My friend Steve just walked into the lab. He always wants to print his research, and hardcopies are 20¢ a page, so he brings his money to me at the very beginning, as usual. After paying off his 90¢ debt, he has a quarter, two dimes, two nickels, and five pennies left in his hand. I count it with him, slowly, showing him how I arrived at each intermediate sum, and let him know he has enough to get three pages before using his credit again. He considers a moment, asks if he can pay in advance. I agree. Then he asks—as he always does—“If I need more, could I get credit?” Of course he can.
Steve is mentally retarded, but perhaps the most academically industrious person I’ve ever met, precisely the opposite of my long-ago undergrads whose bright minds so often turned toward generating creative excuses for not having completed their assignments.
When I first met Steve, he was homeless, but he’s lived for a few years now in the halfway house up the street, which makes me worry about him far less. I’m relieved that I no longer need check with him on snowy nights to ask if he has somewhere warm and dry to go, or call around to try to find a placement when he can’t give me a specific, confirmed answer.
Steve also has the only approved credit line in the entire library that houses my lab. The first time he came up a little short, desperately wanting his printed page but with only 14¢ in his pocket, I agreed to let him bring me the remainder later. When my coworkers opened the doors the next morning, Steve was already waiting outside, six sweaty pennies locked in his hand, waiting to repay his debt.
After that, I threw a dollar in the cash box and let my coworkers know Steve’s credit was good. And he manages his $1 open line with a deep responsibility Chase Manhattan would love to find among their customers.
~~~
Ever since long before I met him, Steve has been researching his genealogy. Before encountering my lab, this meant putting his name in a Google search to see what came up, over and over again.
But over the years, we’ve had a lot of fun. After drawing a tree bearing not only his name but those of his parents and three grandparents—he wasn’t able to figure out the fourth—he had more names to drop in Google.
And since a grandparent’s surname was Franko, we spent a good year figuring out who the Franks were and where they lived a long long time ago, and why they were called Franks, and why his family tree might also include Francos among its branches.
He searched for “Franko” a lot.
But in the process, he also learned how to copy and paste, and how to format a Word document to print information from more than one website on a single 20¢ page, and occasionally a bit more.
He learned how to ask other people for specific information, and somehow turned up one day with a copy of his grandmother’s baptismal certificate. It listed her birthdate and her mother’s name, but her father’s name was given as, “Ignotus.”
I explained what that meant, and he left it alone … for about a month. Then the baptismal certificate was back in lab, because maybe now Google could tell him his great-grandfather’s name.
It would take at least a half-dozen or more blows to his wide-eyed optimism before it finally sunk in that, if nobody knew back then, Google was not going to disclose the name of his great-grandmother’s BabyDaddy now.
Google has limits.
~~~
In a way, though, that moment was the start of a much bigger adventure for Steve. He became willing to venture away from Google and into actual genealogical resources—and we’re housed in the main branch of the county’s library system, for goodness’ sake. We can do genealogy!
Steve learned to operate the microfiche downstairs.
He set up a free account at Ancestry.com, and learned to use it well enough to be disappointed when the site wouldn’t hand over more information without a credit card.
He routinely uses military records, the Social Security death index, US Census records, and a wealth of resources many patrons don’t even realize our library offers.
And he does all this, learned to do all this, through hours and hours of diligence and repetition.
~~~
On Saturday, he wanted information about Austria-Hungary, because one of his ancestors was from there. He showed me the line with the unfamiliar word, next to “birthplace” for both married immigrants; the husband’s profession was listed as “laborer,” and Steve was excited to realize that this profession still exists.
Today, he’s using Heritage Quest. As I type this, he’s already printed his three paid-for pages, and has run 60¢ into his credit line. He hasn’t asked me for computer help even once; he can copy and paste and format like a pro, now. He also knows he can print up to two more pages before he reaches his credit limit. And I know he’s good for it.
~~~
About a year ago, another patron gave Steve a used three-ring binder, and I showed him how to use the hole punch so his printed pages could go inside. Steve liked this; his research looked far more organized and scholarly in a binder. I hadn’t known what he did with all his printouts before then, but apparently they went into a cardboard box he kept beside his bed. He often prints duplicate information, but that’s all right; he assures me he forgets about it and doesn’t mind the new pages.
But in writing this, it occurred to me to ask him about that binder, and Steve admitted it’s full and won’t close anymore, so he’s started putting papers in the box again. He moved his socks out to get the box back.
And I realized that I’m giving Steve a Christmas present this year. The guy really needs another three-ring binder.
~~~
Just as I thought this was almost done, Steve asked my help to make a tricky 1920 US Census sheet all fit on one piece of paper without being too small to read. We got the page set up so he liked it, and he started calculating as I went to the printer. When I brought the paper back, he announced with a grin, “That’ll be 80¢ so far, right?”
You’ve got it, Steve. And you’ve come a long, long way in the last few years.
Melange 