Day 123, Tuesday August 6, 2024: Rockland, Maine to Dover, New Hampshire
- Mark Carl Rom
- 1 day ago
- 12 min read
Carnegie libraries visited: Vinalhaven, Rockland, Lewiston, and Auburn, Maine; Rochester and Dover, New Hampshire.
Days sober: 411
It’s going to be a ferry nice week. Ha. I’m taking one from Rockland to Vinalhaven this morning, and on Thursday another out to Martha’s Vineyard. It would have been helpful if I had paid more attention to the schedule today instead of thinking about the future. I believed that I would take the 8.45 a.m. to Vinalhaven and then catch the next one back at 10.45 a.m., giving me just enough time to visit the library (which didn’t actually open until 1 pm) to take pictures. Whoops. I hadn’t realized that the ferry ran continuous routes, and that the 8.45 ferry was the 10.45, so that if I wanted to explore the island I would have to wait to return until early afternoon. With this schedule, I wouldn’t be able to make it to my friend Kelly’s house in Upton, Massachusetts, until midnight. Flexible planning: my new destination would be Manchester, and I hoped to arrive there by 9 or so.
I was on schedule to attend the Morning Medicine recovery meeting in nearby Thomaston. That town is noted for its “antique architecture" – the entire town center is on the National Register of Historic Places – with most of its houses built before 1870. The meeting was held at St. John’s Episcopal church, a Gothic Revival building constructed in the 1860s. (The congregation started holding services there before construction was finished, and so on Easter Eve 1868 the uncompleted and improperly supported floor gave way, dropping its parishioners to the floor below; no deaths were reported, and some parishioners were no doubt glad that they were not called to roll a stone away from their tomb.) Observation: there seem to be many more recovery meetings at Episcopal than Baptist churches. A difference in their priorities, or in their parishioners?
The daily reflection that was read to open the meeting was titled “Listening Deeply.” The key line, for me, was “Listening deeply when others share can develop intuition in handling problems that arise unexpectedly.” Every so often, a woman’s cell phone rang. I was surprised and then, after a couple more rings, annoyed. Why didn’t she turn her phone off? Why didn’t anyone tell her to put it on silent? Only after another call or two did I realize that no one was actually calling her: she was using the phone as a timer (surely with the consent of the participants) to remind those speaking to wrap up their comments, as they had spoken long enough. By listening deeply, I now understood this. Learn to listen; listen to learn.
One guy who received this signal had been rambling on about a recent trip to the DMV. He faced the same frustrations that many of us had also faced. Nothing especially interesting there, until he expressed his joy at finally getting his license back, an experience common to many recovering alcoholics. Another guy spoke about being a “dry drunk.” This is the term used to describe someone who had stopped drinking but had not otherwise changed their way of life (e.g., being angry, lonely, and depressed or lying, cheating, and stealing). He was grateful that he had finally gotten sober; sober in the sense of living life on life’s terms, finding joy when he could and acceptance when necessary.
Vinalhaven is not Martha’s Vineyard. The village (population: 1279 in 2020, about half as many as in 1920) is not crammed with fine homes and restaurants; only a few fingers worth of restaurants serve the community’s restaurants and the smallish number of tourists who visit. The Tidewater is the sole hotel and Sherry’s Kitchen is the coffee shop. I bought snacks for the day at Carver’s Market, the island’s only grocery store.
The Vinalhaven Public Library is a fifteen minute walk from the ferry, giving me my first glimpses of Sherry’s and Carver’s along Main Street. At the Tidewater, Main crosses a bridge that connects Carver’s Pond to the bay; when I crossed it, water was rushing from the pond to the bay. The library is open from 1-5 p.m. on Tuesday. It won’t be open while I’m there, unless I take a later ferry, which I won’t, because: mental and emotional itinerary. I am reminded of how often I visit libraries, hoping to uncover the stories of female librarians and library advocates, while not concerning myself with meeting librarians and advocates in person. I’m more comfortable in finding stories in print, from the archives, than from lips, in person.
That’s a shame, now that I’m looking at the Vinalhaven history and, especially, its current staff. Jennifer Wadleigh, the library’s director. Jen “grew up down the street” from the library and, after graduating from Dartmouth and earning her library certification, she returned to the island to renew her connections with the library there. Her library profile modestly notes that she had “been involved in the library for many years, most recently as the Chair of the Trustee Board.” Her assistant, Linda Whittington, has been working for the library since 2007. She is a Vinalhaven native and “has loved the library since her mother first brought her here as a little girl. Over the years she has spent many, many hours here, studying with friends and classmates while in school, or searching for the perfect book to read.” Neither Jennifer nor Linda have a Linkedin profile; it’s clear that they’re not keeping their eyes open for other jobs.
I just contacted the library to see if I can arrange a phone interview with them; I’ll keep you posted.
Love for that library doesn’t end with the two-person staff. Deborah (Jake) Tuminski, who has been living on Vinalhaven for fifteen years, knows how to avoid island fever: “Reading gives us someplace to go, when we have to stay where we are." Caitlin Chapman, mother of three, is “very passionate about children’s programming for our island families.” Jill Oakes, another Vinalhaven native, grew up in a house right behind the library and used it as a “quiet space” to do her homework. Having taught in the local public schools for almost forty years, it is likely that generations of her students did the same. Hiata Corduan, who owned a bookstore in Vermont for some years, began visiting Vinalhaven in the 1980s; she originally lived just down the road from the library and so was enticed by its wonders. Kris Osgood spent her childhood summers on the island, later marrying a local and moving there. Jake, Caitlin, Jill, Hiata, Kris, along with Willie Drury and Wilson Boone, all serve on the library’s Board of Trustees.
When my sons were young, we could all recite most of Goodbye Moon by heart. We loved that book. Its author, Margaret Wise Brown, owned a cottage on Vinalhaven, and her ashes are scattered there. Kitt would have found her to be a kindred spirit.
With the library closed for the morning, and time on my hands, I wandered up and down, back and forth. The Vinalhaven Historical Society, normally open this time of day, was shuttered. I sipped coffee slowly at Sherry’s, eventually tiring of my chair by the window and, legs a bit rested, heading back out to roam some more, looking for the best spot for the “This is Vinalhaven” photo, which I didn’t find. As I passed back over the bridge by the Tidewater, I stopped, puzzled: the water was rushing from the bay into Carver’s Pond. Wasn’t it gushing the other way when I crossed earlier? Yes, in fact, I learned: when the tide is coming in, water surges into Carver’s; when going out, it reverses. As the channel is quite narrow, and a lot of water is being pushed through it, the rapids that reverse with the tide mesmerized me.
One more ferry trip completed (without beer, which still feels like an accomplishment), and I’m at the Carnegie library in Rockland by mid-afternoon. The perfect is the enemy of the good, if “perfect” is staying on my arbitrary schedule and “good” is the act of going inside more of the libraries I visit. Pictures of the interior of this library make me want to pass through the wrought iron gate, under the arched ceiling, that opens into its main reading room and settle into one of its leather arm chairs by the old hearth. Instead, I settle for one photo.
I do make up for that, a little, by stopping to admire the beamed ceiling in the 1880s library in Gardiner. It’s by some standards not really a “Carnegie library”, as it was already under construction when Andrew chipped in $2500. How this came about is a puzzle. A Mr. H.K. Morrell wrote to Carnegie asking for financial help, adding that he had also written John D. Rockefeller with a similar request. By 1894, Carnegie was listed as one of many individual donors to the library fund. The archives contain no correspondence from the Carnegie side until 1915, when the Corporation asked for pictures and other information about the library. Hmm.
It can be helpful to have a father who is also a Senator. William P. Frye, Republican, had already been serving Maine for nearly twenty years when he wrote Carnegie in 1900:
Mrs. Helen Frye White, my daughter and a prominent official in the ‘Daughters of the American Revolution,’ wrote you some months ago soliciting your aid to establish a free library in the city of Lewiston, Maine, and received no reply.
This was not unexpected by her for she knew well that you were inundated with such petitions...
So, let Dad follow up, and he’ll do so by stating Lewiston’s virtues and needs as well as the efforts of “these Daughters” in working to establish and maintain a free public library. Carnegie responded favorably, and in the Senator’s next letter he acknowledged that “I have not yet confided to my daughter…your generosity.” In due course he did, and Lewiston received Maine’s largest Carnegie grant: $60,000.
Senator Frye put his thumb on the scale for Auburn, Maine, as it approached Carnegie: “As Auburn is a very beautiful city across the river from my own, I am [again!] violating my own rule against calling your attention to these library applications.” Frye, surely, had political reasons to help his neighbors. And what good neighbors they were! His buddy George Wing, in making his request to Frye, wrote to him that Auburn “has not, and never had, a dram shop within its borders.” Alcohol thus can serve a couple of library purposes. If a town does have booze, it needs a library as a civilizing influence. If the town does not, it deserves a library as a reward for its temperance. See, booze works.
Lillian Parshley was the librarian chosen by the Rochester Carnegie library when it opened in 1905. She did have the inside track, as she had already been serving Rochester in its original public library since 1893 when it began operations. Born in 1868, her family moved to Rochester when she was a child, and she learned executive skills while working in her father’s insurance agency. These skills impressed the Rochester Board of Library Trustees, who snatched her away from her father’s company when they were hiring. Or maybe she was not so much snatched as embraced, to the extent that Lillian was eager to leave the constraints of the family business. The evidence suggests that the answer lies behind Door Number 1. Twenty-three individuals applied for the librarian position. Lillian was not one of them. The Trustees reached out to her. (Kathryn Grover, Rochester, New Hampshire: 1890-2010, “A Compact Little Industrial City.” Portsmouth, NY: Jetty House, 2013, p. 122) While she was considering the offer, the Trustees elected her to the position, so how could she say no?
I hope Lillian was not as confused in her career choice as I am in figuring out who the “real” Lillian is, and by “real” I mean “Lillian the Librarian.” In trying to track down Lillian’s backstory, I’ve been befuddled by the fact that in the early 20th century Rochester, New Hampshire had two residents named Lillian Parshley, which would be at least one more than I would have expected. It was not until I found both Lillians in separate census records in the same year – married with kids in one, single in the other – did it occur to me that we’re talking about two different individuals. Until that point, I was thinking that Lillian had a complex social life…
In 1900, at age 31, Lillian was still part of her childhood home, which at that time included her father, Agustine; mother, Ellen; younger sister, Mary; a grandson, Phillip, whose parents are not identified; and a servant, 18-year old Jennie White. By 1910 Agustine was gone and Ellen was head of the household; Lillian, Mary, and Phillip were still there, along with a new servant and a boarder. Lillian and Mary remained in this house – now just the two of them – in 1920. In 1922, Mary wed Alfred Evans and moved away. Lillian lived alone for the rest of her life. Her death certificate does not give the cause of death. It does note that Lillian was admitted into the hospital only one day before she died.
She remained the librarian through World War I, the Roaring ‘20s, the Great Depression, and World War II, until her death in January 1945. The library went through its own challenges and changes during those years. When the library first opened it was a “closed stack” operation, in which a patron would submit a request for a book to the librarian and she would retrieve it from the shelves. Lillian, it seems, would not bring the book you requested if she deemed it was not appropriate for you. After the library transitioned to an open stack system, she could no longer withhold books although here’s betting she either gave individuals checking out “inappropriate” books the stink eye, a heavy sigh, some moral guidance, or even all three. She had a lot of books to keep track of, as the library’s collection grew nineteenfold (from 2000 to 40,000) during her tenure. In her 70s, Lillian led the library on a major renovation in 1941, which included carving out room for a museum on the second floor.
On its 125th anniversary in 2018, a portrait of Lillian was moved from the library’s private collection onto the walls of one of the reading rooms. As library director Bran Sylvester put it,“Libraries are such an American institution and are so important to cities. I think Rochester was lucky it had one librarian for that long to provide a consistent vision throughout the start of the library.” In a tribute to Parshley written shortly after her death, the library’s trustees proclaimed that “No task was too great, no detail too humble to warrant her painstaking care and supervision.”
Sometimes, when my timing is just right, I catch libraries at the perfect evening moment, when the library’s lights are glowing and the sky is still bright. So it was in Dover. Inviting, very.
Dover has had a library, in one form or another, since before the American revolution. I’ll pick up the story in 1854, the year Caroline K. Garland was born in that mill town along the Cocheco River. The “Strike of the Mill Girls” in 1828 – the first women’s labor strike in the U.S. – had been quickly repressed, with the women returning at even lower wages, and by the time Caroline was born Dover was a national leader in textiles. She was not bound for mill work. After graduating from Dover High School in 1871, she departed for Massachusetts and the Salem Normal School, which served as a training ground for women who wanted to become teachers. Caroline returned to Dover after she graduated.
Thomas Garland, Caroline’s father, was the kind of citizen that every town needs. While he spent his career as a clerk for the Cocheco Print Works, he also served as Chairman of the Dover School Board, the Secretary/Treasurer of the Dover Improvement Association, the Deacon of Central Baptist Church, and in various other offices in local businesses. He was a Trustee of the Dover Public Library from its founding and, for less than one year (1883-84) he was the librarian.
When Thomas resigned, Caroline took over, holding that position for almost a half a century. Like her father, Caroline was deeply involved in her community and her profession. In 1893, she was for a time in charge of the New Hampshire Library Exhibit at the World’s Columbian Exhibition (also known as the Chicago World’s Fair). She served as the ALA’s vice-president (1905-06) and became the first editor of the American Library Association Booklist. (The Booklist provides critical reviews of books for libraries, schools, and booksellers. It received its initial funding through a $100,000 Carnegie Corporation grant in 1905.) In Dover, she was one of the organizers of the Tuesday Club, and she was a member of the Colonial Dames (members needed to trace their origins to the British colonies before 1775), Daughters of the American Revolution, and the Appalachian Club, the oldest continuously operating outdoor club in the US, with members devoted to exploring and preserving New Hampshire’s White Mountains.
Caroline had no mountains to climb while walking the four blocks from her house on 65 Silver Street to the library at 73 Locust Street. Still, the steps added up. Over the course of her 50 year career at the Dover Library, she walked about as far to and from work each day as if she had left her home one morning, walked to Mount Katahdin at the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, then hiked south to Mount Springer at the southern end, taken a side trip to Tampa, Florida, and then hiked back home again. She died of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1933 without being able to enjoy a long, or even a brief, retirement: she worked until almost the very end.
It appears that, other than her time away at Salem, she lived in her family home her entire life. Both of Caroline’s parents died in 1900, when she was 46. After her parents died, her brother Alfred, moved in with her for a time; they were living together during the 1910 census, at least, and likely until he passed away in 1915. Neither ever married. In 1907, Caroline applied for a passport, indicating that she would be leaving the country for no more than a year. Which foreign lands called her? All six of the Garlands – Caroline; her parents Thomas and Harriet; her siblings Charles, who died as an infant, William, who died in the Civil War, and Alfred – are buried in Dover’s Pine Hill Cemetery. There was no next generation. Their Federalist house at the corner of Silver and Atkinson still stands.
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