Arguments and Digital/Public History

The issue of credit for digital and public projects is a key and not-at-all clear one within the academy. I have long claimed that public and digital historians generally have to do double duty. We are expected to develop exhibits, web sites, and other public-facing forms of communication to engage the public and train our students. This is while still meeting the same standards for peer-reviewed scholarly publication — a book with a university press and some articles for tenure, and another book for promotion.

There are a handful of dissenters of this assessment. Mark Souther, co-creator of Cleveland Historical, disagreed in the course of a UHA roundtable on digital urban history, pointing out that selective, thoughtful strategy could allow faculty to create digital/public products and scholarly products from the same base of research material. This is true — in some cases, publishing about public engagement experience can help cover both bases, as Andrew Hurley did, for example, writing about a St. Louis neighborhood in his book Beyond Preservation. The NCPH History @ Work blog is a great resource for these kinds of debates and discussion.

But I think most public/digital history faculty generally agree that they are expected to do more. My basic reading of this is because the nature of public projects is not well understood by non-public/digital history faculty. There is a clear understanding of what a scholarly publication looks like: a work of original scholarship based on primary source research, peer-reviewed in a recognized journal within the author’s subfield or sometimes a broader, discipline-wide journal. However, the expected primary source basis for a public or digital history product and how to convey primary research is not clear. There is no consensus format for citing primary source research in an exhibit, for example. Even if there were, it would normally be inappropriate or unnecessary for a public audience. The materials we point to are often secondary sources because they are intellectually and physically far more accessible to the public/non-specialist audience than a primary source collection. This inherently obscures the original research that goes into an effort like an exhibit. The wide variety of formats (like the wide varieties of sensory perception we have and media types to engage them) also throws things into confusion for evaluation and credit. How to “read” a museum exhibit? Or a web site? Or a data visualization? Is there an introduction, body and conclusion? Is there even a narrative structure?

I don’t blame non-public historians for not getting it all. It takes special training to work with all of these — the training that public/digital historians undertake. BUT it is an expectation we must have and we must impose on non-public/digital faculty — these are the people who create the positions and hire public/digital historians to their faculty in the first place. We must not hire the faculty without developing the appropriate competencies and processes for judging them.

Another way that faculty should think about the work of public and digital historians is in terms of arguments. This is a recognizable concept for academics. Historians are making arguments all the time. We are evaluating arguments, agreeing and disagreeing and revering the quality or novelty of arguments. However, because of the limited audience for scholarly publications, we are not winning arguments. Most scholarly arguments have little impact on society because few people read them and those only specialists. This is an awful failure of the academy. Our ideas deserve greater place in civic debate.

The original historical research on the HOLC redlining maps, for example, was by Ken Jackson in a Journal of Urban History article and a Bancroft-award winning book, Crabgrass Frontier. It had some public impact, especially through other public-oriented scholars and journalists. But Mapping Inequality will likely eventually surpass the impact of the book (even while it contributes to it) by making the wide variety of HOLC materials available directly to the scholarly and non-academic public alike enhanced by an accessible interface and contextualized by minimalist, updated interpretation written for the public. The project treads with Ken Jackson’s arguments but then cuts its own interpretive path.

Public and digital historians win arguments. They conduct research and communicate it in a museum or over the web or in person to shape public understanding of a topic. They take good arguments that suffer from jargon or otherwise mediocre prose and synthesize and edit them in new ways to reach non-specialists. They build on existing arguments and find new primary source material to explore or support the argument, and they rewrite it for the public. And the public pays attention to these arguments, in a way that they do not to scholarly publications. This is what stands equal with scholarly publication — the creation a work of historical interpretation and argumentation, based on original research, with impact on society. This more generalized or abstracted way of thinking about our work builds on the importance of arguments to put public and digital work on even footing with journal publication.

NB: For reference, this is informed by the 2010 OAH/NCPH white paper on engaged scholarship. It made the case that departments should value engaged scholarship, but did not make specific recommendations for how. I saw how it was a useful for opening a conversation about credit, but not one for closing with an agreement.

Caldwell Walk — The Walk

Two colleagues agreed to walk the first half: Grace Hemmingson, a grad student, and Peter Schmitthenner, a faculty member (in both History and Religion and Culture). Another grad student, Katie Brown, wanted to walk but had a conflict, so agreed to do the last 5 miles of the walk. Mindy Quigley, a friend and the wife of a colleague, agreed to jump in for a couple miles in the second half. One more colleague, Danna Agmon, made me a period lunch based on a passage from a Laura Ingalls Wilder book — a sausage roll, a butter sandwich, apple turnovers, cookies, and apples.

Peter, Grace, and I arrived at the Cassel Coliseum parking lot to get onto the buses out to the Caldwell homestead in Craig County, which still exists. We left about 8am and I sat on the bus and talked with Mike Weaver, deputy commandant for the corps, who is a Tech alumnus and came back to VT after a life in the military and a Masters in Divinity from Duke.

Cassel buses

Caldwells had been living in the area for about a hundred years when Addison made his walk — descendants still live there now. We stopped in front of Mt. Carmel church, which was all closed up, got off the buses, and followed the cadets as they formed into two lines, one on either side of the rural road — 624. Peter knew the parts of the route — as a hiker and cyclist, he has been over all of these trails and roads many times. The weather was cool but clear and sunny. The cadets were loose and relaxed, joking with each other along the way. Their lives were going to get much better because the Fall Caldwell March marks the close of the Red Phase for freshmen, one of strict control of their lives. Peter, Grace, and I chatted about our backgrounds and generally caught up, passing the time pleasantly. The route was gently rolling, without too many big ups and downs, surrounded by farmland, for the first 3 or 4 miles. We turned onto 626, then onto State Route 42/CR 629, then stopped for a break of about ten minutes at Bethel Church. I saw one or two cadets I knew in the course of things, Grace knew several cadets from her undergrad time at VT, and Peter knew many cadets from his classes.

After a downhill walk in single file along 42, we turned off onto a farm property and the cadets got their MREs (Meals Ready to Eat, a mediocre but multi-course and portable meal), then we started the long trek up Sinking Creek Mountain. It was about a mile on the horizontal axis, but rose from 2400 to 3300 feet. The first 2/3 was grassy, so it was just a matter of walking slowly or taking a break after short segments. The moderate altitude and the steepness made everyone short of breath. About 2/3 of the way up or so we reached the edge of Jefferson National Forest and the trail turned to some loose dirt, which was hard to keep your footing on. I fell in with the first group going up, E20, who recited Jodies, military cadences, to keep their spirits up. We made it up to the top, and the Appalachian Trail followed the top of the Sinking Creek Mountain ridge. This was where everyone stopped for lunch, so we had about a half an hour to sit and eat. Peter and Grace came up with the last group — Grace had an especially heavy pack and Peter switched with her to even things out. It was cool and a little breezy, which was a nice contrast to the heavy sweating everyone did on the way up. This was about 9 or so miles in and I was feeling a little worn, but basically strong. I had a delicious lunch. The sausage roll, especially, was dynamite. The only thing missing was some coffee. (Next year remind me to swing by Idego with a Thermos in the morning.) In the month leading up, I had taken 2 ~10 mile walks with the same socks and shoes that I was using, so I was feeling pretty good. I didn’t sit down much, even on the breaks, so I didn’t stiffen up and I didn’t have any problems with blisters. One of my key worries, based on my marathon experience, was chafing, so I had made provisions by getting some body glide, an excellent and simple product.


There was some disagreement with the Jefferson National Forest where the Corps can get permission to walk in the forest with a large group, but not on the trails, on the thought that it would be too destructive to the trail. Thus, they have to blaze a new trail themselves each year. I don’t understand this and it seems like there must be something missing to the story. The takeaway is that once we started moving again, we had to veer off the trail and trek through brambles and what not, winding back and forth over spongy and rooty ground that was not very sure, and heading down at a fairly steep angle. Overall, not pleasant, and I was a little worried about rolling an ankle or slipping and banging a knee or something. I had several tiny slips, but there was one where I slipped on a steeply angled flat rock and landed on my butt, with my leg bent back. Fortunately, there were no weird forces or pressures — my weight went onto my butt, instead of onto my knee, and I didn’t hurt anything. This is a serious drawback to going with the Corps. This a nonsense solution and should not be tolerated. We got word that one cadet twisted her knee badly and limped down to the logging trail where a truck could pick her up, and was done for the day. I saw several slips and falls — fortunately, a Corps EMT was along for the trip — and there could have been much more serious injuries.

The roundabout route seemed to have put us about 45 minutes or an hour behind schedule. We had been planning to get to Caldwell Fields, on Craig Creek Rd., by about 2:30, when buses would take people back to campus. We got to Caldwell Fields about 3:00 or 3:10. Peter and Grace peeled off, we said our goodbyes, and I headed east on Craigs Creek Road for the second phase.


This route, being closer to Blacksburg, was more familiar to me and wast totally straightforward with the exception of scaling Brush Mountain. I walked solo for about an hour, texted supporters with updates when I had cell service, and listened to music. I was feeling tired but still good — no trouble spots on my body, I had drunk plenty of water throughout the day, and Craigs Creek Road was fairly deserted. It didn’t have much of a shoulder and cars were driving fast when they came through, but overall it was fine. The challenge was going to be Brush Mountain.

The Brush Mountain climb was just as high and nearly as long as Sinking Creek, but all wooded — tougher to get your bearings visually. I had found a spot to step into the woods on Google Maps that approximated the Corps’ route, so when I got there, at a crossing with Craigs Creek, I started heading south. The plan was to head due south up to the Brush Mountain ridge. I made the mistake of reading my surroundings and going a bit by feel, climbing to the top of a ridge. Once to the top, I saw a drop and another, higher ridge. These were steep, so I had to climb on all fours at times, and had to stop every three or four steps. I did this a couple times and got a bit discouraged. I could see the sun through the treetops and had a compass, but aimed roughly towards the sun to have a consistent navigation point, in the southwest at this time of about 4:30. After another ridge or two that then took me down to a little creek again, I was getting discouraged and worried. Down at the bottom of a ridge it was dark, and there were lots of fallen trees and things to twist your ankle upon. It was chilly in the shade, and I was lamenting not having a jacket (which was mostly unnecessary for the day’s hike), because what if I got lost and was out there after dark? I was cursing myself for not packing for a worst-case scenario — matches, a blanket, an extra phone battery. On one of the ridgetops I still heard a car on Craigs Creek Road and realized I had been moving too much to the west and not enough to the south. I pulled up the compass and map apps on my iPhone and, though the compass had precise position down to the second, the map app put me south of the VT airport. It did not inspire confidence. Worrying scenarios were playing out in my head. Should I press forward or head back to Craigs Creek Road? I scrutinized the topographic map again and concluded that I had been crossing a series of finger ridges that led down from the Brush Mountain ridge, and I needed to get to the top of a ridge and head due south on the ridge until I made it to the top. The way was brambly and I got quite a few scratches, some serious. There was evidence that a path had been lightly trod, but I couldn’t tell if this was by humans or animals. A due-south path made sense, but after 45 minutes in the woods I hadn’t seen another soul and was late to meet my fellow walkers. The good news was that I could see flecks of sky through the trees at the top of the ridge up ahead. It could very well be the top of Brush Mountain, or at least someplace where I could see the lower surrounding land.

I plodded on for another twenty or thirty minutes and finally came to a clearing. Just 30 feet away was a paved road. I stepped out and wondered weather it was Jefferson Forest Lane, my goal street, or if I had gotten totally turned around and was back on Craigs Creek Road. 50 meters on I saw a house and walked towards it. No one seemed to be there. A little farther on was an intersection with a street sign that was turned around. One of them was Jefferson! But which one? I looked down one road and saw buildings that had to be Blacksburg. I thought about walking down without confirming but decided on caution, not wanting to head in the wrong direction. I walked back towards the house, and saw a car come to the intersection. I flagged down the driver, asked which road was which, and where Preston Forest Rd. was. She told me, I walked a quarter of a mile on and found it, and was back on my way. I had felt tired and my legs were burning on the Brush Mountain ridges, but once I set foot on Preston Woods Drive, I knew I would make it. I reconnected with Mindy and Katie, who had arranged to wait a little bit and meet me later, but together, and after a half mile down Preston Woods Drive, Paul drove up with those two and Alice. Paul joked that the registrar’s office was closed so, unlike Caldwell, I would not be able to enroll in classes when I got to Virginia Tech. I had run out of water, so Mindy gave me some, and, in just a minute, we were happily chatting, three quarters of the whole walk done and the two hard parts in the rearview mirror.

We got to Mount Tabor Road, which was just about the only danger we faced on the whole walk. Traffic was light, but there was little to no shoulder, and of course no sidewalk, so in a couple of cases we had to really crowd against the edge of the road and hope a driver would be responsible as they came around a curve. I had brought bike lights, but it was still light enough that they wouldn’t show to drivers. After about 45 minutes or an hour, Paul and Alice pulled up to collect Mindy and gave me a Gatorade, which I downed quickly. I had a 3-liter bladder in my backpack and refilled it once during the hike, but I had anticipated one more water stop at Caldwell Fields that wasn’t there. Katie and I were about a half mile from North Main Street and started getting walking/biking paths, which tided us over until we reached the place where the sidewalk ends. The sun was setting, and that part of Main Street is bleak. We got to Patrick Henry and cut across to Giles, in order to pass my house and the Agmundzas, where Ernest was staying and ready to cheer us on. We got there with the last light, stopped and talked for about 10 minutes. I didn’t sit down because I was worried about stiffening up. When we were done catching up, Katie and I headed off into the darkness for the last half-mile to the Caldwell statue on the upper quad.

My feet were really sore and my left hip was hurting with each step, and a scratched leg was a little bloody, but I still had energy and a decent stride. It was fairly anticlimactic getting to the statue. No one was around, and since I had gotten back onto paved roads I knew I would finish, so it wasn’t too much of a relief. Katie and I took some photos with the statue, then headed off to The Cellar to meet up and debrief with Peter and Grace, which we had arranged earlier.



NOTE: My best calculations using web-based distance-measurers indicate 8.25 miles to the base of Sinking Creek Mtn, on the private farm land; 12.5 miles to Caldwell Field (possibly more based on the winding, bushwhacked path); 16.75 miles to the turn-in point for Brush Mountain; 18 miles to Jefferson Forest Rd.; and 24.5 miles to the Caldwell Statue.

Caldwell Walk — The Prelude

William Addison Caldwell

William Addison Caldwell

I first heard of Addison Caldwell’s walk when I took a Historical Methods class to the library for a tutorial on library resources. The online catalogue is named “Addison,” and the librarian made reference to the Caldwell legend. Caldwell is deemed Virginia Tech’s first student (way back when it was Virginia Agricultural and Mechanical College). He lived in Craig County and is reputed to have walked to Blacksburg to register for classes. There is a statue of Caldwell in mid-stride in VT’s upper quad near Major Williams, the home of the history department.

This intrigued me, since I am always thinking about placemaking and what makes a community special. This founding legend, like Pheidippides and the Battle of Marathon, seemed like a powerful story to tell about Virginia Tech’s service to rural Virginia, the powerful desire for education and the economic mobility it enabled, and the importance of overcoming difficulty, as Caldwell dropped out and later came back to complete his degree.

But the fundamental feature of this story to me was the walk. 26 miles (or however many we estimate it to be) was a challenging but manageable distance. I used to run marathons, so walking the same distance, even as a former runner, seemed achievable. A year ago I started looking into the possibility of this, and found some research on Caldwell, and started speculating about a route. When I found that Caldwell’s walk happened on October 1, I announced to my public history class of graduate students last fall that I was doing the walk in 2016. I learned that the Corps of Cadets does the walk in two segments as a freshman rite of passage, with the first half in the fall on the Saturday nearest October first.

One of my key concerns was finding a reasonable route that was not on highways like 460 and as little as possible over rough, untrammeled brambly forest. I wasn’t looking to kill myself, and I suspect Caldwell would have tried to take as easy a path as possible, over existing trails and dirt roads. Just as today we would drive on paved roads and highways now to get someplace far away, we wouldn’t even consider dirt roads or two-track (or going off-road) unless they were the only possible route.

A few weeks ago I got ahold of Lt. Col. Chuck Payne, deputy commandant of the Corps of Cadets, who organizes the Caldwell walk. He has the route that the cadets take each year and showed and explained the route to me. He invited me to come along with the cadets as an outreach effort, and I accepted — it seemed reasonable to see and undertake the route with the support of the Corps, at least for the first half.

The walk was on. I had about a month to get ready, including upping my walking game, and I announced my intentions to some friends and colleagues, inviting them to come along.

Blogging SACRPH (and the Academic Life)

This past Saturday I participated in a panel at SACRPH on blogging for academics. It was unfortunately fairly lightly attended, but there was a good discussion especially prompted by the commenter, Anabel Quan-Haase, who studies digital humanities centers and practitioners.

One of the things this panel illustrated for me is that academic (certainly historians’) concerns about blogging have not changed much since 2004 when I started blogging.* The main one is about taking time away from writing for publication. The second one is about putting ideas out that will be swiped by someone else. Both of these have to do with the publish or perish standard we have adopted for tenure and tenure-track positions, as well as tenure-track hopefuls. If there was a third, I would say it was about the issue of feedback and community.

This was very frustrating for me for a number of reasons. It may be that I have a dramatically different experience than many others, but my experience with blogging is that it invigorates my writing. If you want to write, you’ve got to write — in any number of venues. The times that I am too busy to blog are the times that I am too busy to write. And related to this, for historians at least, is the notion that the writing for publication you are doing is so important. It’s not. Work on your book. Your articles are nice, but they don’t make a career or an intellectual legacy. You’ve probably got to get one out to be taken seriously on the job market, and a couple related to each book project would be nice in order to do promote the book and do something with all of the material you get, but really anything beyond that (maybe 3) will probably see diminishing returns. This is of course different for social scientists.

Maybe even more frustrating for me was the idea of the scarcity of time and the implications about the academic lifestyle. I estimated, even in my most intensive publication-writing periods, about an hour a day of ACTUAL WRITING — fingers on the keys and words on the page. Over the course of a seven-day week, I’d say that’s about right. I MIGHT put that up to two hours if I were only looking at weekdays. During the week I am putting in 7-8 hour days,** but there is a lot of reading, searching for articles and books, working with data, scrutinizing maps, photos and other visual material. All of this might be seen as taking away from WRITING, as well, but you of course see that it is what makes the writing possible and high-quality. And I’m on leave. During a teaching semester I also have to make power points, grade papers, read and write about topics for classes, etc., and then there is committee/service work. There is a ton of stuff to do.

But the point is, you CANNOT let that lower priority stuff overtake your top priority. In an academic-publication sense, the top priority should be your book. But that’s not the real top priority. The real top priority is your overall well-being, a happy family/personal life, and enjoyment of your position in an affluent society with a time-flexible profession. I hope anyone who reads this and is considering an academic career holds this top priority. If you don’t, you are going to be miserable and you should not get into the profession. Work will take everything you give it and want more. And then more. And then more. And people will see how much you get done and want you to do MORE! And you cannot let this happen. If you are not taking time for your family and consuming healthy food and getting exercise and enjoying the daylight hours, you would probably be better off in an 8 to 5 job where at least you would be able to leave work at the office.

In an affluent society, people with our skills should use their work to find the highest level of personal fulfillment and well-being possible. Your scholarly productivity should be part of that! I get a lot of fulfillment and enjoyment from my research and I also believe it is and will be beneficial for society. But I’m not going to make myself miserable doing it and neither should you (accepting there will be some hard days). If you’ve got something to say that isn’t right for a journal, blog it! And then go take a walk. And get an ice cream cone. And then come back to the office and work on your new article idea. But God, I would hate to think all of these people with great jobs were making themselves miserable rather than enjoying it and were only thinking about what they HAD to do rather than what they WANTED to do.

As usual, SACRPH (and a conference trip) was invigorating. Quan-Haase’ comments were well structured, in contrast to the fairly loose presentations I and others made, which was a nice counterweight to tie certain threads together. Perhaps more soon.

*As a side note, I remember doing introductions in a grad class with Matt Lassiter where there were a couple Masters of Urban Planning students in addition to the usual PhD students (I was doing both a PhD and MUP and so straddled these worlds). The MUP students all had blogs and talked them up, but I was really ashamed when Brandon Zwagerman mentioned my blog because I was so oriented to the traditional standards and values of PhD programs. Fortunately, Lassiter was quite tolerant, even enthusiastic about the work and potential of bloggers, which is just one of the reasons he was such a great influence.

**The time I can spend on work is limited/enabled by being a single parent. There were periods, especially as a candidate and before my son was born, when I didn’t go outside (or hardly even move) during a 16-hour day and those were effing MISERABLE. So being a single parent is hard and can seem limiting, but it is so much better than being an isolated hermit who dedicates every waking hour to work.

Great Depression Higher Education Enrollment

Something just clicked for me in a new way. I have been saying in my book, Building the Ivory Tower, that the economic collapse of the Great Depression prompted a crisis for higher education, as well. This is not a revolutionary idea, indeed it’s well accepted. However, in making this claim I wanted to illustrate the changes with some hard data. Turning to one of my favorite quantitative sources, the Historical Statistics of the United States, 1 I put together the following chart:

Ignore the scale on the x-axis. Data is spotty the earlier you go, but in the relevant period, post-1919, the data is for every 2 years.

You can see that there was declining growth in enrollment from 1929 to 1931 and then a pretty significant drop from 1931 to 1933. The numbers go from 1,101k in 1929 to 1,154k in 1931, then to 1,055k in 1933. That’s about a 9 percent drop from 1931 to 1933 — and that’s a crisis, as any admissions director could tell you. But we have to think like the administrators of the time, who were looking at average yearly growth of 50k per year from 1919 (598k) to 1929 (1,101k). With a decade-long trend like that, administrators must have been expecting a continuing trend of growth, much as stock watchers and general business enthusiasts were predicting in the period. So to go from 50k growth per year to 50k drop per year in the course of a couple years must have been gut-wrenching.

It means that not only was there the absolute decline from 1931 to 1933, there was the enrollment gap, much like the output gap we see economists looking at in recessions. This would be the difference between actual student enrollment compared to what had been going on (and expected) over the course of the last decade. Projecting 50.3k growth from 1929 to 1933 — just continuing the average yearly growth of the preceding decade — would have yielded 1,302k students in 1933. And the real numbers, 1055k in 1933, are more than 18% below trend — the enrollment and institutions the administrators would have thought they were going to have in 1933. And that’s an even bigger crisis than I realized.

The story isn’t all bad — you can see in the above chart that higher education eventually did nearly make up the gap over the course of the 1930s, reaching enrollment of 1,494k in 1939 (vs projected 1,604k, or 6.7% below trend).

And then there was World War II.

  1. Data comes from Table Bc523 of the HSUS.

FHA Underwriting Manual

This summer I was reading Louis Hyman’s Debtor Nation when I came across a surprising reference to the FHA Underwriting Manual developed in the 1930s advising mortgage lenders that college campuses were an excellent buffer for good neighborhoods against infiltration by lower class and racially diverse residents, so the presence nearby was a good factor in the security rating system (the “redlining” maps). I had never thought to look at the Underwriting Manual and so immediately tried to find one on the web. Being that it was a government-produced document I was also surprised to find that it was difficult to find one on the web. Google Books has only digitized a 1958 version of the manual and will only make it available in their Snippet View. This was aggravating. I went to HathiTrust and found a scanned document there I could look at, but it was in terrible shape.

This spurred me to action. I have always been very happy to find an easily accessible text/HTML version of the Port Huron Statement right here for the last 10 years or so, and I figured the historians of the world could use the same for the underwriting manual. As an assignment in my undergrad Digital History course I had students clean up the OCR’ed pdfs of the manual, then use an HTML editor to make the Web version look more or less like the book, but without the artifacts of the printed book, like page headers or forced text wrap.

Feel free to read or link or download the April 1936 version of the underwriting manual here.

An increasing number of historians are creating or accumulating digital archives and sources as part of their research. I think it’s incumbent on us to put all the stuff we can out on the web — the public domain stuff is a no-brainer and I think a good bit can be shared under fair use (e.g. with some interpretation). You don’t have to make a wiz-bang site to make materials available (though I recommend just about everyone develop their own professional/personal site). Maybe just a simple Omeka installation can do the trick.

Historian’s Road Trip

This summer my family took a road trip out to the western Chicago suburbs to support some research I have been doing on the creation of Argonne National Laboratory.

Argonne was located near Lemont along the Illinois and Michigan Canal because it offered large space for development and was proximate to Chicago by car owing to U.S. 66 nearby.

My interest was in getting a sense of this area when Argonne was being scouted and opened, and what the towns were like — particularly Lemont, Naperville, and Downers Grove. I decided we would take the Illinois WPA guide, produced only about a decade before the site selection, to help us understand what was there and appreciate what had grown. As you might imagine, there was quite a bit of growth, befitting communities described by historian Michael Ebner as “boom burgs.”

DOWNERS GROVE, 11.2 m (717 alt., 8,977 pop.), incorporated in 1873, was named for its founder, Pierce Downer, who emigrated from Rutland, Vermont, in 1832. He settled at the intersection of two Potawatomi trails, between what are now Oakwood and Linscott Avenues, and Grant and Lincoln Streets. The exact site is marked by the DOWNER MONUMENT, which consists of a bronze tablet imbedded in a granite boulder from the foundation of Downer’s barn.

Maple Avenue today

Downers Grove, a commuting suburb, has quiet shaded streets; Maple Avenue (47th St.) is bordered with century-old maples planted by settlers in hope of obtaining a sugar supply. The necessity for the local production of sugar had been overcome by the time the trees matured, and they were never tapped.

The Avery Coonley Experimental School

The AVERY COONLEY EXPERIMENTAL SCHOOL (visiting by appointment), 1400 Maple St., is nationally known among educators. Opened in 1911 with two free kindergartens, it now includes the elementary grades. Teaching methods are based on the theory outlined in Education Moves Ahead, by Eugene Randolph Smith, president of the Progressive Education Association.

The highway skirts the northern limited of NAPERVILLE 18.7 m (693 alt., 5,118 pop.). Shortly after the first settlers immigrated her in 1831 the Black Hawk War forced them to flee to Fort Dearborn. Returning with a company of volunteers, they built a stockade known as Fort Payne in June 1832. The settlement profited from the caravans of covered wagons rolling west from Fort Dearborn, and by 1833 its population numbered 180.

The first settler in Du Page County was Bailey Hobson, who staked his claim in 1830, returned the following year, and established a grist mill. In 1832 came Joseph Naper, who built the first saw mill and platted the town site. Naperville became county seat in 1839, a distinction it retained until 1868 when Wheaton ended a long legal dispute by forcibly removing the records.

Reconstruction of Pre-Emption House

The most famous of the old buildings in Naperville is the PREEMPTION HOUSE, northeast corner S. Main St. and Chicago Ave., a two-story frame structure of Greek Revival design built in 1834. For years it was the most renowned tavern in the region; it is now occupied by a saloon.

Former site of the Robert N. Murray House

Other buildings of Naperville’s early years are…the ROBERT N. MURRAY HOUSE (private), 215 N. Main St., a one-story frame structure with an excellent doorway of Greek Revival design…

Site of the old Bailey Hobson Town House

The richest historically of Naperville’s old houses is the BAILEY HOBSON TOWN HOUSE (private, except to teachers and students of history), 506 S. Washington St. Built in the 1840’s, the two-story frame structure, houses a large library and a wealth of early records and pioneer furnishings.

Old Main at North Central

NORTH CENTRAL COLLEGE, School Ave. and Brainard St., a co-educational institution maintained by the Evangelical Church, was founded at Plainfield in 1861. In 1870 the college was moved to Naperville, occupying the north and central sections of OLD MAIN, a limestone structure of Italian Gothic design. The average enrollment of the college is 500.

Kroehler Furniture Manufacturing in Naperville

The KROEHLER COMPANY MAIN PLANT (tours arranged by application in advance), between Ellsworth and Loomis Sts., was established here as the Naperville Lounge Factory and is now one of the world’s largest manufacturers of upholstered furniture. [From Tour 13]

Downtown Lemont, IL

LEMONT, 26.9 m (605 alt., 2,582 pop.), an old towpath town, raises its hill-crowned head amount the trees. [From Tour 22]

The Power Elite

A brief foray into the collections of the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library brought two minor surprises today, both from his pre-presidential papers.

While he was a senator, Kennedy was a member of the Senate Committee on Banking and Currency, which included responsibility for federal housing legislation. In my JPH article on the University of Chicago, I argue that Julian Levi coordinated the lobbying effort for the Section 112 credits program, created with the Housing Act of 1959, and he and Lawrence Kimpton led the heads of AAU institutions in working on members of the Senate committee. Prescott Bush was from Yale, John Kennedy went to Harvard, Joseph Clark went to Harvard (and Penn for law), Paul Douglas had been a UChicago professor and gotten his PhD from Columbia, so there was a good deal of affinity between the universities and the committee. I differed with Margaret O’Mara in Cities of Knowledge, who gave credit to Joseph Clark (a former Philly mayor), though he was certainly involved in the effort to pass the provision and legislation.

Today I was making a quick assessment of some of the Kennedy files on Harvard and realized that not only was he an alumnus, but that he was a member of the Board of Overseers, the governing body for the institution. (See these materials from the Board of Overseers dinner at the White House in 1963, when Kennedy rotated off the board). So it would not simply have been a love for his alma mater, but Kennedy also had a duty to protect and promote the interests of Harvard as a governing member of the institution. So this was new information to me. Lo and behold, Joseph Clark, Jr., was also a member of the Board of Overseers. As was David Rockefeller, a longtime supporter of the University of Chicago (as a member of the Rockefeller family, he carried on the family’s continuing relationship with the institution) and urban renewal advocate for Columbia University (as head of Morningside Heights, Inc.) Rockefeller, you’ll see in the linked Kennedy documents, was seated next to the President at the White House dinner.

In some sense, I had reckoned with the possibility in which a body constituted for a certain purpose could serve another — for example, how the Senate Committee might serve the interests of higher education institutions because of individuals’ loyalty to their alma mater. And by that, I don’t mean a simple “boola boola” kind of loyalty, but a commitment to the ideals and goals of higher education, as individuals who had benefited from them. However, I had not really grappled with the possibility that a body like Harvard’s Board of Overseers could, it seems, serve as a gathering place for one purpose and a meeting ground for sympathetic individuals to discuss some measures from a quite different institution — that Clark or Kennedy or Rockefeller might be talking about the Housing Bill before a Board of Overseers meeting or be highly inclined to support it because of the web of interlocking commitments that policy elites had, but it makes sense and I think speaks to the hegemony of American elites at mid-century and higher education institutions’ roles in creating and recreating that hegemony.

Second interesting tidbit: Kennedy was on the Astronomy committee of the Board of Overseers. This makes almost obvious sense, but staffers at the LBJ library have claimed NASA and a great deal of credit for space development and exploration for Johnson — eg, why Mission Control is in Houston. Perhaps a longer Kennedy trip is in the offing.

The Kennedy library, by the way, has a great reading room, a really helpful staff, and seems like a great place to do research, even though it’s a bit difficult to get out to.

Using a Wiki to Keep Notes

Murph, a friend of mine from graduate school, used to take notes on a wiki on his personal site, Common Monkeyflower. I was damned impressed and tried to implement a wiki on the cheap for a few years, to no avail. I probably should have just used one of the Scratchpad ones, but I wanted it all on my UMich IFS space (not possible), or on my own domain (took some service upgrades). I was reminded recently how useful this really is and could have been if I had implemented it sooner. After a long hiatus on my University of Chicago archival research, I had to plumb the depths of my memory to recall the changing cast of administrators and their eras in understanding the relationship between the faculty, university housing and real estate policy, urban renewal activities, and the broader Chicago milieu. Not an easy task — who was Warner Wick, for example? (Dean of Students in the early 1960s).

So I have started using my wiki to keep notes on the figures that I read about in the archives and making links between them in the wiki pages. In some ways this simply performs the same function as taking copious handwritten notes — physical action reinscribing the information in order to mentally sort and remember it better. But since so much of the research process is going digital, it makes sense to take this process digital, too. Now, I can access it almost anywhere I want, can make it publicly visible, and don’t have to be encumbered by notebooks, along with the ability to link one piece of information to another.

In some cases I still do take handwritten notes (in meetings, for example), but I have also started using the wiki for taking notes on books I am reading.

NOTE on nuts and bolts: I have hosting and domain registration through IPOWER, which started out somewhat affordable, but which I might move sometime in the near future. 1 database and 1 domain is about 70 dollars a year. Now I have upgraded to 6 databases and that runs about another $60 a year. I’d recommend using DreamHost, which offers unlimited databases and domain registration for about 80 dollars a year. I use the MediaWiki software, which requires php5 on the back end, and which has become the standard the last few years.

Grad School Admissions

I sit on the graduate studies committee in the History Department at Virginia Tech and we went through graduate admissions recently.

Based on that experience, I offer some advice for students applying to this kind of program, a mid-level MA at a fairly robust university:

Test Scores: There are a variety of attitudes about GREs. For many, GREs are of high importance since they are the only equivalent measure among students and disciplines. However, they are clearly problematic and in no way objective measures of ability or potential. For the most part, GREs are a kind of gateway or early filter for the application pile — your GREs have to meet a certain baseline number, but it is unlikely that it will get you in or be a decisive factor.

Personal/Research Statement: This is not a personal or autobiographical statement, whatever it is called. Grad admissions committees don’t particularly care about your personal story — that’s something undergrad admissions people look for. We do not want to hear how you have always loved history. We also do not want to know how you always wanted to become a history professor. The former means you have not been adequately challenged in your undergrad career and you don’t really understand what the intellectual work of a historian is about. The latter means you do not really understand what the job a history professor is about — there are few jobs, they are highly demanding, and things are getting worse.

What do we want to hear about in your statement? Your research interests and an analysis of the topic you want to study. This is more or less a research statement and should be written as such. You might include a few details about how you became interested in the topic (a professor’s course or a study abroad experience), but the point is you have to show that you are already prepared to do the intellectual work required in graduate school. Always be preparing for the next stage. Also, make some reference to members of the faculty you would be interested in working with and why — tell them why that department is the right place for you.

Letters of Recommendation: There is often a tradeoff or sliding scale between the prominence of the letter writers and the detail and amount of positive material they provide about you. A baseline for a strong application — three letter writers who are visiting assistant professors or tenure track professors (ie engaged in a research trajectory), with whom you have taken two classes each (and done well), and with one of whom you worked on an intensive, high-level research project like an undergrad thesis, a significant independent study, or some kind of capstone seminar. These people will have position in the field, a meaningful gauge of your research prospects, and the ability to write well about you. If this is not possible (and for all but honors college students or students at small liberal arts colleges, it is likely not), you will have some decisions to make. It is almost always better to have a letter from a tenure track faculty member than from a graduate student, even a candidate who taught his or her own course. The only exception is if the tt faculty member would write less than a page about you. An adjunct letter writer would not hurt you, for example, if they are a practicing professional at something and you are going into a professional program, like public history or museum studies. Much of this kind of information — what kind of letter-writer is senior professor so-and-so? — is not really available to undergraduates. What to do? Talk to your advisor (and if you don’t have an advisor who is your strong advocate, you might want to reconsider grad school) and ask about the people you are thinking of asking to write for you. Without getting into department politics, your advisor should be able to gently steer you to a good set of letter writers and away from any problem professors.

Writing Sample: You have to illustrate three things: you know how to work with archival or other primary source material; that you have read the relevant literature; and, ideally, that you understand how those works were shaped by intellectual forces and responded or revised the subfield. This paper has to be sharp, and will have to impress quickly, so take as many revisions as necessary. It is not necessary that this paper be the one you got the highest grade on — you may have had a great idea and project that just couldn’t come together and flopped, but it still has that top-side potential if you put a month or two of work into it. If you have an undergrad thesis, one of the chapters would be a good writing sample. Also, make sure you have structured the paper and writing well, so that it can be skimmed and evaluated quickly by the committee. Tighten up the prose and excise rambling digressions.

And good luck!

*Note, this is not advice for those applying to PhD programs. Some of the principles are the same, but in that case the grain is much finer and there is less room for error.