What will going "paperless" mean for museums?

The term "paperless" does not seem to be quite as popular as it was a few years ago. Perhaps paperless offices now define themselves as green workplaces, a term that seems to encompass much more than just easing up on the paper stacks.

Clearly, as technology advances, the usefulness and practicality of paper notes is in the decline. Just last year, in a fit of non-conformity I made a rather extravagant purchase. My gift to myself - a lovely fountain pen, shining with chrome and mother of pearl. In an effort to renew my vows to paper and reacquaint my hand with the feel of a writing implement, I blew what could have been a mortgage payment on a pen. Given that I lose pens faster than poppies from my lapel in November, this was a risky venture.

I can proudly state that I still have the pen. I used it once or twice. Smugly, I drew the ink into the bladder picturing the elegant script that would float onto the paper with ease. Cursive writing was never my strong suit. My handwriting always looked a bit too forced, contrived and awkward. My printing was passable, and although painstakingly prim it did not embarrass me the way my handwriting did.

The pen hit the paper and not only did all of my misgivings return as I watched my cursive loopy and strange handwriting mar the page, I also made two disappointing revelations.

1. Fountain pens are not for the faint of heart. Pausing for even a nanosecond results in sloppy blotches of ink that belie my inferior penmanship.

2. Writing is inconvenient. Okay, I said it. I prefer to type, send an email on my miserably tiny blackberry keyboard. Does this make me a bad person? Maybe.

The fact of the matter is most Museum archives are full of the type of nostalgic script that modern day fonts cannot replicate. I recently read through a group of letters in a fonds (collection of papers) within our archives. The letters told a story of love, loss, and survival. I could not help but question, would I have felt differently if the story had been typewritten? The letters certainly could have been easily typewritten as the era of the records I was looking at was produced by a member of the generation I ofter refer to as the 'Underwood' generation.

When I look at handwriting, it is easier to feel a connection with the originator of the document. The provenance takes on new meanings, the story feels richer, more human. I also understand that this is a dangerous statement for a rookie archivist to make. The scientific approach of archives managment leaves no room for romance.

I also understand that it is not wise to make assumptions based on handwriting as it can bias the interpretation of archival documents. Is the script is meticulate and esthetic? The author must have been female and well educated. Not necessarily. Handwriting can be a mystery in itself and may lead to more questions than answers.

Handwritten documents, paper documents are dissapearing. When was the last time you wrote a letter? When was the last time you wrote anything longer than a grocery list? If you had to think for more than a few seconds about these questions, think about how this will affect future archives management.

Cast your vote for arts, culture and HERITAGE

Well, it is election time. It is hard to imagine that anyone might escape the ongoing discussion of tanking economies, environmental concerns and various other hot topics in the leaders debates. I am glad to see that funding cuts to Arts and Culture have been addressed at both our local candidates debates and again at the leaders debate in Ottawa tonight.
What concerns me is how the poor cousin of arts and culture, heritage, seems to get lumped in almost as an afterthought. I understand the similarities, challenges and concerns shared by many artists, not for profit, arts advocacy groups share with museums. We all operate on shoestring budgets (well, most of us do) and we tend to get pushed into that oh so frivolous sounding 'fringe' area.
If there is a silver lining to this process, it is to be found in the immense exposure that this election has given to the recent funding cuts to the arts. I really enjoy the controversy that has led to increased exposure within the debate of Arts and Culture funding. What worries me most is that heritage seems to have dropped off the radar almost completely. It is one thing for museums to be lumped with galleries and other arts groups, but to be forgotten entirely? Not cool.

Goodbye good ol' telegraph building!

Today, my conscience was nagging at me. It began at about 6 o'clock this morning. I knew that as the sun set on downtown North Bay, dawn would bring the demolition of one of it's older buildings.

I recently read that some of Canada's most 'at risk' architecture involves building that were built about 50-60 years ago. It seems that if a building can make it through its first 60 years of life, it will be okay. It can breath a sigh of relief and hope that know one pokes around too much and finds hidden caches of asbestos or a growing mold problem.

In North Bay, we have done some silly things. Irreversible and silly things. We once had a beautiful post office with grand limestone pillars facing onto Main Street. Now gone, demolished. North Bay Collegiate and Vocational School. Demolished. Queen Victoria School. Demolished. John Ferguson's home. Demolished. Carnegie Library. Demolished. We are one of two communities that have demolished a Carnegie Library. What an embarrassment!

I have been outspoken about the evils of demolition for the sake of progress. Yet today, as the not-so-grand red brick telegraph building came toppling down, I couldn't help but cheer. I think that just like rules of social order, demolition for the greater good is acceptable.

I still feel a bit guilty that I didn't chain myself to a few of the granite tiles at the front entrance of the building and declare that the site should be honoured as a UNESCO world heritage site. Okay, I'm only about 1 percent guilty that I didn't take this route. But still, would the community really have benefited from a red brick box impeding the development of the Oak Street improvements? Absolutely not. Was the building an outstanding example of a particular style of architecture? No. Will we miss it when it is gone? Probably.

I know this because just like people leave this earth, when buildings are no longer around community they become grander, more ornate, and beautiful than they ever were in reality. My grandmother told me that the day that the Mackey House burned, the number of vermin left homeless was an epedemic in itself. Yet, for those who remember the good ol' Mackey House, it was just about the most glorious place you had ever set you sights on.

So, goodbye old telegraph building. I hope that in retrospect, you become a stately art deco office suite with marble floors and the finest interior wood finishings. I won't tell anyone the truth.

History for all ages

In museum work, the end of June is always a crazy time of year. A good type of crazy. As the school year draws to a close, the school field trips pile up on our schedule like pennies in a wishing well.

This is my favourite time of year at the museum. Not just because of the school groups, but they play a big part in the excitement. There is something encouraging about seeing a museum gallery come to life with dozens of little ones jostling for their turn to play with the ‘olden days’ stuff. When I hold up a yellowed and dusty old newspaper it can become quite a commodity, especially when a 7 year old, who has just watched the newest release of Indiana Jones, declares that it is probably a pirate’s map.

Some of the best moments for our museum staff involve working with the school groups. I’m laughing to myself as I recall a few instances in particular …..

I had developed a new program to introduce the topic of trade, early forms of commerce, and bartering to primary students. My goal was to let each student pick a trade and decide what they would produce using their new skills in exchange for a small treat. I had approached a local chocolatier and asked for prepackaged treat bags. They could expect to be ‘bartered’ with.

One child decided that he wanted very badly to be a blacksmith despite the fact that he could not, for the life of him remember the word blacksmith. He could remember however, that he worked with metal. When we were ready to practice our bartering skills, he marched proudly up to the counter, in his most rugged blacksmith impression, and demanded a treat because he ‘wooked wiff meadow’.

If children are not fascinated with becoming blacksmiths, then without fail they are fascinated with ghosts. I don’t know how many times I have been asked if someone has died in the building that houses our museum. How do you answer that question honestly? I have found the best solution involves my declaration that I have worked in this 105 year old building for several years and never seen a ghost. My only regret in using this explanation resulted from a child who oh so charmingly asked if I had been working there the whole 105 years.

Snooping in my own backyard

For many 'hysterical' historians, the search for our latest muse is sometimes found in our own backyard.....

For the past few years, my husband and I have been museum hopping as frequently as most North Americans visit the local Wal-Mart. Admittedly, many of our visits have been work related (I am the director of a museum in Northern Ontario). My dear hubby and I have worked out a deal that seems to please both of us. He is an avid amateur photographer, and I love to visit historical and cultural landscapes. (Yes, we do have a few of these in Northern Ontario). While I ooooh and ahhhh over the remnants of an old rail bed, my hubby's shutter whirs. It is a very peaceful coexistence.

Our history hikes took a short hiatus this year after the purchase of our second home. The type of home we purchased is, as you may have already guessed, old. Lovely, and old. As any older home owner can tell you, there is almost always a hidden price tag attached to the heritage home. We have been lucky, the basement is dry, the wood rot has been kept at bay. The gleaming hardwood and high baseboards please me in ways that no laminate ever could. Despite our luck in finding a older home that had been well built and cared for through the years there will always be 'projects' that pop up. The first of which was to build a fence for my aging, yet ferociously stubborn mutt.

I should mention, that I made it my mission after moving into our new home to learn more about the history of property. I spoke to a long time resident of the area. He indicated that the lot on which our home was built was once the Bull family homestead. Further research led me to the discovery that Gerald Bull (1928-1990), the famously brilliant, and infamously assassinated, Canadian long range artillery engineer grew up on the very plot of land where my house now stands.

It hurt my heart to fence a yard which had once been the childhood playground of Gerald Bull, infamous or not. I learned that after the deaths of Bull's parents the original home had been demolished, just as the great depression was loosening its grip in Northern Ontario.

As the fence planning led to post digging, interesting tid-bits rose to the surface. I fancied myself an archeologist in an Egyptian tomb! Shards of china (wow!), bottles with no evidence of modern machine forms (stop the press!) and a strange little corked vial were separated from the mounds of dirt. My husband, exasperated by the halting progress, indulged me by letting me hand sift every shovel of dirt. Unfortunately for him, our early neighbours buried a lot of good stuff.

This mysterious stuff very likely could have come to rest in our yard with a load of fill during the last 75 years. Who will ever know who it really belonged to. In my warped view of all things historical, the vial contained a prescribed tincture, an intended remedy for the ailing Gerald's mother who succumbed to the rigors of childbirth.

With this I leave my message; Beware, when someone sees fit to use the words 'tincture' and 'rigors' in the same sentence, you have probably identified a hysterical historian. Proceed with caution, especially when it comes to yard work.