It’ll be at the Museum of Early Trades & Crafts in Madison starting Feb. 25, and it’s about the war’s impact on NJ civilians. Too bad I’m not within driving distance; I’d really like to see it.
If only I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard this one.
This time it’s Cracked.com that’s accusing Steven Spielberg of making a steep drop appear out of nowhere during the T. rex attack.
There’s clearly nowhere for them to go. If they stay on the road, they’ll be eaten. If they run into the jungle, they’ll probably catch some kind of awful tropical parasite. And then be eaten.
Cut To …
Oh, wait, no: They can climb down this sheer cliff face, which just appeared out of absolutely nowhere.
And we say “appeared” because it literally appeared there during the edit between those two scenes. The tyrannosaur breaks through the fence, then the heroes crawl through the broken fence the dinosaur just burst through, only to find the concrete wall….
Oh, you think the greatest scene ever committed to film has a glaring mistake, do you? Well, I’ve got some news for you.
If you’re standing in the spot where the kids’ car is stopped and facing the fence, the goat tether would be directly in front of you, and that steep drop would be slightly to the left, along the edge of the paddock that’s perpendicular to the road. After the T. rex overturns the car, she nudges it to the left, past the spot where the goat was tethered, and then pushes it into the drop. Okay?
There. I’ve done my good deed for the day.
And don’t get me started on people who can’t figure out how the T. rex got into the Visitor Center when there’s obviously a ginormous opening in the wall.
Washington and Lincoln usually rank among the more admired presidents, but most people don’t consider them in light of each other. Presidents’ Day seems like an appropriate occasion to compare and contrast these two men who had little in common except the office and above-average height.
Interestingly, recent years have witnessed renewed historical attention to both Lincoln and Washington as leaders of men. Doris Kearns Goodwin’s bestseller on Lincoln and his cabinet turned the phrase “team of rivals” into a catchphrase, while John Ferling has argued that Washington was a much more deft political operator than other biographies have indicated. Both men displayed an ability to handle opposition, but they approached interpersonal conflict in different ways.
Ferling has written that during the Revolutionary War, Washington felt especially vulnerable to criticism. He was particularly sensitive when he thought critics were comparing him to powerful rivals, as he believed to be the case after the fall of Philadelphia, fearing a plot to oust him from command was in the works among his detractors in both Congress and the army. Lincoln faced his fair share of criticism, too, but his skin was thicker than Washington’s. If Lincoln and his rivals never constituted a true “team”—dissensions and divisions plagued the cabinet, and several of its members didn’t last the duration of Lincoln’s first term—he was nevertheless more adept at keeping discordant elements in check than the sensitive Washington.
The two men also differed in their strengths and weaknesses when it came to the art of persuasion. Washington wasn’t known for his rhetorical gifts; his most well-regarded work of prose, the Farewell Address, was partly the work of Madison in its first draft form and Hamilton in a later one. But Washington was physically imposing and formidable, and he knew how to magnify his physical qualities with a little stagecraft. When he arrived in Philadelphia to attend the Continental Congress, he was decked out in military uniform, prepared to make a striking impression.
And he knew how to play on an audience’s emotions by letting his formidable exterior slip a little, as he did during the unrest in the Continental Army at Newburgh in 1783. Amid reports that disgruntled officers wanted to use the army to pressure Congress over a lack of pay, Washington addressed the men at a meeting on March 15. Fumbling over a letter from a member of Congress that he intended to read to them, he donned a pair of glasses, stating, “Gentlemen, you will permit me to put on my spectacles, for I have not only grown gray but almost blind in the service of my country.” The officers were deeply moved by this rare show of weakness from a man noted for his vigor and powers of endurance.
Gangly and awkward, Lincoln could never command a room simply by walking into it, as Washington could. What he lacked in imposing presence, he made up for with his ability to craft compelling arguments and lyrical prose. When he spoke at New York’s Cooper Union in 1860, one member of the audience found him “so angular and awkward that I had, for an instant, a feeling of pity for so ungainly a man.” Eventually, though, the clarity of Lincoln’s ideas and the power of his words overcame the awful first impression and won his audience over. “I forgot his clothes, his personal appearance, and his individual peculiarities,” the eyewitness remembered. “Presently, forgetting myself, I was on my feet like the rest, yelling like a wild Indian, cheering this wonderful man.” At Newburgh, Washington used his physical presence to make up for what his prepared remarks lacked. At Cooper Union, by contrast, it was only Lincoln’s ability as a public speaker that overcame his ungainly appearance.
Anybody who’s taught a history class can probably sympathize with the points raised here and here. In some ways, it’s harder to teach the material you know really well than it is to teach material outside your immediate area of expertise.
As John Fea says, when I’m teaching the stuff I’m really into, “I always leave the lecture hall frustrated. As I walk back to my office I often obsess about everything I did not have time to cover.” When you’re passionate about a particular topic, you want to give it the coverage you know it deserves. Of course, this is usually impossible, especially with a survey course. As a result, you leave the classroom feeling disappointed with yourself, and then you start wondering about whether you’re teaching any of the material adequately.
The lectures I’m most content with are the ones where my understanding of the subject falls into a sort of middle zone, where I’m familiar enough with the material to be comfortable but not so thoroughly schooled in it that I’m conscious of how much I’m leaving out.
Here’s an article on a young Egyptian revolutionary’s visit to Boston. “This is our Tahrir Square,” his host told him at the site of the 1770 massacre.
The whole premise raises some interesting issues about the nature of revolutions and historical memory, but mostly it makes me want to go history tripping in Boston again.
Arcadia Publishing has just published two photographic histories of the Cumberland Gap region for their popular Images of America series, and it just so happens that friends of mine wrote both of them.
Natalie Sweet’s book covers the towns of Harrogate and Cumberland Gap, TN. Harrogate has an unusual story for a small community; in the late 1800s a British industrialist founded a swanky resort there, which hosted some of the richest people in the country for just a short while before financial reverses brought down the whole enterprise. Natalie will be signing copies at the Abraham Lincoln Library and Museum on the campus of Lincoln Memorial University in Harrogate on February 18 from 2:00 to 5:00 P.M.
Martha Wiley’s book is about Cumberland Gap National Historical Park, where she serves as historian, but it includes material on the history of the area before the park was founded.
I worked with Natalie and Martha at LMU’s Lincoln museum, and they’re darn good at doing history. If you’re interested in Appalachia or the history of the National Park Service, these books should be well worth a look.