I suspected that we might be Oxford-bound, but I wasn’t sure. Once we headed west out of Tuscaloosa, that narrowed the possibilities a good bit, but I was still thinking it could also be either the Mississippi Delta or Memphis, either of which would have been a good time as well.
As it turned out, we arrived in Oxford around a bit before noon on Saturday, and our first stop was Rowan Oak, the home of William Faulkner. As both a southern historian and a historian of the South, it’s actually quite embarassing for me to admit that I have never read Faulkner, but it’s true. I’ve always wanted to, but I’ve just never gotten around to it. I think this may finally push me to do it. The house (pictured above) is surprisingly sparse. It’s a pretty old Greek Revival with some neat little nooks and crannies, but in terms of furnishings, it’s not what you might expect. Faulkner had a nice library and an office/writing room, but the relative dearth of books was a bit baffling. I suppose much of his library is probably housed in an archive somewhere, but it was a bit refreshing that he enjoyed reading mystery novels (there was a stack of them next to his bed). This makes me feel less guilty about reading contemporary (read: non-literary) fiction.
After checking out Rowan Oak, we headed downtown to the historic square for lunch. Probably the greatest thing about Oxford is that it has the very cliche “courthouse square” seen in many southern towns. In most such towns, however, the square is virtually dead these days. Not so in Oxford. It is a thriving agora lined with bars, boutiques, and bookstores, not to mention some fantastic restaurants. And yes, there is a Confederate monument in the center. Erected in 1907 by the United Daughters of the Confederacy.
For lunch, we decided on City Grocery, which serves “eclectic new Southern cuisine.” If by “eclectic new Southern cuisine.” We chose a couple of sandwiches, but these were not your your father’s ham and cheeses. Emily had a turkey and havarti on a croissant with a fried egg and dijon mustard. Very good. I had a fried chicken breast on a herb biscuit with caramelized onions and a molasses aioli. Three words: oh. my. God. It was quite simply one of the most delicious creations I’ve ever eaten. As if that weren’t enough, we shared a slice of chocolate-peanut butter pie that left us both wanting more.
After lunch, we walked down to the appropriately-named Square Books, whose owner just so happens to be the mayor of Oxford. This is one of the best, not to mention largest, independent bookstores I’ve ever visited. I think I could have spent hours there. On the second floor, there is a balcony that runs the length of the building along a side street where you can sit outside and look toward the square while reading your book and drinking your beverage of choice. Of course, it was too cold for that this weekend, but I imagine that in the late spring and fall, it’s a beautiful place.
They also have a fairly extensive collection of signed first editions (and have been running a monthly signed first editions “club” since 1979). In fact, I happened upon a signed first edition of what is perhaps my favorite book, Blood Done Sign My Name, which I know I’ve mentioned on this blog before. Having just passed my M.A. comps, I felt it appropriate to purchase a signed copy of the book that inspires me to be a better historian.
Another block or so away are two more off-shoots of Square Books, known as Off-Square Books and Square, Jr. The former is somewhat misleading, given that it, too, is actually on the square, but their inventory consists primarily of used books and publishers’ remainders. Very nice. I picked up three books there, two of which I’ve been wanting to read for some time. Square, Jr., as you might imagine, is a children’s bookstore. Emily and I didn’t wander in, but given my experience in the other two stores, I’m sure it’s pretty awesome as well.
After we had our fill of bookstores, we headed to the hotel, which was located on the campus of Ole Miss. After resting our tired and weary feet for an hour or so, we ventured out for a quick view of the campus. We didn’t see much actually, except for the Lyceum and the Grove (the Ole Miss equivalent of the Rotunda and the Lawn, respectively). I think it must have been spring break, because the campus was almost eerily quiet.
Emily suggested that we check out the tiny town of Taylor, about seven miles south of Oxford, so we did. It’s home to a folk art community and the “Taylor Grocery.” Why these people are so fond of calling their restaurants “groceries,” I do not know, but Taylor grocery is a small catfish restaurant where they allow you to bring your own brown bag. Pretty sweet. Driving by, it looked like a total dump, but I bet it’s phenomenal. We didn’t eat there, but we did stop by the Taylor arts center and check out some of their very cool work. We even contemplated purchasing a fish–or rather, a hunk of cypress painted to resemble a fish. In the end, we couldn’t justify spending $50 on art, especially when neither of us has a job lined up, but I still sort of want that fish.
From there, we headed back to the hotel and then walked back down to the square for dinner and drinks. After a pretty good dinner at Old Venice Pizza Co., we headed to the upstairs bar of City Grocery, where we watched the Duke/UNC basketball game and I imbibed several bourbon & cokes. (Can’t beat that on your birthday.) When we were finally ready to stumble back to the hotel, we walked outside only to discover the shuttle from our hotel parked right out front! We didn’t even realize it was running, but we hopped in and could not believe our good fortune.
The next morning, we nibbled on a mediocre continental breakfast at the hotel before heading to the world-famous (OK, maybe not world-famous, but locally famous) Bottletree Bakery, which just so happens to be featured in this month’s issue of Southern Living. It did not disappoint. Emily had the largest cinnamon roll either of us had ever seen, topped with enough icing to kill a diabetic. I couldn’t decide what to order and eventually compromised, ordering a sausage biscuit (with what I think was locally-made sausage) and breakfast foccacia–essentially, a huge chunk of foccacia bread topped with scrambled eggs, chopped-up bacon, and cheese. Both were delicious. I really wanted to try a blueberry muffin, but I simply didn’t have room.
All in all, it was a great weekend. I loved Oxford, and actually sort of regret not applying to graduate school there. I thought about it, but for reasons I can’t fully remember, I decided not to pursue it. Alas. I’ve (more or less) enjoyed my time in Tuscaloosa, and my professors here have by and large been terrific, but in terms of the culture of the town, it can’t hold a candle to Oxford. Most importantly to me, Oxford is a relatively small, yet bookish town, and for me, that’s perfect.
A quick story to illustrate this point: Saturday evening, Emily and I sat at the bar at City Grocery for a couple of hours. One of the bartenders there looked to be in his early- to mid-thirties, but we didn’t really talk to him or anything. Sunday morning, we’re at Bottletree Bakery (where they have a long, low bar in addition to tables), and the woman sitting next to Emily–who had been reading The New Yorker (you don’t see that in Tuscaloosa)–gets up to leave. And who should sit down next to her but the bartender from the night before, with a copy of the Bible and Thomas Paine’s Common Sense. I was like “That’s my kind of bartender.”
To make a long story short, if you have the opportunity to visit Oxford, take it.
Yeah, so now I’m just as bad as Caitlin and Liz used to be. I’ve fallen off the face of the blogging earth. I have good excuses, I swear, but I know you don’t want to hear them. (I warn you in advance, this has turned out to be quite long. Don’t write for a couple months and then get going, and you just can’t stop. But if you care about me as a friend, you’ll read it all. And I’ll know if you don’t.)
Things here are going well, although the month of November was as crazy as I expected it to be. Believe it or not, I was actually ahead on my work for most of the semester, the result of my misreading the syllabus. Twice. I won’t go into details, because frankly, I started writing them out, and I realized they were boring as hell. Even to me. And I lived them.
Anyway, suffice it to say, I was ahead on my work for a while. Then, my mother y brother came to visit for a weekend, then Emily and I went out of town for a weekend, then we went out of town for another weekend for The Marriage Rites of Mr. Bedard (sounds like a book, right? right?), then back here for lazy weekend at home, then back home for several days of thanks-giving.
I have learned a few things. One: weddings are really fun. Especially when they have a seven-hour open bar. Two: Do not provide a seven-hour open bar for your friends. If your friends include my friends, this might prevent you from ever owning your own home. (Sorry, John!) Three: The 12-hour drive between Virginia and Alabama is really not too bad, but I do not recommend it 4 times in a span of 13 days. Of course, I will be making it again in about a week, when I return home for Christmas. Or, if you prefer, the holidays.
Speaking as a student, my semester is over. It was actually a fairly easy one. I was (ostensibly) taking 6 credits, which broke down as follows: Black History Since 1877 (4 credits), Independent Readings (1 credit), Teaching History (1 credit). For all intents and purposes, I was taking only one class. Three guesses which one it was. Yes, you’re correct. It was black history.
(Quick recap: Sort of mediocre, not because of the material, but because of the professor. He’s a nice guy, but a real oddball. If you notice anything out there on the web that says “Academics for Ron Paul” or “Historians for Ron Paul,” that would be my guy. He’s leading that charge, if that tells you anything.)
I finished up the independent readings class in mid-October (probably around the same time I posted last) because I read the books over the summer. Of course, I went to see the professor about a month later because I wanted to ask her a question and she said, “You still owe me a paper, right?” To which I responded, “Yeah, no. I turned that in about a month ago. But that answers my question.”
The teaching history class was basically a joke, but a for-credit joke. Which, when you’re trying to get a degree, is really the best kind. It’s only right, considering the German language exam I also had to pass a couple of months ago. That’s what I call a sick joke. (Speaking of sick jokes, Emily and I also watched The Aristocrats the other night. Wow. Just wow. I did laugh though.)
So, speaking as a student, my semester is over. As a graduate teaching assistant, however, it is not. We give the final on Thursday, but I’ve already calculated my grades to this point, so I just have to plug in the final exam grade. Hopefully I can crank those out in about 24 hours. Everyone tells me grading the final is really easy because 99% of students won’t care enough to ask for them back, so you just read it, make a couple of check marks, and throw a grade on there. And if they come back in January like, “I wanna see my grade, you toad!” then I’ll re-read it and throw some erudition on it real quick.
Sounds good to me.
What that means is that for the next week or so (a little less now), I’m basically just chillin’ and finally getting to do some reading that I’ve been wanting to do for a while.
I found a copy of Eric Foner’s book Who Owns History? at the library bookstore for $1, so I bought it. I then realized I put it on my Christmas list this year, so I e-mailed my mom to tell her. Her response? “Well, I guess you can take it to Border’s for store credit. Merry Christmas.” It was pretty good, but not quite as good as I had hoped, so I’m kind of glad I got it for one junior bacon cheeseburger instead of unwrapping it on Christmas Eve, giddy with anticipation.
Now, I’ve moved on to a Grisham novel, one of the few I haven’t yet gotten to (The Testament). It’s pretty good so far, but it’s a Grisham novel, so what more can I really say here?
I’m also reading another history book (I’m a masochist), but this one I got for free in exchange for writing a review for the UA-published grad student journal of southern history. It’s called The Spirit and the Shotgun, and it’s about armed self-defense v. philosophical non-violence during the civil rights movement. It’s very good (much better than I expected), although I suspect that none of you are particularly interested in reading it.
Pause. Emily just woke up, so it’s time for me to make some french toast. Back in a few.
OK, back. Where was I? Oh, yes–books. Right.
So, next on my list is a (relatively) new book I picked up the other day called 1 Dead in Attic. Written by a journalist, it is a collection of observations in New Orleans, post-Katrina. I have a feeling it’s going to be a powerful read, and after reading the acknowledgments–always my first stop, the author (Chris Rose) seems to have an engaging writing style. It’s labeled as a history book (indeed, I found it in the history section), but it just doesn’t seem like history yet. Which brings me to a philosophical question on the nature of history: when does the past become “history?” Is the recent shooting in Omaha a part of “history?” Or is it simply the very recent past? What about Katrina? I think we’re starting to see 9/11 dealt with in a way that it’s considered “history,” so maybe the threshold is somewhere around 5 years or so.
Anyway, the book seems to have a history of its own. Rose self-published the book in early 2006, not terribly long after the storm. It apparently sold very well and Rose was working on a follow-up book when Simon & Schuster approached him about buying the rights to republish, so both books have been combined as the new 1 Dead in Attic. I’m looking forward to it.
In other news, I have a more formal interview at a (for now) unnamed school in R_____, V______ coming up very soon (I’m not sure why I did that with the name of the city. Seemed appropriate at the time. Probably wasn’t. Oh well). As some of you are probably aware, I had an informal meeting there about a month ago, which seemed to go pretty well. In any event, I’m really trying to not get my hopes up here, but it’s tough. I really like the school (at least from what I’ve seen so far). I’d love to get back closer to home, and in terms of logistics for this summer, what with the finishing school, getting married, not starving while waiting for the new job to start, and moving, it would be really nice to know in the next month or two what I’ll be doing next fall. Then we could start making the less important but much more nagging arrangements in terms of moving trucks, subleasing, etc., etc., etc.
Of course, it all seems too easy. That’s what I’m telling myself. How could I possibly get a job in December or January at the first place I really looked? It just doesn’t work that way usually. But deep down, my hopes are up. Alas.
Sorry for the delay in posting. I hope this small book has given you an insight into my life of late, and I hope this finds you all doing well. Merry holidays!
… and the livin’s easy.
Right now, I’m at home in Virginia, and have been for the past week. It’s been a nice refreshing trip, and I’ve done everything on my Virginia to do list except “Don’t spend a lot of money,” which wasn’t actually on the list, though it should have been. But money woes aside, I’ve seen many of my friends (some of which I hadn’t seen since graduation last year), bought books at the Green Valley Book Fair (one of my favorite places on Earth), and was able to see my brother’s promotion ceremony for JROTC and celebrate my mother’s birthday. So yeah, it’s been good. However, I’m leaving tomorrow to return to Alabama by way of North Carolina and Georgia.
I’m stopping Tuesday night in Raleigh to stay with my friend Lisa (who will also be Emily’s maid of honor in the wedding), and Wednesday I’ll be doing some research at UNC’s Southern Historical Collection. From there, I’ll drive to Atlanta, where I’m staying with some cousins and doing research at Emory’s archives. If being a graduate student were a “real job” (I suppose it is in some ways, but the pay keeps me from classifying it as “real”), these research trips would be the equivalent of business travel. Except that instead of staying in nice hotels and eating at nice restaurants, I’m sleeping on friends’ and families’ futons and floors.
My plans for the rest of the summer include “working” (10 hours/week), continuing my research on civil rights activity in the Alabama Black Belt (particularly interviews), reading for pleasure (I’m currently working my way through Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix so I can see the movie in July), and possibly helping coach an American Legion baseball team. We’ll see about that last one–contract talks still in progress.
It’s shaping up to be an excellent summer, and though I wish I could spend a bit more time in the Old Dominion, I’m incredibly excited to have some free time for a change. For the first time in three years, I’ll be able to come home at the end of the day and drink a beer. And sleep in. And not yell at kids for brazenly making out under street lamps. (Although, I have to admit, I think I’m going to miss that last one, just a little bit.)
In other news, this may be my final post on this blog. I’ve kept it going for nearly a year (much longer than any of my previous attempts), and I don’t intend to stop the updates altogether, but I am considering moving to a new location. Stay tuned.
Filed under: Books
I’ve been thinking a little bit lately about how I have this “Books” category on my blog, and yet I rarely use it. When I do, it’s usually only to say that I bought new books, which is really not what I originally intended. And then I read this book, and it easily falls not only into the “Books” category of this blog, but the “Books Everyone Should Read” category of life.
Blood Done Sign My Name, written by historian Tim Tyson (currently of Duke University) is, as he writes, “both memoir and history.” What began originally a decade and a half ago as his master’s thesis has evolved into one of the most poignant books I have ever read.
Alternately hilarious and heart-wrenching, Blood Done Sign My Name (in case your wondering, the title comes from an African American spiritual) is a small-town story that, at its core, centers on a murder. To anyone familiar with southern history, the key figures are unfortunately all too familiar: a black man, a white woman, and guns. But the book is also much more. Tyson, the son of a liberal Methodist preacher, witnessed much of the fallout from the murder firsthand as an eleven year old boy in Oxford, North Carolina, and another thread of the book is the story of his coming to grips with a painful past.
Brilliantly weaving together history and memory, Tyson shows us that history is not something to be written down and pulled from a book when desired. Whether we like it or not, it is something that we carry with us, often unconsciously, as we move through our everyday lives.
Rest assured that when I begin teaching, this will be required reading for my students. I hope those of you reading this will also check it out.
One last paper to write and I will be “free” until after Thanksgiving. “Free,” of course, is a relative term, and in this case simply means that I have no more papers to write until December. I still have about 1000 pages of reading per week (this is only a slight exaggeration in some weeks; in others, it is not an exaggeration at all).
This paper is actually going pretty well. It’s for my class on the history of the South, and I’m writing on the theme of paternalism in four memoirs: The Making of a Southerner (Katherine Lumpkin), Killers of the Dream (Lillian Smith), Outside the Magic Circle (Virginia Foster Durr), and Separate Pasts (Melton McLaurin). All four books are excellent, which makes the task of writing much more bearable, and I’m currently about halfway done.
I think I’m going to run a couple of errands for now to clear my head a little bit. I’m discovering that unlike in college, I write very slowly. I can only sustain my effort for an hour or two before I need to take a break and come back to it. Otherwise, my thoughts start to scramble and things get a little incoherent.
My plan is to finish this paper tonight, and I really have no choice, because I’m leaving town for the first time in almost three months tomorrow, as soon as I get out of class. I’m headed down to Ocean Springs, which still holds the record for being the place I’ve lived longer than anywhere else. I’m going to hang out with a childhood friend of mine who I haven’t seen in eight years, and other than that, just kind of enjoy briefly being out of Tuscaloosa. I’ll be back on Sunday.
In completely unrelated news, I think the guy who lives below me might fancy himself an opera singer. Or else he just has really bad taste in music. Either way, something terrible is happening down there. Another good reason for me to get out of the apartment for a little while.
An update: I left the apartment for about an hour to run some errands. Upon walking outside, I could hear this crazy fool operetting all the way across the quad-like area in front of my building. Upon returning, he is still at it. The same song. It’s still not good.
