CentenniAL

I was a bit overexcited when I opened the September 1944 issue of the ALA Bulletin and found an article on Montclair (N.J.) Public Library's use of International Business Machines to analyze library usage statistics. In my head, IBM equals computers, and computers equal cool. (This is despite knowing the former statement to be untrue. I'll stand by the latter.)

In any event, the inspiringly-titled "Business Machine—Tool of Library Progress" (Sep. 1944, p. 291-294) wasn't about a computer by the modern (electronic and programmable) definition; IBM didn't introduce its first model until that year, although a few other machines had been built by then. While there's no explicit model or even machine type listed, it looks like Montclair was using a punchcard-based tabulating machine. (Author Felix E. Hirsch referred to the "Ten minutes of sorting time, which is sufficient for a considerable run of cards" needed to find the answer to a demographic question.)

Despite starring only a computer precursor, the article seems to have the energy and excitement of the herald of a new, computerized, era. No doubt they'll arrive on the scene shortly, right?

Well... not quite. There were, perhaps, a few nods in that direction in the coming years: an address at the 1946 Annual Conference reprinted in the September issue of that year (p. 261) by Tennessee Valley Authority Director David Lilienthal asked the now-age-old question "Is the machine good, or is it evil?", while a September 1956 article by Frank Anderson of East Chicago Public Library mused on what libraries would be like in 2006. (Among his predictions: Carnegie libraries would be razed to make space for heliports; physical books will all be filmed and then shredded and sold for waste paper, which would be used in boxes to pack nuclear device components; and an automated "electronic book plucker" that could search circulation records kept on IBM punchcards.)

I'd say the computer age didn't really reach the Bulletin until the March 1959 issue, in which ALA Associate Executive Director Richard B. Harwell announced the Library Technology Project, a grant-funded program at ALA with a full-time staff of five. Even that's not quite accurate: While the Project soon turned its attention to the use of computers in libraries, its initial charge was to develop standards for library supplies, to contribute to the development of new or redesigned library equipment (including an inexpensive microfilm reader, scuff-free paperclips, and a permanent ink), and to maintain a clearinghouse of information on library technology.

Even if the Library Technology Project wasn't instantly focused on computer technology, others were. In October 1961, Jesse H. Shera (former bigwig in the Junior Members Round Table and then dean of the School of Library Science at Western Reserve University) published "Automation Without Fear." (p. 787-794) This article identifies three sources of fear of computers: psychological, technological, and economic; it describes potential uses of computers in reference work—the examples, while specific, appear to be hypothetical rather than based on actual uses at the time; and it ruminated on the question of whether or not computers can "think." (It also represents what I believe to be the first time the Bulletin used the word "computer" to refer to the machines so familiar to us today.)

The Library Technology Project joined the computer game by 1963. The project's director, Frazer Poole, reported on the four-day Conference on Libraries and Automation in the July-August issue of that year (p. 658-659).

About 100 people attended the conference, a meeting of two worlds: librarians and computer experts. Despite high-level support—Librarian of Congress L. Quincy Mumford opened the first session—the conference was rough going. "It was obvious to even the casual observer that the computer experts and the librarians were not always talking the same language," Poole wrote. He noted the skepticism held by many of the attending librarians that computers could improve processes at all, and observed a basic failure to communicate. "In too many instances, librarians were saying, in effect: Tell us what your machines can do and we will tell you whether we can use them. The machine men, on the other hand, stated again and again their basic tenet: Tell us your requirements and we will tell you what machines can do to help libraries."

But the Library Technology Project did, finally, lead to concrete computer applications, reported in 1964 and 1965 in a series of seven articles by engineer-librarian Joseph Becker. He covered: MEDLARS, the Medical Literature Analysis and Retrieval System at the National Library of Medicine; the University of California at San Diego's experiments with using computers to maintain serial holdings records for 1,500 titles (with 3,500 more promised); Los Angeles County Public Library's use of computers to automatically generate a printed catalog of its 223,000 titles; a remote-retrieval system demonstrated at the New York World's Fair; the IBM Research Library's computer-based circulation record updating and maintenance; Pennsylvania State University Library's systems analysis project; and a case study of Florida Atlantic University, which was established in 1964 and whose library was the first in the United States to use computer-based data processing from its founding.

Sure, the programs aren't sophisticated by today's standards; it would be absurd to expect them to be. (If we accept Moore's law as an estimate, computing power has doubled 28 times since then, so we've got about 268 million times more juice to work with.) MEDLARS, for example, required a typist to prepare catalog entries on a special typewriter, which converted letters to punched holes on a paper tape, which could be spliced together, and run through a machine to transfer that information to magnetic tape. That tape was read by a computer, which could: Compare subject headings with a master list to detect errors; generate full citations and create cross-references; sort citations alphabetically; and "look for logical errors in the citations themselves and print out exactly where they occur," although the article doesn't specify how.

Still, it's a start. Welcome, computer era.

This week, a roundup of brief and hopefully amusing nuggets from the history of American Libraries.

Wonderful ads
Beginning in 1948, the Bulletin began accepting advertising. There's not much flash by modern standards, hardly surprising given that things like inexpensive color printing are pretty recent developments. There is a lot of charm, however.

World Book

Compton

A pair of encyclopedias led the way. World Book vividly described the lengths it went to to make its entries accurate boasting on the back cover of the December 1951 issue, for example, how "We anesthetized a snake to make our World Book Diagram accurate!"

Compton Encyclopedia's ads were even better; they consisted of "Compton Comments" written by "L.J.L." on a wide range of topics, always tying them back to an updated entry or some event of the day. Take the irresistable September 1951 missive, which opens: "How would you have felt on the morning after the A.L. A. Conference if you had awakened at 6:15 to find a sky-blue parakeet sitting on your pillow peeking at your nose?"

I don't know if these ads make me any more motivated to buy an encyclopedia (it's not a question that comes up often in my current position), but they sure make me want to read more ads.

The Library in Cartoons

The Bulletin published a series of cartoons in 1936 and 1937 detailing life in various types of libraries or library departments. My favorite is the first one, published in January 1936 (p. 24-26) detailing the duties of a public branch librarian, which include telephoning the Animal Rescue League to call for a basket of kittens deposited on the return desk, calling an ambulence for a passer "who has slipped on a bit of orange peel", and having a talk with a sailor who wants a card (right; click for larger versions).

An unintentional sequel of sorts came in May 1949 (p. 181), with "The Bookmobile Arrives" (left). I'm especially fond of the pilot who's reading as he's about to crash into a tree, although maybe I'm just in a weird mood.

Image
In November 1946 (p. 463), ALA's Public Relations Office put out a call for photos of librarians at work, for use in recruiting materials. On one hand, it's a nice, forward-thinking little project: "Let's declare a moratorium on pictures of empty charging desks, still and deserted bookmobiles, childless children's rooms," wrote PRO Chief Olga Peterson. On the other hand, the call could have perhaps been delivered with a bit more tact. It came under the heading "Good-Looking Librarians, Note!!!" (sic) was addressed "To Photogenic Members" and declared that "good pictures" showing attractive librarians at work "are very scarce."

The 1950s
There is no excuse for this.

Richardson

Clift

Stevenson

Beginning with the April 1953 issue, author photos for the editorial by Ransom Richardson took this format: a disembodied and poorly cut-out head on a line-art suit. Executive Secretary David Clift started getting the same treatment in May. Meanwhile, Grace Stevenson, ALA associate executive secretary, got merely an unclothed disembodied head at the top of her "In the Mill" department. I apologize for any nightmares.

I'm gonna say, "not"
The February 1946 issue (p. 72) related this tale: "At a recent convention of English teachers in Indianapolis, Marian McFadden, city librarian, presented a talk, the notes for which she threw into the wastebasket. Later she was asked for a copy of the talk or of the notes so that they could be sent to a professional periodical for possible publication. That night, when Miss McFadden was walking home some papers were deposited at her feet by the wind. Believe it or note, they were the notes she had thrown into the wastebasket!"

Conference Entertainment
Here's the partial list of social activities on the five days of the 1942 Annual Conference in Milwaukee, as listed in the June issue (p. 398): Dancing, brewery tour, folk dancing, square dancing, square dancing, stunts, and square dancing.

(For those who found the square dancing units in elementary, junior high, and high school gym classes an unpleasant and traumatic experience, some closure can be gained by reading the list in your best Terry Jones-as-a-waitress voice.)

—Greg Landgraf, American Libraries editorial assistant.

I don't remember specifically when I first started hearing about the scourge that is Generation X. It was somewhere in my high school or college years, but more detail than that I can't give. I do, however, remember specifically that at the time, the media reports discussing the scourge that is Generation X were saying that the last Gen-Xers were born in 1975. That's a year before I was born, so I felt enthusiastic, optimistic, and even a bit entitled at having dodged that bullet.

It wasn't to last, though. Before long, the birth range for Generation X was extended to 1978, turning me into the lazy, sullen, apathetic sod I am today.

In an unrelated event (I swear—it happened a few months before I joined the staff), AL dug up a bit of controversy on the generational issues front in May 2004, with a cover story titled "What Will Gen Next Need to Lead." (pp. 32-35) In it, authors Arthur Young, Peter Hernon, and Ronald Powell related results of their "five-year study of what today's library directors see as desirable leadership attributes for their successors."

Several letters took the authors, and the magazine, to task for a variety of pretty well-founded reasons: The fact that none of the authors belonged to Generation X, that the survey hadn't asked opinions of any Gen-Xers, that its title was intentionally condescending, that the desirable attributes were desirable for leaders regardless of age, and that the whole concept of leadership needed to be rethought anyhow. (Aug. 2004, p. 35-36.)

I'm not going to defend the treatment here—I can see some legitimate reasons for it, but AL Editor Leonard Kniffel has expressed some interest in writing about it, and since he was here at the time he's probably got better insights than I. Instead, I'd like to examine some of the magazine's early intergenerational issues.

The Junior Members Round Table was founded, informally at least, in 1931. Despite not officially joining ALA until 1941, its activities made regular appearances in the Bulletin throughout the Thirties. And the JMRT was a reasonably active group, with projects such as Library literature, 1921-32, an update to a bibliography of library science writings; a series of Library Information Leaflets to help patrons use catalogs, periodical indexes, and other library tools; the "Dividends" section of the Bulletin, a neat little department relating specific examples of impressive service feats, such as a library helping a hospital increase the efficiency of its steam power plant, saving the city the cost of a new system; an essay contest; and state projects coordinated by regional subgroups (Jan. 1937, p. 13; Mar. 1937, p. 156-158; Apr. 1937, p. 231; Jan. 1938, p. 49).

The non-unifying non-theme: Almost none had any relation to age or the specific concerns of new librarians. There were a few—a survey of round table members' reactions to library schools, a statement by JMRT Chair Robert Miller at a 1933 meeting of the Board of Education for Librarianship on the JMRT's recommendations to address unemployment, and a directory of librarians under 35 in Louisiana compiled by that state's group (Feb. 1933, p. 97; Mar. 1934, p. 139; Mar. 1937, p. 158). But most of the JMRT's activities could have been done by any group.

There were only a couple of instances of overt hostility towards young librarians published during that era. One, a "quotation received recently from an Illinois librarian" whose name, sadly, wasn't revealed, declared that "Apparently they want the A.L.A. to be a sort of combination of a trade union with delegates to send around to fight their local salary and service battles, and a public relations office including a group of talent scouts to travel around and keep the juniors busy with frequent visits, local meetings, and chances to perform. ... As a national body it should concern itself with national and over-all affairs and should not have to worry about seeing that the junior members get their money's worth." (Apr. 1945, p. 152) In a second, Aubry Lee Hill of the public library in New Rochelle, New York, in her her address "Speaking for the Younger Generation" at the 1935 Annual Conference in Denver, read a letter she received from another unnamed librarian: "What some of you lack is unselfish idealism—you are so damnably ego-centric—and you lack humane tolerance and understanding of imperfections, which will give you the patience and ability to work yourselves to the top of a difficult situation instead of blowing up. ... P.S. You lack ballast, too, and you lack patina."

Nasty postscripts aside, the general tone the magazine took towards the juniors was one of mild condescension. Sadly, much of this tone came from the servility of the juniors themselves. For example, in 1938, Chair J.H. Shera's "Swan-Song of a Junior" pulls out a bunch of overwrought highbrow references (citing "Cassandrian qualities of perspective", the oppressive inertia facing Tolstoy or Gorki characters, the pacifism of Ferdinand the bull, and of course, Shakespeare) to prove that he's ready to graduate to the regular membership upon turning thirty-five. In 1934, JMRT Chair Louis Nourse declared library staff associations "A Job for Junior Members"—a double-whammy implication that neither junior members nor staff associations were good enough for the real members to worry about.

So it seems that the young have picked up ground in the intergenerational bicker-off. Go us! Of course, as generational date ranges seem to shift every so often, we all may find ourselves on a different side one day.

—Greg Landgraf, American Libraries editorial assistant

Each issue of American Libraries, like any magazine, is a product of its time. Even if you took out easy identification clues like dates and page design, with a bit of examination you could still group issues together by their time period.

Some years are easier than others, however. 1994's issues, for example, are striking for their use of the term "Information Superhighway" or close variants. ("N.Y. librarians fight to direct traffic on the info highway"; "Pac Bell's $100K gift paves the info highway on-ramp in Calif."; "At Senate hearing, librarians seek their place on the information highway"; "First bumper sticker on the Infobahn?"; etc.)

Ah, the nostalgia of it: the Mosaic web browser had just been released, popularizing the the World Wide Web amongst a still-technophobic public. To ease the transition, someone comes up with a catchy metaphor: "It's like a superhighway. For information." Before long, someone comes up with the quip, "I feel like roadkill on the information superhighway," and the term joins '80s hair on the list of embarrassing things that seemed to make sense at the time.

More dramatic (and dire) are the issues from the first half of 1947. That was the year that the Bulletin heralded, with great trepidation, the Atomic Age.

The tone was dark from the beginning, with the January issue's announcement of the theme of the Annual Conference, as determined at Midwinter: "A Moratorium on Trivia." (p. 19) Also at Midwinter, Council passed a resolution urging all libraries "to advance a true understanding on the part of all the people of atomic energy and its meaning for civilization", and that the ALA urge international control over atomic energy.

In several news stories, the Bulletin reported on an atomic energy education program developed by the ALA and Enoch Pratt Free Library in Baltimore (or, perhaps, developed by EPFL with some aid from ALA; reports aren't consistent on that point) and presented at libraries around the country (Jan., p. 38, 53). It featured films and lectures with titles such as "While Time Remains", "One World or None", and "Don't Resign from the Human Race."

Major speeches at both Midwinter and Annual addressed the topic. In "Atomic Energy and Your Future," (p. 71-74) J.J. Nickson of Argonne National Laboratory near Chicago and Harrison S. Brown of the University of Chicago laid out three grim facts about the Bomb: there's no secret in how to make it, there's no defense, and there's no monopoly in the ability to make one. Their proposed solutions to the problem of nuclear war: Disperse cities into areas of not more than 100,000 people each (at an estimated cost of more than $200 billion and the suspension of the Bill of Rights), the maintenance of the military at wartime levels at all times (making nuclear war almost a foregone conclusion) or the elimination of sovereign nations and the establishment of a functioning world government (the only solution the speakers suggested was viable.)

At Annual, Joel H. Hildebrand, dean of the Graduate School of the University of California, gave an even less pleasant speech (Sep. 1, p. 273), basically reviewing a number of strategies for controlling atomic weapons—and then explaining why each wouldn't work.

But there was some hope expressed amidst the doom. In his April "Notes from the Corner Office," (p. 99) ALA Executive Secretary Carl H. Milam reported on Enoch Pratt's atomic energy education program with admiration: "It was based on four facts, or, if you like, assumptions: 1) Intelligent management of atomic energy is vital to the preservation of peace and the promotion of the public welfare. 2) The people of the U.S. and the world have it in their power—as never before—to decide how much management and control, and what kind, are desirable and necessary. 3) People should have informed opinions before they speak their minds. 4) The library, as a public institution for public enlightenment, can and should do something about it." His column was accompanied by a letter from journalist Leland Stowe, who spoke at the Baltimore program, that was even more complimentary of librarians and their role: "One of its aspects which cheers me mightily is this: Baltimore's answer to a crying nationwide need was born in a public library. ... The librarians and libraries of America can be, and should be, the Paul Reveres of 1947."