Tracy Revels

Historical Halloween

When most people think about history happening in their lifetime, they think of big political changes, elections, wars, natural disasters, etc.  As a historian, I keep up with all those things (at least in theory) but the little things that I've observed in my personal history, out of the forty years I can remember, strike me as being worth a moment's thought.

Halloween has gone through changes that I've witnessed.  Of course, we did celebrate Halloween when I was a kid (and no, we weren't burning witches at the stake, I'm not THAT old!) but it was nowhere near the event that is is today.  I recall watching a 'children's costume parade' through downtown Madison, Florida, but the costumes were homemade, which meant a bed sheet with eye holes cut out or the ever-popular 'hobo' which was nothing but a collection of over sized clothes and a dirty face.  A few kids sported 'store-bought' costumes from the aisle at Pic-N-Save.  These disguises consisted of a hard plastic mask and a hospital style smock on which the clothing of some popular character (Superman, Wonder Woman, etc.) was crudely stamped.  The mask would never pass safety standards today, and I doubt that any discriminating modern child would accept the tissue-thin 'dress' with plastic ties that formed most of the costume.  Living in the country, trick-or-treating meant a quick trip to two neighbors' houses and then home; I never got to ramble around the block or throw eggs at anybody.  For me, the biggest treat of Halloween was the school carnival, with the cakewalk, the apple bobbing, and the 'fish pond' where one would cast a line behind a sheet and pull it out to discover a Crackerjack box prize attached.  I may have graying hair, but I can still remember the childish thrill of feeling a bite on that line.

Somewhere at home is a picture from grade school of me in the most elaborate Halloween costume I ever had.  I was lucky in that my mother sewed, so my little outfits were more than a step above the dime store displays.

The sad thing was that I didn't want to be a witch or a ballerina---I insisted on being Martha Washington.  Don't ask me why, I don't know, but there I was in the 18th century gown with my powdered hair in a bun.  I guess I was a weird, historically-warped child.

When I look around now, I'm stunned by how elaborate Halloween has become.  Instead of choosing between a ghost, a superhero, or a mummy, kids can be all manner of imaginative creatures and costume shops spring up in every mall to cater to childish and adult whimsy.  Even Wal-Mart (the modern Pic-N-Save) devotes multiple aisles to decorations, candy, and party favors.  Many of the houses in the neighborhoods near Wofford are covered in spider webs or turned out to resemble pirate ships.   The gas station by my house is creepy and festive; next to the cashier is an animated gypsy's head floating inside a crystal ball.  Needless to say, I'm not going back there until the holiday is over!

Even Wofford is more in the Halloween spirit than it ever used to be, with a fraternity hosting a haunted house for charity and the Theater Department offering a Halloween-themed play.

I like Halloween because I enjoy the creativity it brings out in people.  I expect some of that will be on display tonight at a faculty professor's party.  The last time I went to a costume function, I went as Lizzie Borden (complete with 'bloody' ax) and hardly anybody knew who I was.  To bad I don't still fit into that Martha Washington get-up!

Happy Birthday Dr. Abercrombie

A big happy b-day wish to Wofford's favorite herpetologist!  And many thanks to Dr. Stacey Hettes for organizing the surprise dinner at Five Spices Indian Restaurant, where colleagues and a former student gathered in celebration.

And just so you'll know, the fellow in the last picture (Dr. G.R. Davis) ate three helpings of dessert!

Cornbread, Sushi, and Sunshine

One of the greatest privileges of teaching that I've enjoyed is getting to teach someone else's class.  It's fun--it's usually a guest spot so I feel really special--and it gives me a chance to interact with many students I wouldn't meet otherwise.  I suppose it's a bit like being an aunt; I get to have fun with the 'nieces and nephews' but then mom and dad (or in this case the class professors) have the hard work of giving grades.

On Tuesday I attended Professor Trakas and Professor Lane's class called "Cornbread and Sushi."  It's a course that explores what it means to be a Southerner, and how our regional identity is shaped.  The question under consideration on Tuesday was 'is Florida a Southern state?'  Geography provides a simple conclusion, but the cultural answer is much more complex.  It's yes (in terms of history) and no(in terms of how outsiders view the state).  We had a wonderful hour talking about tourism and economic development, and how what is 'unreal' about Florida shapes the state's reality.  It was some pretty heady stuff!

I'm so envious of this group of students because they get to continue their explorations into Southern culture on a travel interim and they will be journeying through Florida in January.  If I was free this interim, I'd be at home to meet them and offer them, maybe not sushi, but some grits and bacon and a glimpse of the real Florida that I know, where both good and bad elements of the  Old South live and Mickey is somebody's first cousin, not the local mouse.

In Memory

Wofford College lost one of its legends this weekend with the passing of Dr. Larry T. McGehee.  A longtime administrator, he was better known to the students for his seminar on American Religion.  The class combined readings, discussions, and field trips to different types of worship services, plus a good meal at the end of each session.  I was privileged to be a guest once, and I sensed that Dr. McGehee enjoyed it when I tried to point out to students that there was a bit of a contradiction in their position that women were fine as ministers, but would be unacceptable as chaplains at Wofford!Dr. McGehee enjoyed a good debate and lively conversation.  He always reminded me of some of my favorite professors from FSU, who combined a love of learning with the gentility and graciousness of true Southerners.

I know this must be an especially difficult time for his former students, and cuts the deepest for those who took his course just last spring.  A number of them were history majors and I usually got to hear about whatever they were discussing in class.  It was a course they looked forward to attending every week; that can't be said of every seminar conducted at Wofford.  And I know that Dr. McGehee eagerly anticipated seeing them.

Losing a beloved teacher is a very hard thing.  In a certain way, we expect our teachers to live forever, and in a certain way they do, every time we act on the things they taught us.

The Break Before The Break

I suppose I took Fall break pretty seriously, in that I didn't do any blog posts or grading.  I was delighted when I heard one of my students declare "even professors need breaks too."  There's a young person who is destined for a good grade!

On Thursday before the break, some members of a special Wofford 'club'---OK, just the group of us who regularly sit on the benches during lunch---gathered for a cookout.  Dr. G.R. Davis and Dr. Doug Rayner proved to be great chefs for hot dogs, and the weather cooperated by being clear and crisp but not too cold.  As the native Floridian in the tribe, I fear my days for outside lunches are numbered unless someone starts bringing an outside heater or Wofford springs for a fire pit.

I sometimes wonder if other professors and other schools do this kind of thing.  I suspect they do, but I also like to think that there's something very special about our brand of professorial fellowship.

Thanks to Mark Olenckifor this picture!  From left to right are Dr. David Kusher, myself, Dr. Gerald Thurmond, and Dr. John Moeller.  But it's the grill that really steals the show!

Halloween Heroine?

Here's another good reason to have students---they're full of creative ideas.  While chatting with several Western Civ. students before class today, I asked them what they thought I should do for a Halloween costume.  We have a faculty party coming up, and my last costume (Lizzy Borden) didn't go over so well---only the other American historian in the crowd knew who I was supposed to be.  I didn't want to fall back on my suffragette costume either.  I'd considered going as the crazy old maid with a basket full of cats, but that feels uncomfortably like a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Two of the young ladies in the class suddenly shouted "You should go as Hermione!  From the Harry Potter books!"

They were utterly appalled with me when I confessed that I had never read the books nor seen the movies.  I must be the only person in the planet with absolutely no knowledge of the Harry Potter universe.  In fact, I had to later ask some friends about it, and they assured me that the students' suggestion was a compliment.  But then they were stunned---"What do you mean you've never read the Harry Potter books????"

And I bet I will get some comments on this blog asking me the same thing.

Maybe I better just go as a pirate.  I do have a hat with my name on it!  See?

View this photo

To Be 91

My grandmother, Marjorie Zipperer, turned 91 years old today!  It amazes me to think what her life has been like, what she's seen.  She was born before women had the right to vote.  She was a young woman during the Great Depression and a new mother at the outbreak of World War II.  She saw her home state of Florida change from a semi-frontier, a very backward part of the South, into a modernized region that most people don't even consider "Southern."  When she started housekeeping as a young bride, she had no running water, no indoor plumbing, and no electricity.  Her granddaughter can barely use a microwave, but Marjorie knew how to clean fish, how to can all manner of fruits and vegetables, and even how to skin squirrels.  The skills she possessed as a young woman were virtually identical to the abilities that ladies in the antebellum period were required to utilize.  Had my grandmother been transported back in time even to the Colonial Era, she would have managed, whereas I can't envision functioning without  a cell phone.

My grandmother's prime was very different emotionally as well.  She never thought of anything besides marriage and her family; she worked briefly with the NYA during the Depression and part-time for a few years in a stockyard office, but she had no ambitions for a career.  Despite her own lack of a higher education, however, she insisted that both her daughters go on to school and plan on supporting themselves.  My mother attended business college and has been a book-keeper for almost 50 years; my late aunt had a PHD in education.

I sometimes wonder, if I live to be 91, what changes I will see.  When I started college, nobody I knew used a computer. When I wrote my dissertation, a computer was (for me) only a glorified typewriter, and the internet did not exist.  Considering how rapidly these things have changed, I wonder what the next 46 years might hold.

I just hope that the stock market won't crash so badly that I'm still working at Wofford when I'm 91!

Doesn't That Hurt?

I went to my very first soccer game last night.  I've never seen soccer in real life, only on television and then only for a few minutes.  Where I grew up, our sports were more along the lines of...well...nothing.  And since I don't have a small child (isn't enrolling a kid in a soccer league one of the requirements of parenthood these days?) I really have no experience as a spectator of this very active game.

And I was utterly appalled.  Not by the players, I must stress----they were all great, very athletic and agile.  What got me was the sound that is made when a player hits the ball with his head.  As I told my students, it just resonated as so incredibly painful that I was biting my nails, scared to death something awful was about to happen to one of them.  Since I don't have children, I suspect that whatever maternal feelings I have get directed to the students.  Watching them be kicked and knocked around---without wearing huge pads and big helmets!---not to mention constantly banging the ball against their skulls, was just more than I could take.  I wondered how any of them would avoid getting their brains scrambled before the midterm.

My students assured me today that they were all OK.  In fact, they made quite a point of bragging about how rough and tough they are, ready to play anybody and still ace their exams.  I won't doubt them, but I still don't think I can go and watch them play; or at least if I do, I'll need to go and sit very high in the stands and maybe keep my iPod on the whole time.  I really do want to support the Terriers, but being that close to the action just made me realize what a non-athletic bubble I live in.

Of course, my lady volleyball player insisted that I should come to their games, that volleyball players are the best athletes, able to take the most physical punishment!  At which point my football player rolled his eyes and I thought we were about to introduce a whole new sport---American History Class Oneupmanship---into the Wofford arena.  As long as nobody gets hurt, that's OK by me.

Are We What We Wear?

I had an intriguing lunch conversation today.  We were talking (in a roundabout way) about fashion and what clothes mean, and how men and women view the meaning of clothing in such different ways.  (Let me point out for the record that I was the only woman at the table and therefore had to carry the banner for my entire sex, but since two of the gentlemen in the discussion are fathers of college-age daughters, they did have a certain insight into the subject.)

They insisted that men do not notice what other men wear and were amazed that women 'check out' other women.  Of course, women are socialized this way and men are not---I would also argue that women view clothes and 'looking good' as a way of competing with women, whereas men think in terms of other things (like their cars, boats, and  sports 'toys') as being the best way to compete against their fellows.  This is a pretty broad generalization, however----there are plenty of women who couldn't care about clothes, who chose to wear whatever is handy, comfortable, or cheap, as well as men who sweat every decision about a tie, shoes, or belt.

But clothes talk whether we want them to or not.  There's a certain style of professor who will never be spotted on campus without a coat and tie.  And there's another kind of professor who one can't imagine in anything but work boots.  We have breezy poets and denim-clad rebels and true hipsters right here on campus---it's hard to imagine a real college without that delightful mix of male professorial 'types' who are immediately identifiable by their plumage.

Perhaps we female faculty members are lucky in that the 'types' have not been firmly established for us.  I remember attending my very first history conference over twenty years ago and spotting only a half dozen women at the meeting. I wondered what we were supposed to look like, if there was a certain dress code for professorial women, and I hoped it wasn't what I saw on the very few ladies in attendance (i.e. wrinkled at the ankle hose and dresses that my great-grandmother would have adored!).

Naturally, today's lunch table discussion turned (as all things seem to these days) to politics, as one of our group mentioned that his wearing of a 'Southern' suit (made of seersucker material) had led to people in Boston automatically assuming he was very conservative in his political allegiances.  And everyone had observations about Governor Sarah Palin, from her hairstyle to her glasses and skirts.  I asserted that in no way are these things random---someone is advising her to present a certain image via her clothing, one carefully chosen to contrast with other women in politics.

And I want everyone to know---I had my red high heels long before anyone had ever heard of Sarah Palin!  I do not want to be mistaken for one of her fans, but I refuse to stop wearing my favorite shoes--if anyone asks, she is copying me.

Priceless

Mr. Bill Grice, the office manager of our physical plant, has been passing along to me a number of historical artifacts.  Mr. Grice is a very modest man who describes himself as someone who just likes "old stuff."  Historians are, of course, fascinating by antiques and especially by old documents, no matter how seemingly trivial.

One of the real highlights of Mr. Grice's collection is a last will and testament, from Orange County, North Carolina.  It was made on September 20, 1758.  In it, a man named Nathaniel Peak, "being very sick and weak as to my body but of perfect mind and memory" bequeaths a small inheritance, a "mare and colt and a cow and a calf" to each of his two young sons, "to be delivered to him when he is of age."  The document was witnessed by four people.  Only one of them could write, the other three placed their marks on the page.  One of the witnesses was a woman.

It's a small document, but it's still an amazing thing.  The calligraphy of the period is full of elaborate swirls and flourishes.  The language is familiar, the document has even been folded the way modern wills are.  As one reads the single page, one wonders about Mr. Peak.  How old was he?  Was he a farmer and exactly how much property did he have; was there really enough to pay "all my lawful debts"?  Was he a widower---there's no mention of a wife in the will.  Who were the witnesses---were they friends and neighbors, rich or poor?  One wonders how many hands this scrap of yellowed paper has passed through on its long journey to my office.  Mr. Grice had carefully preserved it between sheets of glass, so it was easy for me to take it to class yesterday and allow my students to handle it.  We're still in the eighteenth century in 201, so it was perfect timing.

I enjoyed watching the students' reaction to the will.  Some were confused by the handwriting, brought it close to their noses to try to decipher.  Others were immediately curious as to how wills in this era were filed, and what made them official.  But most of the students were simply excited to be able to hold a piece of paper that was literally older than their country.

My soapbox slogan is "your old stuff is treasure!"  Those letters that grandpa wrote to grandma from World War II, that railroad watch which doesn't run anymore, the pitcher and washstand that once resided in a plantation bedroom---these things are important, and not just for what they might fetch at an antiques dealership.  The look of wonder they can evoke---the sudden burst of enthusiasm from a student who suddenly feels like the past isn't locked away in a book, but right in her hands---well, like the old mastercard advertisement says, that's priceless!

And so are people like Mr. Grice who hang on to these little scraps and bits of history, and then share them with others.  They're priceless too.