Editor's note: Judith Faust, Business and Economics Librarian at California State University, East Bay, submitted this remembrance of Annual in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. We'd already commissioned an article on New Orleans and its recovery, which will be running in the September issue of AL, and space limitations prevent us from publishing this article in the magazine as well. We did want to share her experiences, however, and Judith allowed us to publish her article here.

Worth Remembering—ALA in New Orleans
As we pass the 2nd anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, I’m reminded that I have never been prouder of “my” association than the day in November 2005, three months after the hurricane hit, when word came out that the American Library Association was going to meet its original commitment to hold the June 2006 Annual Conference in New Orleans, and that two days would be set aside for librarian volunteers to work on community service projects. As a librarian in the San Francisco Bay Area who had already been back to New Orleans to help my parents and sister with their homes, my eyes welled up when I heard the news, knowing how important this would be for the city’s economy. I was ecstatic for New Orleans and fiercely proud of ALA.

Katrina hit the city hard on August 29, 2005, its wind breaking branches and toppling trees, then pushing high water from Lake Pontchartrain and the Mississippi River Gulf Outlet into the canals which bisect neighborhoods in New Orleans. Thanks to the withholding of funds for levees by the Bush administration, years of neglect by the Corps of Engineers, and lack of coordination of the various levee boards, canal levees were unable to withstand the strain, and several of them gave way, flooding large areas of the city. Only then was mandatory evacuation instituted, emptying the city too late for those trapped on rooftops, in attics, or on freeway overpasses in flooded neighborhoods—or those who had already died.

After evacuation, the city administration kept people out of the city overlong, adding to building damage; there might not have been so much injury to property, had homeowners been encouraged to return in a timely fashion to throw out soaked furniture and appliances, to tear out drywall before it wicked moisture even higher than the water levels. Those who ignored the strictures to stay out of the city, or who had passes to return to the city for other reasons, were the lucky ones. They got in, gutted their homes down to the studs, and were able to begin early the slow process of drying them out, treating them for mildew, and getting all the permits necessary to rebuild. Then they pioneered the “endless wait”—waiting for the 10 foot high mounds of trash to be picked up from in front of their homes; waiting for electricity, water, and gas to be certified safe and turned on; and waiting for contractors of all sorts to show up.

I first came in October, to continue the work of my brother, his wife and son, and my brother-in-law, all of whom had gotten into the city early on and tossed out furniture, saved valuables, and ripped out the sheetrock/drywall on the bottom floors of two family duplexes where waters had flooded to 4½ feet. By that first week in October, the trash piles in front of our houses had been picked up, though the duct-taped refrigerators still stood at the curbs as rumors flew—“They’re not going to pick them up with food in them, you’ll have to clean them out first.” “No, they say just to keep them taped up, don’t open them.” Though live oaks lived on with broken branches still dangling on high, all the magnolias, the French bay tree descended from Aunt Ina’s cutting, and all grass and shrubs were dead—the lawns not just brown but white with the remnants of half-dissolved sheetrock.

My daughter from New York and I were there to help my sister, who was essentially general contractor for the four units. We waited for termite people to come and inspect, retrieved safe deposit keys, gathered up photo albums to take to air-conditioned storage units, and packed box after box with items salvaged by the “early crew”—china, family photographs, glassware from cabinets above the waterline. Those had been transported pell-mell upstairs in addition to all the lighter furniture my 85-year-old father had taken up before he evacuated to Florida on Aug. 27th. It was impossible to move around on the second floor—but we knew we were lucky to have one. I cleaned the toilet on the first floor, filthy with chemicals, oil, and chunks of sheetrock, found the original 16-mm home movies to take back to Florida, went through a file cabinet of drenched documents and financial papers to see if anything could be salvaged, sorted through/threw out the endless papers both my mother and father collect (newspaper clippings from 1978, anyone?), picked up soda cans and bottles that day-laborers had tossed in the yard as they helped clear out the house, and just tried to keep going all day, although everything needed to be done, and in the end it was completely overwhelming just choosing what to do.

We tried to wear ventilator masks, but people who had been there for weeks said the air was so much better they didn’t bother – and the masks were so uncomfortable and hot that we stopped, too. It was beastly hot, as it is in October in New Orleans, and after the hurricane and flood, the drought that the city had been enduring for months took up where it had left off, so there was no rain to dissipate or dilute the chemicals and oil that had been in the water and now lingered on the ground. We wore sturdy shoes and rubber gloves everywhere, not knowing what we were touching. We had brought food and water from Florida for lunches and washing hands at the site, since there were few stores with food, and none in the immediate area. We stayed with wonderful, generous cousins who had homes close to the river—ironically, the highest part of the city —who had electricity and water to shower in, though not to drink. At night we drove miles and miles to find restaurants that were open for business, and worried about whether to eat the seafood.

After a week or so of work, I flew back to the Bay Area to my "real" work as a business librarian at Cal State East Bay. In December my husband and I came back to New Orleans, to work for a few days before heading to the panhandle of Florida to share Christmas with my 85-year-old parents. Renovations were going slowly in fits and starts, according to which contractor decided to show up, if any. We were still packing things to go to storage units, staying out of the way of work crews—and, of course, sorting through papers(!). We stayed with cousins, enjoyed seeing those who had not yet returned to town in October, and ate in restaurants that had opened nearby since then—a great joy, even if the waits for food took hours. Patience was held to be the great virtue in attaining food in New Orleans restaurants.

In May we made another trip to the city, just before my parents would see their home for the first time since the August hurricane. The wonderful cousins who had let my sister and brother-in-law stay in their New Orleans home for months, came by early one morning bringing azaleas and impatiens, and planted them in the front bed of my parents’ duplex. It was almost shocking how lovely they looked, especially against the still-brown front “lawn” of dead grass, weeds, and bare earth.

June, and the ALA Conference, finally arrived! I flew into the city and was stunned to see a brass band in the baggage area. In honor of the conference, city fathers had brass bands greet arriving librarians at the airport for days. People who in the past might have been unresponsive to tourists or surly at our invasion of their city were effusively appreciative of our presence in New Orleans. In cabs, at restaurants, in stores, at the conference exhibit hall, on the streets—everyone thanked us for coming to the city.

Or, as Times-Picayune columnist Chris Rose noted in his June 27, 2006 article, “And the Librarians Shall Lead Them:” “It was so good to see all those name-tag-wearing-wanderers from across the heartland here in our city, whether they were shooting blue goo down their throats at Coyote Ugly or buying hot sauce in the French Market or browsing the aisles at Beckham’s Book Shop in the Quarter.” Rose, author of the poignant 1 Dead in Attic, the “Katrina book” owned by more New Orleanians than any other, commented on the generosity of conference attendees, “A friend of mine worked the New Orleans Public Library booth at the Convention Center for 90 minutes Sunday afternoon, and reported that passersby put about $1,500 in the donation jar just in that small window of time.”

Volunteers carry supplies into New Orleans' Benjamin Franklin High School.

Over a thousand librarians whose yellow volunteer T-shirts read “Libraries Build Communities” performed community service in New Orleans. My friend Patrick Sullivan from San Diego State told me of the Habitat for Humanity home he helped build in the Musicians’ Village. His crew had worked all morning on the house, roofing, painting, putting up sheetrock, and more. Then just before noon, cars began to roll up, a shade structure was erected, then a bandstand, and finally 4 or 5 musicians drove up and began playing music while Patrick and other volunteers lunched on food provided by the musicians. The volunteers were touched to see quite literally the reason why they were working: so that the musicians who are the soul of the city can come back and have a place to live. Other librarian volunteers worked in libraries and private homes that had been flooded, and librarians didn’t come alone; one librarian brought her teenage son with her to work on gutting a house in the Ninth Ward. Even those who didn’t volunteer spent money on hotels, ate in restaurants, bought things to take home, and donated cash at the convention hall. All told, we brought at least $20 million to New Orleans—that’s a lot of azaleas and impatiens.

As I flew back to the Bay Area, I thought about the changes in New Orleans, the wonderful conference, and the difference ALA had made to the city—now and for the future. The enthusiastic volunteering of over a thousand librarians that had contributed so much to New Orleans neighborhoods and libraries made a difference to ALA, as well. Michael Dowling, Director of ALA’s Chapter Relations Office, said ALA members were so pleased with the volunteering in New Orleans that it was decided to continue volunteering efforts at a variety of locations in Washington, D. C. for the 2007 Annual Conference. As for me, I’ll never forget that our American Library Association was the first of the large organizations to honor its commitment to bring its conference to New Orleans, leading the way for others. For that, I’ll be a member forever.

—Judith Faust, Business and Economics Librarian, California State University, East Bay.

The first White House Conference on Library and Information Services (WHCLIS) was, quite literally, decades in the making. It was first proposed in 1957, and finally took place November 15–19, 1979.

Not surprisingly, American Libraries covered WHCLIS's development extensively throughout the 1970s, mostly in reports of the surprisingly twisty path to the passage of a bill authorizing it. A July-August 1973 report, for example, claimed (erroneously) that the idea for a White House Conference "Was born on the eve of the worst image setback suffered by the American library community at the hands of a federal administration"—President Richard Nixon's March request that Congress not fund libraries in the 1974 budget. (p. 410) The Conference was proposed for 1976, "in connection with" the Bicentennial.

The Senate approved the bill in 1973, and the House took it up the next year. Shown, the House Select Subcommittee on Education holds hearings on the bill to authorize WHCLIS. Shown are (from left) Peter Peyser (R-N.Y.), John Brademas (D-Ind.), William Sudow, assistant to Brademas, Jack Duncan, counsel to the subcommittee, and Orval Hansen (R-Idaho). (Feb. 1974, p. 89)

While the subcommittee's body language is less than promising, the bill passed the subcommittee and the House Education and Labor Committee, although the committee moved the conference back to 1977, either for wholly nonpolitical reasons or to reduce Nixon's potential influence. Patsy Mink (D-Hawaii), who proposed the postponement, claimed that 1977 would provide needed time for planning. But, "Asked if the 1977 date she proposed was related to the incumbent and beleagured President Nixon, Mrs. Mink replied 'Somewhat.'" (July-August 1974, p. 348)

In the House, the real concern was less finding votes for the bill—it was widely supported by representatives of both parties, including Vice President-designate (and cosponsor) Gerald Ford—as it was getting the bill passed before adjournment. It did, on December 12; the conference version of the bill passed December 19, but not before the Senate added amendments, including another delay to "not later than 1978." (Feb. 1975, p. 78)

Of course, that authorization bill didn't provide any actual funding. A 1975 education appropriations bill initially provided $3.5 million, but that got cut in the final compromise version of the bill. (Sep. 1975, p. 469)

Still, the conference had a friend in the White House. Gerald Ford was a cosponsor of the House bill authorizing the conference in 1974, and on July 19, 1976 he declared "I am today announcing my intention to convene the White House Conference on Library and Information Services," with a promise to request the funding within the next few months. (Sep. 1976, p. 491) Democratic presidential candidate Jimmy Carter also expressed his support for the conference in a letter to ALA President Clara Jones, which garnered both candidates a resolution of commendation from ALA Council.

Ford did follow through on his promise to seek the funding, but it wasn't approved until 1977. When the slightly reduced funding ($3 million) was provided, things got moving quickly. Georgia held the first state preconference September 15–16 that year (Nov. 529). From there, the path was a lot smoother: librarians and "lay people"—educators, business people, students, community leaders, homemakers, and, at the Pennsylvania conference, Kitty Carlisle (Dec. 1977, p. 593)—met in nearly all of the states and many U.S. territories in preparation for WHCLIS.

Of course, nothing can go completely smoothly. Alabama librarians were miffed, and not without reason, when ALA moved its 1979 Midwinter Meeting out of Chicago due to Illinois' failure to pass the Equal Rights Amendment. Midwinter moved to D.C. that year, but the date also switched, forcing a conflict with Alabama's WHCLIS preconference (Oct. 1978, p. 509). Leadership of the conference changed late in the planning process, when White House Conference Advisory Committee Chair Charles Benton clashed with NCLIS Executive Director Al Trezza, and named Marilyn Gell to replace him as WHCLIS chair. South Dakota, meanwhile, skipped WHCLIS altogether. "I seriously fear the White House conference will be a boondoggle with no effect," said South Dakota State Librarian Hershel V. Anderson (Oct. 1979, p. 525.). "I couldn't justify the $20,000–$25,000 cost to South Dakota."

And there was a bomb on a flight carrying 12 delegates and two AL editors to the conference—"An incendiary bomb which had filled the aircraft with smoke and forced an emergency landing at Dulles in the nick of time," wrote AL Editor Art Plotnik in a preliminary report. (Dec. 1979, p. 634).

WHCLIS passed 25 resolutions, seeking a national information policy ensuring full access to publicly funded information, access to library positions and boards for deaf and disabled people, expansion of books and documents available in a computer-processible form, a National Indian Omnibus Library Bill, and no-fee access to information in publicly supported libraries, among other topics. Detractors, however, were well-represented in AL's coverage. John L. Burch, a lay delegate from Kansas, derided the conference as "a catharsis for librarians." Ann Lynch, president-elect of the Nevada Parent-Teacher Association, was quoted in the Las Vegas Review Journal as being "lower than a snake's belly" over the passage of a resolution calling for federally mandated guidelines for a library in every school (Jan. 1980, p. 18). Even Plotnik, in his preliminary report, called the content of the conference "generally unexciting," although he said "the people and their passions made up for it."

But groups did take action. Indiana created a committee to implement resolutions from WHCLIS and the state preconference (Apr. 1980, p. 186). Two significant bills incorporating WHCLIS ideas were introduced in Congress that year, and an follow-up conference in Minneapolis Sept. 15–17 elected a steering committee to build a national lobbying framework and gain funds. That committee continued meeting and ultimately planned the second White House Conference on Library and Information Services, which took place July 9–13, 1991.

—Greg Landgraf, American Libraries editorial assistant.

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.

As I prepare to leave for Annual, I'd like to share a conference-related curiosity from the middle years of the ALA Bulletin: Fashion advice.

From 1935 through 1961 (though not in every year), the Bulletin offered suggestions on what to wear at conference. These articles covered the type of weather to expect, but in most cases they also provided style guidance—in detail simultaneously delightful and grotesque to my T-shirt-and-jeans fashion sensibility.

In Boston in 1941 (Apr., p. 232–236), for example, Hugh McLennon of Wm. Filene's Sons Co. advised women (he called them "feminine visitors") to bring an assortment of "light cotton washables of the tailored variety," a lightweight wool coat, a tailored lightweight wool suit, and a lightweight pastel wool. He also encouraged visitors to take advantage of the beaches, noting that "Suits of the more daring variety are not unknown nor are they unappreciated here. Men, however, must wear tops at most of the local beaches."

McLennon's advice to men (yes, he did call them "masculine visitors") included: a summer "weightsuit," a medium-weight gabardine or flannel with a topcoat or sport jacket, a white Palm Beach tuxedo jacket over black or midnight-blue dress trousers for formal evening wear, and a white suit or white flannels with a dark blue or camel's-hair jacket for informal evenings.

The next year (May 1942, p. 332–333), an unnamed representative of Emma Lange, Inc., advised conference attendees that women in the host city of Milwaukee acclaim their city a "suit town" and wear suits of all types, "plus their accompanying colorful display of sweaters and blouses, frills, dickys, ruches, and jabots." Men seemed to have it a bit easier, although the author warned that "white and very light suits are seldom seen" and that "slacks are worn everywhere with separate sport coats."

A brief unsigned note in the April 1946 issue (p. 136) suggested that due to lingering effects of wartime restrictions on the clothing markets, attendees dress formally or informally at Annual as they saw fit. (Feel free to try to wrap your head around what precisely was intended with the line "Obviously, no male President would dare to set himself up as a moderator of convention fashions.") Fashion concerns returned with a vengeance in the May 1947 issue (p. 142), in which one Anne M. Farrell declared that "While the hatless craze is practiced to a small extent in San Francisco, it is usually the school or college girl who is the devotee." (So if you're not wearing a hat, congratulations—you're part of a craze!)

The next "What to Wear" articles, in 1948 and 1959, came in verse.

Yes, poetry.

Highlights from "ALA couture" the far more extensive May 1959 edition (p. 419) by Helen-Anne Hilker that covered Washington, D.C., fashion trends:

"Since the strong sex still comes crated
'Mid cravat and shirt outdated,
Males may find our June like Hades.
(Summer's not so rough on ladies.)
Men of Butte, Seattle, Akron—
Come in cotton loomed with dacron.
Wool and man-made textile mated
Rank with suits of silk light-weighted."

"Pert chapeaux do add allure so,
Hats are smart—not de rigueur, 'tho.
Gauntlets are another matter,
Even when you snub your hatter.
Gloves are worn—not clutched—for highlight.
Hands are clad from dawn past twilight!"

The series, such as it was, concluded at the Cleveland conference in the April 1961 issue (p. 365–366) with a tour de force combo of his-and-hers articles by husband-and-wife "fashion authorities" Rita and Oscar Bergman. Rita recommended "that seven-day wonder, the shirtwaist dress" for women, calling it a "lifesaver for today's busy woman with places to go and not much time to change into outfit after outfit," along with simple and minimal accessories. Oscar's suggestions, on the other hand, were precise: "6 short-sleeve dress shirts, 2 long-sleeve white shirts for the evening parties, 3 sport shirts, 8 pairs of hose, 3 neckties, 6 linen changes, pajamas, and handkerchiefs."

If you're looking for last-minute fashion advice for D.C., I'm afraid I can't be of much help, but I do have one suggestion: Wear clothes. Historically, very few ALA sessions have welcomed those who are nude.

—Greg Landgraf, American Libraries editorial assistant.