change...

After a long challenge, not even a challenge really, we decided to change our interview. So far, we have completed so much more than we probably would have gained with the Day's, but even now, as we have done our preliminary interview with the Strong couple, i've realized there is a greater comfort level between this couple and the last.

His stories could go on forever. He doesn't hesitate to speak. So far just getting to know him, he has a great sense of his history and the area, as well as stories that are just too great to pass on.
I'm actually excited to go back and start recording this afternoon. The recording was a little hesitant, but I think he will do fine.

Hope for the best is all I can say...

Distance, Spatiality, and Disciplinarity

So I'm reading here in James Clifford's book Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late 20th Century about a slow dissolution of the borders between, on one hand, "real" "academic" ethnography, that is, field-work professionals collecting stories that are outside the researcher's purview (and comfort zone) and presenting/processing them for use by others - and engaging informants/interviewees in familiar places - "communities one wants not to leave" (84). The idea of distance - physical, economy, emotion, ethnicity, ethnic, age - is an intriguing one; do we need distance in order to be effective fieldworkers (why is it called, after all, fieldwork? We leave the comforts of home and go "out" into the "field" and bring something "back"?)? In traditional academic discourse, the home-based researcher - the local historian, the informant - is often marginalized and separated from the discipline that s/he is really central to. Why is it, then, that local informants become "subjects" for observation rather than bona fide experts in their own right? Kamela Visweswaran makes an interesting argument for calling "fieldwork" "homework" for this particular reason - specifically with respect to emphases on women's domesticity. How can we engage these issues of center/margin, home/field, and informant/interviewer in a meaningful way?

Mmm, butter

The secret to anything delicious, is fat. The same concept holds true for stories. While seeking the truth in a story or interview is an honorable ambition, I personally would find the end result rather tough to chew unless it was accompanied by sentiment, feeling and above all, humour.
In our interview with Carol we had plenty of time to fidget with the equiptment, but I also found myself staring at the walls in the store and finding something of a history in their dusty sheen. The wall to my back was decorated with the fronts of old wooden boxes that boasted of what was once their contents, among them were pepsi and explosives. Cobwebs were convienently located in any corner and cranny with the occupents mercilessly eyeing the fat and laggard cluster flies that in turn eyed our plateful of cookies.
The walls in Carols store tell a story of their own as does the uneven and creaking wooden floor. The general store, its walls, floors and contents are all being sold back into the hands of people that had once owned it some time before Carol called it her own.
When Carol would return to the interview, after helping her customers, she would take up the newspaper we tried to hide from her and continue her viligent watch against the flies. I can't help but think how fortunate Carol is to be ready for the change she is about to go through. So many of us aren't when the times call for us to alter our life plans and start anew. I take some confidence in the fact that some things in life will never change, and a good cookie recipe will always call for a stick of butter.

Going it alone

O Nina, Oh Nina, Oh where did you go,
Left all alone, my heart sinks so low.
On the recovery I met someone new,
but it isn't as fun without little you.

After the separation my heart was broken. Confused and alone I tried to catch up on the paper that I thought was due on Friday, but it was not to be.
Still upset I shifted plans and decided to meet with my interviewee, I got in the car and drove. Hitting 80 on cemetery road helped and as I neared the stop sign my mind cleared and I continued into Wolcott.
After the 20 minute drive I arrived at a really cool house. Very small, a picket fence more as a decoration than practical use and a scarecrow witch lady leaning up against one side of the house. I knew this was the place and so I pulled in and parked. The driveway and yard was filled with the sign of children and radiated creativity.
After walking in I met the family, the dad seemed fairly shy and busy with working around the house but Carrol the mom was very nice and easy to talk to. As the conversation continued she answered all the questions I wanted and I told her about the waver and recorder that I would be using next week.
I also connected to the red headed 8 year old very well and as he played on the kitchen table and assembled an A-10 thunderbolt aircraft the hour flew by. I am very happy for calling this family.
While driving back, single life feels so good but as I look ahead to all the daunting tasks, I would love to have someone to lean on.
Two days later it happens, I run into Nina, we discuss the hurdles ahead and decide why go it alone.

Pie envy

I think perhaps one of the reasons that story - the idea, the process, the utility of it - is so important to me (why, after all, we proposed this class in the first place) - is because of its very concreteness, and the ways in which stories permeate our lives whether we acknowledge it or not. The exchange of narrative, whether informally or in a formal oral history interview, is what our culture is based upon. As we've looked at in class, and as I read in some of these posts, the truth of a story is becoming largely immaterial; feelings and sentiments and reflections are paramount - and - we are inevitable and often critical participants in the stories we hear. I only wish more of the stories I hear came with pie.

Flys On the Cookies

Maria and I had our first interview with Carol at the store yesterday. Walking in with cookies instead of (intended) pie, briefcase in hand, and nerves of jello...we actually pulled it off nicely. Carol was amazing. She responded to our questions with thoughtfulness and interest. Maria and I became experts in digital recording, as Carol was also working. Each time a customer would come in we would pause the recording, and try to return to the point where the conversation left off once she returned. The microphone wasn't nearly as distracting as we had expected, if anything it made the atmosphere more professional, which I think made for a better interview. Carol was fondling a newspaper during the interview under the excuse that it was a fly swatter, but she seemed to need it more as something to keep her nervous hands idle rather than swatting any of the 3,000 flys in the store. The recorder picked up some of the newspaper crinkling, but not as bad as we had anticipated.

As Carol had warned us, she is a very emotional person, and she may cry during our interview. This happened, and it wasn't awful, but as she shared the loss of her husband with us, I couldn't help but feel that we had invaded her privacy. In the end I think she appreciated being able to share that experience with us, and we thanked her greatly.

We plan to have a second interview next Tuesday to discuss some more points of interest, and to dig into delicious and well deserved pie. If anyone has any questions about the interview, or the recording equipment, I'd be happy to lend a hand and share what I know. Good luck with all of your interviews everyone, it's a really good time I promise ; )

Meeting Place

I appreciate the concept of the Meeting Place. It's not a live-in care center, but a visiting center for people who need a little help, or routine in their old age. Walking into the bingo game was hard and awkward. The folks seemed confused and even a little upset that we had interrupted their "routine" bingo game, understandably so. Maria and I sat down with John; an old farmer who lived "jus' up the road, bout fuyive miles". He wasn't much of a talker, but he shared with us that he had a dairy farm, and that his father owned roughly 700 acres in the Newport area. John seemed to be pretty aware of his responses, but as Julia joined us and asked the same questions, John replied with entirely different answers. This didn't seem to phase him at all, but it was hard on us to witness that he was unsure of his own age, or the fact that it was biologically impossible for his father to still be alive. Regardless it was a good challenging experience for us to talk with him. I still can not believe the time Jack and Nina had, I don't think I'll ever forget that debrief in the park.

Work and Story-sharing

Yesterday I was outside for a large part of the day, doing hard physical work with groups of people. In the afternoon my Tools class, led by Adrian, drove down the road to a section of the Outdoor Center's ski trail that needed maintenance. We dug trenches in wet lowland areas to allow for water drainage, and we located, cut, dragged, and stacked logs to make primitive bridges across those areas. Then, after dinner, I went out (with a new group this time) with Rick to dig the potatoes in the potato patch. As I squatted there, bent over, with my hands in the dirt and my clothes covered in mud and dirt from both jobs, I looked around me and realized what wonderful groups of people that I was blessed to have worked with that day.
And it dawned on me how important story could be for communities who do physical labor together... Sharing personal stories to connect with others, telling work-related stories to connect with the job or task, and creating new stories to pass the time.
It is unfortunate that so many modern jobs do not allow for or support this kind of communal work and story-sharing.

Meeting Place

On Tuesday we visited the Meeting Place adult day care center in Newport, and for one hour spent time talking with some of the people who hang out there. Ben and I talked with a woman named Margery. She was about 65, born in Barton, VT, lived most of her life in Orleans, and has been coming to the meeting place for about a year. In her younger years she worked in a factory assembling table saws and also ran a dairy farm with her husband. Later on she worked for a hotel in Newport cleaning rooms. She had a son, but he died in the late 90's, and her husband died in '03. She has no other relatives in the area. That was about all the information we could get out of her. She seemed lucid enough to understand our questions but did not seem to want to talk that much. Most of the answers we did receive were just one word. It seems that barriers keep coming up that prevent us from getting useful information. Perhaps the two places we have visited were not the best places to find good informants.

Voices of the Land

The voices of the land are all around, they include me, you, the old locals, and any outside source that manages to join into the tune of life that surrounds us.
What I hear and what you hear will always be different no matter how similar what we hear sounds. The big problem is sifting through what we hear and deciding what lessons or stories are worth telling someone else. As much as I might want to recall what someones favorite movie was, what would it gain.
So many words have been spoken to me and it's my job to play imaginary chop shop before I launch them back out for the rest of the world to hear. What if I miss the real message that I'm supposed to be relaying? I really shouldn't worry about it too much because whatever I say will inevitably be defaced by whoever I pass the story to. This makes me think about the black river part of this class, the river and land give a face to the story and allows it to be ever changing but also ever grounded.
I think I'll be writing about this in my essay.

Remember when...

I want to hear stories. I want to hear about their childhoods and about the school days and chores and everything. After speaking to the ladies at the Care Center, then moving on to the Adult Day Care, I became really emotionally attached, even though I don't know these people.

I have been stricken with the loss of becoming attached to someone so dear, that when they lose their life, I don't know what to do afterwards. Since I was a baby and moved to South Carolina, I have lived in the same neighborhood for the past 18 years. You become to realize that everyone around you has there place and their stories. I just wish that I could have gotten those stories before I left.

From the time I could speak, my next door neighbor, Delcie Jernigan, was always my grandmother. I haven't seen my grandparents in years, so Delcie for the most part adopted me as her grandchild. As well as my brothers and sister. I always went to her house after school. When her real grandchildren left her behind, I was the one to go and sit and watch tv with her. The black and white tv in the living room was her favorite. She always watched the Lawerence Welk Show. I hated watching it. I had no interest in it. But she loved it. And she would tell me all the time about watching the shows. Then she would watch her soaps. I never cared for those either, but I loved to spend time with her. When she was sick, I would go help her get into bed or get her food. She was a little old lady. But everyone loved her. She would give me clothes and knick nacks, which I still have in my room. She was a one of a kind woman. Then she continuously would have problems with her health. First she couldn't walk, then she became really weak and couldn't hold her foods in. When it came to that time, my dad, who is an EMT, and myself went to visit her. Her family finally came to see her as well. Children, grandchildren and everyone. They all visited. Hoping it wouldn't be her last. But I knew it was coming. I said my last goodbye to her, not knowing when it would be, giving her and her family space. She gave me a hug even though she couldn't remember my name. As I walked out of the door, I started crying immensely. She was still alive, but I knew it was coming. That night, my dad got the call that she passed in her sleep. We never really talked about it but anytime I go past her house, I tear up. I wish I would have asked her about her childhood, her holidays, her schooling. I knew most, but I never found out everything I wanted to.

I've decided i'm going to change that. After Delcie died at the age of 96, I am going to take the time when I am home and go get stories. Just for my own use. Not for a class, not for a subject, but because I really am interested. Mr. Nelson, he lives down the road from me. He tells some stories. He always would give us 50 cents as we came by his house. He has really old cars. And he is still driving trucks across country. But he is getting to his age. Next time i'm at my house, I am going to sit and talk with him. I miss our talks. I miss Delcie. I miss being young and naive.

I talk to my grandparents weekly. I miss them alot. My grandmother is in remission from cancer. I never know if it is going to come back. She also has heart problems and diabetes. My grandpa works so hard that I am so proud of him. I'm ready to go to New Mexico and sit and talk to my grandparents. I will not let them grow old and not tell me all they know. I want their stories to continue.

They will continue...

Counter-hegemonic ideational framing

I understand these oral history projects that we are undertaking are affected by the preconceived ideas and perceptions that we, the historians, bring to the project. It is important to frame the project with our own ideology so that we may understand our biases and use them to our advantage in the interview and transcription process. Thus it is necessary to apply an “ideational frame” to our work. However, the term “counter hegemonic” sticks in my craw somewhat; it seems to apply a value judgment to a process that should, ideally, be objective. Ideologically framing, at least in this context, is the historian’s evaluation of his/her core belief system. Modifying this process by calling it counter hegemonic makes this process directive and tailors the outcome into something that feels less than genuine.

The very nature of the creating ideational framing around historical research is counter-hegemonic. While I understand fully the necessity of useing oral history to shed new light on written history too often overshadowed by the authority, trying to frame this project un-objectively against the predominate hegemony would be dishonest to my informants and myself - I am a member of the hegemonic class. I was taught from their textbooks, I speak their language and think inside their context. This proved by the very fact that I am taking this class and have the free time to run around interviewing old people about their lives. College and the luxury of higher education places me on one side of the well marked line that delineates the hegemonic and proletariat classes in this country. How am I supposed to bring a counter hegemonic aspect to this project when I am so clearly a member of its ranks?

I suppose this is a good theisis for my essay!

Sometimes wisdom, sometimes fantasy

A little imagination is good.
Old people are so funny, I love talking to them, if not to learn than at least to laugh. This class makes me think of the the great stories created as people get old and how they hold on to memories of youth to keep them young in heart today. Forget generational storytelling just put yourself into the shoes of someone trying to tell a story of something that happen to them 50 years ago, it can be very funny listening to them fill in the details. It reminds me of a man I met this summer as I came down from a hike on Mt. Washington.
By jeez'm this guy was tough, a black belt in multiple types of martial arts and meaner than a grizzly in mate'n season, he could kick the ass of me and my two friends with one eye closed and both hands behind his back. As he watched us come out of the wooded trail we stopped and he told us a story of his youth and an adventure of epic quantity as he hiked along the Long Trail.
In those days there where no food stops or shelters you had to build yourself a fire with two sticks and snare wild animals to survive. Always catch'n rabbits and porcupine both of which had about as much food value as a modern day potato chip a man could get strong as steel in the matter of a couple weeks. One lucky day he snared a deer and nearly got his faced kicked in (don't ask me how, maybe he was trying to strangle it with his mouth). Long story short this guy came out of the woods able to chew iron and shit wood a true REAL MAN!!! Kids like me and my two friend who had rolled boulders all summer where soft and so are the rest of the youth of this day.
I stayed riveted to his story that is so much better than my own because lots of what he said had some true and it's exactly how I'd like to hike the LT. In spite of multiple breaks due to dentures coming out, plus a hunched back and the cane, after a story like that I shook his hand and escorted him back to his car(he had only come to see the trains go up the mountain and hiking was most likely beyond his ability). Whats wrong with a little senility when it gives you stories like this, with age can come some pretty cool side effects.
If I knew where this guy was right now I would be interviewing him for sure.

Making the long flight

So, I am currently in Asheville, North Carolina for the Work College Conference. Most of my thinking this weekend has been about Craftsbury, not about anything to do with work colleges. Some of our talks have been about what is unique to the schools, which the first thing that came to mind (aside from everything out of the ordinary) was our class. Nobody at these schools really know about the history of the communities and the people that inherit them. So I sat down and I really thought about when we went to the Care Center. I thought alot about my grandparents and thought about how long it has been since i've seen them. After noticing this with these schools, I'm really proud to be in this class. And after the Care Center, I have decided this: I am flying to New Mexico for Thanksgiving and I will be going to visit my grandparents. I haven't seen them in about 10 years, which is quite some time. So I will be traveling to talk more with them, stay with them and hear their stories. Hopefully being in a new place (New Mexico) for even this short amount of time, I will learn about their community and some how bring it back to Craftsbury with me. I'm also trying to get my little brother to fly down and meet me there as well, so he can be there too, since he hasn't seen them since he was 3 years old.

Well I am off to the banquet and then after a few short hours, we are back to the airport for a 4am flight and 3 different planes. This has really given me time to get away from Vermont and back to my stomping grounds, but also to realize how lucky I am to be able to go to school in Vermont, an area of such beauty.

Care Center Visit

In one of our very first classes we talked about finding good informants, and the point was made that old age is not necessarily an indicator of good information. Those words came back to me on Tuesday when we were at the care center. Some of the women were still clearly quite sharp, and answered questions in great detail. However, the oldest residents, who could have been a wealth of knowledge, gave us little information because they could either not hear or simply could not remember. The elderly can be a great source of insight into the past because as they say 'with age comes wisdom', but there is an optimal time to gather that wisdom, and after that time barriers arise that inhibit information to be passed on. After our visit the thought crossed my mind that care homes are unnatural places. They're like museums of living human relics. Human beings are not intended to live to those ages, and the only reason people live that long is because of technology and dependence on others. I don't have a conclusion for this thought. It's just a weird thing to think about.

The Evans Family Does Christmas

My father starts playing Christmas carols in October. By Thanksgiving, my younger sister, Sophia and my father have a choreographed a dance and lipsink number to Mariah Carey singing 'All I want for Christmas'. My brother is the most amazing dancer I have ever seen; if I didn't know any better, I would question whether or not he had kneecaps at all. I have never seen legs move like that. He will only dance to techno.
Our Christmas celebrations are unique to say the least. We spend days preparing all the food. We have four pies for four people. There is wine. There are the same movies we watch year after year. There is Mariah Carey. There is techno. Instead of praying, we dance. Instead of going to church, we laugh until we cry, or lose the ability to breathe.
There are empty chairs in the room, however. My older sister, Laila, lives on the other side of the country. She supplements our Christmas routine with a game of roller derby. Her derby name is 'Diane Go to Hell.' Fitting for her, really. Her absence is felt by all of us, a phone call is not the same as her trying to smother your head into the couch. Her aggression is a sign of love. Really, it is.
In the room, there is an absence felt even more heavily. My Situ, my grandmother. She is not dead, but I wonder if she would be better off that way. She was diagnosed with Alheimerz years ago. We visit her often, though she has no idea that anyone is there. She ground all of her teeth away, her hands are clenched into tight fists, though she is still beautiful. She loved us so much. Situ was the best dancer of us all, even at 83.
My community is small, true. There are times when we hate each other, and no, that is not too strong of a word. We know how to put our differences aside, we know how to eat and laugh and dance, and that is what community means to me.

Missing My Grandparents

My Grandparents "Memere & Pepere"X-Mas 2006. They're my mothers parents, Wicked French Canadian

I'm having trouble summing up the emotions I felt today. I can't quite put my finger on why it is so hard to talk to older folks. Perhaps its due to the fact that many of them are hard of hearing, and no one feels particularly comfortable SHOUTING at someone, someone who is so fragile and soft spoken. It is so easy to strike up a conversation with someone of your own age, pick a topic, any topic; music, movies, clothes, gadgets....our generation is just constantly being entertained. Older folks have just seen so much in their lifetime yet in old age they are living so simply, quiet, and peaceful, it's almost harder to try and narrow down a good topic. Whats more is that all I could think about today was how much those women enjoyed our visit, but will they remember it? Will we? I feel a little bad that this is my senior year and I may not ever again visit the care center, or any other care center for some time. I already have forgotten most of their names, and they ours most likely. The women from Staten Island was so sad to see us leave, and she tried so hard to remember our names in the short amount of time with us.
I'm not regretting our visit in any way, I just feel that I personally need some closure. I am just very great full to have my youth and a whole long lifetime ahead of me, and to know that my grandparents are alive and well and in their own homes. I know people have busy lives, I guess I am just wishing that those women are visited by their families.
I wish I could walk away from this experience feeling more hopeful and appreciative, but I can't. I'm depressed. Maybe I'm just sensitive, or maybe I should have just stayed at the center and played scrabble.
All I know is I miss my grandparents real bad, so I'm gonna show you all a picture of them now.

Lost in translation

Saturday night, I had this class on my mind for most of the evening. I was sitting in the reading room with one of my hero's sitting but two feet away from me. Elizabeth Titus Putnum, the founder of the Student Conservation Association was telling her story of founding the program. I sat in awe as she described sitting in front of Horace Albright with nothing better to say then "Yes" and "No". She had no clue that her senior thesis would turn into such a program and stay on the minds of millions of students across the country, including mine. I couldn't help but have all these thoughts and questions wander through my mind and yet, I couldn't speak because my hero was sitting in front of me. For Liz, she didn't do her project just for the grade, she put effort into it and wanted something to truly come of this. She wanted not recognition but direction.

After meeting and having a wonderful talk with her, I keep thinking the same thing. What will I hear when I sit down to talk and interview a Black River resident? Will I have the same thoughts of such a great inspiration, or will I just want to get it over with? I can't help but anticipate great things like Liz, but still I am trying not to get my expectations to high. But for now, I will continue to think as highly as my interviewee and the stories they have to tell. Just like Liz.

Grandmother Stories

Thinking about this class and our projects of interviewing a local resident; gets me into thinking about the oral history that is within my own family. My grandmother is 80 years old and is soon to be 81 this year. I write to her frequently while here in Vermont, probably more than anyone else, but rarely do I have the time to actually talk to her one on one. I'm sure she has great stories of her past that she is just dying to tell some one, as she lives on her own and has few visiters each week. Stories about her experiences as a youngin' and family members that have gone and passed. I think that when I see her next I will try and get some of those stories unburied; and who knows possibly pass them on through my family as a sort of lore or just to tell of the nicest lady I ever knew.

Tangent

On reflecting on the question I posed in my previous blog, what knowledge should be preserved for future generations I am stuck upon yet another conundrum: what particular knowledge found in the black river valley is of importance for future generations to know? Take topic that I chose to research, logging in the black river valley for example. Why should anyone care about what kind tools some old lumberjack from rural Vermont used to buck trees out of the woods? How is this going to be useful to my grandchildren who would be most likely better served by learning how to program cell phones than use a crosscut saw? I pose these questions rhetorically; personally I feel the value is intrinsic to the to the knowledge and the purpose for these project is self-evident - simply to hear the stories that they generate.

My own feeling aside, these questions still remain. What is the importance of doing this work? I find myself surprisingly ill equipped to answer these questions. Some obvious answers come to mind – to preserve a historical record, to understand the past, to learn from our elders – but none of these answers feel truly genuine to me. They seem more like excuses to gather stories than anything else. They lack a sense of validity, because there is no answer the question of why. Why should we preserve the historical record or learn anything from our elders? What do they know that we don’t know, that we should know?

I think it is the unquie perspective that oral history shows us that provide the value in the work. We want to glimpse the world through their eyes that lived in the past, to see the dirt road and horse drawn carriages, the old mills and dour New England fashion. We crave this historical perceptive so that we can compare it to our own present perspective, curious to see how our cultural context has evolved. If we can learn about how people thought, spoke, lived and loved in our recent past, then it is possible to apply this knowledge; if we can learn how cultural perceptions changed over in the past, then maybe we can learn how to change cutural percptions in the presant Useing this knowledge will help us understand and shape the ever looming future. The value that oral history holds for future generations is more than just the stories themseves- these stories to teach us how cultural and personal perceptions change over time and prepare us to create our own shift in ideology.

Still Questions

What oral history is seems to be a gigantic version of active listening. The art of retelling what you've heard someone tell you. This seems to make up a large part of peoples lives. I could definately be wrong concidering I am running out of time writing this but as oral history continues to pass from person to person or generation to generation it always looses something. We can only take a maximum of 100 percent of what someone says and pass that on, eventually someone in this hyped up gossip train slips up and something is lost until over enough time all is lost.
What a bad ending "all is lost", I can do better. I'm missing something because everyone in the class hasn't devolved into monkeys or frogs. Let's say instead these words evolve. No oral story can stay exactly the same, if we learn from these story than something is gained. More importantly if something is gained it's most likely a form of evolution.
As each person gains the knowledge of the last we apply that knowledge and use our own life experiences to reflect on it and make it a story with lessons based on what we learned. Do those lessons transfer to the next or are they only meant for us? Does it matter?

Oral History in the Army

Oral history is one of the most important tools used by U.S. Army historians. Oral history has been used by the army as a means of recording information since before the army even existed as the organized institution that we know today. Soldiers involved in the battle of Lexington were called before the Massachusetts Provincial Congress in 1775 to offer their accounts of that day. Oral histories also provide first-hand experiences that provide soldiers and strategists the means to learn about the failures and triumphs of their predecessors. Because of these benefits, in the mid-1980's the U.S. Army Center of Military History began working towards the creation of a handbook outlining the principals of conducting oral history interviews. In 1992, the first edition of the U.S. Army's handbook, Oral History: Techniques and Procedures, was published, and in 2006 a revised edition was released which incorporated new techniques and updated information. (Lofgren, Stephen J. , U.S. Army Guide to Oral History)

I wish the black river had a voice

I've never been fond of history, or herstory, and especially not the concept of oral history. My tenth grade english class required a pretty hefty research project in which I had to find a historical building in my town, research the owners and the history of it in the town offices, interview the owners, take pictures, and write a really really long paper for "tenth grade" (20 pages). I'd be lying if I said I enjoyed the project. I absolutely hated it. I was very shy in high school, and although I was a good student, I had a really hard time with the project since I had really no interest in it, nor with talking to strangers.

I am hoping this class will not cause some sort of post traumatic stress relapse from that horrid tenth grade project, and cause me to only negate these blogging opportunities. It would just be nice if the black river actually had a voice. If I could just go down, and sit on its banks and simply shoot the shit, than life would be grand. Such is not the case though.

I look forward to working with people in the class that I do not know so well...cough cough..Maria ; ) -and to get to know Carol outside of she and I exchanging currency and smiles. I hope to just think of these interviews as simply conversations, and not so formal and technical.

thoughts on science and art...

A word that I'd never heard before seems to be cropping up a lot recently: methodology. ("A way of doing things," I seem to remember? I'll check the dictionary...)

meth-od-ol-o-gy: the system of principles, practices, and procedures applied to any specific branch of knowledge.

Right, that would make sense...

So, can Oral History have a methodology that is science based (last class's discussion)? If you'd asked me that question a month ago, I would have said no, absolutely not-- why not appreciate the stories for what they are, and stop trying to analyze them and graph them, and plot them and test them and do whatever else it is that you might do to something scientific? Stories are art, not science.
But now, I don't know. I couldn't say for sure what's changed my mind (or at least got me thinking and questioning), but it could be my recently realized fasicantion with the Scientific Method, and the possibility of a connection between it and art. Art and science have been intertwined in the past (think da Vinci), and the interview process... scientific method... there are some similarities, I think....

woolen caps and easter bonnets

The lavender skies over Tamarack Brook are cut short by the black outline of statuesque spruce and fir. I stand with my breath held, the silence reverberates in my ears, echoeing choruses of the songs of birds and insects long since quieted. The standard formation of geese, pushing their way through invisible currents, flying towards a horizon that moves as quickly as they do. The geese land loudly, obviously disinterested in the observer of this, some circus nowhere.
I imagine the Black River before we came. Before open fields and fall colours, when the river ran through black forests and whispered its sentiments to those who cared to listen. What if a sampling of the rivers sediments revealed not only fishhooks, pollen, and beer bottles, but also a manuscript of stories long since lost and forgetten in the river swells? Did the river hold its tongues when dams constrained its seeps and spills? Did the river rejoice in 1927?

Questions and Answers

O what a week, the classes pile up as blacksmithing get added to the list of things to do. Can all this be happening, do I really have to read all this STUFF. I wonder with so many things going on will there be time to work on the weekends and still pass my classes with a better grade then I got last year? Hope so.
This class makes me think of home and why I was stuck in the backwoods of a place for so long and never really learned about the history of that area. Why here. As soon as I leave home I start learning about Craftsbury with interest and enthusiasm. Why not learn about home and the stories that surely fill the history of a place I've lived in for so many years.
The class seems to be interesting enough I wonder if the questions I ask during this project will uncover any answers that I seek. Can't tell yet, will update you next week.
-Jack

upon starting this class i was some what unsure on what to expect, but after these past two weeks i now have a better understanding on what the class will be like. some of my more obvious goals (to me anyways) are to become more connected to this area of the Black River Watershed, by talking to the local folk and hearing their stories of how this area used to be and possibly where it is going from here. As well as working on my skill (or lack there) of writing papers. As for expectations I dully expect there to be a somewhat heavy workload and deadlines that must be met, but also some fluctuation because this is the first time the class has been offered here and it still in its developmental stages.

over all i hope that this class turns out well and we all together learn more about the area in which we inhabit here in Vermont.

Under the influence of cold medicine

I am sitting on my bed right now. Well actually, I am in Josh's room, sitting on a chair, not even his bed, wondering why the computer won't let me get to the blog in my room. So as I am sitting here thinking about the class and its goals and expectations, I realize something astonishing. I have never liked to answer questions like, what do you want to accomplish? What goals do you have for the class? What expectations for the teachers? They always seem to keep me going around in circles, because I usually don't think too much about goals. I just go by the goals of the teachers. I am still deciding my goals and expectations while I type this. But, here are some very blundt and general goals that came to mind while the sickness and plague of Madhouse destroy my immune system. So, I will sit here and redeem myself with some broad statements in which my mind is trying desperately to think of, but this is all I have got for you.

• Expand my vocabulary (use more descriptive terms and flowery language).
• Create direct questions and correctly document the answers.
• Write papers with fluidity.
• Practice using literary devices such as similes, metaphors onomatopoeia's.

I expect to better incorporate the above mentioned goals for the class as well as take in a better understanding and connection with the natives from the Black River Watershed. I want to feel my own connection once I am done with the class and appreciate the land around me.

Musings

While walking back down to the lower dorms after class today, I saw a red maple leaf pirouetting in the wind. The leaf had fallen in such a way that it downward pointing stem was balanced perfectly on its axis and the brisk wind caught it in a spiraling eddy, causing the fire red leaf to spin exquisitely through the air. It was beautiful - a ballet choreographed to gravity and composed by the wind. This small event reminded me of the conversation we had in class today and one of the questions it brought up for me: where is the intersection between poetry and science? The beauty a pirouetting leaf represents to me is reflected by its improbability. I am curious about how the wind could cause something so perfect? Was it constricted through a corridor of trees, forced to speed up until released out the other side? How is it possible that the leaf fell at just the right moment, at just the right angle to cause it to spin in perfect symmetry? The answer to one question invariably leads to another, and another. The poetic image is inspired by my longing to understand and the knowledge that I probably never will. Science, to use the word loosely, is not about trying to understand the unknown, but rather, the search for better and greater mysteries. The more that I understand from science, the more questions I reveal, and the better able I am to find poetry.

While I continued my journey down to the lower dorms, still lost in the wonder of autumn, it occurred to me that perhaps I am thinking about this project in the wrong light. Someone drew my attention to the Foxfire books after class today, and after browsing through one, I reflected that these oral histories had a focused theme: to preserve the skills and knowledge that would be lost if someone didn’t write them down. This idea is reflected in the Silko and Elder snippets we read, that a story, at it’s core, is designed to preserve information for future generations. If I view this project in this light, the question changes; it is no longer about what I want to study, but rather what needs to be recorded and preserved for further generations to learn. The topic should be defined more by necessity to preserve information than the desire to purse interests. And so I am forced to ask: What knowledge contained within the Black River watershed will be lost should no Sterling College student decide to ferret it out?

field-work

It could well have been an afternoon in mid-summer; only the occasional yellow birch leaf eddying out of the current reminded me that it was the first week of autumn. Where the Black River widens in a sweeping eastward bend just below Mill Road in Irasburg, we followed our guide, the author and photographer John Miller, to the site of a sawmill, where now only foundation stones and ironwork remain. What recreated the structures at this site for me was not necessarily the industrial detritus becoming obscured beneath canes of quarrelsome blackberry, but the stories of the place - of the well-worn hardwood ramp up which workers would winch logs from a riverside landing - of the ice backing up after spring breakup - of the sounds of daily work in this small valley.

As we walked back up over uneven ground to the road, I thought more about how stories are only one part of the larger piece of the history. Although critical, and representative of a 'people's history' of place, it is around events, places, and vocations that stories circulate and about which they can help us discover a great deal.