At the Library, Setting Up Our Chives
So far, no one has confessed to being an "our chivist," though one of my co-workers admitted she once minored in parsley. Another claimed expertise in oregano, but then we caught him sprinkling dried oregano into his coffee, so his credibility is questionable.
I explained to everyone that chives—especially our chives—require careful cataloging. Dewey Decimal doesn't really help here. Do you put them under 641.3 (food preservation) or do you wedge them into 583.92 (allium botany)? One person suggested creating a whole new call number: 000.00 CHV, but that seemed a little radical.
Meanwhile, the staff fridge is divided like medieval kingdoms. The top shelf belongs to the Reference Department, who insist that "perishables must be peer-reviewed." The bottom shelf is claimed by Circulation, who always have mysterious Tupperware containers labeled only with dates like "9/12" and "Never Again." So where, exactly, do our chives go?
I thought of creating a finding aid: Box 1, Folder A, Dried Chives, shared custody. But when I tried writing that label, my Sharpie dried up, clearly in solidarity with the chives.
So now I'm lobbying to appoint an official Library Chive Steward. Someone with the authority to say things like, "Please return the chives in the condition you found them," or "These chives are non-circulating, in-library use only."
Well, naturally, once the Board of Trustees heard there was a controversy brewing in the staff kitchen, they formed a Subcommittee on Chive Stewardship. Their first order of business was to hold a public hearing—because as they reminded us, "These are our chives, not just your chives."
The hearing drew quite a crowd. Patrons came up to the microphone, each offering passionate testimony. One retired gentleman declared, "Chives are the democratic herb! They belong in the hands of the people, not in some locked cabinet of elitist garnishes." A teenager from the teen advisory board countered: "We don't even like chives. Why aren't we discussing salsa?"
The Board took notes seriously, nodding solemnly as if they were hearing testimony on a zoning variance rather than on dehydrated onions' delicate cousin.
One trustee leaned forward and said, "Perhaps we need a Chive Access Policy, modeled after our Internet Access Policy." Another suggested a Chive Use Agreement patrons would need to sign before handling them. And, of course, the Board chair ended the evening by announcing: "In fairness and transparency, we must establish a pilot program. For six months, the chives will rotate between the staff kitchen, the Friends of the Library gift shop, and a small exhibit case in the lobby titled Chives Through the Ages."
The motion carried unanimously.
The very next week, the chives were ceremoniously transferred into the Special Collections Room, right between the microfilm reader and the map cabinet that nobody has successfully opened since 1987.
Suddenly, the staff began whispering reverently about "the Collection." Not the Civil War diaries, not the rare 18th-century atlases, no—the Chives Collection. Someone made a velvet rope barrier around the Tupperware, and another person wrote up a formal finding aid:
Collection Title: The Chives Papers
Dates: ca. last Tuesday – present
Extent: Approximately 3 grams (dried)
Scope and Content Note: Consists primarily of finely chopped green herbaceous matter. Includes notes of onion, garlic, and staff intrigue.
Patrons had to request the chives via a special call slip. A reference librarian would fetch them wearing cotton gloves, lay them out on a foam cradle, and remind the patron: "You may take notes with pencil only—no pens near the chives, please."
Tours started coming through. Fourth graders on field trips looked wide-eyed at the little flakes inside their acid-free container while the guide explained, "These chives have been carefully preserved for future generations." One child raised his hand to ask, "Couldn't you just buy more at the grocery store?" The guide replied sternly, "Not these chives."
And, inevitably, the staff began holding scholarly talks:
"Chives as Cultural Memory: A Panel Discussion"
"Our Chives, Ourselves: Identity and Herb Stewardship"
"Chive Guardianship in the Digital Age"
One staff member even suggested digitizing the chives—scanning each flake individually at 600 dpi. Another proposed a 3D virtual reality exhibit where patrons could walk among the chives.
It began innocently enough: a tiny gap noticed in the airtight Tupperware. A flake missing. Maybe two. Nothing conclusive, but enough to set tongues wagging in the staff lounge.
By lunchtime, the whispers had hardened into accusation: someone had sampled the Special Collections chives without signing the request slip.
An emergency meeting was convened. The chive box was carried in like crown jewels, placed on a velvet cushion, and surrounded by stern-looking librarians. The Director, adjusting her glasses, announced:
"We have a breach of chivalric trust. Someone has committed… an act of unchivalry."
Gasps. A custodian crossed himself. A circulation clerk fainted onto a pile of overdue notices.
To investigate, the library formed the Committee for Chive Integrity (CCI). They dusted the Tupperware lid for fingerprints, though all they found was a faint smear of ranch dressing. A surveillance review revealed only shadowy footage of someone loitering near the staff fridge, humming "Scarborough Fair."
Soon, the scandal made the local paper:
LIBRARY CHIVES UNDER SIEGE
Residents were interviewed outside the building. One patron said, "If they can't protect the chives, how can we trust them with the DVDs?" Another muttered darkly, "First it's chives, next it'll be paprika. Mark my words."
The trustees called for a formal inquiry, summoning staff to testify under oath:
"Did you, or did you not, garnish your baked potato with Special Collections material?"
"Were you, on the night in question, in possession of sour cream?"
Denials flew. Allegiances crumbled. Someone even suggested installing RFID tags on every chive flake to prevent future tampering.
The trial was held, naturally, in the community meeting room—usually reserved for knitting clubs and tax prep workshops. Folding chairs were lined up in neat rows, and the smell of instant coffee from the refreshment cart lent an oddly judicial air.
The accused—a mild-mannered reference librarian named Doug—sat grimly at the defense table, flanked by a pro bono attorney who, ironically, specialized in food law. Doug's only crime: being seen with a suspiciously garnished baked potato during his lunch break.
The prosecution's case was dramatic. They presented Exhibit A: a potato skin flecked with what appeared to be dried green herbs. "Ladies and gentlemen," the prosecutor declared, holding it aloft with tweezers, "this is not parsley. This is evidence."
Witnesses were called:
A shelver swore she saw Doug near the Special Collections room "with a hungry look in his eyes."
The Children's Librarian testified that Doug had once whispered, "Everything's better with chives," during storytime.
A janitor revealed finding a single stray flake on the carpet, which "crunched suspiciously underfoot."
Doug's defense was simple: "Yes, I had chives—but they were store-bought. I would never dishonor the Collection." His lawyer waved a grocery receipt triumphantly, but the prosecution countered, suggesting it was forged.
The climax came when the judge (who was really just the library director wearing her fanciest cardigan) ordered the jury—made up of Friends of the Library volunteers—to deliberate. They shuffled off to the periodicals room, muttering about fairness, due process, and the ethics of garnish.
Meanwhile, the public packed the gallery, murmuring as if at a sporting event: "Do you think he did it? … I heard he's more of a scallion man anyway."
The jury returned after only twenty minutes, which was just long enough for them to finish the complimentary Fig Newtons. They filed back into the meeting room solemnly, though one juror still had crumbs on his sweater vest.
The foreperson—a retired schoolteacher who once wrote a strongly worded letter about overdue fines—stood and read the verdict:
"On the charge of Unauthorized Sampling of Special Collections Chives, we the jury find… Doug the Reference Librarian… Not Guilty."
Gasps rattled the folding chairs. Someone in the back shouted, "It's a miscarriage of herb justice!" Another yelled, "Check his pockets again!"
Doug wept openly, proclaiming, "I told you—they were Kroger-brand chives! Nothing but the best for my baked potato!" His lawyer high-fived him, which seemed inappropriate in the circumstances.
But the acquittal did not bring peace. Oh no. The community split into factions. Half believed in Doug's innocence and wore green ribbons of solidarity, calling themselves the Chive Liberation Front. The other half—the Society for the Preservation of Unsampled Chives—demanded tighter security, including biometric scanners and maybe an armed guard.
Things escalated quickly. The library steps became a protest zone, with signs reading:
"Hands Off Our Herbs!"
"No Garnish Without Due Process!"
"Keep Calm and Chive On."
News vans arrived. The chives themselves were placed in protective custody, sealed inside a climate-controlled, alarmed display case, guarded by a motion-sensor system so sensitive it once went off when someone sneezed nearby.
And yet… rumors began to swirl of a larger chive conspiracy. Some whispered that the missing flakes were never lost at all—that the Board of Trustees had planted the evidence to secure more grant funding.
And so it was that a small plastic tub of dried herbs—bought for $2.19 in the spice aisle—became the spark for a national frenzy. Within weeks, the story of "Library Chivegate" appeared on the evening news, sandwiched between reports of international trade talks and a heartwarming segment about a skateboarding dog.
Congress indeed held hearings. Senators, looking grave for the cameras, grilled library officials on C-SPAN:
"Can you assure the American people that these chives will be safeguarded for posterity?"
"Have you considered digitizing the chives to expand equitable access?"
"What is your policy regarding scallions?"
By the time the hearings concluded, the library had received an unexpected windfall in federal funding earmarked for "Herbal Preservation Initiatives." A special wing was built: the National Center for Shared Chive Studies. Scholars from around the world came to examine the flakes under magnifying lenses, whispering reverently as though decoding the Dead Sea Scrolls.
And in the staff kitchen, a small sign appeared above the refrigerator, handwritten in block letters:
PLEASE RESPECT THE CHIVES.
The scandal eventually faded, replaced by newer controversies (like whether the Friends of the Library bake sale should permit gluten-free scones). But deep in the Special Collections vault, the chives remained—untasted, untainted, and perfectly preserved—an enduring reminder that in libraries, nothing is too small to become monumental.
And perhaps, in some quiet way, that's what made them our chives all along.
(This silliness is donated to the public domain.)
https://philshapirochatgptexplorations.blogspot.com/
"Wisdom begins with wonder." - Socrates
"Learning happens thru gentleness."
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