Dear Connie,
Early last summer, my correspondence entered what has turned out to be an extended lull period. It was very easy not to write letters since, outside of Mom, no one was writing to me on a regular basis. Every once in awhile, a hand-addressed envelope would accompany the usual bills and junk mail and Reader's Digest sweepstakes proclamations. It's no thrill to see my name printed in computer type. When a series of unrelated catalogs were addressed (and delivered) to a Paul Nelson at 1312 Space Street without difficulty last summer, I didn't know whether to be insulted or amused.
As you were winging your way over Wisconsin last June (and offering me that promised toast at 10,000 feet), I no doubt was sitting in my office at the library working diligently to tune out all the negative influences that, even today, continue to bombard me. At this time, I don't want to delve into the agonizing details of the crisis at OPL. The surprise is not that it occurred, but rather that it occurred as intensively as it did. The department heads who have worked at the library as long as the present director knew something was amiss very early on. We have a director who doesn't know how to direct. He offers us no leadership; he runs at the first sign of a tough decision.
In October, I orchestrated what could have easily developed into a mutiny had not the other department heads been so concerned about job security. Of course, none of them have an office right next door to Dick's. They don't see the daily, mind-numbing examples of laziness and incompetence. Eventually, the library board got wind of our discontent and asked each of us (the department heads, the business manager, the administrative secretary) a prepared list of questions individually. As one board member casually leaked to me a couple weeks later, "Something must definitely be wrong. The answers were too consistent to think otherwise."
The board confronted Dick in mid-November and supposedly gave him an ultimatum: Hit the road by March 1, 1982. In the meantime, Dick has been sending out resumes (the last fat business envelope with his return address that I saw is now in the hands -- or files -- of the director of personnel in Gainesville, Florida) and making an unusually large number of long-distance phone calls. He confided to his secretary that he does indeed plan to leave, "but not without a fight". In other words, he wants to inflict as much damage as possible before he leaves. According to reports from my colleagues, Dick has been using me as a target for his heaviest ammunition. He's even dredged up my "flirtation" with gun running in Montana, the true story of which he knew about before hiring me. Now he's embellishing it beyond recognition, but then I have a column from the Great Falls Tribune (Dick Peel sent me the newspaper in a moment of admirable foresight -- I've always had this weird premonition that I was going to have to deal with it again) which clearly explains this bizarre, fantastic episode in my life.
After three unfulfilling attempts to convince myself that I am a librarian, I'm ready to move on to something different. I bought myself a piano a month ago and have been practicing an average of 2-3 hours a day. So far I have 45 minutes of material memorized, including the first movement of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata". On my days off, six hours of playing time, broken up into sensible stretches, is not unusual. I took piano lessons for seven years through grade school and junior high and never took people seriously when they told me what a wonderful talent I have. After burying my hands for sixteen years, I have finally come to my senses.
I'll try to remember to enclose bookmarks advertising my two latest film series at the library. The "Bogie" retrospective was an undiluted success. They Drive By Night was unavailable at the minute, so for 1/3 its usual rental rate, I was able to substitute The Big Sleep. Even Sahara drew a near-capacity staff house. From the feedback the staff at the circulation desk has been hearing, the Bette Davis/Joan Crawford retro promises to be an even bigger draw than Bogart.
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