Dispatches from the Front - Resolution Care
This meant hours of scrolling through microfilm copies of military records from the s. I squinted into the machine at a muster roll. From scraps like this, Sue reclaimed whole lives. Muster rolls led to pension records, wills, marriage certificates, gravestones. Diaries and letters fleshed the story out. She showed me a notebook filled with documents on Caleb Senter, her great-great-grandfather. It becomes part of your life. When I asked what she meant, Sue laughed. Hawkins was a spare man with pocked skin and a wispy mustache.
He sat squeezed beside his wife, Kaye, a big woman who took up most of the couch. His first marriage had ended in an ugly legal fight that left him with limited visitation rights for his three kids. He pointed to their pictures on the wall. It was soon after his divorce that Hawkins became obsessed with the Civil War.
At night, he went to the genealogy room at the library.
Dispatches from the Front: Number Sixty-One
One night, combing muster rolls, he found his great-great-grandfather listed as a private in a North Carolina regiment. Fields Hawkins was a twenty-year-old farmer when he volunteered. Shot twice in the spring of , he married while recovering from his wounds, then returned to the War—though only for two months.
A connection with my past that I can reach out and grab hold to. Hawkins read everything he could find on Sharpsburg known in the North as Antietam and dreamed of visiting the Maryland battlefield, particularly the sunken road known as Bloody Lane where Fields Hawkins lost his leg. Kaye turned on the television and started fixing dinner.
Hawkins lowered his voice. Late at night, he said, when Kaye fell asleep, he often slipped out of bed and continued reading, by oven light. But I feel like it was bigger somehow. Hawkins unstuck a rebel banner from a small flag stand by the bed. What state sent more troops to the Confederacy than any other, and took more casualties, too? Hawkins smiled. We gave a hundred twenty-seven thousand and lost forty thousand. Do you know one reason North Carolinians are called Tar Heels? Kaye poked her head in the bedroom.
Kaye invited me to stay, but I said I had to be going.
For a few moments we stood awkwardly by the trailer door, as a chill wind rattled the storm window. And you wanted to talk to me. Its residential streets were lined with parks and gardens and gracious homes funded, I later learned, with the millions that locals earned from investing years ago in a Salisbury-based supermarket chain called Food Lion. From the outside, the Curtis home appeared ordinary enough: a modest brick ranch house fronted by an American flag.
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But stepping inside, I found myself in a museum of Confederate kitsch. Portraits of Jeff Davis and Robert E.
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Lee adorned one wall. A bell-jar model of Ashley Wilkes perched on a side table.
The figurines were actually flasks with necks made of cork. That was just the living room.
In the dining room there were plates and cups decorated with rebel generals and paintings of battles in which the Curtis forebears fought. Sue pushed open the door to the kitchen. I glimpsed rebel-themed fridge magnets and mugs decorated with Rhett Butler. Somewhere in this ancestral lava was the Bible a rebel forebear had carried into battle. As a special treat, Ed sometimes drove her to the National Archives in Washington. The Curtises had no offspring of their own to enroll in the Sons or Daughters of the Confederacy.
At least no blood kin. Given all this, it seemed remarkable that the Curtises managed to hold down day jobs; Ed helped veterans find employment, Sue filled volunteer posts at schools, libraries and hospitals. But their passion for the War had crowded out everything else, including church. In fact, she looked forward to it. Sherman stood behind the counter, demonstrating an assault rifle with a retractable bayonet. A man and a boy of about ten looked on. Across the shop sat two other men I recognized from the meeting: a bloated fellow in overalls and a camouflage jacket, named Doug Tarlton, and an even doughier figure, Walt Fowler, who sat drinking a diet soda and wolfing down Bugles.
If you can call Walt human. Fowler acknowledged this friendly jibe by rummaging in a plastic bag beside his chair and pulling out a crude, photocopied cartoon showing several men aiming pistols into a toilet bowl. Tarlton smiled. He hates all minorities the same.
I tore a small piece from the dense plug of chewing tobacco and stuffed it in my cheek. For a few minutes, I concentrated on my cud and took in the rest of the shop. Survivors will be shot again! I pointed at the picture and asked Tarlton why he thought memory of the Confederacy was so enduring.
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We were back then, still are today. Every man in here has carried a gun for his country and probably a few of the women, too. After Vietnam, Tarlton worked as a police detective before turning to farming. He was also licensed as a lay minister. I realized now that the puffiness around his eyes was watery and unnatural, due to chemotherapy or cortisone rather than Southern cooking.
Tarlton spent much of it studying the Civil War.
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The Civil War also kept his detective skills sharp. Tarlton helped friends track down proof of rebel ancestry. You deal with that all day and you feel kind of soiled. He chuckled and pointed at Fowler, who was finishing off his box of Bugles. I asked Tarlton what he knew about his own Civil War forebears.
Dispatches from the Front
They came from stock that was oppressed and they felt oppressed again by the government telling them how to live. I plugged my mouth with a fresh wad of tobacco. Walt Fowler broke the awkward silence by reaching into his plastic bag again. He extracted a piece of parchment that looked like one of those homilies people put on their living room walls. I got up to go and told Tarlton I might stop by to see him again. No more chemo. If God wants me, he can take me. Then, as if on cue, he and Fowler pulled revolvers from their coat pockets and held them stiffly across their chests, mimicking young Confederates posing for studio portraits at the start of the War.
An auxiliary of the United Daughters of the Confederacy, the C. It was therefore not difficult to identify good and bad collaborations from the evidence provided. Respondents described each with no difficulty whatsoever and, to some extent, with common themes and content. In Section 2. This is not only due to the nature of the technical work itself but also to such factors as differing work norms, differing styles of graduate education, varied types and degrees of specialization, and whether it is even realistically possible to conduct research as individuals as opposed to teams.
It is difficult to sort out direct from indirect effects of field or discipline. In particular, some fields are more likely to have high stakes intellectual property. Thus, if one finds implications for collaboration outcomes, are the effects owing to the field or to the intellectual property in the balance? Likewise, equipment dependence or large funding scale dependence may have more important and independent effects than field.