadside memorials to fathers, mothers, children, and friends were a somber reminder that caution is the better part of valor. As the gas in my tank dwindled to fumes and nerves dried my mouth, I longed for a Sheetz or Turkey Hill and saw none until Tamaqua. When I finally stopped in the day-use lot of the state park, I carefully stretched to relieve the tension in my hands, shoulders, and neck. Imagine driving 209 everyday, back in the 1920s-1960s before 81 was created! What a slalom it would be on an icy winter day, past or present!

Perhaps the travel was more stressful for me than it would be for others because I didn't learn to drive until I was 29 years old. Also, because I walk to work, I seldom drive. Yet my harrowing experience in this small part of northeastern Schuylkill County might serve as a window into the question of why county library systems did not develop in certain parts of Pennsylvania. Thinking about what such systems tend to do -- including interlibrary loan, professional supervision and training, and sharing staff -- they would have had to literally traverse mountains to make it work in places like Schuylkill. Staring up at the forested hills that surrounded them on all sides, especially in the days without cars that offer turn-by-turn vocal directions, favorite music that will keep you entertained on command, cupholders for your beverage of choice, and roadside assistance contracts that will pull you out of the ditch, it's no wonder that town and village libraries are so independent. They had to be. Geography may be an important factor toward explaining how our un-system of public libraries developed.

Meeting Doc Pete

As a Penn State faculty member, I am blessed to have millions of digitized primary sources at my fingertips. For instance, from my laptop at home I can easily access a complete online backfile of the New York Times to 1851; hundreds of 19th century magazines within the American Periodicals Series; and even an online collection of Civil War letters and diaries. So recently, when I was a graduate student in Harrisburg's American Studies program, it's no surprise that many in my cohort defaulted to their keyboards. Even "older" students like me who predate the World Wide Web have transitioned to using computers first, and paper next, when doing historical research.

Thus my visit to the Schuylkill County Historical Society exercised skills I haven't used in a while. Located within an old school on North Centre Street in Pottsville, the Society's building has retained the high ceiling, "cloak room," chalkboards, and highly polished wooden floor of a century-old classroom.
 



Schuylkill County Historical Society Library

The library doesn't have an online public access catalog of the kind that I often use. The organization scheme isn't Dewey or Library of Congress. Instead, call numbers beginning with "CW" point to Civil War material and "M" numbers indicate mining books. Those who wish to search the collection must thumb through a battered, red binder labeled "Library Contents." In this environment, computer skills are useless, but meticulous note taking, thoroughness, and time-management skills are invaluable.

Although I was able to locate a lot of items  on my own, I discovered that if you want to find any/everything, a chat with Peter "Doc Pete" Yasenchak, the SCHS Director, is a sine qua non. At 84 years old, this Korean War veteran and retired school guidance counselor not only knows where to find books, memorabilia, and photos, but he has often lived through the history documented in them. Whatever your topic, he can immediately suggest related people, organizations, places, and events, thus providing infinite angles of approach for your research. Most importantly, he has a limitless interest in his community, and in people who want to understand it better.
 

Doc wasn't around when I first arrived because he was attending the funeral of a member of his church. But immediately upon meeting me, he swept me into a warm hug. He sat down to see what materials I'd already used and slapped my shoulder approvingly when my research skills impressed him. While I don't think he is professionally trained in running a library, his formal education in counseling and his sunny personality have served him just as well, if not better. For in terms of service-orientation he would definitely put many members of my own tribe to shame.

There were a few items I simply couldn't find, especially old city ordinances, maps, and photographs. Doc pulled off his glasses, nibbled their frame, pacing through a map in his mind. After a few moments, he pulled a flashlight from his pocket and pointed the beam at a low, dusty shelf. "Right there." Then he proceeded to help other customers, answer the phone, and basically keep all of us productive for the rest of the afternoon.

As helpful and jolly as Doc was, something he said haunts me, though. One of the times he returned to my table, he apologized for arriving late. I told him I was sorry about the funeral, and that I was very thankful to have ANY assistance from him. After all, within a few moments he'd found those damn law books that I failed to see despite crawling all over the stacks! Doc smiled, tapped this temple and said, "yes, it's all in my head." Then he paused thoughtfully and said with a touch of urgency, "and I don't have anyone to pass it on to." Perhaps this comment was born of an emotional experience earlier in the day, burying a friend who was a decade younger than he is. But having worked in archives earlier in my career, and being a heavy user of them now, I might guess what else he could have meant. In my experience, many volunteers who "love history" don't enjoy learning the ins and outs of finicky library organization schemes. And although everyone at SCHS was kind to me, my experiences at other repositories informs me that volunteers sometimes weary of being at the beck and call of researchers with weird topics like mine.

My visit at Schuylkill County Historical Society was a reminder that even in 2013, there are many resources that aren't available -- are in fact, completely invisible -- online. And the most important ones are people like Doc Pete who not only know where the facts are buried, but are personally dedicated to helping people uncover them.   

Anticipation/preparation

The adventure begins!

Last night I didn't sleep very well -- partially because I NEVER sleep well, partially because of the humidity, and mostly because I can't wait to get on the road and start my research. I had wanted a sound sleep because I knew I'd be driving over a hundred miles to and from Pottsville today. But my eyes popped open at 1:00 a.m., again at 3:15 a.m., and again around 4:30 a.m.. So I gave up and rolled out of bed.

At least I used my "found time" productively. I made a decent breakfast -- scrambled Egg Beaters with chopped green peppers and onions, with a not-so-healthy palmful of shredded Colby Jack mixed in. An English muffin with peach preserves, too. I also paid all my bills for the month.

Then I got the bright idea to create a packing list of all the things I'll need when I go on day-trips. I dumped out the stray pen caps, old lip balms, broken pedometer, lint, and other junk in the bottom of my gym bag and added much-needed items to it. I thought back to all the snafus I'd faced in the past, especially when visiting rural sites with poor cell phone reception, few stores, and minimal conveniences for researchers. Road atlas, AAA card, $50 in cash, and a roll of quarters (for parking, pay phones, photocopies). Stuff that I am likely to forget at the crack of dawn but better bring with me or I'm screwed: keys, driver's license, health insurance card, cell phone, wallet. And in case things get really bad: Advil and a book of American Indian poetry.



My travel bag and packing list



While packing, one thing I discovered about myself is how "analog" I am, in terms of how I collect data. It's odd, because as a librarian, I use computers all the time. In the course of my daily work and living, I regularly use all kinds of apps on my iPhone -- CardStar (organizes store loyalty cards), Duolingo and Google Translate (learning and understanding foreign languages), Pandora (music), White Pages (address/phone directory), and more than 50 newspaper apps. And yes, Candy Crush Saga and Facebook too. And I snap a lot of photos with my iPhone. But oddly, when it comes to taking notes, I prefer index cards and pens. I always have. Sometimes, I have no choice, because the small archives I tend to use often don't offer wireless interact access or convenient power outlets. Yet I also confess I tend to remember information better when I handwrite it -- as if the words become absorbed through my ink-stained fingers, flow through my bloodstream, and seep into my brain and heart. I feel antediluvian when I see other researchers my age with laptops, and I know that they are able to retrieve odd bits of data more readily than I can. But is it encoded in their bodies as it is in mine? Does it churn inside them when they try to sleep, as it does in me? Does it pour forth when an opportunity to tell a good story arises, as it does from me? I'm not sure.

One thing I would like to do while on sabbatical is explore how technology can enhance my scholarship. I am already doing this in one way, by blogging about my experience. But giving up handwriting? -- I am not ready yet!