It's a slow day. Why the hell not?

In the Morning:

Notarization.
You don't need to ask, but you do need a library card to use the computer, sir.
He needs local court records, which we do not have.
You'll need a visitors pass, ma'am.
Porches.
Local papers from 1961.
Business plan guides.
Local college schedule.
This business of music, by M. William Krasilovsky and Sidney Shemel.
You can't fit the entire front page of the newspaper onto a single copy, ma'am.
More fun with the microfilm machines (the library owes me forty cents).
"What year did they start making Honda Civics? How much does it cost?"
Yes, we register people to vote here ... You need two forms of ID ... Expired licenses don't work ... Yes, a utility bill is okay ... Yes you feed the meters on Saturday ... Yes we're wheelchair accessable ...
A page wants to know about a Hebrew dance he can't pronounce.
Operations Management, by James B. Dilworth.
ASVAB books.

In the Afternoon:

Notarization.
"Where are the biographies?"
You need a visitors pass, sir.
Who's beeping? Stop it.
The power of intention, by Wayne Dyer.
My computer crashes.
A patron's computer crashes.
Out of time, by Caroline Cooney.
"Daddy, what's this for?" over and over again.
At a online catalog, a man exclaims "MISSING?!?!?"
The would-be voter in the wheelchair comes in.
A perfectly polite and friendly patron who talks way too loud and doesn't know it. I wish to tell him that the Brother Cadfael books have little in common with The name of the rose, apart from monks trying to figure things out.
Five notarizations.
You'll need to talk to the home delivery people during the week, ma'am.
I can't find the 2004 Songwriter's market.
How to send pics from his cell phone over the internet. Librarian B and I don't know what to tell him.
A WP freezes with its unsaved document. When will they learn?
Is this your eyeglass case?
The printed copy comes out there, ma'am.
Are these your keys?
You can leave the books there, ma'am. We'll reshelve them.

(I'm not back; I'm just bored today)

In the Evening

"Books that will tell me what it is to do with my life."
They'll break a fiver at the circ desk, sir.
Today's paper.
CDs are downstairs, sir.
Surrounded by computers, he asks if we have the internet here.
Museum tickets? Not any more.
Fiction is over there, ma'am.
Pencil.
Holds are at the front desk, ma'am.
Automatic extension tax form.
You don't need to ask permission to use the internet, sir.
Visions across the Americas, ed. J. Sterling Warner. She has a copy she bought but wants to know if the library owns it.
An old friend I haven't seen in years pops by.
The pact, by Sampson Davis, George Jenkins, and Rameck Hunt with Liza Frazier.
Someone tells me two kids are looking at "bad, bad sites."
Sorry, I don't know what those buildings are on 14th street.
I drop Morningstar. What a mess.
Reboot.
We're open until nine, ma'am.
AIDS. She narrows it down, then changes her mind. "Do any of these books have pictures?"
FAFSA Forms.
... Do I miss this? No.

There!

I have recorded, as best as I could, every reference desk transaction from May 14 2003 to May 14 2004.

A year is enough. I am retiring Ref Grunt.

In March I realized that doing this blog was no longer fun. It had become a chore. I kept it going so that readers could see a full year in one ref grunt life.

If I find I miss it I might return, or maybe I’ll post to Refgrunt.com if I get bored.

Most of my emailers told me that my library was just like theirs. The same weird questions, the same patrons. I find this both depressing and funny.

Ref Grunts out there: Tell us your stories!

Thanks to all of you for reading.

“Peter Burd”

In the Morning:

Texas sunrise, by Fern Michaels.
Type your barcode in there, sir.
Herbal supplements.
You need a library card to use the computer, sir.
A missing insurance card is found, left on the copier glass.
Type your barcode ...
Our online databases won't work ...
You need a library card ...
Type your barcode ...
Worse than Watergate, by John Dean.
I don't know why Amazon's "one click ordering" isn't working for you, sir.
No cell phones, sir, at least when you talk as loud as that.
Fax.

In the Afternoon:

Notarization.
"Biblical Couseling."
Type your barcode ...
In evil hour, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Open your mind and be healed, by Johnnie Coleman, and the latest Oprah book.
The two Babylons, by Alexander Hislop.
Carpentry books.
Type your barcode ...
How to attach a file.
The computer's just slow, sir. There's nothing I can do.
"Books to teach motivation."
Yesterday and today's paper.
Copier advice.
Reboot.
You can't use your own paper in the printer, sir.
Reboot.
Type your barcode ...
Type your barcode ...
You need a library card ...

In the Morning:

State tax form. Two copies.
They'll look up your barcode at the front desk for money, sir.
Our accountant borrows our copy of Morningstar, which troubles me somehow.
All you need to do is type your barcode in, ma'am.
Consumer info for lawn mowers.
City directory.
Madame C. J. Walker.
How to fight cancer and win, by William L. Fischer.
She works on her document for nearly an hour and doesn't bother to save it ...
Project management for dummies, by Stanley E. Portny.
Reset fails. Time to reboot. She is convinced computers hate her in particular.
How to get a library card? Wrong desk.
Newspapers we don't have on microfilm.
"Books on ancient battles. Troy and Spartacus."
1040 instructions.
The PC doesn't like his barcode. Whoops, it does now.
Type your barcode there, ma'am.
Their eyes were watching God, by Zora Neale Hurston, and The adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain.
Two more reboots.

In the Afternoon:

I smell burning plastic ...
City directory.
A credit union asks us to do a criss-cross.
Two reboots.
Books on the forties.
Type your barcode in there, sir.
Books on the '40s.
Sunday's paper.
Stuff about Jack Horkheimer and comets. I google "Greetings, greetings, fellow star gazers." Then he wants to know all about snoezelen.
Shut up!
Reset.

In the Afternoon:

Reboot.
Reset.
Reboot.
Reset.
The quiet American, by Graham Greene.
Reboot.
"I need a book on how to own a car."
Reboot.
Reset.
Quiet!
You need a library card. Since a month ago.
Local ordinances for washing your car on the grass.
A child called it, by David Pelzer.
Reset.
They'll look up your barcode at circ, sir.
"I gotta go to Google, but it won't let me."
Reboot.
Shut up! Twice!
Make that three times!
WPs are over there, ma'am.