There’s been quite a bit in the news recently about the Fairfax County Virginia library system. It’s the kind of glaring media exposure that no organization wants. And as is so often the case, the situation arose from said organization’s combination of secretiveness, myopia, hubris, and just plain bad judgment.
Nestled up against the nation’s capital, Fairfax County is a prosperous, populous, and highly educated jurisdiction. So the citizens of same were not best pleased when it became known that the county library system was ridding itself of a large number of books. And not just ridding itself, but tossing said ‘detritus’ into dumpsters.
Just how many books are we talking about? Brace yourself: about 250,000.
Public libraries are required to periodically weed their collections to make room for new materials. With regard to this process, two important issues must be addressed: What are the criteria for removal of the items from the collection, and what is to be done with said items? It’s that second question that’s at the root of the Fairfax County flap. It seems that in past years, the system has done what many other libraries have done: made the items in question available for purchase by local residents. In many cases, volunteers will handle these sales events, thereby generating funds for the library and good will in the community.
Apparently, Fairfax County has gone this route in the past. But for some reason, they decided not to, this time. Was organizing a sale of materials deemed to be too much trouble? Who knows. At any rate, the deciders of Fairfax County opted for the quickest clear out possible of the unwanted volumes. Word of these draconian measures got out. Articles appeared in the Washington Post, including a piece by one of my favorite columnists, Petula Dvorak. Ms Dvorak does not suffer fools gladly (thus ensuring that she never runs out of subject matter), and she raked library officials over the coals for engaging in this egregious action. The controversy even made it onto the Post’s editorial page.
As usually happens when events of this kind are held up to the public gaze, the folks in charge began furiously backpedaling. The Fairfax Library Board of Trustees has announced their intention to suspend all further action “until the library board can get more input from library staff and customers.” Well, good for them. Would that they had solicited that input in the first place.
I’ve thought for some time now that the statistics made available by computerized circulation systems represent a double edged sword. Sure, they provide useful information about a library’s collection, but they also reveal which items in that collection are lovely movers and which are shelf sitters. Obviously, among the latter are some lesser known gems which will not be flying out the door on a regular basis. At the very least, those works selected for discarding on the basis of low circulation numbers should first be looked at by knowledgeable staff and evaluated for their intrinsic worth.
Despite the incursion of e-books, physical books are still very much with us. We still love them; some of us prefer them as vehicles of content. Who among the legions of lifelong passionate book lovers and library users has not discovered one of those ‘lesser known gems’ while idly browsing the shelves? To my way of thinking, stewardship of the back list should be a vital concern for all libraries.
And while we are on the subject of strange library-related matters, I would draw your attention to the strange and unanticipated fate that has befallen the public library of Hanover, Pennsylvania. In 2006, in place of a small and unpretentious, though somewhat aged facility, a new library opened in the borough of Hanover. There were now three floors to house an expanded collection. A large meeting room on the basement floor was fitted out with the latest in electronic accoutrements and other amenities. The new building incorporated elements of the old, most especially the lovely stained glass window. (Click here to read about the library’s history.)
Last month, I traveled to Hanover to deliver a lecture on Somerset Maugham and to lead a discussion of his novel The Painted Veil. The event took place in the library’s Hormel Reading Room, . (I’ve had the privilege of being part of this lecture/discussion series since its inception in the early 1990’s. I led two of those sessions that year; my topics were Sue Grafton and G Is for Gumshoe, and Judith Van Gieson and The Other Side of Death.)
My reception at Hanover was as warm and welcoming as ever. I held forth on Maugham in the Hormel Reading Room, home to the above mentioned window. As a venue for a lecturer, the space presented some challenges, but by and large, things went well. At the conclusion of my talk, I was entreated to come back next year. I accepted the invitation but intended to ask, at a later time, whether the venue might be changed.
I needn’t have worried….
Little did I know when I was there in August that the Hanover library was embroiled in controversy over a proposal to consolidate the library so that all the materials would reside on the main floor. This would make the second and third floors available for other uses, the first of these being a commercial enterprise aimed at repurposing the space for use in galas, weddings, and other such events. This meant among other things the wholesale relocation of the children’s and young adult collections.
By the reckoning of one prominent citizen of Hanover, the library will now possess less square footage than it did before the renovation.
Plenty of people in the borough of Hanover are feeling frustrated and betrayed. Like us here in Howard County and like the citizens of Fairfax County Virginia, they love their library. As for me, I feel just plain sad. The Hanover Library – actually the Guthrie Library now, after one of its major donors – has become a special place for me and given me a chance to interact with some wonderful people who love books and reading as much as I do.
While Sue Grafton has gone on to greater fame and glory, Judith Van Gieson never achieved comparable recognition, though I believe that she’s currently an esteemed regional author. I will always have a special fondness for her Neil Hamel novels. Neil is a lawyer; like her creator, she lives in Albuquerque. These books helped inspire me to visit New Mexico, the aptly named Land of Enchantment.
The Other Side of Death opens with a memorable description of a place, and of a love affair:
Spring moves north about as fast as a person on foot would— fifteen to twenty miles a day. It crosses the border at El Paso and enters New Mexico at Fort Bliss. Like a wetback following the twists of the Rio Grande, it wanders though Las Cruces and Radium Springs, brings chile back to Hatch. A few more days and it has entered Truth or Consequences and Elephant Butte. The whooping cranes return to Bosque del Apache, relief comes to Socorro. Los Lunas, Peralta and Bosque Farms take a weekend maybe. By mid-March the season gets to those of us who live in the Duke City, Albuquerque. On 12th Street fruit trees blossom in ice cream colors. The pansies return with purple vigor to the concrete bins at Civic Plaza. The Lobos are eliminated from NCAA competition. The hookers on East Central hike up their skirts. The cholos in Roosevelt Park rip the sleeves off their black T-shirts, exposing the purple bruises of tattoos. The boys at UNM take their T-shirts off, exposing peach fuzz. Women at the Pyramid Holiday Inn pick up their pillows, pay three hundred dollars and go within for a Shirley MacLaine seminar. Guys in Crossroads Park take their camouflage jackets off and lay their bedrolls down for free, burned-out Vietnam vets in spirit or in fact. Tumbleweeds dance across Nine Mile Hill and get caught in a sign that says Dangerous Crosswinds. Between the snake garden and the mobile home community the Motel Nine offers a room for $ 12.95 with a video of Wild Thang.
At my place in La Vista Luxury Apartment Complex, the yellow shag carpet needed mowing; the Kid’s hair was getting a trim. His hair is thick, black and wound tight and the way to cut it is to pull out a curl and lop off an inch. The hair bounces back, the Kid’s head looks a little narrower, the floor gets littered with curls.
He sat, skinny and bare chested, in front of my bedroom mirror, and I took a hand mirror and moved it around behind him so he could see the effect of the trim. “Looks good, Chiquita,” he said. I vacuumed up the curls and helped him out of his jeans, then we got into bed.
The afternoon is the very best time: the window open to the sound of kids playing in the arroyo, motorcycles revving in the parking lot, boom box music but not too close, the polyester drapes not quite closed and sunlight playing across the wall and the Kid’s skin. Warm enough to be nice and sweaty, but not so hot as to stick together. And in the breeze the reckless, restless wanderer— spring.
“Oh, my God,” I said in a way I hadn’t all winter.
“Chiquita mia,” said the Kid.