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07/28/2020
profile-icon Teddie Moreno

Part One 

Within the Archives and Special Collections (ASC) is the Rio Grande Historical Collections (RGHC).  Researchers know that these primary sources to Southern New Mexico history are boxed on the metal shelves on the third floor.  The late and great Herman Weisner was not only a researcher of these collections, but he was also a donor to them. His collection (Ms0249, Herman B. Weisner papers) is one of the most often used and cited collections we offer to researchers. Through an interview with Herman‘s son, Craig Weisner, and research on various genealogy and newspaper sites, I share the story of Herman Weisner. 

Man with a cane standing next to woman holding a handbag
Herman Weisner with friend and fellow historian Eve Ball, 1980. (Ms0249, Herman B. Weisner papers)

One would think with the knowledge Weisner possessed of the Lincoln County War, Albert B. Fall, Mescalero Indians, the town of Organ, New Mexico, Sheriff Pat Garret and Billy the Kid, that he was personally involved in these situations. To be personally involved and personally invested is a fine line, and Herman Bascom Weisner probably did not know how to sit on the fence when it came to the subjects he researched and wrote. He authored many articles for historical publications such as True West MagazineRio Grande History (a former RGHC Publication), and other historical periodicals. His only published book,  The Politics of Justice: A.B. Fall and the Teapot Dome Scandal, A New Perspective., is a staple in New Mexico history book collections. 

Herman was not a native New Mexican, but New Mexico claims him as her own. He was born September 28, 1921, in Winston–Salem, North Carolina. He died January 13, 2003, and rests in the Santa Fe National Cemetery among other veterans and heroes of New Mexico. 

Herman started his early life during the Great Depression. The Great Depression had an enormous effect on the people of North Carolina.  Many households were without jobs and unable to buy food.  By the time Herman was nine years old, his father, Fred, had left the home. His 25-year-old mother, Blanche Hicks Weisner, was left to raise two young boys alone. She survived the depression by working as a wrapper in a meatpacking company. Her cousin, also employed working as a machinist at a nearby hosiery mill, was living with her, as well as her mother, Agusta Hicks. The latter assisted with the care of Herman and his older brother, Howell.  

The Great Depression also affected the education system.  In 1934, the already poorly underfunded black schools and the rural schools in North Carolina felt the effects the most.  These were hard times for schools and families. Herman dropped out of school to help support the family after completing the sixth grade. He eventually went on to work for the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). Directed by Army officers and foresters, the CCC was an introduction to a semi-military discipline. The CCC enlisted mostly unskilled men between the ages of 18 and 25, for a minimum of six months. The men generally came from families on government assistance. Each man received $30 per month for his services in addition to room and board at the camp. The men were required to send income support home to their families of at least $22- $25 a month. Some corpsmen received supplemental basic and vocational training while they served. Illiterate men learned to read and write. The camp may be where Herman developed his interest in reading and writing. Halfway into World War II, Herman and a friend traveled to a Coast Guard recruiting office. His mother sent him on his way with two large cans of beans; it took a week to reach the office on foot. By the time they arrived, they were both too thin to meet the weight requirements. Not one to lose fresh recruits, the recruiting officer stuffed them with bananas. 

By the third day, Herman had eaten enough bananas to meet the requirement, but his friend did not and had to walk home alone while Herman enlisted and eventually made his way to Alaska and the Pacific Northwest.  

Herman deployed at various times from the top of Alaska to southern California and at least once to Hawaii. While in Ketchikan, Alaska, in 1942, he married 21-year-old Augusta Cathline “Kay“ Rustanius. Kay was a decedent of the Haida Nation Raven/Bear clan. She lived in Ketchikan and worked in a cannery. Kay and Herman shared the grief of growing up without a father. The Ketchikan Chronicle reported that Margaret Rustanius and her three daughters (Marguerite, Augusta, and Helen) had returned from Seattle on the steamer Victoria with the body of Julius Rustanius. The 48-year-old fisherman and laborer had died in Seattle the previous week of a heart ailment. The Rustanius sisters well recognized for their hunting, trapping, and fishing skills supported the family.  Helen and Marguerite later became bush pilots.  The Ketchikan Museums virtual exhibit highlights their pioneering roles as pilots.   In 1965, Helen made an emergency landing on Annette Island Lake. She died from exposure, and the lake now bears her name, Helen Todd. 

Craig shared a story about his father, Herman that proved his attention to detail and responsibility. While Herman was on MP guard duty on a pier, a single small fishing boat came in with a fisherman on board. Taking his responsibility seriously for the safety of others, Herman had asked the other military personnel assigned to the pier about the fisherman, and what was he doing around a military pier? They said, “He’s OK; that’s China Charlie.”  Apparently, they got free fish from the fisherman who always appeared to be outgoing and friendly. Herman and another MP took “China Charlie” to headquarters for questioning. It turns out Charlie was a Japanese officer who was spying on military operations and taking information back to a waiting sub when he went “fishing.” 

One of the stories Herman did not share often was how he received his leg injury. Craig explains that he knew few details about the damage except that Herman received it from being blown off a powered Coast Guard barge. However, a WWII hospital admission card shows Herman Weisner was admitted to a hospital in Italy in October 1943 with a contusion to his left thigh. The causative agent listed was “Bombing in line of duty.“  Herman would use the assistance of a cane for the rest of his life. Those who knew Herman well were familiar with what he referred to as his “Stick of Knowledge.” Photos of him in ASC collections show him in his later years with his wallet attached to a chain in the pocket of his zippered one-piece jumpsuit and his hand gripping the Stick of Knowledge. 

Black and white image of a man standing in front of a seaplane
“Herman beside the little seaplane he flies.” January 1948, Ketchikan, Alaska (Ms0249, Herman B. Weisner papers)

During and after the war, Herman flew a Patrol Bomber aircraft, an amphibious seaplane. He delivered supplies and mail to and from Ketchikan. Although already mustered out of the Coast Guard, he was still required to respond to draft registration. A 1945 Registration for the Draft Statement of Service card states that John Erwick employed him. Erwick is another name in Ketchikan history.  To make short of a long story, they were Norwegian immigrants who owned a supply store and extended credit during the winter. The fisherman would “settle up” in the spring and summer months with the Erwicks. 

When the war ended, Herman and Kay moved to Apple Gate, a rural area outside of Medford, Oregon. They lived in a one–room log cabin with no utilities, no heat, and no running water. Herman worked as a lumberjack with a friend he had met in the Coast Guard. When the war injury to his leg was bothersome, he would drive the 1929 Dodge lumber truck to the mill. There he would fulfill many tasks, including those of the camp cook.  As he was known to do in his later years, Herman would let his mischievous side out from time to time. One morning at the campsite, while having breakfast, a discussion about disposing of old dynamite ensued. Everyone agreed, dynamite would harmlessly burn and would not explode if placed in a fire. Later that evening, Herman walked into the gathering room with a stick of dynamite and said, “Let’s see if it‘s true“ he threw it into the potbelly stove.  Onlookers watched with amusement, then horror, and finally immediately cleared the room.  Only Herman could get away with pranking the tired and hungry lumberjacks with a piece of an old broom handle that he had painted red earlier in the day! 

While he was still enlisted in the Coast Guard Reserve, Herman and Kay packed up their three children and moved to Silver Springs, Maryland. He worked as a guard for the National Institute of Health for a short time. They lived in a small Masonite camper trailer that contained a stove and small refrigerator, but no inside plumbing. They shared a common bathroom, shower facilities, and water faucets with others in the trailer park. Then in 1955, Herman and Kay moved the family to Organ, New Mexico. The drier climate was appealing to them because their oldest child, Kent, had been misdiagnosed with tuberculosis. The guard force of White Sands Missile Range (WSMR) employed Herman. 

Sepia tone image of home made of rock with wooden barrells in front
Bentley House where Weisners lived in 1955. (Ms0249, Herman B. Weisner papers)

Their search for a home near WSMR led them to a one–room rock apartment built in the late 1800s. The unit was one of four in a complex, each equipped with electricity and a kerosene heater, with no running water. A weekly bath was a walk outside to the bathroom with a tin tub hidden behind a blanket, and ten feet away was the outhouse. Besides the four apartments, the complex boasted storage buildings, coops filled with chickens, quail and pheasants, a post office, and a store operated by Ann Bentley, the widow of Louis Bentley.  This complex is where Herman fell down the rabbit hole of history and research. 

Many thanks to my friend, Michal Ryan, for making the introduction to Craig Weisner of Williamsburg, New Mexico. Craig’s memories of his father added to the details of my research findings and helped create part one of the untold history of Herman Weisner. 

Part two of this post will follow up with Herman‘s life in New Mexico, his work at WSMR, and his contribution to discoveries in New Mexico history. See  Herman Weisner: The Untold History of a Historian Part II

No Subjects
07/22/2020
profile-icon Jennifer Olguin

 

Black and white image of Joe Quesenberry

 

Joe Quesenberry in ROTC uniform, undated (UA30500103) RG90-170

In honor of the Fourth of July, the Archives and Special Collections (ASC) is proud to announce the replica acquisition of the Joseph “Joe” Quesenberry diary. The diary was acquired from a Quesenberry descendant in the fall of 2019 and is a great resource for those wanting to learn about how a native New Mexican carried out his military life while deployed overseas during WWI. The diary belonged to Joe Quesenberry, a former student at New Mexico College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts (now NMSU).  In 1916, before the U.S. had entered WWI, Joe left his studies to join the U.S. Army amid a national Preparedness Movement that viewed U.S. involvement in the war likely.  

While in France, Joe was a first lieutenant in Company K of the 18th infantry. In August 1917, Joe was promoted to captain and given the command of the company. Company K was noted as the first to occupy the frontline trenches on the battlefront in France. The company was also famous for the March 1, 1918 capture of the first German gun and first German prisoner taken by the U.S. Army. About a month later, during a German bombardment of the American lines, Joe was fatally wounded on April 18, 1918 and died at the young age of 23. 

The diary captures events that he experienced from December 1916 to March 1918. The first entry begins, “I left my home at Las Cruces New Mexico to begin my life as a 2nd Lt. in the U.S. Army. I went to Fort Leavenworth Kansas for a three-month course.” The diary provides a first-hand account of issues Joe encountered, such as the living conditions and the realities he experienced on the battlefront. He vividly explains his daily experiences being part of the 18th Infantry, Company K. Entries vary in nature, some are detailed and light while others are exhaustive and provide much detail. He describes his daily life, drill exercises, and how injuries and illnesses affected the soldiers. The content of Joe’s diary is touching considering he describes the events he encounters with remarkable detail.

Color image of American Legion - Joe Quesenberry Post 10

American Legion Post 10 -1185 E Madrid Ave, Las Cruces, NM 88001, Dedicated to Joe Quesenberry

Within the Las Cruces community and the NMSU campus there are dedicated areas where Joe’s legacy will be remembered for years to come. On the city’s north side, the American Legion Post 10 is named after the Joe Quesenberry. Ed Torres, who is Commander of Post 10, offered to give me a tour of the post. Inside there is a dedicated room with memorabilia belonging to Joe, representing his time in the military and at NMSU. The area highlights Joe’s career with the 18th Infantry and contains a replica of his military hat and medals. Along with the military attire, a leather football helmet is featured in the exhibit to highlight his time spent in college as a standout athlete. While playing football, Joe served as captain and anchored the offensive line as a left tackle.  George Quesenberry, Joe’s brother, served as commander of Post 10 and as the New Mexico State Commander.

Color image of NMSU Memorial Tower

 

Aggie Memorial Room located at New Mexico State University – Main campus, Health and Social Services Building.

On the NMSU campus there was once a football field dedicated to the local hero, unveiled in 1933. The field was situated where the College of Health and Social Services building now sits. The field was named in Quesenberry’s honor and from 1933 to 1949 the Aggie football team competed there. In 1950, Quesenberry Field officially became Aggie Memorial Stadium in honor of all the other Aggie veterans who had lost their lives while serving their country. Today, a part of the stadium remains, known as the Aggie Memorial Tower.

This tower, the sole remnant of the original stadium, is now part of the College of Health and Social Services building. In tribute to all the Aggies who lost their lives in service, there is a memorial located in the Health and Social Services building honoring their service and memory. The Aggie Memorial Tower contains photographs and biographical information of fallen military members affiliated with NMSU. The Round-Up, the college’s student newspaper, published an issue dedicated to Joe upon his passing. Many issues of the Round-Up capture his involvement while attending college and can be accessed remotely through The Round-Up digital collections.

Black and white image of Qusenberry field

 

Aerial view of Quesenberry field, undated (UA03020006)

Those interested in seeking further information on the acquisition please view the finding aid and to view the entire diary click here. Lastly, thank you to all military service members – those presently serving our country and to the fallen men and women who gave the ultimate sacrifice. 

No Subjects
07/21/2020
profile-icon Dylan McDonald

The first three posts in this thread have focused on how the pandemic has altered my work routine.  If you will indulge me, I would like to provide some random thoughts on how this has dramatically affected my time away from the office.  With coronavirus ravaging New Mexico and the state’s economy in freefall, it would be tone deaf if I failed to acknowledge how lucky I am to feel secure in my health and stable in my job.  Unfortunately, many cannot say the same and that certainly gives me much to think about and act on.  What follows is an accounting for the sake of history recognizing that much of what I write are just inconveniences in a world on hold until a better collective response to the pandemic emerges.

Paper products aisle, Albertsons, March 11, 2020

The first lesson of a COVID-19 world in Las Cruces came in the hoarding of toilet paper and bottled water.  I get the cleaning supplies and canned goods flying off the shelves, but the panicked shop hopping for paper products made no sense to me.  When I went to the Albertsons on Lohman Avenue on Wednesday, March 11th, to honestly resupply, I had clearly arrived far too late in the day to snag any of my preferred paper.  Fear-of-missing-out on toilet paper or legitimate panic buying?  Ugh, I disliked shopping before but now I would clearly have to put more thought into this chore in order to make buying trips as productive and quick as possible.  Signs notified customers at Sprouts, Albertsons, and Target – my Bermuda Triangle of shopping – about limits to the number of paper and cleaning products one could purchase at a time as these seemed the hardest items for the supply chain to keep in stock.  One needed to get to the stores early in the day, with lines forming at socially appropriate distances before the stores even opened, to snag scarce products.  Once in the stores, newly placed one-way signage on the floor directed your shopping path and when ready to checkout, one hopscotched through the newly Plexiglas protected check-stands as the line of shoppers and grocery carts moved through the payment process.  I noticed over time the increased use of face coverings, by employees and shoppers, as governmental mandates became more pronounced and strict. I bit my tongue when I heard fellow shoppers complaining about their rights, sans mask, tried to be as courteous yet distant to others fulfilling their shopping lists, and rightfully thanked those stocking and staffing the stores. The first time I wore one of my hiking buffs as a face shield while shopping at Sprouts, I startled a colleague who failed to recognize who I was until I said my name.  For me, there is only one drawback in wearing a mask in public, the loss of serendipitous conversations while out completing chores.  We either fail to recognize our friends and acquaintances or are perhaps fearful to stop and talk.  I later bought cloth masks from Organ Mountain Outfitters that made me look less of a stick-up man.  Perhaps that was the problem all along?  Thankfully, I can supplement my fresh produce needs by visiting the scaled back Las Cruces Farmers Market, just a couple blocks from my apartment, and thus only have to grocery shop every two to three weeks since I am only buying for myself.  My occasional forays into clothing and sporting goods stores have all moved online since March.  Overall, my spending is way down and those unspent funds have now found their way into my savings, undoubtedly a positive.

A new definition of “cancel culture” took root as nearly everything in my formal social calendar was either scratched outright or postponed to some (often unknown) point in the future.  “Out of an abundance of caution” became the statement accompanying most of the announcements of these cancellations. A short-list of cancelled, postponed, and rescheduled programming that I planned to participate in included:

Other one-off events cancelled included a March campout with library colleagues at Point of Rocks, a housewarming party for a former neighbor at the end of March, and a family reunion in south central Utah over the week of the 4th of July holiday.  As March drew to a close, invites no longer materialized as my family and friends were all following distancing recommendations.  With these activities no longer an option, it became much easier to stay home as the temptations to leave my abode no longer existed.

COAS Books social distancing sign, March 27, 2020

Once social distancing policies became the norm, worksites sent employees home, and families were encouraged to shelter in place, all social activity around town ground to a halt.  Klein Park, a downtown greenspace across the street from my apartment, normally active with little league practices, children playing on the playground equipment, and families barbequing on the weekends, became a ghost town by the end of March when the City of Las Cruces ordered the parks closed.  I admit to missing hearing the sounds of that space when activated and cringed when I saw that the city had hired private security to keep people away from the park during the Easter and Mother’s Day holidays.  My favorite hangouts in the city felt the economic effects of the shuttering – Beck’s Coffee temporarily closed and moved to a subscription model; COAS Books and Eyeconik Records shut their doors; and Bite of BelgiumHabanero’s Fresh Mex, and Little Toad Creek Brewery all struggled to operate within the changing rules for eateries.

Hiking around Adan Crater, April 19, 2020

I regularly venture out into New Mexico’s amazing public lands.  With many of the state and national parks and trailheads closed, and with elected officials asking people not to travel, my options became limited.  Thankfully, the Organ Mountain-Desert Peaks National Monument lies in our backyard, and I took full advantage by hiking trails on Tortugas Mountain/“A” MountainPena BlancaRabbit Ears MassifAdan Crater, and the Kilbourne Hole, either solo or with two other friends.  I took the state’s health orders as seriously as possible and turned down several offers to hike and backpack with others when the plans contradicted these health edicts.  The challenge lay in the differing guidelines issued by Texas, where my friends lived, and New Mexico, where I lived and where we planned to recreate.  Later when some restrictions eased and services began to open back up I did overnight backpack with several friends in the Aldo Leopold Wilderness along the Mimbres River and in the San Pedro Parks Wilderness along the Rio de las Vacas.  We each drove our own car and socially distanced ourselves when hiking and in camp, ever thankful to be back in the great outdoors with its sights and smells.

Backpacking along Mimbres River, May 24, 2020

My morning walks and jogs also became a real lifeline after spending most of my waking moments within my apartment.  I’m an early riser and enjoy being outside as the dawn breaks.  There are other morning people out as well and we do our best to be both friendly but also respectful of social distancing when we pass each other.  I take no offense if they waive to me before crossing to the other side of the street well before we intersect.  It’s just the times.  While getting my daily exercise, I enjoy a route that takes me through core of the city of Las Cruces – the downtown, the Mesquite Historic District, and the Depot-Alameda Historic District – where I follow the route of the El Camino Real de Tierra Adentro past historic and architecturally significant businesses and homes.  Since the pandemic, I have taken to snapping photos with my iPhone of how businesses and non-profits in the commercial districts communicate with their patrons about their changed operating parameters.  The signs display various levels of graphic design skills and communicate either subtly or outright their owners’ feelings about the current situation.  I plan to donate these images to the Archives and Special Collections’ COVID-19 collecting project.

When I moved to Las Cruces back in January 2019, I felt like I had found a great place to live at a reasonable price.  The historic and recently renovated adobe building checked all the boxes of what I wanted in a living space.  Rarely venturing out for the past 90 days but feeling okay about it confirmed that the layout and features of the apartment helped me successfully shelter in place without too much difficulty.  The neighbors I’ve gotten to know since moving in have all taken to looking out for each other, doubly so in the pandemic.  Indeed, in April I rushed my 93-year old neighbor to the emergency room after he knocked on my door seeking assistance.  My Xfinity internet service allows me to binge-watch television (The Wire and Ozark) and documentaries (ArtifishalThe Black Panthers: Vanguard of the Revolution, and The Booksellers) when I feel like it, while consuming podcasts (Criminal and Modern Love) and audiobooks (Enlightenment Now and The Making of the Atomic Bomb) at a more thoughtful pace.  I’ve always loved the published word and thankfully acted on the recommendations of others to read Homegoing and Where the Dead Sit Talking, among others, during this period.  One enjoyable thing I have discovered is letting the YouTube algorithms suggest new videos to fall down the rabbit hole.  Who knew I’d end up enjoying videos about milling your own lumber, free solo climbing nature’s big walls, a family of eight thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail, and become a fan of the Life Uncontained channel? I cannot say I’ve even been remotely bored with access to so much information.

While I have been isolated, it is amazing all the tools one can use to stay connected to family and friends.  Video chats via Zoom and Facebook Messenger have led my five siblings and me to check-in with each other each Sunday evening.  They have allowed me to make reconnections with high school friends when about 10 of us Zoomed one evening in May.  For several hours, we each shared updates about our families and careers and then reminisced about the fun we had 25 years ago in our native Idaho.  Even dating continued successfully for me with these apps, and while not exactly traditional, the ability to communicate over video chat proved anything but awkward.

One final change brought into my life because of the pandemic – I smartly followed up on a recommendation and installed a bidet.  No longer am I worrying or scrambling for toilet paper!

Read An Archivist’s COVID-19 Journal, Part I herePart II here, and Part III here.

Mural, southwest corner of May Ave and Solano Drive, May 9, 2020

No Subjects
07/17/2020
profile-icon Dylan McDonald

Working from home never appealed to me.  As an archivist, working temporarily from my apartment presents many complications.  For many professions that is doubtlessly true.  I do not wish to discount those fields but rather reflect on the only employment I have known for the past 20 years.  I pursued a career in the archival field because I took pleasure being around the “stuff” – the old papers, dusty volumes, the various photographic types, the long-since-replaced media formats – and all the trappings of the scholarly process of uncovering the past.  Not having archival material at an arms-length has taken adjustment.

Archivists are the caretakers of not only the ideas and actions of those who have passed but also of the ever-evolving technologies humanity has used to record those ideas.  We take our job to honor that charge seriously (some would say too seriously, but what do they know?).  We cherish, protect, and dote over our records.  During my sojourn at home I find myself wondering how “my archives” are doing without me – are they getting enough cool air with just the right amount of humidity? Are the pests, ever nibbling and nesting, staying away?  Is the harsh UV light and its propensity to fade paper, ink, and leather kept adequately at bay?  Perhaps most importantly, I want to know who has direct access to the records when I am not around.  Yes, we archivists care for our records with the diligence of a parent.  Naturally, nothing gives us more satisfaction than seeing our records amuse, charm, and impress a patron.  We never doubted the ability of our archival “babies” to do so, yet the joy we feel when we witness a successful pairing in the research room between a researcher and these grown records provides the fulfillment every archivist is seeking.  It validates our work.  Alas, from home this scenario can no longer play out.

On Friday, March 20th, I began my first day working at home – in my “office,” mere steps away from my comfortable bed, entertaining smart television, and a well-stocked refrigerator. How does one avoid all the distractions?  How does one not constantly reach for snacks?  How does one stay focused and be productive?  I’ll admit it has been a challenge from the beginning.  Week one was novel; week two developed a rhythm; by week three it was blah.  On some days, I felt a kindred spirit to Phil Connors, a cynical TV weatherman, played by Bill Murray, in the movie Groundhog Day, who became stuck in a time loop.  Sure, I “worked” but I began to miss my colleagues and interacting with researchers and students.  I am equal parts introvert and extrovert, one who values their time alone but enjoys the intellectual vigor of the academic environment.  Like everyone else, I began to rely on video conferencing software like Zoom, Microsoft Teams, Cisco WebEx, RingCentral Meetings, and Facebook Messenger to accomplish tasks and communicate.  Technology can amaze while simultaneously making one feel distant, especially when you are staring at a screen and often listening to a disembodied voice.  To my Branson and Zuhl compatriots, please know I miss seeing your faces and interacting with you in person.

In spite of these challenges, the work carries on and I am proud to say that my Archives and Special Collections (ASC) colleagues, all working from home as well, have still managed to fulfill many reference requests and complete several major projects.  Previously, our patrons regularly commented on the high level of service ASC provided.  While we can no longer respond to those requests in the research room, collectively we still strive to reply as quickly and thoroughly as possible to phone and email inquiries.  Thankfully, our users understand that lack of access to collections means our level of service is dependent on our catalogs (Alma, PastPerfect, and ArchivesSpace), digital collections (CONTENTdm), and finding aids (New Mexico Archives Online).  Patience as a virtue, has ruled the day, even as we have had to temporarily alter some of our policies and procedures.

ASC staff discovered that many ideas we had discussed in the past but were never able to devote the necessary time and staffing to suddenly became ideal candidates to devote our attention.  Digitization and transcription of oral histories, meta-data creation and cleanup, organization of digital work files, development of outreach and programming efforts, and tying up numerous loose ends.  Additionally, the proliferation of free lectures and hands-on webinars offered by NMSU’s Teaching Academy and numerous national and regional professional library and archival organizations created abundant opportunities to brush-up on or learn outright new skills whenever convenient.  Even before the pandemic, my list of tasks and goals always seemed to grow, and working from home saw the creation of another equally lengthy list.  An archivist’s work is never done.

ASC’s first pandemic project to spring to life came in the form of the departmental blog, The Open Stacks.  Since arriving at NMSU in February 2019, I’d advocated for one as a means to promote our collections.  The platform would allow us to highlight our work, share what was important to us, and connect more meaningfully with our users.  Done creatively, the posts can document the department itself and could be useful in showing the value of our everyday efforts to the university community and beyond. While everyone agreed and had even pushed for a blog in the past, certain library administrative decisions made launching a blog impossible then, but a change in leadership gave us the green light this spring.  As a department, we developed topics and themes for posts, created a style guide, decided on a staff rotation for content development, and selected Tuesdays as the date for publication of new posts.  The IT staff in the library guided us through the pros and cons of various blogging platforms before we selected WordPress software, which the university already favored and supported.  Perhaps the hardest decision came in selecting a name for the blog.  Normally archival storage is not open to the public, a closed stack (another term for shelving).  Our chosen name for the blog, Open Stacks, reflected our desire to open up what may be unknown, not readily apparent, and even to some, mysterious, about ASC.  Since going live on March 30th, about a week and half after closing Branson Library, a pretty amazing feat in my book, we’ve been pleased with the response and feedback received as well as the site analytics.  So far, posts have highlighted collections, described new acquisitions, and provided a behind-the-scenes look at our work. We even got creative in editing a short video – I will spare you details on how many takes it took me to record my short cameo.

ASC really wants to know and would love to hear from you about your experiences, visit https://nmsu.libguides.com/asc/openstacks/posts/COVID-19 for details.

The second major project, work that I spearheaded, concerned trying to capture the effects of COVID-19 on NMSU, Las Cruces, and Southern New Mexico.  Past archival practice relied on a collecting model of archivists waiting for records creators (or those who came to inherit or care for them), usually years or decades after the collection came into existence, to negotiate a donation.  Recognizing this technique as inefficient in capturing a diversity of voices and brazenly gambling with record loss through apathy or destruction, archivists began to create rapid response collecting projects with community partners.  Many of these efforts focused on issues of social justice and traumatic community episodes.  Finding models to base our project on and encouraged by collecting efforts springing up around the country by our fellow archivists, ASC launched Documenting COVID-19: Archiving the Present for the Future in late April.  The process relied once again on our IT colleagues to create a platform that allowed for the capture of digital submissions that document the pandemic’s effect on project participants. We provided ideas on the types of submissions we hoped to receive, developed a questionnaire to prompt responses, and worked through multiple legal considerations for donors to consider before uploading their content.  We used the Open Stacks, the library’s Facebook page, and the university’s marketing machine to get the word out (see examples here and here) to potential participants. The submissions have been steadily coming in – diaries, poetry, photographs, videos, short-films, live musical performances – and we hope to have these placed into a publicly accessible digital collection once we have accumulated enough content.  As the coronavirus appears to be staying with us for the near future, this project has a long shelf life and we are working with professors in several departments to seek more student submissions.  Kudos to my colleagues Teddie Moreno for pushing for this project and Teresa Roberts for building the digital infrastructure as they were both key to making this a reality.

As a tenure-track faculty member, I always have to consider the implications of my work and scholarship on achieving promotion and tenure.  So it’s a real bummer when conferences you had planned to give presentations at are cancelled – as were April’s Historical Society of New Mexico and the Rocky Mountain Council for Latin American Studies and May’s Society of Southwest Archivists – or moved online – as were October’s Western History Association and the New Mexico Library Association.  I am supportive of these organizations making these tough decisions, but it remains too murky how these types of actions will affect those seeking tenure.  The loss of these academic meetings also drastically undercuts future collaborations and the networking that transpires there; these are often the best reasons to attend conferences and hard to replicate in other ways.  Additionally, I had been involved in the university’s Primary Investigator (PI) Academy, a 9-month grant-writing cohort of professors that planned to travel to Washington, D.C. in late April to meet with grant administrators from federal funding agencies.  The academy hopes to increase the likelihood of NMSU bringing research and project monies to Las Cruces.  The invaluable training had me looking forward to visiting with folks at the National Historical Publications & Records Commission and the National Park Service about grant funds, and the staff of retiring New Mexico Senator Tom Udall to pitch the idea of NMSU providing a home for his political papers.  Alas, the trip also fell victim to the pandemic and with most federal agencies still working remotely, it is unclear when the trip might be rescheduled.  Other hiccups caused by the response to COVID-19 include the cancellation of September’s Domenici Public Policy Conference, a program for which I serve on the organizing committee; a book review I submitted to the New Mexico Historical Review finding itself locked in publication limbo, a common theme among academic presses; and with so many archives across the country not allowing onsite visitation, my grant award from the Charles Redd Center for Western Studies, which will pay my travel expenses to archives in Boise and Denver, cannot be spent. In the meantime, I plug away at the projects I can do locally regarding artist Tom Lea’s Las Cruces library murals and my obsession with how the reclamation of the American West was promoted.

While I may complain about the transition of face-to-face meetings into the virtual environment, I must say it is a preferable solution to their being outright cancelled. These last few months have shown that fruitful meetings can still take place via conferencing software.  Weekly ASC staff Microsoft Teams and NMSU Town Hall Zoom meetings have kept me informed and connected to the university, and the occasional “Coffee with Kate,” the library’s open forum with Interim Dean Kate Terpis, have provided opportunities to say hello to colleagues in other departments in a low-key setting.  Even working meetings, as I’ve had with library faculty and other assigned committees, have allowed the NMSU libraries to keep the work going forward.  Perhaps most spectacularly was the transition in March, April, and May of the scholastic National History Day (NHD) program.  For over a dozen years, I’ve been involved with NHD in both New Mexico and California, as a coordinator and as a judge.  The speed with which the competition was reworked into a virtual environment to allow students grade 6-12 to still showcase their scholarship was a minor miracle considering the short notice and massive coordination it took to pull off.  Undoubtedly, all the volunteer judges involved in NHD missed interacting with the students on the day of the regional, county, and state finals rather than reviewing the digitized versions of the submitted projects in the safety of our homes but coming up with a workable solution took priority.

I would be remiss if I did not point out this same herculean effort has been evident across the NMSU campuses.  Professors switching mid-semester to an online environment, receiving on-the-fly training and assistance from fellow faculty members on how to do this; Facilities and Services staff working their hardest to ensure a safe, secure, and clean campus environment; Student Success and Enrollment Management staff taking additional responsibilities to protect the thousands of students who live on campus and safely organizing their return home; and on and on.  In the coming future there will be an examination of this pandemic period and I believe the narrative will be replete with stories of the great courage and flexibility shown by so many across the NMSU community.

To be continued with An Archivist’s COVID-19 Journal, Part IV.  Read Part I here and Part II here.

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07/14/2020
profile-icon Dylan McDonald

The week of March 16th proved to be unlike any other in my working career.  Normally changes in large bureaucratic organizations occur over weeks, months, even years, yet the rapidity with which new directives rolled-out proved stunning.   By that Friday, I was packing up needed files, paperwork, and other material to begin working from home as my position rating changed from the “essential” category to the decidedly “non-essential.”  Would this be a temporary thing?  No one could say with any certainty.  I have worked in jobs during leadership transitions, labor contract strife, desk audits, furloughs and lay-offs, and in temporary positions – all very tenuous periods in my career and this began to feel just as unsettling.

NMSU Library Facebook post, March 19, 2020

The library, archive, and museum world is a small, tight, cooperative community, and that is no different here in the borderlands.  As the virus began to take hold in New Mexico, communication between institutions regarding how they were responding to the pandemic took place informally.  When we heard the Thomas Branigan Memorial Library, the main branch of the city library, had closed its doors on Tuesday, March 17th, we knew that would impact operations at the two NMSU Libraries, Zuhl and Branson.  With no other options, the public might head to campus for help with accessing information, to connect online through computer terminals, and to access WIFI.  Under normal circumstances, that would be welcomed as our land grant status dictates that we respond to the educational needs of all New Mexicans. During the first NMSU virtual town hall the following day, University President John Floros stated that while the university would not close, as there were still students living on campus needing services, access to most buildings would begin to be restricted the following morning in order to assist with the inevitable contact tracing that might need to take place.  If, and when, the infection came to campus, leadership and health officials wanted to know where it had been and respond appropriately.  He further stated that in following state guidelines, certain buildings would close per health orders, and that employees needed to begin working from home to help minimize everyone’s presence on campus.

Social distancing signs and hand sanitizing station, Branson Library Service Desk, March 19, 2020

Effective Thursday, the 19th, other than to the campus community, the library doors would close to the public.  Archives and Special Collections (ASC) had transitioned to operating by appointment only, so it was easy to deal with the few inquiries we received during this period.  For our colleagues in Access Services, the proverbial face of the library, a new set of procedures had to be put in place.  New signage directed patrons to keep appropriate social distancing, sanitization of surfaces was stepped-up, and for at least one day, university ID’s were checked and scanned to allow for admittance and to track access.  While in the archive we ask our patrons to register, a standard procedure based on the unique and valuable material under our care, this was the first time in my career I’ve seen the general university library be so restrictive.  Having directly communicated with the Access Services staff and student employees, I knew serving as gatekeepers was a very awkward position to find themselves.  This “new normal” happened so fast that procedures changed rapidly as previously unknown scenarios played out in real time.  I did witness one awkward encounter where a member of the public was denied admission after first asking to use a computer terminal and then to use the restroom.  Mercifully, by Friday, March 20th, Branson Library closed its doors, although Zuhl Library moved ahead with reduced hours and limiting access to 10 people at a time to the first floor only.  Even those changes in operations would not last through the following week.

Student employees monitor the Branson Library exterior doors, March 19, 2020

During this early period, much of the uncertainty of how to respond to the pandemic had to do with little available hard data regarding the infectiousness and severity of the newly emerged coronavirus.  Many of my conversations with colleagues revolved around trying to find accessible, peer-reviewed, actionable data – something we information professionals pride ourselves in tracking down – to provide to the campus community, the general public, and our own desire to be educated on the subject.  Some online sources I discovered were data mining to provide readers overviews of the pandemic, such as herehere, and here, but I hoped to find broader context for what the numbers meant.  I began to worry about friends and family, and their susceptibility to this emerging disease.  One report I read that week certainly grabbed my attention.  Released on March 16th, the Imperial College (UK) COVID-19 Response Team’s Report 9: Impact of non-pharmaceutical interventions (NPIs) to reduce COVID-19 mortality and healthcare demand indicated that, “in an unmitigated epidemic, we would predict approximately 510,000 deaths in GB and 2.2 million in the US, not accounting for the potential negative effects of health systems being overwhelmed on mortality.”  This report, coupled with the media reports of the overextended Italian healthcare system and resulting mounting death toll, provided truly sobering thoughts on the probable future.

In a small way, the effects of the pandemic had already been felt in the library.  A library coworker had recently returned from an overseas vacation and was asked to quarantine for 14 days before returning to work.  While visiting family, they had monitored the spread of COVID-19 and felt prompted to return home earlier than planned, a smart move.  On the evening of Monday, the 16th I visited my coworker at an appropriate distance, I sitting in a camping chair out in their yard, and they inside their enclosed porch.  We discussed their trip and the changes taking place at the university in regards to the pandemic.  This visit foreshadowed how our conduct during social interaction would soon become the norm.

Turning off the lights on the third floor of ASC storage, March 19, 2020

As the university leadership began to determine staffing levels, with many already having begun to work from home, in the ASC Department two were deemed essential to remain onsite – the department head and myself.  Yet by Thursday we were both told that would be our last day in Branson Library as the university wanted as few people on campus as possible.  I had a couple of hours to button up department workspaces and gather materials I might need when working from home.  Boxing up office files and making several trips to my car, along with discussing work plans with my supervisor, felt a little surreal. After all, we are creatures of habit and routines guide our daily lives. The patterns of our social interactions provide comfort and stability. I will admit it was hard that afternoon turning out the lights in the archives. It is not only the uncertainty of what might come next, but also the loss of comradery in the department and the sense of purpose that guided our work. I knew this was a first for all of us, but could not help but think when 8 a.m. came the next morning, it will be strange to still be in my apartment, logging into the NMSU servers on my personal PC, and communicating with my colleagues and students at a distance.

Amidst the uncertainty at work, a conversation with my colleague Teddie Moreno sparked an idea.  Having worked on a prior reference request that dealt with the Influenza Pandemic of 1918, she thought that doubtlessly in the future people would be similarly interested in COVID-19.  I thought it was certainly an idea to consider but in the midst of all the changes, it slipped my mind.  She came back to the idea and pushed for ASC to do something to document the moment.  I was not sure how we would do it, but in the coming weeks it would become a project to which I would devote much of my time.  Thus, from the pandemic, came one of our departmental initiatives during our time working from home.

The workweek closed on Friday afternoon when the New Mexico Department of Health announced the first known positive case in Doña Ana County, a male in his 20s.  A new, unwelcome neighbor if there ever was one had arrived.

To be continued with An Archivist’s COVID-19 Journal, Part III.  Read Part I here and Part IV here.

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