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Finding, Founding, and Findability: A Tale of Woe and Weather
By Scott Marron
For Librarian and Professor Ed Goedeken, the end of the long, harsh winter season has given him a chance to reflect anew on loss, memory, and findability.
“I’ve been in the information business for a while. Everyone knows that. Even people that don’t know that or don’t want to know that, know that,” said Ed, “Anyway, that’s what I’ve found.” He went on: “Certainly, I know the importance of findability. In fact, I practically founded findability. Consider, for a moment, all the nice history books I order for the collection. Long ago, I realized that if those books are important enough to buy, they’re important enough to find.”
Ed inexplicably drifted off into the pros and cons of bundled vs. a la carte finding services for large academic research institutions. But a sudden shiver interrupted these musings. A moment of darkness passed over his face. He cast a cold eye upon a ridge of dirty snow lingering in central campus. He began to recount a day last autumn when he thought he rode his trusty Giant bike to work.
At the end of that workday, he remembers venturing out into weather that had become colder and snowier. As he bounded out through the loading dock door, he glanced toward the bike rack. That’s when the confusion set in, followed by days and months of anguish and bewilderment. In a hardened mutter, he described the time as “Like, really cold and there were piles of snow everywhere. Snowing cats and dogs. And I was really confused!” Indeed, his confusion was so awful that he could no longer relate “covering” to “discovering.” He only saw the high, fresh layer of snow.
Ed wouldn’t see his bike again for another six months, and he did not know why.
As he walked home, Ed was disoriented, cold, and getting colder. He finally convinced himself that the only way his bike could have brought him in to work this day would be if he used his lock chain to wrap around his rear tire, before finally concluding, “But I have absolutely no idea how that would work, so I must have walked in.”
Ed did not walk to work that day, but he did walk home. Yes, a man who prided himself on possibly founding findability arrived home just before the onset of yet another blizzard. He searched for his bike at home, but it was not to be found.
Time marches forth, the seasons turn, and on a recent morning, a morning still in winter, but with a warmer sun and a spent vortex, Ed found himself walking by the library’s west-side bike racks. He was wondering where, after these many, many cold months, his bike could be.
In an instant, he froze.
There in front of him, as if a freshly discovered dataset equipped with a unique PID and loaded with rich metadata landed in the lap of a first-year grad student, was his bike. Exactly where he left it. Safely chained to the rack. Cold to the touch (“No problem, I’ll just microwave the seat for a couple of minutes”), but otherwise rideable. And finally, found.
By Scott Marron
For Librarian and Professor Ed Goedeken, the end of the long, harsh winter season has given him a chance to reflect anew on loss, memory, and findability.
“I’ve been in the information business for a while. Everyone knows that. Even people that don’t know that or don’t want to know that, know that,” said Ed, “Anyway, that’s what I’ve found.” He went on: “Certainly, I know the importance of findability. In fact, I practically founded findability. Consider, for a moment, all the nice history books I order for the collection. Long ago, I realized that if those books are important enough to buy, they’re important enough to find.”
Ed inexplicably drifted off into the pros and cons of bundled vs. a la carte finding services for large academic research institutions. But a sudden shiver interrupted these musings. A moment of darkness passed over his face. He cast a cold eye upon a ridge of dirty snow lingering in central campus. He began to recount a day last autumn when he thought he rode his trusty Giant bike to work.
At the end of that workday, he remembers venturing out into weather that had become colder and snowier. As he bounded out through the loading dock door, he glanced toward the bike rack. That’s when the confusion set in, followed by days and months of anguish and bewilderment. In a hardened mutter, he described the time as “Like, really cold and there were piles of snow everywhere. Snowing cats and dogs. And I was really confused!” Indeed, his confusion was so awful that he could no longer relate “covering” to “discovering.” He only saw the high, fresh layer of snow.
Ed wouldn’t see his bike again for another six months, and he did not know why.
As he walked home, Ed was disoriented, cold, and getting colder. He finally convinced himself that the only way his bike could have brought him in to work this day would be if he used his lock chain to wrap around his rear tire, before finally concluding, “But I have absolutely no idea how that would work, so I must have walked in.”
Ed did not walk to work that day, but he did walk home. Yes, a man who prided himself on possibly founding findability arrived home just before the onset of yet another blizzard. He searched for his bike at home, but it was not to be found.
Time marches forth, the seasons turn, and on a recent morning, a morning still in winter, but with a warmer sun and a spent vortex, Ed found himself walking by the library’s west-side bike racks. He was wondering where, after these many, many cold months, his bike could be.
In an instant, he froze.
There in front of him, as if a freshly discovered dataset equipped with a unique PID and loaded with rich metadata landed in the lap of a first-year grad student, was his bike. Exactly where he left it. Safely chained to the rack. Cold to the touch (“No problem, I’ll just microwave the seat for a couple of minutes”), but otherwise rideable. And finally, found.