In January 2005 I was a newly appointed tenure-track librarian attending the American Library Association’s Midwinter Meeting in Boston, Massachusetts. Although I had been an ALA member for eight to ten years and had already attended a few conferences (including some LHRT events), I never imagined that I could have something to offer a national-level organization. That was until a Penn State administrator told me I should be “leading” something by the end of my fifth year if I wanted to retain my job! So, while I rode an Amtrak train to New England, I thumbed through ALA’s conference program and compiled a list of every round table and section that seemed to fit my job description or my personal interests.At one point several days later, I was in my high-rise hotel room, warily glancing at the blustery street below. I had a choice of walking several city blocks to an Association of College and Research Libraries meeting that closely pertained to my work or jogging across the street to the convention center, where LHRT was holding its executive committee meeting. Just as I was about to decide, I noticed a children’s librarian crossing the road. A sudden blast of wind ripped open the shopping bags she was clutching in her hands and blew her trove of bookmarks and posters halfway down the block. “To heck with that!” I muttered to myself. Maybe LHRT wasn’t the best match to my reference and instruction duties, but I liked history and I liked staying warm!Minutes later, I was wriggling out of my winter coat and nodding to a small number of LHRTers in a nondescript meeting room. The first thing that I noticed was that I was probably the only person there who was under forty. “Well,” I thought opportunistically, “maybe I will end up leading this group sooner rather than later!” The second thing I noticed was that women—Jean Preer and Christine Pawley—were running the meeting. This mattered to me because I was the only female tenure-track librarian at my campus at the time. Also, my supervisor and his supervisor were male. So it was helpful to see other women in academia that I could look up to. The third thing I noticed was how friendly everyone was. After I affirmed that yes, I was interested in LHRT, the tentative glances and wide-eyed surprise quickly gave way to smiles. Within a few weeks, Jean and Christine assigned me some meaningful tasks. Within a few months my name was on LHRT’s ballot for member-at-large.There are other round table observers who can shed light on what library history is intellectually (and what it is not), how it relates (or doesn’t relate) to other disciplines, its theoretical and topical domains, and aspects that remain to be explored. Although I, too, have produced scholarly articles, conference presentations, and a book, my thoughts about LHRT, its development, and its challenges tend to center upon how it functions as an organization—or, as I prefer to call it, a community. Rather than as an academic discipline, I see library history as a community of people who make sense of libraries, the library work we do, and the work libraries do in society, by examining libraries through historical perspectives. Whether LHRT members are academically trained historians or not, they believe that history offers valuable insights into today’s library landscape, including its people, its places, its problems, its promise, and our own positions within it. LHRT as an organization exists primarily, in my opinion, to facilitate opportunities for and connections within that community.From the beginning of my involvement in LHRT, it was obvious to me that the round table was substantially beneficial to college faculty. By 2005 LHRT was offering four different awards for scholarly publications (article, book, dissertation, and essay). At ALA’s annual conference, LHRT was hosting research forums that provided venues for academic researchers to present their papers. The round table’s annual conference programs also included the Edward G. Holley lecture series, funded through an endowment and delivered by faculty outside of the library and information science discipline. LHRT had a cordial relationship with the editor of Libraries & Culture and the University of Texas Press, such that library history scholars had a home for their scholarship and LHRT members received discounted subscriptions.However, LHRT’s benefits for practitioners, retirees, students, and other types of members—especially those who could not afford to attend ALA conferences and those who were unlikely to publish research—were far less apparent to me. There were no awards for library history initiatives outside of traditional academic publication, nor were there awards for round table or community service. While various types of members have won LHRT’s Justin Winsor Essay Prize, to the best of my knowledge, it wasn’t until 2012 that a practitioner won LHRT’s Donald G. Davis Article Award. A practitioner has never won the Eliza Atkins Gleason Book Award. Students and retirees haven’t won Davis or Gleason either. Thus, I found LHRT’s reward structure to be quite imbalanced, perhaps even unfair. If LHRT was collecting annual dues from all its members, it seemed to me a simple matter of justice that we offer a variety of benefits and opportunities, including ones that are accessible and meaningful to those who do not have the interest or opportunities to engage in academic research.Much like the “library faith” that has motivated (and has been used to motivate) generations of library employees to labor without fair compensation, some in LHRT seem to espouse a history faith that assumes that people who appreciate history will gladly donate their attention, expertise, money, and time to a historical enterprise in which others always reap the material benefits. To crib the words of Robert D. Leigh, who chaired the Public Library Inquiry in the late 1940s, some assume the intrinsic virtue of history, that reading history is good in and of itself, and that good things flow from reading history. As much as faith can sustain us, however, Leigh also noted that it “has an element of magic in words as substitutes for realities.”1 I thought a similar critique could be made of LHRT, and I believe the issue of words versus realities continues to be one of the round table’s unique difficulties. Merely allowing nonresearchers to read or listen to the work of others is not good enough, in my opinion. It does little to dismantle—and in fact, may even serve to perpetuate—hegemonies, especially classism, that were baked into librarianship and library-related scholarship from the beginning.When I was working toward my MA in American studies fifteen years ago, I learned a little about public history, and I think LHRT has enormous potential to develop a public library history alongside the academic library history on which the round table has often centered. By “public library history” I do not mean the history of public libraries, though the topic would certainly include the historical study of public libraries. Instead, I mean that LHRT could and should parallel the National Council on Public History by encompassing everyone who seeks to put history to work in librarianship, applying it to the problems we face in today’s cultural and social practices.2To be clear, I never thought LHRT was wrong to emphasize academic scholarship and I have deep respect for those who wish to contribute to our community by way of research and publication. From every position I’ve held within the round table, I’ve tried to deliver and improve upon the scholarly opportunities that LHRT was already doing well. At the same time, however, I have also tried to facilitate the journeys of new scholars who want to enter the research arena, and to offer better library history–related engagement for people who do not. Everyone has some ability to contribute to historical study and understanding of libraries, though their contributions may be different according to each person’s training, skills, and interests. It is LHRT’s responsibility to develop those abilities and facilitate those contributions.I would bet that many would assume that I would consider the creation of Libraries: Culture, History, and Society to be my greatest achievement. Some days, especially when I think of the opportunities it has provided for graduate students, other new authors, and marginalized voices, I might agree. But if I were to try to pinpoint the role where I felt the most competent and where I had the most impact, I would say it was the three terms that I served as LHRT chair (2009–2010, 2013–2014, and 2020–2021). Those years often jumble in my mind, partially because I rarely “rolled off” committee work and partially because of health issues I am now facing. But even if I can’t provide a thorough chronological account of those years, I can provide an opinion about what I believe are the most important organizational changes LHRT made. Many of them involve making the round table more accessible to all its members and to the wider public. For example, in about 2003 LHRT decided to provide free, online access to its newsletters, and while there were concerns about how this impacted our membership statistics, it began a transformation that ultimately led to the vibrant blog, LHRT News and Notes, that we have today. I personally shepherded the decision to do away with the print edition of the newsletter, which freed thousands of dollars for other initiatives. More important, when I was newsletter editor myself (about 2010–2012), I avidly encouraged people to contribute material—not just CFPs and other academic opportunities, but brief library stories they found interesting. Since Brett Spencer became the blog’s editor, he’s done a fantastic job of widening the conversation even further. I feel great joy whenever I see an author in the blog that I don’t already know.Another important development has been increasing the transparency of LHRT’s operations. Since about 2010, myself and other officers have ensured that executive committee meetings are held online, in a venue that isn’t behind ALA’s registration paywalls. In my opinion, LHRT members should never have to pay a hundred dollars or more simply to have a real-time voice in round table business. It’s been wonderful to see twenty, thirty, or more attendees in these meetings, and their presence has made officers more accountable. Providing easy entrée to our business meetings has also given nonmembers opportunities to see what LHRT is all about, and we’ve netted some great volunteers as a result.Another momentous change was offering programs beyond academic lectures and research forums. In some cases the goal was to increase the analytical capacity of new library history scholars. For example, in 2005, when the executive committee was casting around for a research forum theme, I suggested doing away with a topical focus and centering on methodology instead. In the “Untapped Treasures” panel that resulted, several speakers and I shared examples of less-commonly-used primary sources (mine was postcards showing library buildings) and the insights they could offer about library history. In other cases, the goal was to showcase how practitioners can encourage preservation and understanding of library history. For instance, in the 2009/2010 year I teamed up with leaders in the Public Library Association and ALTAFF (ALA’s former division for library trustees and advocates) to arrange an annual conference program on “Documenting and Celebrating Your Library’s History.” Library of Congress staff, an urban public library director, and an oral historian provided presentations about organizing library institutional records, mounting exhibits, and recording interviews. I recall that there weren’t as many LHRT “regulars” in the audience, but we attracted various public librarians who hadn’t even known our round table existed.During my first two terms as LHRT vice chair, chair, and past chair (about 2008–2015), I tried to build upon the round table’s well-established strengths in scholarly research and its substantial practitioner membership base. In my third term, people like Larry T. Nix (“the library history buff”) were on my mind. Could the round table offer anything rewarding to retirees and others who simply love libraries and want to learn more about their history? What sorts of programs might appeal to them, and how could we reduce their barriers to participation? While doing so, could we continue to widen opportunities for library history scholars and practitioners as well? This guided my approach in developing programs for Library History Seminar XIV, the first seminar to be held online. While the COVID-19 pandemic was the primary driver behind the change in venue, the Logistical and Technical Arrangements Committee that I led was determined to make LHS XIV the progressive event that we wanted to have, rather than a lesser version that we had to suffice with. Unlike previous seminars, registration was free. In addition to keynotes and research papers, it included how-to programs on biographical and other types of library history research. There were panels featuring journal editors, book review editors, children’s book authors, and other types of writers. There was a Collector’s Corner where anyone could show-and-tell a cherished library artifact (mine was a seventy-two-drawer Globe Wernicke card catalog that my husband and I restored). LHS XIV’s spirit of openness continues in LHRT Reads, a bimonthly book club, now run by Amanda Belantara and Michele Fenton, and I hope the round table will develop more programming along this line.Only time will tell in terms of whether these changes were as beneficial to as many people as they were intended to be. But I don’t regret trying to open LHRT’s doors a little wider. Looking ahead twenty-five years, I’d especially like to see the round table set its sights on library history as a vehicle for reconciliation, healing, and joy within our profession, doing what we can in our own corner of society to amend divisiveness, low morale, and other ills that are devastating librarianship as well as the United States more broadly. In saying this, I do not advocate that we return to what Wayne Wiegand has identified as a willful ignorance of the highly problematic roles libraries, library employees, and library associations have played in sustaining racism, sexism, classism, ableism, and other forms of prejudice, dehumanization, and segregation. Instead, my hope is that library history will continue to help us make greater sense of who we really are and propel us toward improvement. I hope understanding library history will anger us enough to take action. Also, as truth that can set us free, I hope library history will help us make peace with things that we can’t change. I hope library history will have the power to unite us in a common story. At the same time, I hope library history will make us recognize that the (one) story is a lot more complicated than we previously realized. So, although library history is certainly an intellectual endeavor, I hope it will do psychological and social work for us, for our institutions, for our profession, and for society.Many of the specifics about my years as an LHRT leader have faded from my mind, but the memories that have stayed with me are moments when our members provided intellectual, moral, or other types of support to each other. For example, I remember many times Eric Novotny shared a different perspective on an LHRT or LCHS-related problem, tempering my gut reactions and helping me to see issues with greater clarity and fairness. I remember Brett Spencer’s enthusiasm for working with new blog authors and book reviewers, giving practitioners and students writing opportunities and mentorship. I remember Joyce Latham providing helpful and encouraging advice in various peer reviews she has provided for manuscripts. I remember frank and enlightening conversations I’ve had with Nicole Cooke about the work that LCHS and LHRT need to do in terms of diversity, equity, and inclusion. I remember Don Davis’s email to Eric and me, after we published the first issue of LCHS, generously complementing our work and making me feel like less of an impostor in trying to take up some of his mantle. I remember Steve Sowards and Steve Knowlton emailing or handwriting their kudos when I did other things right. I remember Ed Goedeken doggedly gathering library history–related citations from Iowa State’s panoply of databases and publishing bibliographies so those who don’t have access could find resources. I remember Wayne Wiegand offering me a car ride from the University of Illinois Archives so I wouldn’t have to walk to the train station. I remember Elizabeth Blakesley helping me put things into perspective after she saw me get badgered while delivering a conference paper. I remember LaVerne Gray copresenting with her students at LHS XIV and the mentorship that shined through their projects. I remember Andrew Wertheimer bringing macadamia nuts to each executive committee meeting to fuel early morning deliberations. I also remember Andrew, as well as Ellen Pozzi and Tom Glynn, volunteering “in any capacity needed” for round table positions and projects, long after they did their duty as chairs. I remember Jim Carmichael sitting cross-legged on a floor in a hotel hallway, evaluating colleagues’ dossiers, crafting positive things to say about most or every one. I remember Danielle Ponton paying the dues of a member who had lost his job. I remember convivial meals I’ve had with Dominique Daniel, Michele Fenton, Melanie Kimball, and other LHRTers when I’ve visited their towns. Hopefully, I will always remember how generously LHRT colleagues responded when I announced that I needed to step down from LCHS and other committee activities. Emily Spunaugle and Amanda Belantara gathered heartfelt well-wishes from more than thirty colleagues—a “Kudoboard” that I read regularly to keep my spirits up.To me, many of LHRT’s best moments have been when our community strived to acknowledge and help the people within it. I’m very thankful that I’ve been able to be a part of that.