Dec 30, 2019 5 min read

When Ella Hatfield departs Citizens Library Tuesday, her last leave-taking as an employee of 44 years, she can do so with the satisfaction that, in many cases, she gave people the key to unlocking pieces of information that changed their lives.

One poignant example involved, literally, matters of life and death.

A woman was diagnosed with breast cancer, and after delivering this news, her doctor’s first question was whether her mother died from the disease.

“It was that important,” Hatfield recalled.

The patient, who at age 4 lost her mother, knew only that the circumstances surrounding the untimely death were never mentioned.

So the patient went to Citizens Library where Hatfield, reference librarian, was able to access the mother’s death certificate.

“It turned out she had died of carcinoma of the breast. We also found her grandmother’s death certificate, and she had also died of carcinoma of the breast,” Hatfield said.

“I’m sure her family never thought, in generations to come, how important knowing this would be, and this woman had two daughters.

“It wasn’t great news, but it was something that I think could’ve been beneficial to her.”

Another set of circumstances also stands out in Hatfield’s memories of librarian-to-the-rescue. Flooding in the Canonsburg-Houston area was in itself tragic, but one resident lost to the flood waters the newspaper obituary of her baby who had died years ago of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

Citizens Library is a repository of Observer-Reporter microfilm since 1808, and in the wake of the flood, Hatfield was able to photocopy the obituary for the baby’s mother, restoring to her tangible proof of her child’s short life.

And then there was the guy who never knew his father, a military man. Hatfield combed through service records and was able to find an online image of the father’s draft card, which she printed for the usual 25-cent-per-page fee.

“It had his signature on it,” Hatfield recalled. “He had his father’s handwriting, and he just kept rubbing his fingers over it, because that was the only thing he had from his father.

“Those are real good days,” she said, repeating the words for emphasis.

She said of those seeking information, “Whatever it is, it’s important to them, and you don’t always know why.”

The reference desk also had its lighter moments.

“An older lady phoned one day who needed a phone number for the body parts store,” the soon-to-be-retired librarian mentioned in an interview earlier this month.

Hatfield asked the caller if she was inquiring about a foreign or domestically-manufactured car.

“No, no, honey,” the caller said. “you know, the body parts store – where they got the kidneys and livers and such.”

“She wanted the organ donor bank. And I never did know if she wanted to make a deposit or a withdrawal,” Hatfield chuckled.

It’s an example she’s used time and time again when stressing the significance of discerning, when someone has a question for the reference desk, “to know what it is they really want.”

In a way, you could say the library, too, helped Hatfield, 68. She started there as a volunteer with a GED, and along the way, as a single mother, she earned first a bachelor’s degree and then a master’s degree of library and information science from the University of Pittsburgh.

“The services we’ve provided have changed over the decades, but we’re still providing information to people, just maybe in a different format,” she said, surrounded by a bank of computers in addition to shelved books.

Along the way, Citizens Library became the district center for all libraries in Washington, Greene and Fayette counties.

“We’ve always been a social service agency,” she said. “We have people in every day who have problems and are here every day looking for answers.

“Sometimes they just want to talk. They’ll come here when they have nowhere else to go. We’re open, we’re a public building, we’re warm.”

In retirement, Hatfield, mother of one son and grandmother to his son, is also seeking warmth. Within six months, she plans to move to Tyler, Texas, to join her sister.

Among those who will miss her is Kathy Pienkowski, circulation manager at the library. She’ll no longer be picking up Hatfield at her home in Washington and giving her a lift to work, a morning routine for more than 10 years.

“Ella is bigger than life, and there is going to be a void there,” Pienkowski said. “You always knew where you stood with Ella. She pulls no punches. She’s always honest.”

Asked if Hatfield should write a book about her library and life experiences, Pienkowski replied, “She should.”