Riffling through another librarian's desk

Sometimes, I think that field anthropology or forensic police work may have been viable careers for me. I enjoy examining the material items people choose to surround themselves with, and the detritus they leave behind. In the workplace, you can learn a great deal about a colleague by furtively glancing around his or her office. For instance, one librarian I know has a wooden artist mannequin, a large Color Cube puzzle, and calligraphic signage in her workspace -- all pointers to her artistic interests and training. Though she is very orderly, other librarians' desks rival archeological sites or crime scenes in terms of fascinating mess.

I encountered such an archeological/forensic prize this week at the Erie County Public Library. Its director led me to "the vault" where materials about the library's century-long history are kept. There were shelves of ledgers, scrapbooks, and other items, but I gravitated toward a long run of faux hardbound books on a low shelf. "Letters" (woo-hoo! primary sources!) was the prominent label on each volume. Another label, "The Falcon File," added an irresistible mysteriousness to them.

Letters to and from the Librarian of Erie Public Library, early 1900s

As it turned out, these large, accordion files comprise the head librarian's incoming and outgoing correspondence for 1898 through the 1910s. Amazingly, it appears that every.single.letter was retained. There are several volumes per year and items inside are arranged alphabetically by personal or institutional name. The "Falcon" label isn't a codeword, nor does it refer to the topic of the letters as I thought -- it is just one of many name brands of office filing systems that were in use at the turn of the century.

So far, I have used about a decades' worth of correspondence. At first I was a little disappointed. For all the ache in my back and shoulders, grime on my shirtfront, and paper cuts on my fingertips, it seemed I hadn't found many "quotable gems" about Erie County Public Library's history. Yet, when I sat back in my chair and thought about the assemblage more broadly, I realized I was seeing a rare, day-by-day record of (literally) everything to come across an early twentieth-century head librarian's desk. Such documentation gives us a sense of what it was "really" like to be a librarian back then. Not unlike today, the job was long on the mundane, but occasionally peppered with controversy or triumph.

Apparently, Erie's early librarians spent a great deal of effort on collection development. The vast majority of the correspondence deals with books, government documents, organizational reports, and periodicals the library hoped to obtain. Staff wrote a handful of letters in order to get pricing, make an order, pay the invoice, and acknowledge receipt of single volume like Smull's Legislative Handbook or an English-German dictionary. Unlike many of my other research sites, Erie was a port city, so nautical charts and new editions of the Blue Book of American Shipping were frequent purchases.

Even more interesting to me is the network of information-sharing that clearly existed between librarians of different cities. Although Erie's head librarians corresponded with some Pennsylvania peers (especially in Pittsburgh and Scranton), their city's location in the Northwest corner of the state prompted an interest in Central and Western New York, Eastern and Central Ohio, the upper Midwest, and Ontario as well. Erie's first librarian, Charles E. Wright, was the cousin of Mary Wright Plummer, the famous library educator, and consulted with her often (for an excellent article on MWP, see Mary Niles Maack's excellent piece in the January 2000 issue of Library Quarterly). He and subsequent librarians also corresponded frequently with their counterparts in Buffalo, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh. Contacts made through attending American Library Association and Pennsylvania Library Association conferences often blossomed into strong working relationships, if not friendships, as evidenced in the letter below.

Part of letter from Minnie Dill of Decatur Free Public Library to Charles Wright of Erie Public Library, July 3, 1900. Note the combination of chattiness and shop-talk between two colleagues.

As I moved forward in time through the massive folders of correspondence, I also observed Erie's growth as a regional leader in library services. Today, it is a District Library Center, providing interlibrary loan, reference service, and professional training to others in Erie and Crawford Counties. Although Pennsylvania's "district library center" plan was formalized in the 1960s, Erie was acting informally in this capacity long before then. From 1898, when it opened in a new, purpose-built building, the librarians received numerous queries about its architecture, floor plan, and furnishings. Librarians Charles Wright, Katherine Mack, and Jean Hard promptly sent copies of the library's biannual report, book catalogue, forms, rules, and other publications to any colleague who asked, thus raising awareness of Erie's resources and its methods of operation. In 1905, when the Pennsylvania Free Library Commission and the Keystone State Library Association began to encourage regional meetings of librarians, Jean Hard objected to the commission when another site was chosen for the first "Northwest Institute." In 1906 it was held in Erie and two years later Hard was chosen president of the group.

As the archivist for PaLA and a chronicler of the (now defunct) commission, Erie's Falcon Files are proving to be a gold-mine in terms of understanding how these organizations operated. Founded in 1901 as the Keystone State Library Association, I now know that its first calls for membership came from John Thomson of the Free Library of Philadelphia. I have also found additional evidence that KSLA/PaLA's chief concern was addressing the needs of librarians in small, rural communities. In addition, there is much documentation in Erie's files that the commission hoped to serve as a clearinghouse for any and all questions about Pennsylvania's libraries, and that it consulted with Erie and other institutions when crafting legislation.

Finally, certain silences in the Falcon Files pique my interest. For example, other than materials from 1898 to 1900, when Erie's library was first organizing, there is very little documentation of the Board of Trustees' discussions or actions, or its interaction with the librarian. Curiously, the end of the evidence occurs around 1900, when a male librarian (Charles Wright) left and a female (Katherine Mack) took his place. Does this point to gender's influence on working relationships between each librarian and his/her trustees? If so, what might it mean? Was Wright able to interact more with the board as a male? Or does it imply just the opposite -- that Mack and Hard's face-to-face relationship with their trustees was so strong that little was communicated through writing? Or do documents of the Board simply exist in another place or form?

I feel very blessed to be riffling through a librarian's desk. In my experience, precious few of us keep all our correspondence so assiduously, and unfortunately what they did retain was later ditched by their successors.

"Librarian's Office. From Erie Public Library, 1913-1916 Report, pg, 29

Teaching "Johnny Jones" how to handle books

Yesterday afternoon, my head began to nod sleepily as I slogged through a hand-search of Pennsylvania Library Notes. After a long day of using Scranton newspapers on microfilm, I was searching in vain for early articles about summer reading programs. I had bad cases of flat butt, stooped shoulder, and sore eye. Just when I began to consider quitting for the day, I found a fascinating poem published in the July 1914 issue. Below is a reproduction in its entirety:

"An Indignation Meeting" by Charlotte E. Shields, published in the July 1914 issue of Pennsylvania Library Notes

Likely, the author was the same Charlotte Shields who was head librarian at the S. D. Himmelreich Memorial Library in Lewisburg (now the Public Library for Union County). Her poem is evidence of one of early librarians' greatest woes: teaching children the proper handling of books.

Over the course of 9 years of research, I have stumbled upon countless complaints on this topic, but none is expressed so succinctly or delightfully. Here we read all the common charges against the library's littlest patrons: eating over their books, handling them with grubby fingers, breaking spines and scrawling on pages, tossing them on the floor, and allowing younger brother or sister to rip them apart. Like many moral texts intended for youngsters, it tries to engage their own senses of vulnerability and sympathy by anthropomorphizing what might otherwise seem like unfeeling "hardbacks" on the library's shelves. I especially love the signatures of book characters, each written in a unique hand and illustrative of the most popular children's titles of the day. After rubbing my eyes, leaning back, and enjoying Shields' work, I felt completely renewed. The joy in rediscovering such interesting artifacts is what really makes my project worthwhile.

An early incidence of library censorship: Scranton, 1898

During the final hours of my research at Albright Memorial Library in Scranton, I hurriedly flipped through dozens of vertical file folders containing hundreds of brittle newsclippings. I had already found much of the material elsewhere, so I only glanced quickly at headlines. I flew by a particular article but then paused after its meaning registered in my brain. It was titled, "Are These Proper Books For The Library Shelves?: A Very Indignant Letter From 'A Catholic Citizen.'"

Oh-ho. Censorship!

On October 9, 1898, the Scranton Free Press published a reader's complaint about the presence of Augusta Jane Evans-Wilson's novel, Inez, A Tale of the Alamo in the Scranton Public Library. The article included lengthy excerpts from the text, which appeared to portray a priest who had much manipulative power over the heroine. The "sworthy" priest spoke "menancingly" to Inez and told her not to associate with a Protestant friend. He also tried to compel the girl to marry against her will. The reader also took issue with the book's descriptions of xeveral Catholic sacraments. Within a few days, Scranton City Councilman James J. Grier, himself a Catholic, submitted a resolution that "the joint auditing committee of councils be directed to withhold approval of all bills for the Scranton public library until such time as the novels of Augusta J. Evans, the dramas of Wycherly and Congrieve, and all other books tending toward religious prejudice and immorality have been excluded from said Scranton Public Library (source not cited on newsclipping, possibly Scranton Free Press, October 14, 1898). This was a very serious threat, using the power of the purse to force the library's hand. Deeper in the folder, I found additional articles, and when I returned to Harrisburg, I used microfilmed copies of the Scranton Republican and Scranton Times to round out my growing archive on the incident.

Circulation desk of the Scranton Public Library, 1890s. Photo courtesy of the Lackawanna Historical Society

Poring over a half-inch thick pile of photocopies, what strikes me most is how arguments for and against censorship have not changed much over the past century. One side, represented by the Scranton Free Press, worried about the negative social influence bad books could have, especially on children. They also emphasized the moral sensibilities that all religions and most citizens shared. There were also objections to tax funding being used to purchase poor-quality materials. Some quotes that illustrate this position:

"The Catholic people pay taxes and have a right to be considered in this matter. I as a councilman and a Catholic will not stand it to have such books in the library" (attributed to Councilman James Grier, Scranton Republican, October 14, 1898).

"If a line can be drawn in the doings of our daily life, why can it not be drawn in books? If we would not have our children listen to sensational gossip, to lewd conversation, to bigoted harangues against our own faith, why must we pay for books in which these very themes are the subjects upon which the authors treat? Not only permit the reading, but pay for the books" (Scranton Free Press, October 30, 1898).

Other the other side, writers to the Scranton Republican pointed to the non-sectarian purpose of the public library. They also argued that if the library tried to purge every title that *could* offend *someone*, it would have *nothing* left on its shelves. In addition, they held the professionalism of librarian Henry Carr and the religious diversity of the library's Board of Trustees in high esteem. Surely these men did not deliberately include anti-Catholic or pernicious literature in the library. Finally, using rhetoric that is an interesting choice regarding an institution that existed to improve the community through reading, the library's supporters questioned whether a few novels could really influence anyone so profoundly. For instance:

"Scranton's public librarian is a man of rare judgment in book lore, having had an experience that puts him away and beyond the minds that would undertake to censor the books in his charge. There are men in the city councils who will grasp at any sort of excuse for withholding the appropriation that is the library's due, even to the humiliation of the city away from home. These are men who wouldn't be hurt the least bit if a careful censor was to measure their words for them before they were given public utterance" (Providence Register, October 15, 1898).

"It seems to us to have been at least unwise that the questions of religious differences should have been introduced into the public library ... The question was raised under a gross misapprehension as to the spirit and scope of such an institution ... The library is a public institution, broad as the public taste. In it should be found everything of literature that the public might demand. No distinction should be made because of political or religious opinion" (Scranton Republican, October 17, 1898).

"Persons of sound convictions will not be influenced by the pictures of a novelist, whether they be correct or otherwise. Children's reading under all circumstances should be under the direction of their parents or some other persons of judgment" (Scranton Republican, October 17, 1898).

"If Augusta Wilson were [unreadable] for her alleged anti-Catholic [unreadable], F. Marion Crawford would be [unreadable] for just the converse reason. On and on the list would go. The King James or the Douay bibles would not be permitted, and any translation of the New Testament would be excluded ... 'Ben Hur' and the 'Last Days of Pompeii' would be tabooed for the same reason" (Scranton Republican, October 17, 1898).

"Perhaps there may be publications that theologically do not meet the peculiar sentiment of our Catholic friends within the library, and there may also be some .. which do not conform altogether with the tenets of Protestantism. ... And then there are our Atheistic friends!" (Scranton Republican, October 17, 1898).

"If the work [censorship] were commenced where would it end?  .. Indeed, English literature is predominantly a controversial literature. There is hardly a work in the language worth the paper it is printed on, that is not strong tinged with the opinions of the author. Gibbon's valuable history is opposed to all religion. Tom Paine and Benjamin Franklin were atheists and showed it in their writings  ... When would it end? When the library shelves are stripped bare" (Scranton Republican, October 24, 1898).

Ultimately, during its meeting on October 18, 1898, Scranton's City Council decided to appoint a special committee, chaired by Grier, to meet with librarian Carr (Scranton Times, October 14, 1898). They met for an hour or more on October 30th, during which time Carr invited them to bring their concerns to Reverend Daniel J. McGoldrick, who was then the president of the University of Scranton (a Catholic institution), a library board member, and one who "use[d] the library every day and has a most extensive knowledge of books." Carr also referred to his profession's standards, explaining that the objectionable titles were available in major city libraries, including Boston and Chicago, and that many of the books he purchased received positive reviews (Scranton Sunday Free Press, October 30, 1898). It seems that the matter concluded in early November. The Scranton Free Press announced that "the Library will be cleansed and ... more care and a greater measure of true and wise liberality will hereafter be evident in selection of books is also certain" (November 6, 1898).

Henry Carr, head of the Scranton Public Library during the censorship controversy of 1898. Photo courtesy of the Albright Memorial Library

From the library's perspective, the events of October and November 1898 may not have been as controversial as the newspapers made them appear. The board of trustees certainly took the public's concerns seriously, for it instructed Carr to provide Council with any information it requested. Yet following his meeting with the special committee, Carr reported that he was "without particular results to report." After the board engaged in "considerable and amicable discussion of the general subject matter of book inclusion and exclusion," it voted "that as the Librarian has, in the past, been instructed to exercise his best discretion in the restriction of any books not considered desirable for general circulation, the Board deems it wise to continue the rule and have the same duty still rest with him regarding such books as may be found reasonably objectionable" (Scranton Public Library, Board of Trustees Minutes, November 12, 1898). Thus to me, it seems like the library returned to business. Councilman Grier may have won on Evans and Wycherley, but not on Congrieve. When I checked the 1903 Index Catalogue of the Scranton Public Library, I did not find Augusta Evans, Inez, A Tale of the Alamo, or any works by William Wycherley. However, the library apparently retained copies of William Congrieve's Best Plays. Not knowing much about the history of Scranton, I have no idea whether this conflict over books could (or should) be situated within broader themes such as possible conflicts between Catholics and Protestants in the city, questions about board versus governmental control over the new library, personality clashes between various members of city council, rivalries between the editors of the Free Press and the Republican, or other potential contexts. But it is certainly a thought-provoking episode in Pennsylvania library history.

Did Harold Wooster start summer reading programs in Pennsylvania?

"Firsts" are among the hardest facts to prove. Trying to do so is like tracing a river to its source. Just when you trudge around what you think is the last bend, you see that the stream actually meanders endlessly to the horizon. You groan, heave a deep sigh, and keep on plodding, sometimes losing your sense of time, place, or purpose. Thus when I was doing research in Scranton this past week, and I discovered what I think may be the earliest example of a children's summer reading program in Pennsylvania, my excitement was tempered by weariness. In Scranton's annual reports and board minutes, I found that Harold Wooster describing a "Vacation Reading Club" in operation during the early 1930s. Reading his words about choosing themes, collaborating with school officials to assemble appropriate reading lists, and crafting attractive certificates and "honor roll" posters to acknowledge the participants, I recognized many of the elements that are part of today's summer reading programs. I couldn't help but wonder, "was this the start of it all?"

Today, summer reading is an annual, all-out rite of passage in many children's departments. According to a factsheet by the American Library Association, more than 90% of public libraries offer such programs. Staff may spend the better part of spring beefing up their collections, selecting and ordering giveaway items, arranging events, and publicizing their programs. Summer of course is devoted to reading and its related hoopla. Then, according to some of my colleagues, late summer and early fall are dedicated to clean-up and recuperation (ahem, "debriefing"). Luckily, since the 1990s a Collaborative Summer Library Program has eased some of the work by selecting themes and developing bookmarks, reading logs, and other support materials. Still, I remember from my days working in public libraries that most of us were thrilled while summer reading was happening and equally thrilled when it ended!

Given how widespread summer reading is, it is worthwhile to pinpoint where, when, and how it developed in Pennsylvania. Stephanie Bertin, once a graduate student at the University of North Carolina - Chapel Hill, wrote a helpful literature review using articles published in Library Journal and School Library Journal. It may be unfortunate that she didn't include Public Libraries, Wilson Library Bulletin, or publications by state library associations in her analysis. But her overview still provides helpful clues. She cites the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, which once sponsored a "Training School for Children's Librarians," as offering one of the first summer reading programs in the 1890s. Having read through CLP's annual reports, however, I tend to think calling it a summer reading program in the modern sense of the term is a bit of a stretch. It is true that CLP staff delivered books, interacted with children, and provided storytimes in city parks during the summer. But I haven't yet found evidence in 1890s Pittsburgh of the highly structured activity -- including age-graded recommended book lists, individual reading logs, and various levels of prizes for greater quality or quantity of reading -- that libraries utilize today. Significantly, Bertin does not mention any other Pennsylvania summer readings programs until she cites an article from the 1930s about Scranton's.

My favorite resource for fact-checking Pennsylvania library history, a periodical called Pennsylvania Library Notes, also provides more tantalizing possibilities than definitive answers. Published from 1908 to 1941 by the Pennsylvania Free Library Commission (and later the State Library of Pennsylvania), PLN contains proposed library laws, statistical reports on public library development, conference proceedings from the Keystone State/Pennsylvania Library Association, practical tips and thought-pieces from contributors, and news items from all types of libraries across the state. I didn't have the patience to pore over every one-sentence blurb in the "news" sections, but I found very little discussion about summer reading until a 1937 article written by Harold Wooster.

Harold Wooster, director of Scranton Public Library in the 1930s and early 1940s, president of the Pennsylvania Library Association in 1937, and a possible pioneer of summer reading programs in Pennsylvania. Photo courtesy of Albright Memorial Library

Prior to his contribution, PLN certainly contained occasional discussions about story hours and reading clubs (for instance, see several papers within the proceedings of the 1913 KSLA conference, published in the October 1913 issue); children's behavior and reading habits (see a paper by Emma R. Engle of the Free Library of Philadelphia, published in the October 1915 issue); sparking kids' interest in reading (see Katherine Rock of Greenville's 1928 PaLA conference paper, published in the October 1928 issue); and development of children's book collections (many articles, but especially Olive Marie Archibald's piece in the October 1933 issue). Of these, only Rock mentioned a "vacation reading club," and all she said is that they are "growing in number annually in American libraries." She did not cite any Pennsylvania examples, nor did she suggest how they should be run. The only other article that might contain genealogical evidence is a January 1934 bit by Helen Betterly, then the Children's Librarian at the Osterhout Free Library of Wilkes-Barre. In it, she described a "Treasure Hunt" activity she used during Children's Book Week. Like today's summer reading programs, the Osterhout's selected a group of high-quality books and developed a fun activity around them. Participating children filled out sheets of trivia questions whose answers could be found in the readings (kind of resembles a reading log, but not quite). Those who completed the activity won prizes. However, in Betterly's time, Children's Book Week was in November or December, not the summertime.

It is unclear whether Harold Wooster designed and implemented summer reading himself, or if the originator was actually Louise Kiefer (or Keefer?), Scranton's long-serving children's librarian. None of the extant articles about the program mention her. Examining the library's annual reports and board of trustees meeting minutes, however, it is clear that the Vacation Reading Club in Scranton began in 1931, not long after Harold Wooster became director. That year, they enrolled more than 1,400 children and thus increased circulation by more than 7,000 volumes (Scranton Public Library, Board of Trustee Minutes, October 9, 1931). As of 1937, the year for which the most detailed information exists, the Vacation Reading Club was specifically targeting children in grades 3-8, and past themes included "Explorers Club," "Adventurers Club," "Pioneers Club," and "Treasurer Seekers Club." Much like today's Collaborative Summer Reading Program, Scranton's 1937 materials used illustrations from a well-known children's book (in this case, Westward to the Stars, by Marion McIntyre McDonough). Decorations in the library also played on the "treasure" theme, including gold book cloth used to cover selected titles, and grade-level markings cut from "glazed paper" to resemble silver, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Wooster prided himself on his program's "simplicity," which involved a brief conversation (rather than a written report) between a library staff member and each child who finished a book (Wooster, "Vacation Reading Clubs at Scranton," PLMN, October 1937, pg. 20-21). The popularity of Scranton's summer reading program is evidence of its successful design: each year, it attracted well over 1,000 participants (Scranton Public Library, 1931-1942 Annual Reports). In 1939, after years of struggling financially, Wooster contemplated ending the annual ritual, but ultimately decided it had too much "promise and usefulness." That year, he selected the theme of "Discovering New Worlds," coinciding, no doubt, with the 1939 World's Fair (Scranton Public Library, Board of Trustees Minutes, March 10, 1939). After Wooster left in 1942 to lead a public library in Newton, Massachusetts, Scranton's new director, Arnold Rosaaen, continued summer reading at Scranton. In the 1940s, themes turned toward American life, patriotism, and other topics that spoke to the wartime interests of the community. It is remarkable that in the depths of the Great Depression and World War II, when the library's materials budget was only a few cents per capita, that it was able to serve so many people.

In a lifetime of research, I won't ever be able to delve so deeply into the history of every library in Pennsylvania. So I don't feel confident in saying that Scranton offered the "first" summer reading program in our state. However, if Wooster did not originate the idea, he did much to popularize it among colleagues by writing about it in professional venues. Following a short blurb in the June 15, 1935 issue of Library Journal, he contributed a more detailed piece in the March 21, 1936 issue of Publisher's Weekly. Apparently at the request of the editor of Pennsylvania Library and Museum Notes, he then published more nuts and bolts -- including past themes, tips for gathering the necessary duplicate copies, and monitoring the children's achievements -- in the October 1937 issue of PLMN. The fact that he was President of the Pennsylvania Library Association at the time probably amplified his voice. Following these publications, Wooster stated that he had received queries from the Bethlehem (PA) Public Library as well as colleagues in different states and he willingly sent them information (Scranton Public Library, Board of Trustees Minutes, April 17, 1936). I would love to hear from Pennsylvania libraries who hold documentation of early summer reading programs, especially if they are older than Scranton's or can be traced to its.

Thinking about the Albright Memorial Library as (highbrow?) place

Several years ago, when I read Lawrence W. Levine's Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America, I wondered why he identified libraries as "highbrow" institutions. Levine's basic idea was that during the late 19th century, certain American past-times, such as listening to opera music or attending Shakespearian plays, came to be identified with socioeconomic elites. Although other scholars have since poked holes in his thesis, I can't dismiss Levine simply because he failed to acknowledge the omnivorous cultural consumption of the wealthy, or because he did not consider possible implications of gender and race, or because he did not examine periods beyond the late 19th/early 20th century. Reading his book as a working class person who became a librarian and who views my job as an effort to understand (first) and assist (second) similar people, it bothers me on a personal level that Levine labels my enterprise "highbrow."

Since I am unable to spar with Levine himself, during my sabbatical I have remained alert for examples of how public libraries have defined "culture," and the people and activities such definitions include.

One thought-provoking example is the  Albright Memorial Building of the Scranton Public Library. In 1889, a fundraising campaign had been underway to establish a public library for the city, when the children of Joseph J. and Elizabeth Albright offered to construct one in honor of their parents. Jennie R. Bennell, Maria H. Archibald, Henry C. Albright, and John Joseph Albright wrote to the Scranton Board of Trade and proposed to donate the family homestead on the corner of Washington and Vine Streets to the city. Further, J. J. Albright pledged to build a library "of the value of from $50,000 to $75,000" on the property. Importantly, the heirs explained that their motives were to "provide a suitable literary and educational element not heretofore supplied, for the elevation of the people of all classes who may desire to avail themselves of the privileges conferred." They stipulated that the city "reasonably maintain" the building, and that a board of 15 members supervise its operations. Requiring the City of Scranton to support the institution was a milestone in Pennsylvania's library history, because at the time, many libraries were owned and operated by corporations which charged their patrons annual fees or subscriptions. The great public libraries of Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Erie did not yet exist, and libraries in Reading, Harrisburg, Lancaster, and Altoona were all subscription-based. Notable exceptions were the Osterhout Free Library in Wilkes-Barre and other entities in smaller communities which were supported by endowments substantial enough that no costs need be passed to users. Thus Scranton Library was public ownership was unusual.

The composition of Scranton Public Library's board was carefully prescribed in its governing documents. There were to be 3 members apointed from the legal profession, 3 members apointed by the local Board of Trade, 4 members from "the citizens at large," and 5 members appointed from the clergy (Scranton Public Library, 1892 Annual Report). The Mayor of Scranton, who appointed most members to the body when vacancies arose, was an ex-officio member as well. Thinking about issues of exclusivity a la Levine, it might be easy to pick at such an arrangement, noting that lawyers, industrialists, and reverends represent a community's financial and social elite. It could be added that there were no female trustees for at least the first 50 years of the library's existence, and, while each of the clergy board spots were reserved for a specific Christian dominations, there were no assigned positions for AME, Jewish, or other possible religious leaders. Yet, understanding the composition of the board within the context of its own era (not ours), the careful balance of men from the bar, commerce, churches, and the general public -- and especially the required inclusion of Catholics on the board -- may have been progressive for its day.

Standing at the corner of Vine and Washington this past week, I allowed my eyes to lose focus a little to imagine the building as part of a surrounding community during the 1890s. Some libraries are deliberately planted near governmental buildings, or commercial centers, or schools, or residential neighborhoods. Such locations can be significant clues to the intended audiences of their services. But I doubt the siting of the Albright Memorial Library was a similarly purposeful statement because the location was primarily one of convenience (remember, the library's grounds were once the Albright family homestead). But that doesn't mean that the area lacks a story. Sanborn maps from 1884 show that the block once contained large residential homes with substantial yards. Yet by 1919, many of these structures were knocked down or transformed to offer civic and club headquarters, such as a city branch of the Red Cross, a "club house" for the BPO Elks, and the First Church of Christ, Scientist. Perhaps the construction of the Albright Memorial Library was the beginning of the transformation of the immediate community from private to social (if not public) space.

The Albright Memorial Building, Scranton Public Library

Ultimately, the Albright Memorial Library cost $125,000 -- $50,000 more than J.J. Albright had initially proposed. Designed by architects Green & Wicks of Buffalo, New York, the structure is said to have been inspired by the Musee de Cluny (now the Musee National de Moyenne Age) in Paris. The exterior stone is Indiana limestone, topped with a steep roof of black Spanish tiles. Inside, there is a beautiful marble mosaic floor, and most of the woodwork is quarter-sawn oak. The most eye-catching features are more than 50 stained glass windows, each with different designs and colors. The windows depict the crests of the custom bookbindings used for various 15th-17th century European royals and noblemen. Visitors can pick up a "Stained Glass Windows Tour" brochure at the circulation desk. Noticing the churchly, multihued glow streaming in from each window, it's interesting to think about the reverence people used to have for the printed word.

One of many stained glass windows in the Albright Memorial Building, Scranton Public Library

In the early 1890s, the library was considered the pinnacle of design, featured in the July 1892 edition of Library Journal. On the first floor, there was a general reading room and a periodical room -- nothing usual -- but the second floor offered a class room and a lecture room, pointing toward the building's intended use as a place for civic and educational activities. A wing perpendicular to the building held closed stacks, which were easily accessible from service desks. Since then, the periodical area has been converted to administrative offices, the lecture room has been redesignated as a research area, and the closed stacks have been opened for public browsing. Perhaps the most striking change has been the closing-in of the second-floor balcony, which has blocked the stream of natural light to the first floor, but now provides much more space for customers. 

As magnificent as the Albright Memorial Library is, records ultimately revealed that the entire vision was not fully implemented at first. Until 2001, when library director Jack Finnerty rediscovered the documentation, no one knew that plans had originally included landscaping designe by Frederick Law Olmstead. Through a decade of effort, including the removal of a parking lot and the addition of dozens of perennial plants, the grounds finally came to life (Sunday Times, April 1, 2001). A list of the dozens of trees, bushes, and flowers, available in the library's historical records, includes American redbud, dogwood, honeysuckle, rhododendron, snowball viburnum, and many other beauties.

As I shot pictures in and outside the library, I continued to have difficulty deciding whether the Albright Memorial Library was "highbrow" or "lowbrow." Rhetoric about "elevating" its customers points to a social hierarchy that Lawrence Levine would have found intriguing. Yet, other possible stories about the library's users can be told which upset such an interpretation. For instance, despite the elite design of the architecture and gardens, it bears noting that the person who actually built Albright Memorial Library was a self-made man. Conrad Schroeder (1846-1903) was born in Germany and apprenticed as a stonemason. After emigrating to the United States, he settled in Scranton and became a contractor. Though he died early (an interesting story about a supposed self-inflicted gunshot), and an otherwise helpful tour guide to the city's architecture scarcely acknowledges Schroeder's contributions, the city's landscape would be unimaginable without him. He erected many prominent buildings, including the Scranton Board of Trade Building (now better known as the "Electric Building"), the Scranton High School (now administrative offices of the Scranton School District), the Lackawanna County Prison, Elm Park Church, and many others.

Ultimately, I suppose the yardstick for measuring "highbrowness" is to listen to the library's customers. How do they feel about the space, what do they hope to do when they enter, how are they treated there? Newspaper coverage of the time hints at the response. One reporter who toured the building soon after it opened wrote, "satiated with the princely rooms, the marble halls, and the oaken woodwork, the stranger although impressed with the aristocracy nevertheless senses the home-like atmosphere of mutuality that permeates the building. Like countless others who visited the library for the first time, he takes a book rather gingerly from its place after a glance at the contents, seats himself at a cozy window seat and unconsciously loses himself in the interesting volume and forgets he is a stranger in 'Our Library'" (undated newsclipping, no date or source given). This past week, I encountered a similar attitude within a young mother who was gazing at stained glass as she rocked her child's stroller back and forth. As she was trying to lull her baby to sleep, I whispered that the windows sure were interesting, and did she know the story behind them? "Something to do with books, I guess," she said, " I don't really know, but you're right, they are pretty. Peaceful-like." I could have told her about the Musee de Cluny and 15th-century bookbinding, but I decided it didn't really matter.

Sorry, but it's time to EXtrinsically reward librarians!

As a library historian, I try to break the methodological bounds of institutional history by seeking unusual sources of information. I especially try to do so when researching the people who founded and worked in libraries. I believe strongly that a "whole person" approach is needed, because we can learn a lot about individuals' professional and social viewpoints by understanding their lives outside of the library.

In the past, I've tracked down all kinds of biographical information, including census records, educational records, property deeds, wills, obituaries, and tombstone epitaphs. Often, various sources perform like an orchestra -- each one contributing uniquely, and yet harmoniously, to the same tune. Other times, the sources present jarring notes which are difficult to take in as a whole.

Photocopies spread all around me, I have been struggling to make sense of the life of L. Edith Patterson (ca. 1878-1969), the longtime librarian of Pottsville Free Public Library. Born in Virginia and educated at what was then the Carnegie Library School in Pittsburgh, Patterson came to Pottsville in 1918 following stints in Mansfield, PA, Youngstown, OH, and Bloomsburg, PA. I am especially interested in her because she was president of the Pennsylvania Library Association in 1924 and remained active on various committees. For decades, she also ran a small "apprenticeship" program which provided pre-professional library education to local women, some of whom went on to professional careers. Although Patterson tried to retire at several points, she remained head librarian at Pottsville until 1959 or 1960.

Although she died more than 40 years ago, L. Edith Patterson is still remembered in certain circles. Peter "Doc" Yasenchak, the current Director of the Schuylkill County History Society, interacted with her personally and recalls her deep knowledge of the community's history. I found his impression to be borne out when I uncovered a booklet printed for Pottsville's Sequicentennial Celebration (1956). Inside is a 4-page article on "Pottsville's Picture Past," written by Patterson. Similarly, I found two articles she wrote for volume 7 of the Publications of the Historical Society of Schulykill County. In the opening pages of the issue, she was described as an "authority on Schuylkill County history."

Another indication of Patterson's value to her adopted hometown is the fact that her obituary was published on the front page of the Pottsville Republican (see May 1, 1969 issue).  Unlike typical death notices of the time, Patterson's was more than a column in length and included her picture. It described her connections to regional authors, the most famous perhaps being Conrad Richter. The obituary also mentions awards that she won from the Pottsville Women's Club, the local VFW post, and other organizations.

Yet when I found Patterson's will, I was struck by how poor she had apparently been at the end of her life. Her only surviving relatives were a few cousins. She left a total of $2600.00 to various persons, the largest gift being to Hazel Leddy, a former employee. The remainder of her property was bequeathed to the Pottsville Free Public Library, but to call it an "estate" seems like a joke. Listed on two and a half sheets of paper, the entire contents of her apartment were valued at $409.60. Much of her furniture was "worn," including a "fretwork table" that was "broken," a floor-length mirror which was in "need of silver," and a "white sewing machine -- very old" which had "no value." Her most substantial possessions were her books, some of which were signed by the authors (collectively worth $50.00), some "odd pieces" of sterling silver (valued at $15.00), and a record player ($7.50).  According to a June 17, 1969 letter from the library's director to the executor of Patterson's will, the only items that the library wanted were some of the books, several etchings, and a refrigerator to be used in the staff lunch room. Reading Patterson's will, I vaguely recalled library board minutes from the 1940s, in which she repeatedly asked for salary increases and for library employees to be included in Pennsylvania's school retirement system. Since my research stops at the end of World War II, I don't know the outcome of her requests. But the inventory of her sparse belongings seems evidence of decades of low wages taking their toll.

I try not to project the present upon the past, or the past upon the present, but the fact that a 90 year-old woman had so few material comforts after a lifetime of success deeply troubles me. Patterson's story is so often other librarians' stories. I suppose most of us would shrug our shoulders and rationalize that we "don't get into the profession for the money" and that the intrinsic (intellectual and social) rewards of the job make up for a lower standard of living. But I feel it is highly unjust -- especially now, when entrée requires tens of thousands of dollars' worth of college and post-baccalaureate education. Instead of recruiting more and more people to librarianship, I think our professional organizations should take up the cause of supporting librarians who are already here. In my mind, the fight should not only include mild-mannered education on personal finance (such as ALA and PaLA sometimes provide), but also publicity campaigns and political demonstrations regarding salary and retirement. Let's boldly talk about wages, health care, retirement, leave time, and other "extrinsic" nitty-gritty. Let's not be afraid to use the language of labor unions, the thought of which seems to appall so many "professionals"!

Driving back in time with the Lancaster County bookmobile

I believe one of the most compelling stories in Pennsylvania's library history is the ongoing struggle to circulate reading material to rural communities. So I was thrilled to find a large cache of newspaper articles and photographs at the Lancaster Public Library (LPL) which document its efforts to reach customers in Lancaster County.

LPL wasn't the first library organization to reach out to smaller communities. Up until at least World War I, the Pennsylvania Free Library Commission, founded in 1899 and affiliated with the State Library of Pennsylvania (SLP), had been successfully distributing "traveling libraries" in Lancaster County. A traveling library was a small collection of handpicked books which was shipped out to a community for temporary use (for an excellent description of the traveling library phenomenon, see Joanne Passet's article in the Winter 1991 issue of Libraries & Culture). In Pennsylvania, books were typically packed in 2’ x 3’ oak crates which also served as bookcases. Any town or village in the Keystone State could obtain a traveling library, provided that 12 residents signed a form and were willing to pay $2.00 toward the cost of transporting each bookcase. They were deemed “trustees” of the traveling library, and one of them was designated a “librarian” who was responsible for circulating materials. The books were housed in post offices, general stores, public schools, and sometimes even in private homes. By 1910, the Commission was delivering books to thousands of people in 63 of Pennsylvania's 67 counties.

Since much of the Commission's work was accomplished through the State Library, it may have seemed economical to sunset the Commission. In 1919, it was abolished and its work was assumed by the State Library's Extension Department. However, judging from SLP's annual reports (which mention traveling libraries infrequently, if at all, in the 1920s and 1930s), it appears that the state curtailed such efforts in favor of providing technical assistance to townspeople who wished to establish and run libraries of their own. A 1917 law authorized existing libraries to contract with county governments to provide services to additional communities, and in 1931, legislation provided state aid to county libraries who did so. Depending on the population of the county, the state matched county funding by 20-125%. Thus, some libraries, including LPL, were encouraged to think and act outside city boundaries.

Although an 1911 pamphlet about the "aims, progress, and needs" of the library indicated that its constituency was both "Lancaster City and County, PA," in the years immediately after it was founded, the A. Herr Smith Library (as LPL was then called) focused its efforts primarily, if not exclusively, on the city. News articles published in the 1900s and 1910s, which reprint the librarian's quarterly and annual reports to the library board, never mention countywide efforts. However, shortly after Helen Umble became librarian, there was a new interest in extension. Based on the documentation I have found so far, it appears that Lancaster Public Library first began sending books out of the city in the summer of 1919, when it provided more than 200 volumes each to Ephrata and Mount Joy High School (New Era, September 19, 1919). A December 3, 1919 letter sent from a library employee to "Miss Schaeffer" at Ephrata High School accompanied the shipment, along with a "circulation book," "registration book," and stacks of applications and borrowers cards. Subsequent articles mention a "Marietta Branch" (for instance, see New Era, January 15, 1923), a "Columbia branch" (New Era, November 11, 1925),"deposit stations" at Columbia, Conestoga Center, East Petersburg, and Kirkwood (New Era, November 11, 1925), an "Elizabethtown Branch" (New Era, October 16, 1926), branches at Lititz and New Holland (New Era, November 1, 1940), and a library in Adamstown (New Era, October 22, 1945), created through partnerships between Lancaster Public Library and community or school volunteers.

As early as 1928, Umble began to argue for bookmobile service, rather than the small, drop-off collections Lancaster was then providing. In her report for the summer of 1928, she wrote "it seems to me that personal contact, however obtained, is always exceedingly valuable. In this, libraries having a book truck, or 'Parnassus on wheels,' have the advantage over the library, such as ours, maintaining rural deposit stations" (New Era, October 15, 1928). In 1931, as she prepared to resign her position, the 1931 county library aid act was passed, and Umble urged the board to apply for funding (New Era, September 15, 1931).

Throughout the Great Depression of the 1930s, Lancaster faced challenges in maintaining its former level of service to the county. Documentation in LPL's files may not be entirely complete, but it contains dozens of confusing legal agreements between LPL, the City of Lancaster, the County of Lancaster, and the County School Board, some of which were signed, some not. The newspapers tell of instances when the School Board withdrew its annual appropriation and the City Council reduced its yearly commitment (for instance, see New Era, January 13, 1933). On at least one occasion, the new librarian, Margaret Critchfield, was placed in the unenviable position of publicly urging residents to contact their commissioners, or face losing free access to materials (New Era, July 8, 1933).

Despite or perhaps because of the ongoing inadequacy and uncertainty of funding, volunteers felt compelled to help. LPL's newspaper files speak of many small, ad hoc donations for county library service. But a particularly important gift occurred in 1936, when the Lancaster County Federation of Women's Clubs started to raise funds for a truck to distribute books to rural communities (New Era, February 27, 1937). A large donation by Effie Detweiler of Columbia pushed their effort over the top, and regular bookmobile service started in 1939 (New Era, November 11, 1938).

Lancaster's first bookmobile was a "panel" type truck converted for library service. The sides of the chassis lifted up to reveal about 1,000 volumes. There were writing shelves and a typewriter compartment so that the librarians could issue borrower's cards on the spot (New Era, undated, ca. May 1939). Some years later, LPL acquired a "walk-in" type that could comfortably serve patrons in all weather. Although the bookmobile only made its rounds once a month, within 3 years it had circulated more than 11,000 books. By its 10th anniversary, it had distributed more than 400,000 volumes (New Era, November 14, 1944, and May 1, 1949).

LPL has a variety of interesting newsclippings and photographs documenting its bookmobile service. One especially colorful article, published in the New Era on May 1, 1949, describes how women's clubs collected more than 25,000 metal coat hangers and turned them in for cash to buy new books. They also wrote and sold a "Friends of the Bookmobile Cookbook" (a copy of which I have yet to uncover). Perhaps the most interesting parts of the article describe "Miss Harsh," (Elinor Harsh) who began driving the bookmobile in 1941. Noted for her "warm friendliness," she was depicted as providing "a cup of coffee for a bookmobile patron on a cold day, or a glass of lemonade in the Summer," and had even "led the fast-moving evacuation of a group of book-borrowers from a farmyard and into the truck when an angry bull came around the house and started pawing up the grass." LPL's files also include publicity photos shot in 1956 or 1957, showing Harsh and her colleague Margaret Watson along their route, washing their hands at a public trough, eating lunch atop a plywood box they carried into the brush, and reading a story before a classroom of children. Among my favorites is a shot taken by someone seated behind the women as they drove. From this vantage point, one can see Lancaster County through their eyes: miles of rolling cornfields, occasionally punctuated by a farmhouse or church. One can't help but wonder what they were thinking about as their eyes scanned the road ahead.