My Library Route

(This entry is part of Ned Potter’s Library Routes Project. The idea is to write an entry detailing how you got into the profession along with what made you decide to do so and/or the career path which has taken you to where you are today. I’ve been wanting to write this entry for a long time.) 

Just under ten years ago, I was standing out in the summer sun surrounded by acres and acres of various types of plants in pots. Wide brim hat on my head, sunglasses keeping the glare at bay, everyday was warm when you wore jeans to work. Shorts are not your best option when you are working with pesticides, herbicides, and other chemicals that carry labels that say “Caution”, “Warning”, or even a few “Dangerous”. As I was given rather fair skin and an inclination for contact dermatitis, jeans were part of my own work uniform. The site was 400 acres in size nicknamed The Orchard; it was a former orchard cleared, graded, covered in gravel, and had rows and rows of rib houses (much like the ones in the picture to the side). Hundreds of these houses were on the side, some as long as football fields. As my first job out of college, I was hired as an Assistant Manager of Irrigation and Chemical Application. This meant running the water pump, managing the watering of areas, creating spray schedules for chemical applications, and maintenance and repair of literally miles of PVC piping and hundreds of sprinkler heads. Our group was the smallest, but it was tasked with one of the most vital aspects to commercial horticulture.

In the previous four years, I went to the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey outside of Atlantic City. I had completed a Bachelor of Science in Biological Science (A B.S. in B.S., I would joke) with a late concentration on horticulture. I was doomed from the start, I think, since I certainly could name and explain all of the plant cellular operations and chemistry but my taxonomy was terrible. But I didn’t want to work at a desk at that time; I wanted to be outside, working with my hands, and with a job where I couldn’t take the work home with me. This nursery was the right fit for a me at the age of 22.

My college chemistry found some use to the chemical work, as you needed to find different dilutions for chemicals before applying them from giant sprayers. There was always weeds to kill, growing through the gravel and dirt, in the edges of the houses and along the inner roadways. And there were certainly other pathogens that needed attention: mold, mildew, fungus, and insects of all types and stripes. And the watering was nearly year round; when the houses were covered, it could get up to 60 degrees or hotter depending on the amount of light that the polyurethane covering allowed in. In January, the rose plants would arrive and we would grow them up to size to send to the big box stores like Home Depot and Lowes for their spring garden sections. Between our site and the other company site close by (a larger 800 acres, now 1,200), it was quite the operation.

To an extent, I liked the work there. I do like playing with the big toys such as front end loaders, tractors, fork trucks, and other vehicles. My real attraction was being able to do something for which I could see a result. When I watered, a plant grew; when it got sick, I applied treatments to make it better. The downsides are really all I have left in terms of memory for the place beyond those feelings; low salary, little benefits, unfair treatment of migratory workers, a somewhat poisonous corporate atmosphere with little room to advance, and repetitive seasonal work. I got a promotion to the propagation section (where cuttings were grown up), but within six months they decided they didn’t need me anymore.

Rather than fire me right then, they gave me “another chance” by assigning me a near Herculean task building more rib houses on the nearly acquired property. It was an impossible task given in the cold of winter, given not enough manpower, tools, or time to complete it. I resigned myself sticking it out; they were not going to make me quit.

Three months later, I got my walking papers. I think I smiled the whole drive home. The tribulation was over.

In another six months, I found work at a much smaller commercial nursery deep in the southern parts of New Jersey. Fairweather Gardens is a tiny operation which specializes in a variety of hard-to-find plants for the hardcore gardener. The Philadelphia Inquirer had done a story on them and, on a whim, I sent them my resume and cover letter. This would end up being a very brief stint (I lasted about 3 months) but an important one for me and my Library Route.

After returning from a short trip during which I got engaged to my now wife Kathy, I was just about to tell the owners the news when they told me that they were firing me and giving me two weeks pay in lieu of notice. I was devastated. As I was handing over the pruning sheers I had been given, one of the owners said something to me that got me on the start of my route. He said:

Andy, you seems to have abilities and interests in other things for which you are more passionate about. We’re wondering why you are not doing that instead of this.

For a long time, I thought it was an backhanded insult given out while I was getting ready to go home to Kathy and tell her that I had been fired again. But as the time stretched on after that day, I really started to think about it. Horticulture was something I could do, but it wasn’t where my passion was. I could see during that job that I wasn’t at the same level as the owners who lived, breathed, and knew horticulture.

I did find work again as a temp worker at DuPont (we lived in Delaware at the time), but it was a way to pay the bills while I figured out what I was doing with my life. I had always had an interest in law, I thought, so why not try out law school? I took the LSAT, applied to Widener Law, and was accepted into their  night program. Working full time, every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday I would head up to campus for 3 to 4 hours of class time with other parts of my day crammed with class preparation and studying. Kathy and I were virtual strangers to each other as our time tables did not generally mesh well except on Sunday evenings or after 11pm every other night.

I loved law school as well, but between working full time and studying the rest of it, it did not suit my learning style at all. There was no room to breathe, to rest and relax, and to recuperate. In the end, the only class I did well on for both semesters was my legal research and writing class. Everything else was dismal and put me on academic probation.

It was during this time, seated at my computer in our little office we had in the apartment, that Kathy started talking about finding another career. She had always been interested in librarianship since she was a high school student. It was there, sitting in my computer chair, listening to her talk about it, that the thought first crossed my mind. Surely, I thought, it has to be easier than this law school bullshit. I was sick and tired of the stress, the work, and being away from family and friends. I did well in my research class, so maybe becoming a law librarian was a good alternative.

I took a semester leave of absence that fall while Kathy attended Saturday classes held at the Free Library of Philadelphia by the staff of Clarion University. When she kept coming back with tales about what she was learning and doing, I knew I found something I could do as well. That fall, I made a proposal to Kathy: move to Clarion, get our degrees as fast as we can, and then move back. We’d live on student loans and whatever work we could find as well as maybe some family charity. Within those four months, I applied and was accepted to the program, found a place to live (a tiny single newly renovated single family house), packed our stuff one dark January day, and moved out to Clarion.

This is my Library Route.

The Disconnect

Right as I was finishing dinner on Wednesday night, the power went out. The chili was basically done, left to sit on the gas stove and allow the flavors to intermingle. I had started to bake some cornbread which, once I remembered after locating the flashlights and candles, was about half baked. The house has a gas fireplace and we had been through this power loss routine before. We sent out text messages (I did a couple of Twitter updates) and made a few calls to let people in the area know what had happened (and reported it to the utility company), and then put them down to save on our charge. Gathering what we needed into the family room, we hunkered down in front of the fireplace and made the best of it.

Kathy had a book and read for most of the evening (and as it would turn out, most of the night). I had a book as well that I could have gotten, but I was in no mood for reading. I wasn’t really in any mood for doing anything, really; I was just listening to the wind outside. Laying on the couch, with the crackle of the fire, eyes looking out the back window area watching the tree sway in the wind. Shortly after the power went out, we had limbs from trees around the house breaking off under the weight of the snow and hitting the roof. You wouldn’t hear the crack, just the dull thud as it hit the roof and rolled off. A couple of these whole limbs, perfectly healthy limbs (not a good sign), snapped off at the trunk of the tree. Most rolled off the roof and into the shrubs, squashing them under the weight of branch and snow. I wouldn’t say that I wasn’t worried that one of these branches would fall in such a way that it would smash a window or take out the power lines, but I tried not to let it cross my mind.

Early in the evening, I went out to shovel a little bit. I wanted to do something and that was the only thing that I could really do. I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to do much or get very far, but I was not ready to simply lay there while this was going on. The driveway of the house is not under and trees, so I was going to stay out in the open and not risk getting hurt or killed by a falling branch or tree. I told Kathy I would knock on the window at regular intervals so that she wouldn’t worry; if it went too long without a knock, she should come check up on me. The eaves on the house are rather wide, so I had a place to duck under to avoid any potential falling debris. I got wrapped out and headed outside to shovel the back walk and anything else I had the strength and energy to do.

Once outside, it was bright in only the way that a winter landscape can be. The dark trees against the cloudy sky made everything stand out as I shoveled my back to the driveway. It was apparent very early on that this was going to be a short trip outside if I wanted to continue to shovel; the heavy wet snow was enough to make any snow removal arduous. I didn’t want to take out the snowblower since there is a lot of driveway under trees and I wasn’t feeling that adventurous. So, in standing under the eaves of the garage, shoveling every now and again, I would listen for the wind to kick up. You could hear it coming through the trees from far away, so I’d stop, watch, and listen.

Near and far, you could hear the sounds of branches snapping, their popping and crunching coming through the winter air. Some were so close I’d peer through the darkness to see if I locate the source; others were like distant gunshots, their noise taken away by the wind. I did hear one crash close enough to put it a house or two away, but my vantage was blocked. I did go around the edge of the house to check out the limbs that had fallen, to note their location, and to see if there was any visible damage to the house itself. During this period in time, I watched someone try to make their way through a side street, their tires spinning in the sleet and snow mixture that had formed on the road. I don’t know what would possess anyone to leave their home, but it must have been enough to brave the storm.

Afterwards, I came back into the house, changed into pajamas, and took the couch that I would be sleeping in that night (pictured below). There, laying on the couch, listening once again to the fire next to me and the storm above me, my situation dawned upon me.

I had not been so utterly disconnected in a long while. No computer, no text (saving phone charge, just in case), no games, no television, no technology whatsoever. I had no idea what time it was; I couldn’t even remember the date. As I lay there, my mind was still churning but without the usual external stimuli. It was like a party where the noise level suddenly dies down and all but one person shuts up so their voice carries throughout the room. In this case, my mind was the only voice left.

And so, as I lay under many layers of blankets, I just let my mind roam.

I can’t really say that I thought of anything deep and profound, but that I didn’t realize how much of my day had some form of technological input. Even when I’m out and about away from the computer screen, I text on a fairly regular basis with a number of different people. It didn’t matter where I was, there was always a level of connectedness that was present. With the power loss and a driveway full of snow, it was gone. It was a disconnect that I hadn’t experienced in years. (As I write about it now, I think it might have been when I was riding around Australia on my own back in college.)

And so it was, staring at the ceiling and watching the flickering of the fireplace light on the ceiling, almost a passenger in my own brain. With the outside idea support structures away, it was left to its own devices. Scenes from my life, work at the library, friends new and old, just wandered in and out as the night stretched on. I have no idea how long this went on; I know Kathy told me I dozed off several times.

As much as I would think to avoid putting a moral or conclusion on this experience, it feels right to say that I need more kind of this time. While it could be at home, the temptations of the household technology make it a harder sell. I should think that, in conjunction with my new year’s resolution to get out of the house and be more social, I should be looking for more opportunities to find places that make such temptations hard if not impossible. I’ve heard of monasteries that rent rooms to people to allow them to come and stay (with devices forbidden), but I’m thinking of some more local nature destinations. Banish the cell phone to the car, go camping or hiking, maybe visit the beach. I’m not completely firm on ideas, but this feels like the right direction.

It’s always interesting to me how the perception of things can change with just a little shift. I guess this was one of those times. And from the looks of it, it was a tiny bit overdue. This past year has put me on the move and perhaps it is time to take another.

(For those interested, here’s the link to all of the snow pictures from the past week.)

Some say the world will end in fire…

That’s the official account of our snowfall, taken from the side of the driveway. Today was a bit of an obstacle course as I wrestled the snow blower out of the shed to clear the driveway and sidewalks (and that of our neighbors), then go out and grab enough take out to ensure a lazy afternoon and evening, and then send out seventy five emails and Facebook messages for the Online Holiday Secret Santa Extravaganza for library folks to their respective people (lots of ideas for next year on how to do it better). Tonight was a raid night for World of Warcraft so I and twenty four of my fellow game friends punches monsters in dungeons for loot (or tried to at least).

Yesterday was good day off, though I wanted to write a blog post but our power went off at 10:30pm. Kathy and I hunkered down in the family room by the natural gas fireplace and candles and read a bit. Of course, once we had stacked the bed high with blankets and snuggled in, the power returned. Lest we sweat to death, we undid our mountain of quilt mass and finally passed out.

I did not get a chance to finish the blog post that I wanted to write (I hope to do that tomorrow), but I did apply for a job. I am very happy with my current position, but the words “once in a lifetime” danced through my head when it came across the Twitter feed. This is certainly more for the ability to say “I applied for this job” than getting it, although I’ll just have to see how it goes. From what I have heard, there are people who are better positioned to get it (people who are currently federal employees), but you never know.

(By the by, the post title comes from a line from the Robert Frost poem, Fire and Ice. (Forgive the ads.) Take that, Whitman!)

With partial apologies to Walt Whitman

This is the not the first time my family has crossed paths with Walt Whitman.

In my family’s lore, my grandfather would tell a story about how his grandfather (a judge in Camden prior to the turn of the century) once sent the famous and highly debated poet to jail for public intoxication. His grandmother and her friends would cross the street if they saw ole Walt stumbling their way, drunk as a skunk, for they did not want to be on the same side of the road as he passed. Their recollections, as retold by my grandfather, were singularly unimpressed with the man who has been called “America’s poet”.

Even in death, my mother’s family cannot escape some sort of proximity to the poet. Harleigh Cemetery, where my maternal grandparents, their siblings, and both sides of my grandfather’s family have family plots, is also the resting place for Walt Whitman. When I visit the family gravesite, I can see the Whitman mausoleum about one hundred and fifty yard away hidden in the trees that have grown over it. The only way out is to go past it. You can see the slots of the Whitman family behind a heavy barred gate with little knickknacks, flowers, and other minutiae left outside.

So it was less of a surprise when I found out that some irksome commercial was using one of his poems to sell jeans.* Initially, I simply ignored this annoying ad campaign but it was hard avoid catching sight of it, a plethora of pretentiousness and artsy-fartsy high school fantasy imagery. But once I wondered which poetry treasure was savaged in the name of corporate America, I found out that an old family rival was back.

(“So, Walt,” I said, leaning back in my computer chair, fingers forming an evil finger steeple. “It’s on again, I see?” The only thing to make it more complete would be a twirling of a moustache and a cat sitting on my lap to slowly pet.)

So, with partial apologies to Walt Whitman, I have written my own version of “Pioneers! O pioneers!” out of contempt for stupid commercialism, my own love of parody, and of course, to spite Walt Whitman in the grave.

I hope you enjoy it.

Librarians! O librarians!
    COME, my pasty white children,
    Shelve well in order, get your carts ready,
    Have you your patience? Have you your sharped-edged wits?
    Librarians! O librarians!

    For we cannot story time here
    We must shush my darlings, we must bear the weight of weeding,
    We the well read masses, all the curious on us depend,
    Librarians! O librarians!

    O you grads, MLS grads,
    So, full of questions, full of many tweets and Facebooks,
    Plain I see you MLS grads, see you scrounging for the jobs,
    Librarians! O librarians!

    Have the elders admins retired?
    Do they sneer and end their shift, wearied over by years of policies?
    We update the eternal catalog, and the MARC and the LOC,
    Librarians! O librarians!

    All the practices left behind
    We debouch upon a newer information world, a 2.0 world
    Tools and websites the urls we collect, world of texts and the computers,
    Librarians! O librarians!

    We libraries steady growing
    Down the spinners, through the stacks, up the bookcases steep
    Reviewing, buying, cataloging, shelving as we go about the days,
    Librarians! O librarians!

There are certainly more stanzas, but I only did as much as the stupid commercial did. Maybe some day I’ll finish it out, but I think it’ll get lost at some point.

 

* I refuse to link to the ad because I despise it SO much. It’s on YouTube and there are enough clues here so as to find it on your own.

1st Annual Holiday Online Secret Santa Extravaganza

I’d like to take a shot at arranging an online librarian Secret Santa. It’s been a rough year for the national library community as a whole and I’d like to end the year with some holiday cheer.

So, here’s the skinny:

• Sign up between now and 11:59PM Saturday December 19th. (Form embedded below.)
• You will receive your gift target’s information on December 20th.
• Gifts should be received around December 25th.
• $10 gift limit (Go over at your own discretion.)

I’ve set up a Google Documents form to collect information from interested individuals. With the advent of internet shopping, the least amount of information you need to share is an email address. (As a good librarian, I will not share any information with anyone but your gift giver. Plus, I will need to contact you to let you know who you are giving to.)

(Apparently, WordPress doesn’t like iFrames. Here’s the link to the live form while I find a workaround. Sorry about that!)

Let’s make this a rousing end of the year success! Be sure to pass the word on this event! I will be making a Facebook event and tweeting on it as the days go by (I haven’t thought of a clever hashtag yet).

Happy Holidays, whatever that holiday might be!

Thanksgiving Thoughts ‘09

I am thankful for the journey so far.

It is the culmination of many events, both good and bad, that have brought to where I am today. I thank all of the people, both present and long gone of all intentions, who have shaped me into the person I am today. It has not always been great, it has not always been fun, but it has been an evolving experience.

I am thankful that my life is surrounded by such vibrance.

To be in the included in the lives of such a wide range of exceptional people is a true gift. They are my angels, muses, saints, and heroes. While we may originate from dust and return to it in the end, never forget that it is stardust. We are a greater sum than our mortal parts. Some may call it the soul, others the divine spark, still others the human spirit, but never let such a fantastic essence be secreted away.

I am thankful for all that I have and all that is to come.

November Wedding Bells

Right now, I’m propped up in the hotel room bed, listening to old UFC fights on the television and reflecting on the day that was. It was my brother’s wedding day and I was proud to stand at his side as his best man. The wedding itself went off without a true hitch; the limo was a little late, there was some humorous unplanned moments at the church, and a very long photo shoot at the reception place. But, when it was all said and done, my brother and new sister-in-law got everything they wanted out of the day, so I am very content.

The part of the event that had me anxious for the last two months was the best man’s speech. I had been going over this part in my head over and over, trying out lines and phrases in my car as I drove to and from work most days. It was a very emotional process; on more than one occasion, I choked up and couldn’t finish the sentence. I decided to write out what I wanted to say ahead of time. While I like to ad lib, this was one time I decided to stick with the script.

I’ll upload pictures later, but here’s a copy of my speech.

The months of October, November, and December have not been kind to our family. Over the course of years, we have lost many good friends and family members during this autumn season. But today, I believe, this wedding will mark the beginning of a new era of joy for this late year season. On behalf of the Krafts and the Woodworths, it is my honor and privilege to welcome Meghan to our family. I am very pleased that my brother has found someone to share the experience of the journey ahead.

On your wedding day, I wish to offer you this advice, the collected life lessons of our grandparents, Randy, Beverly, Mary, and Richard.

Follow your dreams and passions, wholly and completely, for they are the true essence of life and happiness.

That judgment and acceptance are mutually exclusive. While the former need not be favorable, the latter should always be given.

That love is boundless and unconditional; it is the product of a multitude of small personal acts.

That separation is merely a temporary illusion; that there are no ‘goodbyes’, only ‘bye for now’.

To the happy couple, I offer you simple and unfettered best wishes.

Today was a great day.

Late Wednesday Night Poetry

If curiosity be a tree

then let the sun be wisdom

towards which the branches stretch

 

and let knowledge rain down

soaked up by nestled roots

in an understanding earth

 

Every now and again, I get the yin to jot down a bit of poetry. I don’t really edit much (it’s ok, the critique thoughts you are having will probably be the ones I have later), but since I’ve started blogging, I figured I might as well share this particular one. It was inspired on the drive home after some late night talking with Julie Strange and a rather uninspiring strawberry mojito.

With my brother’s wedding coming up this weekend, I will be attending to the best man duties. This past night was the last ‘free’ night I will have till Sunday or Monday or something. I have some library posts kicking around in my head, so I’m hoping for a chance to jot them down in the meantime.

Till then, keep growing. =D

Lending Materials of a Different Sort

About six months ago, I read about an organization called Kiva that makes microloans to groups and individuals in economically disadvantaged countries all over the world. These loans, ranging from several hundred dollars to several thousand, represent people trying to improve their business and lives. Microloans are a great way to provide capital to small businesses that are otherwise ignored by financial institutions. (Read about the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh; this Nobel Peace Prize winning organization started lending to the poor in Bangladesh.) Over time, the loans are repaid to your account; you can take the money out or you can re-loan it to other applicants. It is not without its risk. For myself, it’s a worthwhile calculated risk. At best I get paid back so I can make another loan; at worst, I tried and it didn’t work.

The reason for this post is not simply to sing the praises of a remarkable organization and their lofty goals, but I was delighted to find out about a lending team called Lending Librarians. I’ve joined the team and I’d like to encourage others to join as well. It doesn’t have to be much ($25 is the minimum), but that $25 can literally make a world of difference in someone’s life. You choose who you can lend to; by joining the team, you can give credit to the team. Also, team members can post about who they are lending to, so we can throw our support behind someone who may be a few bucks short.

Give it a whirl. I’m glad I’m did. And it’s nice to find something new to lend that can change their lives forever.

Ghosts of Prisons Past

As I have the day off since I work tomorrow, my friend Jen and I went to visit Eastern State Penitentiary today. We’re both history buffs so this was a great place to spend a nice gray day. This partially dilapidated historical monument to the first serious but tragic attempt at prisoner rehabilitation sits not too far from the famous Philadelphia Art Museum, rising up like a castle in the middle of a modern neighborhood. The tall ramparts obscure the many prison buildings and cellblocks that lay behind it, trapped in the grip of slow deterioration. Its presence is imposing, its history is gritty and uncomfortable, but what remains is a glimpse into another world in a previous time. (You can read about it here, here, and here.)

I’ve never been through the prison grounds before so this was my first chance to walk through all of the structures. The first thing that hits you is the state of dilapidation that twenty years of abandonment have wrecked upon it. For all of their current efforts (which are very good), the walls show their age through sheer peeling. Looking up at the ceiling reveals whatever materials they used for when that cellblock was built; brick, plaster, beams, and whatnot. Every cell door is tiny, covering a door that made me duck every time. Not only duck, but cross over a wide threshold, making me feel even smaller. You can follow the ideas and the passage of time through how the cellblocks were constructed as well as the cell amenities. For whatever reason, each generation of the prison is hard to imagine for me; from the silent stoic days in the 1830’s to the overcrowded hustle and bustle of the prison in the late 1960’s. The emptiness now belies any of the daily activities that the history markers or tour guides told us.

In touring the prison, I took a lot of pictures and shot a few short videos. And in having a sudden bout of 2.0 inspiration, I uploaded everything to Flickr, scanned a prison map, and made a note that corresponds to each photo taken. Check it out, I hope you enjoy it. And if you’re in the Philly region, go see it.

I’ll even come with you. =D