adventures in cataloging

July 30th, 2014 by Laura Taylor

Today is a big day for the library! We’re upgrading our library software, which means that, for the time being, I can’t actually do part (most) of my job. Thus, I’m going to tell you about it!

Do you ever wonder where we get our materials? How many we get? What happens once they get here? How they’re cataloged? No? Well, I’m going to share anyway.

You might think, as a relatively narrowly-defined special collection, that we wouldn’t acquire a large amount of materials regularly. To a degree, this is true. There are only so many Maine women writers and they only wrote (or are writing) so many things.

Right?

Well, yes. And no.

We’re always finding new materials. Always. We find them in some ways you might expect – being introduced to a new writer, buying newly published books, acquiring somebody’s personal papers – but also in some ways you might not expect. Like, “Hey, what’s that box over there in the corner that’s been sitting there for so long nobody actually notices it anymore?” Oh! It’s full of books nobody’s ever cataloged! Or perhaps we’re processing a collection and find a whole bunch of periodicals in it that need to be added to our online catalog.

(I am extremely glad these things keep popping up since it’s a very large part of my job – to catalog our holdings and add them to our online catalog. What would I do if they didn’t keep coming?)

As it happens, I’ve received an unusually large amount of materials over the last few weeks. Of course, this immediately followed a moment in time where I started to think I might actually get caught up on all my cataloging! Silly me.

I thought it might be entertaining to share where these books and other items have come from and give you a little sneak peek at a few things that aren’t even in the catalog yet.

Quite a few of them are books we received from a collector. Most of the two stacks on the left in the photo above are books with covers designed by Sarah Wyman Whitman. She was an artist and illustrator and was responsible for a large number of book covers for Houghton Mifflin in the late 19th century. She lived in South Berwick, Maine for a time and was friends with Sarah Orne Jewett. Many of Jewett’s covers were designed by Whitman, employing her typically simple yet elegant design principles. The books in this batch encompass a large number of writers already in our collection: Margaret Deland, Lucy Larcom, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Blanche Willis Howard, Annie Fields, Julia Ward Howe and a handful of others, including Jewett. Thus, these are books that we will keep not only for their authors’ sake, but also because of the cover designs.

Also in the piles are some books that we’ve had sitting around for reference purposes and are finally now getting around to adding to our catalog. This is another category of materials we have here that perhaps you’ve been unaware of: books that may not be written by or about Maine women writers but which are nonetheless relevant to our collection. For example, in this current batch we have books on women and nature, feminism, and digital preservation. The first two are relevant in that they pertain to women, Mainers or not, and the last one is relevant to the actual act of collecting and preserving information – an act that we here think about every single day!

Additionally, not pictured, there are two large boxes of periodicals sitting beside my desk – various journals that started out in our manuscript collections and were found in processing. We add journals, magazines and newspapers to our online holdings so that our patrons will know exactly which issues of which periodicals we have! Often, though not always, we are also able to tell why we have a particular issue – for example, perhaps one of our writers published a short story in a particular issue of a particular publication. We do our best to make a note of these things, since the more information we include, the easier it will be for us (and you!) to find what we’re looking for.

We also have, not yet cataloged, some delightful one-of-a-kind artists’ books by the Ant Girls. Artists’ books appear on my desk not infrequently and are one of the most interesting, yet challenging, parts of my job. Many, though certainly not all, are one-of-a-kind. Even if they aren’t, there are maybe only a handful of others out there and those may or may not have been cataloged (or even purchased!) yet by another library. Normally, with a mass-produced book, someone, somewhere, has cataloged it before I do. This means that when I catalog it, I get to piggyback off of their information, using what I want to, deleting what I don’t, and adding a few things specific to our institution. But with these, that’s not possible, so I have to start from scratch. (And that would be why they aren’t done yet…)

There you have it! A small sampling of some of the things that come across the desk of a cataloger.

 

Comparing experience: the diaries of two Maine women

July 16th, 2014 by Sophie Glidden-Lyon

Despite the fact that Portland native Mary T. Perley rarely wrote more than one or two lines in her diaries per day, which span the decades between 1860 and 1904, it is clear she led a rich life. With an appetite for learning and close with her four sisters and three brothers, Mary traveled extensively throughout her life, taught herself French, attended plays and concerts; she also attended the 1888 International Women’s Council in Washington D.C.

The contrast between her diaries and those of Lucy C. Williams is stark. Lucy was writing on Vinalhaven in the 1980′s and 90′s, and her diaries paint a much more isolated and unhappy picture than those of the well-traveled Perley. As I worked on processing Mary’s small collection of journals, I found myself wondering at the differences in their lives. Mary had seen her fair share of tragedy, having lost both her husband and young son, and she never remarried, but this did not stop her from engaging fully in the world, in a way Lucy – who also faced loss in her personal life – never seemed to manage.

Mary T. Perley

The first of Mary T. Perley's two diaries,

Age could certainly be a factor. Mary was a good deal younger than Lucy when she began traveling, but she was 54 when she went on a three month trip to Bermuda in 1885 – a time when Bermuda was not a plane ride away – and at the time of her last entry in 1904, she was 73 and still traveled up and down the eastern seaboard to visit friends. Rather, I think it was a combined barrier of class and depression that kept Lucy so isolated. She often wrote of her worries over heating bills, and relied heavily on her garden, as well as the support of her community, to keep herself afloat during long Vinalhaven winters. Mary, on the other hand, was the daughter of a Portland area judge and counted people like U.S. senator William Pitt Fessenden, who was also Secretary of Treasury under President Lincoln, amongst her traveling companions. Despite living during a time when women were not even allowed the right to vote, Mary was likely afforded a good deal more privilege and agency than Lucy.

An open page of Mary's diary
Mary’s second diary, opened to February, 1898

Comparing the two women feels a bit like apples and oranges, considering the different eras in which they lived (although Lucy was born only 8 years after Mary’s death), but as I read Mary’s sparse entries, I found myself thinking about Lucy a lot. Her diaries were often extremely personal, leaving the impression that the pages of her daily planner were the one place she felt comfortable sharing these thoughts. I doubt she talked openly of her depression to many people. Mary was the opposite. As I mentioned, her entries rarely exceed two lines and, for the most part, simply relate an event – a visit, a letter, an event. On the day of her husband’s death, she wrote only, “Alone today and forever on Earth.” Perhaps she was not a particularly emotive person, but my speculation is that whatever thoughts she had concerning the events she recorded were thoughts she shared with the many people in her life. Lucy had an extremely layered internal life, while Mary was perhaps more the extrovert, spending all her time out in the world and surrounded by people. Ultimately, both collections provide remarkable insight into the lives of two Maine women who lived generations apart and both are valuable examples of why it is so important to be saving the diaries and journals of ordinary people.

Coming to terms with digital preservation

July 11th, 2014 by Cathleen Miller


It has been nearly a month since I visited Smith College for a week-long digital preservation management workshop taught by Nancy McGovern and Kari Smith.  I’ve been meaning to sit down and sift through my reflections since then, but it’s been a busy month.

The workshop’s schedule itself was incredibly packed–we arrived on Sunday evening to a nice reception and introductions/overview of the week.  Monday morning, we wasted no time getting to the heart of the work–the 5 organizational stages of digital preservation.  I found out quite quickly that we here at MWWC are just at the beginning of a long road of planning and preparation.  Daunted, but not discouraged, I took in as much as I could, feeling optimistic about having so much information to work with to create a plan for our institution.

By Tuesday morning, I had already begun to see the enormity of the task at hand and worried that this would be like many other trainings I have attended–I would return home energized to do something and realize that I was a bit alone in my fervor for progress.  It’s not that people here don’t care about digital preservation, but there is a certain kind of paralysis that comes up with technology-based initiatives.  We don’t have the expertise, we don’t have the money, we’ll wait until other people have figured out a good solution…  these are all excuses that I hear (and sometimes find coming out of my own mouth) to put off dealing with our born-digital content.

So, instead of returning back to Maine and slipping into a state of near-paralysis, I decided to be proactive.  I’m going to give a presentation to key stakeholders in our unit and lay out the picture of where we are and where we need to be.  I am going to be honest about how much time it will take and how much it will require of us.  I’m convening working group meetings with my staff to figure out what we need to do step by step.  And even if I am the only one who cares about it, I’ll still carry on as best I can because the time is now.

I can’t sit back and wait for anyone else to figure it out.  I’m going to make myself read through the stacks of white papers and power point slides on my desk until I understand how to make this all happen with limited resources and limited staff.  It’s my digital year, and I’m going to make it count, despite our firm place at stage one (see the full article here):
Policy and planning: the preservation policy is often non-existent or may be implicit. Technological infrastructure: may be non-existent or, if it exists, is likely to be heterogeneous…and decentralized…. Content and use: the focus may be reactive to specific collections rather than encompassing the potential scope of materials that need to be preserved.”

We’ve got a lot of work to do, but I look forward to advancing us in our efforts, and to examining the ways that we can use collaboration to solve some of our problems.  Onward!

Up to the light: the photographic slides of Lael Morgan

July 3rd, 2014 by Catherine Fisher



So, I’ve just laid down my gloves. Over the last couple of weeks, the soft, white cotton gloves that we use to protect precious materials from the oils of our hands have touched nearly every one of the thousands of slides contained in the collection of author, journalist and photographer, Lael Morgan. Her papers also are rich with correspondence, clippings, manuscripts, photographs and scrapbooks, but the slide portion of this processing project is a big one.

Morgan was born in Maine (1936) but has based most of her professional life in Alaska and California. These slides, now slipped into rows and rows of little pockets on pages of archival protectors, show the places she visited, the people she met, the moments she captured on film and wrote about during the mid-1960s to the early-1990s. Her stories and images have been published in the Juneau Alaska Empire, the Fairbanks News Miner, the Los Angeles Times, Alaska Northwest Publishing, the Washington Post, New York Times, Christian Science Monitor, and National Geographic Magazine.

Now, I have to say, even with the fun of the special white gloves, tucking slide after slide into the archival sheet protectors was, at times, a tedious endeavor, and so every now and then I had to lift a sheet up to the light to catch a glimpse of the stories living in there. Just to take a peek, make a quick scan, but try not to get so drawn in that I strayed from my task. But that was a challenge. Each tiny slip of film framed in cardboard is a portal to this explorer’s wide-angle view of the world—miles of ragged snow and ice dotted with dog sled teams, icy waters rocking hand-hewn whaling boats, and wide open ocean with fish processing ships—or her artistic zoom-lens focus on the hands of a basket maker, the drying hide of a polar bear, the eyes of a child in a fur-lined hood. From the most remote of villages in the Aleutian Islands to the Bering Sea, Borneo, Fiji, Tonga, Italy and California—these plastic pages with bits of film connect us with the eyes, mind, heart and hands of Morgan.


Over the course of working with the slides, I was especially struck by the absence of judgment that I found in Morgan’s images. I must confess that, in a kind of morbid curiosity, some of the slides I held up to the sunny window bore labels such as “polar bear hunt” and “cock fight” and “oil rig,” and I approached them with my own trepidation and politics. No such bias of hers is present in these images, however. Her work is respectfully curious, bearing positive witness to whatever fills her lens. A good example for me.

And speaking of the labels, so many images come to us without any identifying information, but Morgan is such a pro. She not only wrote captions on most of the individual items but also organized her papers so thoroughly before passing them to us, typing out lists and pages of information to help us navigate the rich evidence of her huge life. That she lived all of this astounds me. A woman who sailed halfway around the world with her husband on a 36-foot schooner, authored countless articles as well as 10 books (whose subjects range from Alaskan Native Peoples to Alaskan gold rush prostitutes to the art of tatting lace to a bio of an Eskimo film star), taught at two universities, edited and published a weekly newspaper, founded a publishing house, and been a private detective, Morgan has lived large. These slides tell us as much about her as they do about their subjects. Makes me want to set up a projector and take it all in…

To learn more about Lael Morgan, visit laelwarrenmorgan.com.

Susan Conley returns with her novel Paris Was the Place

June 18th, 2014 by Catherine Fisher

On a very lovely day in May author Susan Conley stopped on her way to the Black Fly Writing Retreat in Grand Lake Stream to read from and discuss her new novel, Paris Was the Place. As author of both a novel and a memoir, the latter being the award-winning The Foremost Good Fortune (2011), Conley had some engaging things to say to our group about place, about belonging, and about the “middle ground” (as she calls it) created when elements from real life are woven into a work of fiction.

The bulk of Paris Was the Place takes place in a Paris that is “more of a real Paris than a romanticized Paris. It’s not meant to be a postcard of Paris that perpetuates the myth. Still, there is a lot of enjoyment of Paris and a lot of savoring of it,” Conley said. “The characters also go to India for a brief stint,” she added.

The narrator, a 30 year-old American woman named Willow, called Willie, has moved to Paris to be with her brother and volunteer teach at a refugee center for immigrant girls seeking French asylum. She also teaches poetry full-time at the American exchange college there. From the author we learned that there is a rich middle ground between the fictional story and Conley’s own life experience. “This is not an autobiographical novel at all, really, but there are a lot of things in here that did happen to me. I have taught refugees – I do that in Portland through the Telling Room, an organization I’m very involved with. I have lived in France, and I have taught poetry, but I have never taught refugee girls in France. The refugee center is based on a lot of research but it is entirely fictive.”

Conley is a skilled and experienced teacher, and we were in such good hands as she took us on an illuminating journey through three incarnations of the book, showing us the progression of one particular passage through two drafts and on to the third and final version. She hand wrote the entire first draft in a collection of notebooks, and it was enlightening for her, too, to revisit that early prose as she read it, remarking on the multiple chapter drafts and the notes to herself, one of which said, “I feel like I’m finished with the first draft.” That was in 2010.

She then read the same passage from the second, printed out and copyedited version, dated 2011, with thoughtful comments from her editor at Knopf, with whom she also worked on The Foremost Good Fortune.

Before moving on to the published version, Conley explained her motivation for walking us through these drafts. “I thought this might be interesting because a couple of things happened structurally with this novel. The first is that it moved from a whole draft in third person to the final version in first person. A writer friend in Portland, Lewis Robinson, inspired me to make that shift. When he asked me if I was going to change it to first person, I said no, but it stuck in my head.”

Cally Gurley, Director of Special Collections at UNE, wanted to hear the first version again for comparison, wondering which parts of the final book had come out early on.

“I think for me, writing any kind of book–forgive the rather obvious analogy–is like building a house,” Conley said. “You put up your outside walls first and the structure is very rough. That’s sort of what the first draft was, sort of a sketch. And then you’ll notice that in the second draft, I focused on place and gave it a really specific location.” She really wants us to be in that little alley with the narrator as she makes her way through in the first chapter, before she knows what she’ll find at its end. From the published form:

“A high cement wall runs along the start of Rue de Metz—a one-way alley off Boulevard de Strasbourg. Four blue suns have been painted on the wall and the bodice of a woman’s lime green dress. The end of the wall is a deeper cerulean, and the graffiti here looks done with chalk—spaceships and loopy sea creatures and messy stars.”
– Paris Was the Place

All the way along, Conley knew that she really needed to capture place, even before she knew the title of the book, and she sees the first two drafts as writing she needed to do in order to start to understand it.

“I named the novel after a line from a Gertrude Stein essay,” Conley shared, “a line I only discovered when I was furiously writing the final draft in a cabin near Southwest Harbor. ‘And so when hats in Paris are lovely and french and / everywhere then France is alright. So Paris was the place.’ I thought, oh, that’s it, I finally have my title. But when I landed on that title it called for a whole reexamining of the book, to really map place in the book. I got a little crazy and created multiple maps in my little writing studio and made sure I knew every street corner and every metro stop. I felt like I had to live up to the title. But I’m always interested in place as character. [In The Foremost Good Fortune] I made China come alive as a character in that memoir. I wanted to bring the reader to China and then here I wanted to bring the reader to Paris.”

It’s in the final version that, while still focusing on the setting, Conley introduces the characters more quickly than she had in the previous drafts. “Conflict is the engine of fiction. There’s only so long you can wait before you start to introduce conflict. I felt like the guard [in the first chapter] was sort of hinting at that, and then Sophie, who runs the detention center, starts to lay out some of the dilemmas, and that had to happen pretty fast.”

Beth Dyer, Reference & Instruction Librarian here at UNE, asked Conley if she also had been to India. “I would imagine it would be hard to write about a place that you’ve never been. That would be a real leap,” Beth said.

“Yes, I had been to India for only about six weeks in the early ‘90s, but it’s one of those places that stayed with me really vividly and I really wanted to write about it. When I think of the kernel for the novel, it was actually a woman on a train in India…I had really wanted India to be a dominant setting in the book but it didn’t work to have both Paris and India be so big. How much can I ask of you as the reader? I ask a lot of you in this book, because I have three fairly distinct plot lines. So I thought, ok, this has to be a true research junket. She goes to learn what she needs to learn about this poet that she’s researching and she gets out and she still has her mind blown.”

Beth then asked, “In India, a sort of goal of Willie’s was to deliver the letter to the grandmother, and I couldn’t help wondering if the woman she gave it to might not really have been the grandmother. It seemed she kind of stopped at the first old lady she saw. But she felt good about it.

“That’s really cool to hear,” Susan said. “I like that ambiguity, actually. That character was inspired by a granny I met in a remote parish in India where I stayed for a week or so. She had a long white braid and she would come and sit by us at the little tiny store, almost like a canteen, and in one of the pictures she had taken my sunglasses and put them on, and she thought was a hysterical thing. That’s in the book, actually. Gita’s grandmother is wearing those sunglasses.”

Another group member said, “I’m curious about Willow. How would you describe her? What were you hoping to achieve with her? There were times when she didn’t behave like I thought she would.

Conley agreed. “No, she doesn’t behave like I thought she would, either. She screws up and you could almost lose your patience with her. I was interested that people could really screw up and that they could also be forgiven. Another inspiration for this was work I used to do for the Maine Humanities Council at the Long Creek youth prison. I had a grant to teach poetry to the male youth there. We’d meet in a library and everything was locked and all of the furniture was bolted to the floor. There were several times when the kids would be let out on work duty and they would just disappear. A volunteer/guard would take them out to do litter pickup or something and the kids would just disappear so easily. I was fascinated by that. What do you mean, you lost him? What do you mean, John is gone? And I thought, who is culpable? Did the guard help? It’s so easy for people to just disappear for a while, so that’s why I let Willie do that…I think Willie was naïve and she thought she was highly principled.

MWWC curator Cathleen Miller asked Conley why she chose Paris in the first place. What was compelling about telling the story in Paris?

“That’s such a good question. Aside from the obvious conceit that I lived there,” she began, “I wanted to do two things. I wanted to talk about the wave of anti-immigrant sentiment that was growing in France in the late 1980s. It’s gotten so much worse, so I thought it would be interesting to go back to the beginning of that. Similarly, there is the specter of AIDS in this book. I wanted to capture that at that time, it actually was possible to fool yourself about whether AIDS was happening. If there was someone in your life who had AIDS, you could really allow yourself to think that they were just sick. That happened to me. There have been a few reviewers who have thought that wasn’t possible–how could she not know? But we don’t know what we choose not to know. Particularly I thought, get them to France, keep them out of the mainstream, keep them out of what might be happening in the States. I’m really interested in what happens when we move around, when we get dislocated. I think we change. I think we might be more open, we might be more associative.”

Conley closed by saying what a great thing it is to be a writer in this state. She has a work of nonfiction in progress and a novel set in China on the horizon, and she added, “I grew up in Maine in Woolwich on the river, and I feel like I have a Maine story in me, too. I just haven’t gotten there yet.”

To learn more about Susan Conley and her work, visit susanconley.com.