2491 Chapters
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Medium 9781574411973


Edited by Peter B. Lane and Ronald E. Marcello University of North Texas Press PDF


COW outpost, 154

Creech, Bill, 122

Crimea, 17

Cuban Missile Crisis, 101

Curtis, Bob, 72-73

Cyprus, 245–46, 245n13


Eaker, Ira, 121

East Prussia, 23

Eastern Front, 7, 13–14, 19

Efate, New Hebrides, 52

Eglin AFB, 208

Eighth U. S. Army in Korea

(EUSAK), 134, 137; retreat,


Eisenhower, Dwight D., 111

Election of 1900 and antiimperialists, 260–261n9

Enola Gay, 78; Smithsonian exhibit, 86 escape attempts, 200–4, 200–


ETA (Euskadi ta Askatasuna),


Eurocentrism, 231-232


Dallas-Fort Worth International

Airport, 65 daylight high-altitude precision bombing, 35

D-Day, 86

De Custine, Marquis, 213

De La Cruz, Madame, 209 declaration of Jihad against U.S.,


Defense Attaché Office, 221

Defense Intelligence Office, 219

Defense Intelligence School

(Bolling AFB), 209

Defense Science Board Readiness

Task Force, 123n15

Denton Chamber of Commerce,


Denton Record-Chronicle, 51

Denton, Jeremiah, 197, 197n12,

198n13, 205n23 deterrent strategy, 117

Dhahran, Saudi Arabia (Khobar

Towers), 239

Dios Dios, 263

Divine, Robert, 48, 85

Dixon, Robert, 122, 224

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Medium 9781574411775

11. Spring Roundup and Branding

John R. Erickson. Photographs by Kristine C. Erickson University of North Texas Press PDF

Chapter Eleven

Spring Roundup and Branding

In a cowboy’s life, the spring branding season is a time of joy and excitement. Gone is the deadening routine of winter, the bleak days, the long nights, the cold hands and feet, the incessant demands of hungry animals, the isolation and loneliness. He puts up with these things because they are part of the job and because, in order to ride on a roundup crew, he must submit to a certain amount of drudgery.

The spring work in cow-calf country might begin as early as April

15, reach its peak by mid-May, and then taper off by June 15. It may involve sorting and culling the cow herd and moving cattle to summer pastures, but the primary function of the spring roundup is to brand and work the calves that have been born during the winter and spring.

Neighboring ranchers often pool their cowboys into one large crew and move from ranch to ranch, rounding up pastures, sorting the cattle, and branding the calves until the work is done.

Rounding up a big pasture is an adventure, and it resembles a military campaign. The roundup boss, usually the ranch owner or his foreman, is the general. He sets the strategy, thinks through the logistical problems of getting his mobile cavalry (mobile because they use pickups and trailers) where they are needed, and then directs the operation. Wild cattle will test the speed and endurance of the horses and the intelligence, instincts, and courage of the cowboys. Some cow herds will test the crew several times and give up. Some will go on

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Medium 9781574411461


Elizabeth Wittenmyer Lewis University of North Texas Press PDF
Medium 9781574415247

Chapter 5. Swimming

Kathryn U. Hulings University of North Texas Press PDF


There is a certain look that can be passed from one mother to an-

other; it is a singular look, and it is saved for specific moments. It is not a pleasant look. It is more like a sneer of contempt. A scoff. The upper lip slightly curls, and teeth are not quite bared—still, the possibility is real that fangs may appear—the eyes redden and then close into razor-sharp slits, and the chin ever so slightly lifts to expose the pulsation of the jugular vein. This look can be seen at Target when another mother’s child pleads and wails like a banshee for a squirt gun. It can be seen at a restaurant when another mother’s child has tossed crumbled saltines over the back of the booth into a dining patron’s hair. It can be seen at a movie theater when another mother’s child moans for Milk

Duds and threatens to hold his breath and then throw up if a box is not purchased immediately. Once received, it is unforgettable, for nothing says “you suck as a mother” better than the look.

Around 1997, when Michael was six years old, I received a variation of the look, en masse, from a sea of females who were simultaneously growling and grunting as they rampaged toward me. Clad in bikinis, one-piece swimsuits and, I think, a sundress or two, they waded—no, they tsunamied—toward me, creating a splashing, cyclonic mess out of the two feet of water that filled our neighborhood baby pool. It didn’t help that I started giggling. No, it didn’t help at all. For this version of the look transcended the traditional telepathic message, transmitted by

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Medium 9780253009098

1 Beginnings: 1921–1938

Billy Taylor Indiana University Press ePub

The seductive power of jazz resides in its distinctive sway, its particular saunter, its gait, its swing. The genealogy of that swing begins in West Africa, where a primal pulse spawned the ritual drumming, call-and-response singing, and orisha-possessed dancing that were the musical and spiritual life’s blood of its people. Like an endless vine with roots planted firmly in the soil of its African origin, that dynamic Mother Pulse stretched the length of the Atlantic Ocean and was carried as precious cargo in the musical memories and bodies of the enslaved and scattered people who became the Diaspora. Wherever these enslaved people landed, their African heartbeat, their fertile musical Mother Pulse, generated seedlings, new musical forms specific to their new environments but still identifiably African. In the Caribbean, these seedlings matured in forms like junkanoo, mambo, mento, and reggae. In the United States, the transplanted Africans injected the creative pulse of their homeland into their field hollers, work songs, spirituals, blues, and jazz. When the slave law silenced their drumming, the Mother Pulse persisted nonetheless, emerging as the body rhythms of the ring shout and the juba-pattin’ on the plantations, the handclaps of the black church, the vocal percussion of the quartet, the syncopation of ragtime, jazz, the backbeat of R & B, and the beat-boxing of the South Bronx. Songs from their African homeland emerged in new African American melodies that essentially use the five notes of the pentatonic scale; the hollers, guttural tones, and bent notes of the blues and black gospel; the flatted thirds and sevenths of jazz.

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Medium 9781574416312

10. Undaunted Courage and Fine Generalship

Bob Alexander University of North Texas Press ePub

SPRINGTIME OF 1893 HAD CLOSED finding U.S. Deputy Marshal/Special Ranger Baz Outlaw sitting in a reasonably good position career-wise. Certainly, despite the intermittent drunken and messy imbroglios of the past, maybe his word about foregoing taking a drink would stand good. Unquestionably, several Big Bend Country folks thought he was yet the man to turn to in a crisis. John Humphries, the storeowner previously advancing Baz cash in lieu of Captain Frank Jones forwarding Outlaw's quarterly pay vouchers, apparently had forgotten and/or forgiven—or it never had amounted to too much in the first place. Subsequent to some intricate consultations of a serious nature, John Humphries carried the message. Civilian Humphries wrote to Baz Outlaw enjoining him to exercise his authority as a federal officer: Proclaiming to the deputy marshal that the “Mescal business” at the Chispa Coal Mines must be stopped. The novice would-be lawmen had concocted what they believed was an ingenious plan. As it was spelled out to the Deputy U.S. Marshal, they would furnish him—loan him—a Winchester, horse, and saddle for the job.1 Then he could

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Medium 9780253010766

l6 January-September 1915

Galina Kopytova Indiana University Press ePub

THE ARRIVAL OF A NEW YEAR brought no relief to the conflict: Germany had intended to finish the war by autumn, and Russia had planned to fight only on foreign territory and was now dealing with a front line moving toward its own borders. In the words of Rech, a popular newspaper in Russian intellectual circles, “to say whether or not the war ends in the coming year, of course, is impossible. Nevertheless, however long the war continues, however much effort it requires, we have enough physical and spiritual strength.”1 Among the artistic elite, some tried to find in the cataclysms of war an opportunity for evolutionary and artistic progress. For example, the composer Alexander Scriabin wrote, “How deeply mistaken are those who see in wars only evil and the results of accidentally formed discord between peoples.”2

Meanwhile, the Heifetzes began the year in a new home—a rented apartment on Yekateringofsky Prospekt, renamed Rimsky-Korsakov Prospekt in the 1920s. The street starts in a residential area and then stretches southwest through a square that is home to the enormous white and blue St. Nicholas Cathedral; from there both the conservatory and the Mariinsky Theater are visible. The street then continues alongside the Yekaterininsky Canal before it ends around Kalinkinskaya Square. The Heifetzes settled at this end ofYekateringofsky Prospekt in building 115. This would become the Heifetz family’s final address in the city. They lived in this apartment for two-and-a-half years up to their departure for the United States. The walk to the conservatory from this new apartment took twenty minutes, which was longer than before, but a tram stopped outside their building. The neighborhood where they settled was not particularly upscale; it joined the quarter between the Fontanka River and the Yekaterininsky Canal, or the “ditch,” as the latter was then unflatteringly called. Apartments in this area were packed together tightly, but unlike the more central streets, the new location was at least quiet and peaceful.

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Medium 9781574414615

Culinary Aspects

Ron Tatum University of North Texas Press ePub

Culinary Aspects

People always ask me about feed for their horses. They worry about feed as much as they worry about their own diets. I usually tell them to ask their vet or go talk to the old guy at the feed store (any feed store will do), but over the years I’ve gotten enough information to be able to speak to this subject with some authority. I’ve learned that a chicken feed called “scratch” is a remarkable curative for crumbly hooves, that cider vinegar makes miraculous changes in arthritic horses, that horses behave better if the shoer arrives with a box of—God help us—sugar cubes, and that 50 percent of founder cases, a serious foot condition, occur on Christmas day because the owners run out to their ponies and horses with a gaily wrapped coffee can of sweet grain, an unaccustomed treat, which, if eaten in one sitting almost invariably ends in colic or founder, either of which can kill the animal.

I’ve also learned to be careful with my food words when I’m distracted by the job at hand. An example: I was trimming a new customer’s horse and we were talking away in the usual manner when she asked me if I knew how to clean tarweed off the horse’s muzzle and legs. Tarweed is a small bright green weed with little yellow flowers that horses enjoy eating. It puts out a sticky black tar that gets all over the legs and faces of the horses. It’s a real mess. Busy working on a hind foot, I admitted I had no answer for her, but suggested she go talk to the wise old home remedy expert at the feed store. “He’ll probably give you some wacky recipe like kerosene and penis butter,” I inattentively suggested. Horror struck, I murmured, “I mean ‘peanut butter.’ ” I didn’t look up. I didn’t say another word. Neither did she. Without looking at each other the money was exchanged and I left. I’ve never heard from her since.

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Medium 9781574413588

Chapter 7: Black Sheep Jeff Daggett

Richard F. Selcer University Of North Texas Press ePub


Black Sheep Jeff Daggett

Jeff Daggett was bad news his whole life, from his unwelcome birth in 1863 to his unfortunate end fifty-four years later in a hail of bullets in the Tarrant County Courthouse. He was born in 1863 on the plantation of Captain Ephraim M. Daggett, remembered as the Father of Fort Worth. His mother was Matilda Smith, a slave on the plantation. It was a small plantation by the standards of the Old South, no more than ten or fifteen acres with the slave quarters right behind the big house. Slaves and their master’s family lived and worked close together. Jeff’s father was Ephraim “Bud” Daggett, the only son of Ephraim Merrell Daggett. Bud Daggett had been born in Kentucky in 1838 to E. M. and Pheniba Strauss Daggett. The mother died while Bud was still a child. The father fought in the Mexican War where he acquired the rank of captain while serving with the Texas Rangers. He came to Fort Worth in 1854 with his family, livestock, and slaves, settling on a survey about three-quarters of a mile south of the bluff. Daggett had remarried in the meantime, but Bud Daggett was mostly raised by a black mammy who was like a second mother. Growing up in a slave-owning family, race was a fact of life and living in such close proximity the lines between the races were sometimes blurred. With his father often away on business and being the oldest male in the household, Bud was the man of the place.1

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Medium 9781576753019

26 Ecuador’s Presidential Death

Perkins, John Berrett-Koehler Publishers ePub

Leaving MAIN was no easy matter; Paul Priddy refused to believe me. “April Fool’s,” he winked.

I assured him that I was serious. Recalling Paula’s advice that I should do nothing to antagonize anyone or to give cause for suspicion that I might expose my EHM work, I emphasized that I appreciated everything MAIN had done for me but that I needed to move on. I had always wanted to write about the people that MAIN had introduced me to around the world, but nothing political. I said I wanted to freelance for National Geographic and other magazines, and to continue to travel. I declared my loyalty to MAIN and swore that I would sing its praises at every opportunity. Finally, Paul gave in.

After that, everyone else tried to talk me out of resigning. I was reminded frequently about how good I had it, and I was even accused of insanity. I came to understand that no one wanted to accept the fact that I was leaving voluntarily, at least in part, because it forced them to look at themselves. If I were not crazy for leaving, then they might have to consider their own sanity in staying. It was easier to see me as a person who had departed from his senses.

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Medium 9781574412376

eleven: On the border

William and Rosalie Schiff and Craig Hanley University of North Texas Press PDF

chapter eleven

On the border

“It is not true that I or anyone else in Germany wanted war in 1939. It was desired and instigated solely by international finance conspirators of Jewish blood or working for

Jewish interests.”

In his suicide note Adolf Hitler tried to shift the blame for the six years of pain he forced on the world by invading

Poland. The day before he dictated the note he learned that

Heinrich Himmler had betrayed him. A radio brought the news down into the bunker. When Hitler heard that Himmler was trying to negotiate a separate peace he screamed until his face turned brownish purple. The thinker of the new

Germany had finally been abandoned by his doer, the man who translated hate into bodies.

Himmler killed himself three weeks later. After the Allies spurned his absurd diplomatic overtures his last days were desperate. Of the 800,000 elite killers he commanded in his prime, only two nervous aides remained. Forced to drive his own bulletproof car, the SS National Leader promptly ran it into a ditch. He shaved his moustache, donned an eye patch, and disguised himself as a sergeant. When the British caught

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Medium 9780253342119

1 The Army Beckons

J. Ted Hartman Indiana University Press ePub


The Army Beckons

In 1943, I was a high school senior in Ames, Iowa. The world was at war and the United States was deeply involved in that war. It was an accepted fact that every male would be called into one of the armed services upon reaching the age of 18. Early that year, all of the boys in my class were invited to take the A-12/V-12 examination given by the army and the navy. When those of us taking the examination scored above a certain level, we would qualify to be sent to a university by the armed service of our choice and would avoid the draft.

Those preferring the navy would enlist in that branch and be enrolled directly into the V-12 program at designated universities across the nation. Those choosing the army were to enlist and be assured of at least six months of university work before being called to active duty. Once activated, the recruit would be sent for thirteen weeks of basic training followed by enrollment in the Army Specialized Training Program (ASTP) at a university. Several of my classmates and I received letters that we had passed, so we hitchhiked to Des Moines, Iowa, where we went to the army recruiting station and enlisted on May 18, 1943. After a physical examination, we were sworn in as members of the Army of the United States on inactive duty.

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Medium 9780253352415

Fourteen: Pressler at the TCU/Cliburn Piano Institute

William Brown Indiana University Press ePub

A Lecture Presented at Texas Christian University
Fort Worth, Texas
May 2005

Pressler is often asked to judge piano competitions, not the least of which is the Van Cliburn competition held in Fort Worth, Texas, every four years. He has judged the Van Cliburn several times and enjoys having the opportunity to address his audience of young players who are searching for the very nuances of performance and understanding of music that Pressler offers.

During his most recent visit to the Cliburn Piano Institute in May 2005, Pressler addressed an audience of music teachers and students, a forum in which he spoke about his training, his career, and his life-long love of music. He then took questions from the audience. The forum was recorded.

Tamás Ungar asked me to speak to you today. This is the year my Trio is going to be fifty years old, and I thought that would be a good thing to talk about because, in a way, it speaks about what my life is about, not just what the Trio’s about but what my life is about and what music in my life is about. All of you who are coming here to practice, to learn, to listen, to participate are coming for a number of reasons. The very first one—and I hope the most important one—is the love for music, that which brings you here and that which actually nourishes you and that has nourished me.

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Medium 9780253339041

10. The Aftermath of Gettysburg

David M. Jordan Indiana University Press ePub

THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG, OF COURSE, did not end with the defense of Little Round Top, although it might have if Longstreet’s Confederates had captured the hilltop. Meade and Hancock, now in command of the entire left wing of the Union army, had anxious moments before all the results of Dan Sickles’s foolish move were countered. As the sultry July afternoon waned and the sun set in a fiery red glow through the dark smoke of battle, there was fierce fighting along Plum Run and in the woods and fields between the Emmitsburg Road and Cemetery Ridge. At the end of the day the Union line was intact and perhaps stronger than it had been at noon.1

That night, after Confederate probes at the positions on Cemetery Hill and Culp’s Hill had been repulsed, General Meade called together his corps commanders to assess the army’s condition and plan for the morrow. The meeting began around nine o’clock in the stuffy little bedroom of the house where Meade had his headquarters. Butterfield and Warren were present with Meade, as were Slocum and Hancock, who had led the right and left wings respectively of the army, and seven corps commanders. The consensus reached was for the army to stay in its present position and, at least for the next day, wait for Lee to resume offensive action. Warren took no part in the conversation; worn out by his exertions, by the heat, and by the pain of his neck wound, the chief engineer curled up in a corner and slept through the meeting.2

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Medium 9780253007278

7 Literature and Reality

Gerald Sorin Indiana University Press ePub

A prisoner of his own ambition and of his unwavering loyalty to Communist orthodoxy, Fast on June 7, 1950, became a prisoner of the state. The U.S. Supreme Court, on May 29 had dashed Fast’s last chance at reprieve by denying for a second time in two years a review of his appeal lost at lower levels. Fast and the other convicted members of the Joint Anti-Fascist Refugee Committee had known for many months that their chances were exceedingly slim, and this last attempt at a review by the highest court was little more than a formality on their part.1

But in the months preceding what Fast now saw as his inevitable imprisonment, he continued to speak, write, and correspond with supporters. In October 1949, in a letter to his Welsh friend, novelist Gwyn Thomas, Fast said he was convinced that the Truman government had “gone truly berserk,” and that “gibbering idiots” were running the nation. He went on in a bizarre non sequitur to say that the atom bomb “which the Russians so innocently exploded has shown up the utter insanity and bankruptcy” of Washington, “a city sick with terror and paralyzed with fear.” Fast, who hadn’t been in D.C. since October 1947, told Thomas that “there are spies, informers, and various kinds of touts at every street corner” of the capital. And although he had never been to Germany, Fast told Thomas that he agreed with a Czech associate who had recently remarked that “Berlin at its worst was not quite as bad” as Washington. Fascism, Fast concluded, has come to America as anti-Communism “in the name of democracy.”2

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