Of Cards and Rods and Catalogs: Part II the 1980s

Card Catalog

I spent the eighties in a public library as the head of a technical services department. Technology had not yet advanced beyond book pockets and hand-typed cards in smaller public libraries. As the chief, only and original cataloger, I wrote basic information on a blank card and gave it to Mary Alice who, with the help of perforated card stock in her typewriter, accurately and efficiently reproduced sets at warp speed. I clocked her once at more than 96 perfect words per minute, a truly remarkable feat considering the number of carriage returns in a catalog card! Her Royal electric had a special attachment to hold the card stock and help move it through the rollers. In the event of error (mine not hers) she had to rely on an electric eraser which gave me a very strong incentive to check my work twice.

Our Sears list of subject headings was dated in the 1920s. I replaced this venerable work and the Dewey Decimal Guide which came with my desk to ones that included numbers for computers and other marvels of the 20th century. When I attempted to use some of these “new” numbers and headings, however, I learned first-hand about the traditional animosity between technical and public services librarians. The reference librarians thought the designations currently in use were just fine and did not want them changed. If I started a new string of numbers, the subjects would be divided on the shelves. If I added new subjects the librarians would need to look in more places in the catalog. “But the numbers are wrong!” I told them. (And some of the subject headings were just plain embarrassing.) I knew the problem would only get worse with time, but in the end my only option – short of starting WWIII — was to re-categorize the older material. My age and tenure proved inadequate to the combined forces of the public services librarians.

Catalog Drawer With Rod Pulled Out

On Fridays, my entire department went to the card catalog to file new cards. Each person had a stack in a different section of the catalog. Each card filed was placed “above the rod.” The bottom center of each card had a hole for the rod to go through which held it in place. My job was double-check that the cards had been filed in the correct spot and pull the rod to drop them down into the drawer. A card in the wrong spot might never be seen again — at least not by someone who was looking for it! To ensure that I didn’t miss any of the new cards, the filers used a red filing “flag” intended to catch my attention.

I have to admit that I would have happily rusticated in that era for a very long time. I loved the independent in-house operation. We ordered, processed, cataloged and repaired our own books. We had to be frugal, creative and productive to stay within budget and keep materials flowing out our doors. Every new book passed through my hands. I looked forward to the shelves of pristine new arrivals waiting for me to describe and categorize each morning. The work suited me completely.

A wealthy donor brought us to modern times with the unexpected gift of an OCLC startup. We all moved into the new world with surprisingly little grief. Archaic Sears and Dewey fell to the power of the machine. As it turned out, the amazing Mary Alice had a talent for the terminal and was just as good at producing OCLC records as she was at typing card sets. In short order we joined a consortium and began purchasing pre-prepped McNaughton books. By the end of the decade, the card catalog was slated for demolition.

A Card Above the Rod