30,000 Pages of Backlog

Today is the final day of the MARAC Spring 2007 Meeting. We start with our business meeting, where the goings on of the organization are reported to the membership. Then we head off into our final two session blocks, while many spend that time checking out of their hotel rooms and getting a head start toward home. As shown by the picture above, we have archivists from all over (although this archivist is believed to work at the Library of Congress in DC - not Minnesota).

At the conclusion of the business meeting, we hear from the next meeting site coordinators, inviting us to that location. In this case, Williamsburg, Virginia in November 2007. There was also a reading of an adaptation of the Harry Chapin song, 30,000 Pounds of Bananas. I present it below for your enjoyment.

My wife and I will leave lovely Scranton and make a stop in Hazleton, Pennsylvania on our way home to do some genealogical research for her family. If time permits, we will make a stop at the outlets in Gettysburg, to do some research into some new fashions at good prices.

With apologies to Harry Chapin . . .

It was Thursday afternoon
When the cars started down the hill
That leads into Scranton, Pennsylvania.
Carrying almost two hundred fifty MARAC archivists.

We’re at thirty five years,
Just out for our Spring meeting.
Carrying the mantle of history’s flame
To everyone in that coal-scarred city.
Where archivists work without despair,
In underground stacks and the rest manage to process
About 30,000 pages of backlog.
Yes, more than 30,000 pages of backlog.

We passed a sign that we didn’t read,
Saying the electric city was still here.
We were thinking perhaps about the ice cold beer,
That was waiting in the hospitality suite.
We started down the two mile drop,
The curving road that wound from the top of the hill.

Just a few more days to go,
Then we’d go home and start a new era,
And the dreams of 400 years in Virginia.
Yes the dreams of 400 years in Virginia.

We were picking up speed as the hotel grew closer,
But we paid no heed as the delicious thoughts of the reception’s
Delights went through us.
Our feet nudged the brakes to slow us down,
But the pedal floored easy without a sound.
We said, “Schellenberg!”
It was funny how we had named the only man who could save us now.

We were trapped under an incredible backlog,
Trying to get it off our backs,
Was every one of those 30,000 pages of backlog.
Yes, there were 30,000 pages of backlog.

We barely made the sweeping curve that led into the hotel lot,
We missed the governor going by at ninety miles an hour.
And we said “God, get me a drink!”
As we drove into the parking lot.
And we said “God, get me a drink!”
As we drove into the parking lot.
And we drove past nineteen corporate archivists,
Called to thirteen academic colleagues,
Saw two valets, entered eight doors,
And waited for the elevators . . .
It was then we lost our cool,
Not to mention our way before we stopped.
And we looked at the signs,
That adorned the hotel that is here in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
All those two hundred fifty MARAC archivists.

You know the man who told me about it at Trax,
As we drank in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
He shrugged his shoulders, he shook his head,
And he said (and this is exactly what he said),
“Boy it sure must have been something.
Just imagine, thirty thousand pages of backlog,
Yes there were two hundred fifty MARAC archivists,
And backlog, just backlog, thirty thousand pages,
Of backlog, not no processing now, just backlog.