The future of the past.

 The articles for this week focused on the role of technology in preserving the past. In theory, because of this technology more people can become involved in these procedures. More people can contribute their stories and perspectives, and as a result, we can gain a fuller understanding of the past: a collaborative effort But again, this is in theory, in a perfect world. As all these articles express, while technology gives us the potential to reach out to more people in relation to history, we are far from perfecting a method for utilizing that technology. Considering how quickly things change in the technological world, it will be difficult to keep up. As Daniel Cohen pointed out in his article, we only saved one-thousandth of the 32 million websites that were in existence in September 2001. The sheer amount of information out there is staggering, enough to make your head spin. Organizing all that data, deciding what is worth keeping, is more complicated than ever before.

Folksonomies intrigue me, as I have dealt with them (and contributed to them) in other classes. Folksonomies allow users to create their own vocabulary for searching within a system. Brennan and Kelly write about giving contributors to their Hurricane Digital Memory Bank the power to tag the items they add to the collection. While this method allows contributors to feel more connected to the project and to feel like they have a little more power over their own objects and memories, it can also create problems in the long run. Folksonomies lack authority control. As a result, searching can become less precise than it might be if there was a controlled vocabulary. Joshua Brown notes, “…new media work largely defies one authorial hand, voice or vision.” It’s a collaborative effort, and while the sentiment is nice, it can lead to inefficient and frustrating searches for researchers.

I agree with Cohen when he states that just because there are new methods, it does not mean that the old ones will (or should) die out. He writes, “What will remain in the foreground are the qualitative concerns, especially the question of provenance raised by the solicitation of historical materials from unseen contributors.” We still have to question the ‘truth’ aspect of these new kinds of recorded histories. Use of new technologies will complement older, more traditional methods of recording history. I worked with an oral historian for a spell, and I have seen first-hand the incorporation of new technologies into the field. And while it’s true that digital media doesn’t take up much physical space, the amount of storage needed for recorded oral histories is huge, especially if you want your video and audio files to be high quality. Digital storage is expensive for those kinds of projects. I’m excited to see how these methods will continue to develop.

History in Film.

This week’s reading dealt with the presentation of history in the medium of film. Each article dealt with a slightly different topic: Toplin and Davis discussed popular film and how creative license is often employed when dealing with a historical topic cinematically. Frisch and Glassberg both explored the genre of the historical documentary and the way oral history is used within that style of filmmaking. It is apparent through the articles that the public is invested in history in film. It sparks strong emotion in viewers, as Glassberg shows us through the letters to Ken Burns about his documentary, The Civil War. Both The Civil War and Vietnam relied heavily on oral histories to tell a story. As evident from the letters, this kind of presentation of history captured viewers’ imaginations. I kept thinking about Rosenzweig and Thelen’s study. In their article, The Presence of the Past, they note that when people ranked the trustworthiness of a source, conversations with someone who was there received a mean score of 7.8, while movies and television programs received a 5.0 (21). I feel like these documentaries are an interesting combination of those two things – eyewitness accounts on a screen. Frisch warns that in using these oral histories, we need to be aware that they have the power to create a new authority that may contradict the historical facts. Presentation is key to interpretation.

The articles by Toplin and Davis discuss the more mainstream, creatively interpreted versions of historical films. Both recognize that while the historian has a place in the making of a film, the directors, producers, and writers will take creative license. Characters might be combined, details might be left out, and important events may be skipped because of time constraints. There isn’t as much room for expounding within a two or three-hour time frame; that job is better left to the documentary makers. But where do you draw the line? How do you create an accurate point in history within those constraints? Davis deals with this by writing a book about the process of the making of The Return of Martin Guerre. This gives her the opportunity to discuss why certain things were left out or altered from the fact-based version of the story. She takes responsibility for providing a more in-depth study of a film, “to bring to the debate both an understanding of the possibilities of film and a knowledge of the past” (Davis, 48). This complements Toplin’s article nicely. Toplin goes into the research methods of historians studying film and discusses three different levels of research. At the third level (did anyone else keep thinking of Inception?), historians begin to study the details of the filmmaking process and the production history. This kind of research can give new insight into the interpretation of a film and can help us to understand some of the reasoning behind the alterations of historical fact.

Oral history and sense of place.

Oral History and Public Memory addresses the incorporation of interviews in the process of presenting history. Like many of the other books we have read, Shopes and Hamilton collected a variety of articles discussing oral history and the ways in which these accounts are utilized. They present the articles in three sections, effectively categorizing them as relevant to heritage, identity and community, and the potential changes oral histories can bring about. I really like this format, as I feel I got a diverse overview of the way oral history can be used and the potential impact it can have.

The aspect of sense of place came up frequently in these articles, and I noticed its presence in my own interviewing experience as well. The woman I interviewed kept talking about her neighborhood and how it has changed over the years. She kept pointing in different directions (even though we were inside) and talking me through the geography of what it once was and what it is today. This sense of place, as we've read in the Glassberg book, is a powerful theme in peoples' memories. In the chapter on Aboriginal people of Australia, Maria Nugent writes, "For history to inform heritage, it needed to plot its narratives in space as well as in time" (50). She talks about how you can't really try and prod an interviewee into naming the significance of a place; the significance is embedded in the stories they tell. Sean Field also addresses sense of place in his chapter about Cape Town and the residents of the displaced neighborhoods of Langa and District Six. He describes sense of place as “…an imaginative act that combines ongoing sensory inputs from the surrounding social and physical landscape with a person’s internal world of selected and constructed memories” (111). There is power in physical space, and whether or not that place still exists in the physical world is beside the point. In these interviews, we get examples of the connection to buildings, waterways, trees, and more. By grounding themselves in a tangible space, interviewees create a safe place for memory, a safe place to talk about the past, even if it is difficult. Place becomes a character in their stories.

Selma Thomas also talks about space in here article, but in relation to the presentation of oral histories. She discusses the ways in which oral histories can be presented in museums and how visitors might interact with these unique artifacts. The spot where an oral history is exhibited within a museum is going to affect the way in which a visitor interprets it. A secluded corner will make the listener feel privy to private information, whereas an interview presented in a prominent spot will seem to give the narrative more authority (89). I suppose my point is that space and sense of place are consistently intertwined with our interpretation of the past, and we see this through its presence in oral accounts as well as in presentation of those narratives. 

Archival power.

Archive Stories is a collection of essays that explores the meaning of an archive and researchers interactions with these spaces. Each chapter addresses a different archive and the experience each research had while working within them. An archive becomes much more than a place to house objects as we begin to consider the political, social, and personal relationships between archives, their keepers, and their users. As Craig Robertson wrote in his chapter about his research on the passport, archives mold national character, “prioritizing and privileging specific stories and peoples” (71). The collections are going to be biased from their creation and organization. What should be saved? Who gets to decide? Who gets to see what? How should everything be cataloged? Tony Ballantyne writes about his experience with the archives of Samuel Peal and how that particular collection is being marginalized within the larger New Zealand archives. That collection made him rethink and restructure his view on empire: an event that made him scrap almost his entire project to start fresh. And yet, because that particular collection does not fit neatly into the current national narrative, it is pushed to the margins. The state has great power in the framing of what is considered significant, and significance is in the eye of the beholder. Those with the power get to decide who sees what, as we gather from Ghosh’s interactions with India’s archives. By withholding information, archivists can push the interpretation of history in a particular direction.

That being said, archives are indispensable repositories for history. All of the historians in this book interact with archives and stress the importance of these places for study. I found particularly relevant Renee Sentilles essay about archives and the Internet. More and more, we are conducting research from the comfort of our own homes, trolling the web for sources. Sentilles argues that we lose something essential by limiting ourselves to this form of research. She writes, “losing oneself in a pile of textbooks in the back of a library brings a measure of contemplation that easily surpasses impatiently surfing the Web” (153). Some sort of context is lost. This hit home for me, for I know that I am guilty of conducting much of my research through online databases and the like. The convenience factor is hard to ignore, but perhaps we do miss something. John Randolph ends his essay mentioning how one of the letters within the Bakunin collection has the words “To be burned” written in the margin (226). One can read about this letter in articles online or within another text, but those may not mention this telling detail. Randolph ponders how this is changing as digitization becomes more widespread; the need to visit the actual archive becomes less vital. We’ll be able to see a scan of the document containing that detail.  But I think Sentilles is right – that we will miss something if we stop utilizing archives. That time to think within a space as powerful as an archive, housing history, is invaluable. 

Celebration Sensation!

The Bodnar article examines how the country celebrated the Centennial of the Civil War and the Bicentennial of the American Revolution. Both of these events occurred during a time of political unrest and national unease, and the committees created to organize these celebrations hoped to instill a sense of unity amongst Americans again. The words unity, loyalty, and patriotism were used frequently throughout this article. For the Civil War Centennial, the committee tried to promote the theme of heroism in conjunction with the war in an effort to avoid remembrance of a time of disunity and regionalism. Their definition of heroism had to do with loyalty to authority, to sacrifices for patriotic efforts. The Civil War was about much more than patriotic duty, and citizens recognized this. As we’ve talked about in class multiple times, one can’t consider the Civil War seriously without addressing the issue of race. The Centennial occurred in the midst of the Civil Rights Movement, and different groups reacted to the celebrations in diverse ways. Some were hopeful about the progress that has been made, while others recognized that the country has a long way to go in terms of racial equality. The latter belief was exemplified during the commission’s National Assembly in 1961 when blacks were not allowed to stay in a Charleston hotel. This reiterates the point that we cannot gloss over racial issues in relation to the Civil War. Trying to celebrate its end with ideas of heroism and unity romanticizes the past and the glory of war.

The Bicentennial was a little easier to sell on the symbol of unity and patriotism. Again, the commission promoted the themes of consensus and pride in our country. The strategy here was to encourage communities to look to the past, present, and future: to recognize where we have been, where we are now, and where we want to go. The goal was to get ordinary citizens involved in local celebrations that were connected to the larger themes of patriotism and unity. Overall, this goal was achieved as communities across the county participated in the celebration. People enjoy celebrating history on a local level because it makes them feel more connected to a shared past. Though the overarching goal was to get communities to focus more on the “official expressions of patriotism” (Bodnar, 238), people were drawn to the localized level. It hits closer to home and makes history more personal.

The Glassberg chapter provides more localized examples of civic celebration, showcasing how diverse groups can pull together to celebrate a community and its history. The example of the Portola Festival in San Francisco demonstrates how a celebration can be politically charged, as it was held in the hopes that the organizers would regain power over the labor unions. Though the countrywide celebrations of the Centennial and the Bicentennial also had political goals (to reunite an estranged population), the Portola Festival was more overt. One begins to wonder it’s even possible to separate the politics from the pageantry on this level. 

Written in Stone.

Professor Levinson’s book, “Written in Stone,” addresses the significance of symbols in society. He focuses primarily on the influence of monuments and flags throughout history. His prose, snarky at times, is engaging and opinionated, though it does seem to meander a little aimlessly on occasion. One of his main questions asks how we are to deal with symbols that offend a specific population. What event or person is worth the legitimacy a monument provides? While reading, I kept thinking back to our first day of class and the statue of Onate and the controversy surrounding it. That statue symbolizes something that means different things to different groups. Should it be taken down because it offends one, or should it remain standing to represent a part of our country’s past that we can’t erase? The tearing down of old monuments as new regimes are put in place is one way to try and deal with a troubling history. But in another sense, it is equivalent to a “cultural death,” denying future generations the opportunity to analyze what was once considered worthy of memorialization, whether or not it is still considered as such. Levinson’s view is that we should not destroy these pieces of the past, but rather, consider where they would be appropriately housed. He also believes that these kinds of decisions should be made locally on a case-to-case basis, not by the federal government. I tend to agree.

I thought it was interesting as he delved into different countries’ ways of dealing with the more unsavory topics from the past. In Budapest, they have taken all the statues (save one) having to deal with Communist rule and moved them to a Statue Park Museum. Levinson contemplates whether this kind of idea would work for Confederate memorabilia. Housing the flag in a museum would place it in a much different context than flying it from the top of a government building. Objects in a museum are seen in a different light than objects displayed in public space. Museums suggest to the public that an item is static, a piece of the past, whereas when it is visible from the highway, blowing in the breeze, it seems a more vital part of the present. Levinson asks whether we can consider this act unconstitutional.

Glassberg also contemplates the interpretation of a memorial and what it means to the people who view it. His example of the WWI memorial in Orange, MA shows how a community can bring a national message to a local level, giving it their own spin. Their monument, with its emphasis on the loss that is part of war rather than the victory, expands the definition of patriotism. The community is reminded of the costs associated with war, and it can be used as an educational opportunity for the future. Because the community decided how the memorial would be presented, it says something about the views of that group of people. Glassberg and Levinson both believe that this is how it should be: a message from the local community and not the federal government.  

The Place of the Past.

The readings for this week continue to focus on preservation and restoration projects, and we have our first encounter with conservation practices. In the chapter, “Rethinking New England Town Character,” Glassberg recounts a study he conducted in three towns in Massachusetts. The trend has been to restore New England towns to look old, to revert to a romanticized past and cling to historical aspects. What he learned from the study is that the members of each community have diverse interpretations on what they consider important aspects to their town’s history. In the community of Northfield, what was considered historically significant varied from neighborhood to neighborhood. Diversity becomes an issue in McKnight, as different racial groups value different eras of history; the ‘town character’ is hard to pin down. In the town of Wilbraham, Glassberg notes that outsiders do not feel any sense of community upon visiting the town, but the residents speak to the contrary. I think one of Glassberg’s points is that history is going to change as time marches on. What people value today, they may not care about in fifty years, and the town’s sense of place will reflect that.

“Making History in California” is interesting for its title. It made me think again about the definition of history and how we choose to preserve or restore. We are making history, making choices about what will be remembered and what will be lost. California is the ultimate place for placelessness. It has a storied history of people moving there in search of something better, from the Gold Rush to the Great Depression, up to today as would-be actors go out to get their big breaks. It was never really considered home. The Native Daughters sought to change this around the turn of the century as they began their project to mark historic sites. Many groups followed this trend, placing their own name on plaques along with the place being commemorated. In this way, they claimed a part of the history of the place. The Antiquities Act, discussed in the Waldbauer and Hutt article, played an important role in the conservation of history in California as groups sought to preserve the sequoias and the redwoods. The Act gave the people some power over the future of these resources, therefore involving them in the history of the state.

In the end, the community decides what history they will make. They decide what to preserve, restore, and conserve based on their own opinions of what’s worth saving. The public makes and shapes history, and Glassberg makes this clear in these chapters. 

Preservation and Restoration.

The articles for this week both touch on the various interpretations of what preservation really means and what the process should entail. The Nolan and Buckman article focused on the differences between Jefferson’s Monticello and Madison’s Montpelier. The authors focus of the contrast between interpretations of preservation and restoration. Monticello serves as an example of restoration, as the goal there is to present the property just as it was when Jefferson was living there, freezing it at one moment in time. On the flip side, the caretakers of Montpelier strive to preserve the property in the state it was in when the National Trust received it in 1984. There are arguments over which of these methods is ‘better’ when dealing with historic sites. It is suggested that not showing all of the history of Monticello is a form of censorship, but some say Montpelier’s inclusion of the whole history of the property is confusing.

The Lindgren article addresses how preservation has evolved over the years, moving from a female-dominated, personalized approach to a male-oriented, professional presentation. When groups first began preserving historic sites, the members (mostly female) leaned toward a romanticized version of the past: an idealistic history used to teach youth good values and morals. In a way, one could compare this period of preservation to the presentation of Monticello. Both chose to focus on particular aspects of history, leaving gaps in time. As males entered the field of preservation, they wanted to bring the focus to the facts of history rather than ideals.

Both articles deal with the interpretation of the ‘truth’ of history. When preservation was a largely female profession, the preservation of sites focused on the romanticism of the past. They took a more personal approach to presenting history, which makes me consider them sort of precursors to modern-day public historians, trying to build a bridge between the layperson and the academic. Unfortunately, their version of history was not always representative of the time. At Monticello, it’s all about Jefferson’s era, down to the unsightly green painted floors. It ignores the rest of the history of the property, preferring to fix it in a specific moment in time. There are advantages to this practice as well as downsides. At Montpelier, they are preserving the changes the house and property have endured over the years. Nolan & Buckman quote Larry Dermody (director of preservation at Montpelier) stating, “Monticello is a snapshot and Montpelier is a videotape” (259). I feel that neither article really reaches a conclusion on how preservation should be approached. There needs to be a co-mingling of preservation and restoration, of personalism and professionalism. The difficult part is in figuring out how to present history in a clear manner without hiding parts of the past. 

“At what point do angles become slants?” (Dubin, 237)

I was looking forward to reading this article, as the topic has come up in our other readings. Until now, I was not familiar with the controversy. Everyone in the museum world knows about the dispute regarding the Enola Gay exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum. It is strongly suggested in this particular chapter that museums have become considerably more cautious in their staging of exhibits, therefore producing bland or even boring work since. It stems from the flak The Last Act and other exhibits of its kind received: exhibits that tried to present more than one viewpoint rather than just the popularly held perspective. The need for positive reviews is strongly tied to funding issues, and everyone knows how tight that area is right now.

This chapter stresses the generational conflict behind the response to The Last Act. I found myself irate as I read, disbelieving of the (what I perceived as) narrow-minded opinions of the veterans, a position that “…precludes them from even looking at any new versions” (Dubin, 192). I made myself take a step back. It’s true that I wasn’t there; I’m far removed from 1945 America. My generation is disillusioned by the notion of a proud, patriotic America; we tend to look at things a little more cynically. I tried to consider the background of those that fought in WWII, tried to see things from their point of view. I still kept coming back to the meaning of ‘museum’ and what the general public believes museums need to present. This question has been brought up in our previous readings and discussions, but I’m still curious. I agree with Martin Hartwit’s stance to “…tell everyone as complete a story as possible, bolstered by the hard copy of that time” (195). A museum may be a sort of memorial, but it is not a memorial in its entirety. The responsibilities are different. Dubin quotes Michael Neufeld: “Memorials are one thing. History is another” (217).” A memorial tends to be commemorative, but is a museum supposed to be as well? To present multiple viewpoints is a way to prevent bias from appearing in an exhibit in an attempt to find some sort of balance. Isn’t that what we want to do as public historians?

The author also stresses the strong influence of the media when it comes to controversial topics. For the most part, he did not look kindly on the media’s actions in regard to The Last Act. Out-of-context quotes were used to amplify the drama of the situation, and journalists did not do their research to confirm sources. The media, like museums, needs good reviews, needs subscribers to stay afloat. Highlighting disputed issues is one way for them to attract more attention. The public loves drama, so the media provides it, sometimes at the expense of the full story. “People would rather argue about some lofty thing like patriotism…They won’t tell you that it’s all about money” (Dubin, 212). And that seems to be what it eventually comes down to, no matter what you are talking about.

Slavery and Public History.

Slavery and Public History examines how the general public views slavery and its connection to the creation of our country though ten articles illustrating examples of how slavery is portrayed in public spaces and how it is being discussed. The overarching argument that facing the difficult issues and events from the past can promote healing and discussion about their connection to today’s issues of race and class is one that’s hard to contend with after reading about the success many of these places have achieved by encouraging discourse through the presentation of various points of view at their sites. The emphasis is on more integration of the story of slavery into historic sites: museums, battlefields, parks, etc. By recognizing the not-so-pretty part of the past and bringing it in to the open instead of glossing over it, we can recognize a more truthful portrayal of history and be open to new discourse and education on the topic. It was encouraging to read about Brown University’s open discussions on its connection to slavery, forming a committee meant for “study and education program” (Melish, 124). I found it astonishing that some people are practically inventing the past to justify certain actions, such as in the final chapter, “In Search of a Usable Past” by Bruce Levine in which he looks at the Black-Confederate campaign and its supporters. He writes, “They will not acknowledge any of these things because they are determined not to do so” (Levine, 211). This goes to show that education needs to be a major focus in places portraying the past, that we have a responsibility to try and present all sides of the story.

There were a few instances in which the authors noted the argument some people have about keeping the discussion of slavery in a school setting rather than bringing it into exhibitions. I disagree, especially after our talk in class about learning about the Civil War in school and from reading books such as Lies My Teacher Told Me (which includes two chapters on the discussion of racism and the Civil War in classrooms). There is definite power in the physical place where history happened, and those places have the potential to spark intelligent conversation about their place in the past. In the epilogue, Linenthal writes, “The conviction is that somehow places speak…” (223). In the chapter about the NPS, I was encouraged when I read about their goals to present more on the topic of slavery in relations to battlefields and the like. Another example of a positive educational event is the reenactment of a slave auction at Williamsburg and the feedback the institution received in the chapter “Slavery in American History.” One of the conclusions the book draws is that we are moving in a positive direction when it comes to discussing slavery and its implications. Considering the examples given here, I tend to agree.

Defining memory.

Defining Memory made me want to visit each and every museum described, as well as to go out and discover some quirky piece of local history for myself. While I thoroughly enjoyed this book and its exploration of unique museums across the country, I am a little unclear about the choice of ‘defining memory’ as the title. Levin chose articles that explore the place of small museums in this country, the contributions they make to local communities, the problems they face, and the discussions and controversy they provoke as they evolve (or choose not to, in the case of the DUP ladies). There is some deliberation, notably in the chapter by Gable and Handler entitled “Public History, Private Memory,” about the creation of a collective memory. The authors discuss how a museum can leave a visitor with a memory that may not have anything to do with the narrative of the exhibits, but rather with the physical space and how it changes over the years. In the article “The Small Town We Never Were,” Jay Price tells us the story of a museum rooted in a sense of nostalgia for something that never was. Here, as well as in Arthurdale, the spaces encourage the creation of memory of or nostalgia for a simpler time that may have never existed. We might take comfort in the idea that it existed at one point and may not look too closely to discover the façade. Museums have the power to create memories that we trust because of the confidence we have in a space associated with the word ‘museum.’ All of the museums described in this collection represent the eclectic background of this country, unique, sometimes chaotic and unpredictable, each with a different viewpoint but bonded by the desire to spark something inside of each visitor, to awaken a memory or to create a new one.

Near the end of the book, Levin chose articles that have to do with the changing definition of museums. As a St. Louis native, the section on the City Museum by Eric Sandweiss peaked my interest. Having been a visitor multiple times, I have questioned the use of the word ‘museum’ in its name. While there is an odd collection of things housed there, I cannot recall this collection. My memories are of a gigantic playground for children and adults alike and of a Ferris wheel ride on the roof of the building. They differ from the memories that I associate with other museums such as the Art Institute of Chicago or the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Museum. It is over-stimulation to the extreme, fabulous and fun, and entertainment-driven. It challenges the traditional meaning of ‘museum.’ It’s historical in the sense that parts of it are constructed out of pieces of St. Louis, but that aspect is not brought to your attention as a visitor. You marvel at this Gaudi-esque space, have a drink at the bar, and wait until 10 PM when they turn out the lights and give everyone headlamps. It seems to be less about learning and more about the creating memories and instilling a desire to return. Defining memory in relation to museums becomes even less clear in spaces such as these. 

Thoughts on week 2 readings.

As we begin to delve into the meaning of public history, one immediately recognizes the difficulty in finding a cohesive meaning to bond the two words. The difficulty (and uniqueness) of public history and its place is that people will see the history they wish to see, which may or may not be reality, as opposed to more traditional academic history, which tends to be more objective. For both, meaning is up to interpretation. Glassberg asks, “What are Americans looking for when they engage in the past?” (6). He elaborates, “A sense of history locates us in space…in time…in society…” (7). Public history is a shared history, history through connections and collaborations. It brings some sense of wholeness to disjointed events and seemingly diverse lives through common recollection. Public history is at once history from the mouth of the public as well as the public’s perception of the history they are presented with, created by others (whether the ‘others’ be historians, authors, exhibitors, etc). It is the past presented in the now with a voice and an opinion attached to it. Those opinions change the definition and place for history depending on the individual. Glassberg writes, “The meaning of a historical book, film, or display is not intrinsic” (9). There is no set reality in history. Reality varies from personal memory to personal memory. Public history strives to extract human emotion and memory to create a connection for those who did not experience something firsthand.

Both Glassberg and Rosenzweig & Thelen agree that people today are as interested in history as they have ever been. To think of this in relation to the chapter on place compels us to ask why, when we are as nomadic as ever in America, are we still interested in our connection to history? We are attracted to history because we feel like we are losing physical connection to places. Glassberg quotes Henry Glassie: [there is] “an undeniable difference between a portable past made of paper and a stationary one made of dirt” (20). I hope we will continue to explore this sense of placelessness and transitory nature as the semester progresses, but I am interested in its validity in regard to our generation and our sense of restlessness. In the “Shared Inquiry” article, Corbett and Miller note that “stability matters more than change” when mentioning the Lewis and Clark bicentennial exhibit in relation to Lone Dog’s interpretation of history. If stability matters more than change, and “Truth is more precious than fact,” (C&M, 24) then where do we find stability in our world of placelessness? We find it through stories told by loved onces rather than through a connection to a physical place, which is suggested in the statistical data in the Rosenzweig and Thelen article. As Bob Marley said, “My home is in my head.” Memory keeps us connected to a sense of place.