30th Year Reflections/41: Boston

“The president commended the work that was done to pursue justice in the Boston Marathon bombing, and underscored the need to continue gathering intelligence to answer the remaining questions about this terrorist attack going forward.” — David Jackson, USA Today

The Boston Marathon bombings were tragic and unsettling. Tragic because lives were lost or damaged. Unsettling because echoes of the 9/11 attacks reverberated in our souls louder than was comfortable. Feelings of vulnerability, unease, suspicion, and a raft of other emotions bubbled back to the surface, suppressed after so many years. We didn’t invite those emotions into our being, but they came all the same. Some of us, perhaps, shied away from the endless news cycles that followed the explosions. We didn’t want to hear any more than we had to. I, on the other hand, had a different response. News junkie that I am, I was glued to the coverage from the immediate aftermath into the days ahead, culminating with the lockdown, manhunt, and capture on Friday evening. In the middle of the week, at a hockey game no less, Bostonians showed us their true character in singing the national anthem. I cried and cheered at the same time while watching the clip on the news (and again and again online). “Boston Strong” came through loud and clear. The bombings took place on “Patriot Day.” The bombers should have known better than to mess with Boston patriots.

I find myself, nearly two weeks after the event, continuously reflecting on what all of this means. I’m torn between those proud emotions of a national anthem at a Bruins game and knowing this is the same government that gave me Watergate, Iran-Contra, and other scandals/constitutional crises. I’m torn between the courage and unwavering compassionate skills of first responders and the breathtaking intelligence sweep that managed in a matter of days to gather, organize, analyze, and put into actionable briefings, maneuvers, and tactics all the video, photographic, electronic, and other source materials. To call for, receive, and act on such a mountain of data in such a meaningful way in short order is both amazing and terrifying. I’m torn between a government that has given us the USA Patriot Act, the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (and its associated secret courts), Homeland Security, the FBI, CIA, NSA, and the whole alphabet soup of government agencies in evidence during that week in Boston with the other side of government that offers help, assistance, counseling, and comfort during emergencies and disasters. On Friday evening I even saw one individual wearing a diplomatic security windbreaker. It was “all hands on deck” for the Boston bombings. We watched it all on the nightly news. The weight and might of our country was on full display.

When I began my professional career there was no Internet where individuals could find out how to build a bomb. There were no cell phones to use in remotely triggering a bomb. There was no Homeland Security agency, Patriot Act, or FISA. It is a much different world thirty years later. So how does my profession inform my responses to events like Boston? What tools does my profession give me to be an informed professional (and citizen) in an age of global terrorism? At the moment I’m sitting in an all-day conference on advocacy. Perhaps some of the professional answers and direction are here. We know the importance of an informed citizenry. We know the importance of intellectual freedom. We know the damage caused by censorship and secrecy. We know how to reinvent ourselves in the midst of technological revolutions. We know how to respond to a subpoena, how to react to book challenges, how to network, communicate, blog, and raise public awareness. Now, more than ever, we need to attend to what it means to be a library/archival professional, how our codes of ethics inform our actions, who to go to in our professional organizations when we don’t know the answers or how to proceed in a time of crisis. Boston and its aftermath tells me, in a very urgent way, that now is a time for vigilant attendance, advocacy, and action within and beyond our profession. Patriot Day is Librarian Day, every day of our lives.

30th Year Reflections/40: Performance Reviews

“Since my last report, this employee has reached rock bottom and has started to dig.” — purportedly written as part of a federal employee performance evaluation

I am in the midst of my annual performance review. For me, this time of year roughly equates to a visit with my dentist. But then, such a comparison would be unkind to my dentist. And it would be unkind to my supervisor as well. Both my dentist and my boss are great people. I am more than satisfied with my dentist and I enjoy working for my boss. I know that I will receive a fair, informative, and directive review from my supervisor. She will steer me right when (and where) I went wrong. We will have a meeting of the minds, agree on future goals and objectives, and map a course for the coming year. No, the issue has nothing to do with me and my immediate superior. It is more a question of timing. April, to quote T. S. Eliot, “is the cruellest month.”

It seems to happen to me every year, and always in April. For the past eleven months I will have chugged along at a fine clip, an occasional bump along the way, but nothing drastic. My performance will be fine, meeting expectations (for the most part) and doing what I am supposed to be doing. But then comes April. All at once, like some cruel joke, everything seems sabotaged, everything I thought I’d handled, smoothed out, delivered, or otherwise completed rears up and sneers “No, no, no you don’t. You didn’t do this, you forgot that, this is wrong, re-do that.” Maybe it has something to do with a phase of the moon. Maybe the conjunction of annual reviews and tax deadlines creates strange ripples in the time-space continuum. Maybe the “little people,” now wakeful after long winter naps, are feeling mischievous. I don’t know what the cause of this April sniping might be. All I know is that I’m not fond of April (except for the fact that it usually marks the beginning of baseball season).

I also will admit to a lack of fondness for the review process, although I understand and appreciate its value to me and the institution I work for. If the process is done well, if there are regular meetings to calibrate and adjust performance during the year, if final judgments are viewed as equitable and informed, then the process should be uneventful and relatively pain-free. When the final year-end evaluation takes place there should be no surprises. Each party—supervisor and supervisee—will have been in constant conversation over the last twelve months. Each will know the issues, understand the problems, chart progress, resolve questions, and document actions. The problem lies in our practice. For the most part, even though we may have created a well-defined map or protocol to guide the process, we rarely execute it to perfection. Meetings to touch base and adjust course will be missed or unscheduled. Conversations, questions, issues, or problems will remain unresolved. Lack of clarity, communication, and equitable standards will create problems. We end up with surprises, tension, and an unpleasant review experience.

Thankfully, I think we have a pretty good system. It is not without its faults, and questions continue to surface (e.g. how do you compare the work of an archivist or curator with catalogers, faculty liaisons, subject specialists, technologists, or other professional members of the staff?) In another week I’ll maybe know the answer to that question, or at least how I stack up in the eyes of my supervisor. I have documented my activities for the past twelve months. I have commented on how well (or poorly) I met the goals set for myself last year. I have linked my performance in specific areas to the expectations spelled out in my job description. My curriculum vitae is up-to-date, as is my job description. I’ve spelled out personal goals for the coming year. The immediate question is whether or not my goals help move me, my department, division, and enterprise forward in the next year. I’ll know the answer to that question next week as well. I’m hoping for no surprises and a pleasant experience. Just like a visit to the dentist.

30th Year Reflections/39: Spring Break

“True silence is the rest of the mind, and is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.” — William Penn

This week the campus is quiet. We are on Spring Break. The rest of the working world does not enjoy such a break; it is a thing peculiar to educators and students. Those of us in the library do not enjoy time off. We have plenty to keep us busy. But we take advantage of this “down” time to catch up on work we’ve avoided since our last break or attend to projects and tasks requiring larger blocks of time. Unfortunately for me, the hiatus corresponded with the arrival of a late winter cold. So my week has been less than productive, at least in terms of work accomplished.

On the other hand, the time was not wasted. My illness provided large patches of quiet time, of silence and rest. We need these times, what Penn called periods of “nourishment and refreshment.” For example, since August I have been writing a book. Thoughts and ideas about this monograph, not to mention time spent researching and writing, occupied almost every free moment. I squeezed these efforts into early mornings, lunch breaks, and late into the night. About two weeks ago I finished the first draft. Almost immediately I found myself going through the entire work, editing, tightening the language, deleting now irrelevant passages, tinkering. I would have continued in this vein were it not for some sage advice from a friend and colleague. “Let it rest,” she said. Put it on the back burner for a month. Get it out of your mind. Attend to other things. Give it a fresh start. She was right. I’ve been wrapped up in this work for nearly eight months. I need to let it rest. I need to rest.

Resting gives us a new perspective. It recharges our batteries and allows us to attack something with a passion similar to that with which we started. A period of rest gives us the chance (and permission) to perform a kind of “brain dump,” to flush our systems, get rid of extraneous matter, start with a clean slate. (I realize I’m pouring out all kinds of metaphors, but you get the idea.) A break is healthy. It is good for mind, body, and spirit.

For me this break comes at a good time. Winter continues to hang on. We have more snow on the ground now than at any time during the season. Temperatures are unseasonably cold. Cabin fever has set in. As much as I enjoy Winter, I long for Spring. Opening day of the baseball season is less than two weeks away. “March Madness” is upon us. (I still need to complete my brackets for the basketball tournament.) A break is necessary.

The key to Penn’s observation is found in the words “true silence.” Such a silence is my friend. Others may be threatened by solitude, or have never experienced it. They have no sense of what it offers. My experience over these few decades is that solitude is a gift. Those profound silences come in our asking. We should ask for the opportunity. Solitude also comes in our seeking. We need to look for the opportunity. However it comes—in the asking or seeking—we should embrace it as a time of rest. I will avoid any prescriptive comments on how to practice or experience those moments of quiet. For me, the monastic tradition provides some guidance, in the form of retreats. But I have also been able to translate those practices in quiet walks through the woods, while fishing in a boat, or even strolling around campus.

Breaks, be they “Spring” or otherwise, are good things, true gifts, and worthy of pursuit. We will be better professionals if we find and take advantage of those times to rest the mind.

30th Year Reflections/38: Three-Minute Fiction

In early February I did something I've never done before: I entered a writing contest. My ears perked up while listening to National Public Radio's "All Things Considered" when the contest--"Three-Minute Fiction"--was announced. This was "Round 10" of the contest. The challenge for this round was to write a story in the form of a voice-mail message. Each story had to be less than 600 words and capable of being read in three minutes. I decided to enter.

I played around with an idea or two before settling on something to do with Sherlock Holmes. An opening and ending came quickly to mind, but I struggled with the middle. A few days before submissions were due I came up with the missing piece. Obviously, since I didn't make it into the finals, the judges thought my piece less than stellar. But I was happy with it all the same, and so share it with you here. Sherlockian purists may have some difficulty with my story as "The Napoleon of Crime" appears, post-Reichenbach. But I needed him for the story to work and so bent Canonical understanding. (I also put Holmes and other characters in the present, à la "Sherlock" or "Elementary," things a purist will also object to.) Purist or not, I hope you enjoy the piece:

"The Adventure of the Pall Mall Flat Answering Machine."
“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.” (The speaker’s tone is slightly menacing.)

“I expect that you are still at the office—or the club—working out some detail on the latest round of European debt financing or NATO expansion. I know that this message comes as no surprise to you; indeed, you anticipated its arrival.”

(The menacing tone increases.) “In the same way, I know that there is little—if any—surprise to you in my having obtained this number—this most private of numbers—although I would imagine you find this little tidbit faintly troubling.”

(The voice becomes sarcastic.) “You haven’t quite worked out the ‘how’ in that ponderous mind of yours. But you know who I am and what I am capable of; you know my voice and my methods. The only remaining question in your mind is—why. Why call? Why leave this message? Why create a trail you can trace?”

(The voice becomes spiteful.) “The answer is quite simple. I no longer care. You and your meddlesome brother have managed to destroy my reputation, but now I have something in my possession that will turn the tables, if ever so slightly, in my favor.”

(The voice suddenly shifts to a velvet smoothness.) “I’ve come across a bit of information—gathered from your doctor, in fact—that proves beyond any doubt that you and your brother are both losing your minds. There’s a particularly nasty beast in the Holmes genetic pool that has suddenly raised its fearsome head. Art is not the only thing in the blood. Your brother already presents some of the symptoms: forgetfulness, absentmindedness, senseless blabbering. Before long, you too—so your doctor tells me—will show signs of the illness. Over time the embarrassed whispers of your compatriots will grow to shrill cries of confusion, discontent, and yes, even compassion. In the end—most likely with regal consent—you’ll both be packed off quietly to some asylum, to end your days hand-fed by royal retainers, oblivious to all around you.”

(The voice becomes conspiratorial.) “But I have a cure, one that will save you from such a piteous end. It comes, however, with a price, one I’m sure you—and your brother—will be more than willing to pay. You need to drop whatever you’re doing and meet me at….”

(A scuffle ensues; the phone is dropped. The answering machine picks up raised and muffled voices during the continuing scrum, and the sound of a police whistle. Half a minute passes before the phone is roughly snatched from the ground. A new voice, somewhat winded, comes on the line.)

“You’ll have to forgive the Professor. He’s not quite himself after taking that tumble over the falls. Now, for the love of all that you hold dear, will you please take your keys, come to my flat, and open the front door? Watson’s away on a fishing trip, Mrs. Hudson’s off visiting a niece, and I left my set of picklock tools on the desk, right next to my keys—I’ve locked myself out! Mycroft, come at once if convenient – if inconvenient come all the same!”

The sound of a receiver being slammed into the cradle ends the call.

U of M Archives and Special Collections Featured

The Archives and Special Collections Department of the University of Minnesota Libraries is featured in the latest issue of Legacy, the magazine of the University of Minnesota Foundation. "Legacy," to quote from their masthead, "is published four times a year by the Foundation to give Presidents Club members and other donors and friends an update on how private giving fuels discovery at this great institution."

The Foundation's web site features an interactive photo with video links. Click here to go directly to the interactive page.

On arriving at the page click the "Start" button to see the photo with links to video segments. Click on one of the six numbers to see more information and links to the video. I'm featured in the Number 1 link, with three video clips related to the Sherlock Holmes Collections. Enjoy!

30th Year Reflections/37: The Adventure of the ebay Auction

Dear Sir, Could you tell me if there is a Coventry Street in Minneapolis. It sounds most unlikely but I am bound to inquire as it affects an experiment in psychic Research. The name & address of Philip Jackson, architect, at that address was the reference. Probably it is an error. I could not think of anyone else to whom to apply. Pray excuse me. Yours faithfully, A. Conan Doyle

The short letter quoted above, dated September 14, 1923, came to my attention in late February. A Sherlockian collector on the East coast—and a Friend of our Sherlock Holmes Collections—alerted us to its existence and the fact that it was being auctioned on ebay. A link to the item was provided by our collector-friend and so I looked at the description and images on the ebay site. Along with the letter was the original envelope, addressed to “The Chief Librarian, Public Library, Minneapolis, Minnesota, USA.” The reactions of a couple of our local Friends of the Holmes Collections were unanimous—we had to have this item for the Library. And so began “The Adventure of the ebay Auction.”

My initial reaction was the same. Doyle’s letter, with its local connection to Minneapolis, was too good to pass up. But I had no idea about proper library procedure in acquiring items through online auctions. I knew that we could—and do—purchase items through traditional auctions. But online auctions are slightly different animals. After conferring with colleagues in the acquisitions department it was determined that the best approach was for me to purchase the item and then seek reimbursement for my expenses.

Unfortunately, this scenario presented a set of problems: I did not have an ebay account, a PayPal account (used by most sellers on ebay to facilitate purchases), no experience with bidding in such an auction, and perhaps not enough money of my own to cover the purchase. Also, the clock was ticking. It was now the last day of the auction, which ended at 3:58 pm. I spent the latter part of the morning and early afternoon attacking each of the problems. In short order I established my ebay account, set up and linked a PayPal account with my bank and ebay accounts, received financial backing from one of our Friends, and received valuable tips from my colleague, Lisa Vecoli, who is an old-hand on ebay. Her final admonition was to settle on my maximum bid and to use a figure that was a bit unusual (so that I would not lose out on an item by a few pennies or dollars). About ninety minutes before the auction ended I settled on a maximum bid and submitted it to ebay. All that remained was the waiting.

The waiting was excruciating. The Doyle letters had been online for five days and yet, when I posted my bid, I was the sole bidder. No one else had expressed an interest with another bid. The time remaining on an auction is posted above the description of the item. When the timer hits one hour remaining the numbers turn red and count down by minutes and seconds. Somewhere around 45 minutes remaining I needed to leave my chair and attend to some other business. When I returned, the timer was under 30 minutes. No other bids appeared. I nervously sat in my chair, tapping my fingers, bouncing my foot, and then got up to attend to another errand. With about 10 minutes remaining I stayed glued to my chair, muttering “Come on, come on…” to myself, hoping that no one would swoop in at the last moment and bid the item higher. The red numbers continued their countdown. 5 minutes, 4, 3, 2. At ninety seconds I was locked in to the screen, muttering, tapping, bouncing, and hoping. I was still the sole bidder. The seconds continued to roll by. Under a minute the countdown continued second by second. 40 seconds, 30, 20, 10. I’d been told that some bidders act in the last seconds. I recalibrated a new maximum bid, just in case I needed to go higher. 5 seconds, 4, 3, 2, 1. There were no last-second bidders. I’d won the auction! The letter was mine (with an ultimate home in the Sherlock Holmes Collections).

I surged out of my chair with a whoop, a holler, and fist pumps through the air. Those in the office knew what was up and shared in the excitement. Lisa was down the hall, teaching a class. Earlier, before she left for class, I told her that I might interrupt her session by coming into the room and giving her a “thumbs up.” I did exactly that. Happily, her class was engaged in some activity that didn’t require her immediate attention and so we gave each other “high fives” and celebrated the moment together. She was as happy as I was. With a certain bounce in my step I came back into the office, still pumping the air with my fist, and tried to settle down for a few more moments of work before calling it a day.

The next day, with all accounts now verified, I logged into ebay, went to my personal page, found the Doyle description, and hit the “pay now” button on the screen. Within moments the transaction was complete. A few days later a small box containing the letter and envelope arrived in my mailbox. The editorial board for our Holmes newsletter (on which I sit) has already determined that the Doyle letter will be the lead article for our June issue. So ends “The Adventure of the ebay Auction.” But our excitement in sharing this new acquisition with you is just beginning.

This post also appears--with images--on the U of M Archives and Special Collections blog, Primary Sourcery

30th Year Reflections/36: Keeper

“The University has had records ever since it acquired a corporate identity in the early 13th century. It seems that the University's archives were first kept in St Frideswide's Priory before being transferred to the Congregation House in St Mary's Church in the 14th century. There they were stored in chests along with the University's cash and other valuables. When the Congregation House was burgled in 1544 the archives, were left scattered about and in utter confusion. Some were lost. They remained in a chaotic state until the early 17th century when the antiquary Brian Twyne put them in order. Twyne carried out most of the research in the Archives necessary for the compilation of the new University Statutes (the 'Laudian Code') which were approved in 1636; he also prepared the University's petition to Charles I for the 'Great Charter' of the same year. He was appointed to the newly created office of Keeper of the Archives in 1634.” — History of the Archives, Oxford University

This is a longish quote to open up this week’s post, but I wanted you to get a glimpse of this history from a most distinguished archive. I experienced a small bit of this history during a visit to Oxford in 1991. For me this part of my trip—I had just come from Sweden after attending a conference on Swedish and Swedish-American archives—was something of a “busman’s holiday.” I was in the company of a good friend who completed his doctorate at Oxford and was back to do some research for a book. We stayed for a week, with accommodation in a bed and breakfast in North Oxford. Every day we would walk into the city, toward the Bodleian Library. Once there, we would part company, he to read and research, I to explore the city. Sometime around midday we would join up for lunch at a pub (the first being the “Eagle and Child,” aka “The Bird and Baby” given my love for all things related to Lewis, Tolkien, and the Inklings) and after our meal return to our respective activities until late in the day. It was a most delightful schedule.

I took advantage of my time by first visiting the Oxford Tourism office, where I found a guided walking tour, led by a most remarkable (and diminutive) woman who reminded me a bit of Miss Marple. At each stop along the way she would unfold her traveling chair, sit, and share the splendors (and associated tales) of each locale while we in the group strained to hear every word. Tour complete, and with a sense of the landscape, I visited as many colleges and their associated libraries and archives as possible. In each place I identified myself as a librarian/archivist and was generally met with a most hospitable reception and brief tour. My initial tour with guide included a visit to the Bodleian (with a special stop at Duke Humfrey’s). Along the way I enjoyed as many gardens, quads, sculpture, etc. as I was allowed, with side trips to the Botanic Garden, “Mesopotamia,” Oxford University Press, the “Jericho” section of the city (given my other love of the Inspector Morse stories), and anywhere else I could go within this wondrous place.

At some point during my visit, and with the gift of an Oxford diary from my friend, I discovered the title of “Keeper” for those entrusted with the care of archives. I do not quite remember how it happened, but either during the trip or shortly after my arrival back home to Chicago this title stuck to me as a nickname, given by my colleagues. It is a nickname that I’ve grown very fond of (as you might tell from the “vanity” license plate that is part of the sidebar to this blog). It is also a sobriquet limited in use to those who know me from my Chicago days, perhaps a term of endearment; no one in my present place of employment attaches this title to me or my work—“curator” has taken its place—but it is a constant reminder of what my work entails. We are stewards—keepers—of rich histories, both in terms of our profession and the materials under our care. It is an awesome (in the old sense of the word) responsibility and joy. I have this trip to Oxford to thank for the constant reminder.

PS One book I discovered (and read during the evenings on this trip) is Jan Morris’s Oxford. Highly recommended reading for anyone interested in this city and its university.