Francis X. Walter's From Preaching to Meddling:A White Minister in the Civil Rights Movement David E. Alsobrook (bio) From Preaching to Meddling: A White Minister in the Civil Rights Movement. By Francis X. Walter. Montgomery: NewSouth Books, 2021. 335 pp. $28.95. ISBN 978-1-5883-8390-7. Father Francis X. Walter, a retired Episcopalian priest, was born in Mobile in 1932 and currently resides in Sewanee, Tennessee, the site of his seminary studies at the University of the South in the mid-1950s. From Preaching to Meddling is Walter's brooding, evocative memoir of his life as a clergyman during the Civil Rights Era. Deeply honest, introspective, self-deprecating, witty, and occasionally sardonic, Walter's narrative reflects his own inner turmoil, indecision, self-doubts, and regrets. He engages in a lively, ongoing dialogue with "Memoria," the impish fictitious muse of his youth, shining a merciless beam on his feckless naivete and prejudices. Walter not only queries "Memoria" about the accuracy of his recollections, he also edits youthful statements that he now considers to be incorrect. For example, he annotates a personal journal entry that characterizes Creoles as "confirmed racists": "[I'm ashamed to have written that in 1965. It wasn't true.]" (36). [End Page 323] Despite idyllic memories of his early years on Mon Louis Island and in Spring Hill with his beloved "second-level Old Mobile" family during the Great Depression and World War II, Walter bitterly admits, "The racist sins of my church were eating me up" (15). After concluding his formal theological training in 1957, he could no longer silently condone an inherently evil system of virulent racism and its corrosive impact on African Americans and whites. Martha Marsh Walter exerted a profound influence on her idealistic young son. While ravaged with terminal breast cancer, she courageously protested against the Episcopalian diocese's racist ostracism of Father John Cole, a charismatic Black priest at the Church of the Good Shepherd, originally established in Mobile in 1854. Inspired by his mother's example, Francis Walter chose to emulate her, regardless of the potentially negative impact on his future pastoral career. Like other white southerners of that era who wrestled with crises of conscience over racial issues, Walter paid a heavy personal price for this fateful decision. He was branded as a traitor to his southern heritage, personified by long-dead Confederate ancestors. Walter's estrangement from family members, boyhood friends, and neighbors was an emotionally traumatic episode he never forgot. However, he equates memories of his mother's steadfast bravery and Father Cole's dignified compassion with Kairos, the Greek word for "a defining moment" (79). "I heard in myself," he recalls, "I will never be part of this system again. Never. Ever. I will fight. I will never give up" (85). Girded with this personal mantra, Walter embarked on a lifelong journey of faith, conscience, and action. Following his ordination in 1957, Walter spent two years on sabbatical at the General Seminary in New York City. He befriended clerics of other faiths, including the Bishop of the Russian Orthodox Church in Odessa and a South African nondenominational disciple of Mohandas Ghandi's philosophy of sacrifice and nonviolence. Total immersion in the spiritual and intellectual ferment of the General Seminary and New York deepened Walter's personal commitment to racial equality, human rights, and the nascent Civil Rights Movement. [End Page 324] As his sabbatical ended, Walter's thoughts turned toward home. After Father Cole departed from the Church of the Good Shepherd in 1959, Walter eagerly volunteered to replace him. Episcopalian Bishop Charles Carpenter in Birmingham, who opposed white priests serving in African American parishes, reluctantly acceded to Walter's wishes. Upon returning to the Port City, Walter found that his father's Mobile Cylinder Grinding Company partner (who happened to be the father-in-law of Francis Walter's sister) threatened to withdraw his share of the company's working capital. The message was clear—a white businessman's son in Mobile could not pastor a Black congregation. So, rather than subject his family to financial ruin, Walter withdrew from his first pastorate without delivering a single sermon or administering any of...

Reviewed by: A Hard Rain: America in the 1960s, Our Decade of Hope, Possibility, and Innocence Lost by Frye Gaillard David E. Alsobrook A Hard Rain: America in the 1960s, Our Decade of Hope, Possibility, and Innocence Lost. By Frye Gaillard. Montgomery, Ala.: NewSouth Books, 2018. 700 pp. $35.00. ISBN 978-1-5883-8344-0. Baby Boomers’ parents always remembered precisely where they were on December 7, 1941, when radio broadcasts announced the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Boomers experienced their own “Day of Infamy” moment twenty-two years later, on November 22, 1963, with Walter Cronkite’s sorrowful CBS news flash: “President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time” (xiv). Since I was in school, I missed Cronkite’s live report. I was a seventeen-year-old senior at W. P. Davidson High School in West Mobile. After the vice-principal broke the tragic news over the intercom in our English class, several students began sobbing loudly, and a fist fight erupted between two of my fellow seniors who held widely divergent views about the slain president. Such aberrant behavior normally would have earned immediate suspensions for the combatants, but not on that day. I seriously doubt that our fiery, red-headed English teacher, Helen Robbins, ever reported the incident. She was devastated by the heartbreak, anger, and sense of irreparable loss that engulfed us. For her students, however, this violent altercation forever haunted and delineated our memories of the day that John F. Kennedy died, along with our adolescent naivete and innocence. For anyone who lived during the Sixties, Frye Gaillard’s A Hard Rain will evoke many visceral, emotional memories like those of that horrific day in late November 1963. “I hope to offer a sense of how it felt” (xi), the author writes about the decade early in his narrative. In this evocative, ambitious book, he clearly accomplishes this goal. A Hard Rain is a brilliant, definitive work in its breadth and depth alone and will attract a diverse universe of readers. Although this book lacks standard footnotes, endnotes, or a bibliography, Gaillard’s “Notes and Acknowledgments” incisively reveal how he utilized primary and secondary sources. Stylistically, A Hard Rain’s crystalline prose is as invigorating as a hike in the cool, clean air of Marin County’s Muir Woods in the early autumn. Moreover, Gaillard’s felicitous synthesis [End Page 85] of previous scholarship, trenchant historical context, and his own poignant recollections combine to produce a book that assuredly will stand the test of time. Discerning readers may question whether A Hard Rain is a memoir, narrative history, or a journalistic account of this tumultuous decade, or a creative blend of all three genres. Perhaps anticipating this debate, Gaillard asserts: I have set out to capture in these pages—for those who lived it and wish to remember, and for those who didn’t but still want to know—the competing story arcs of tragedy and hope. There was in these years the sense of a steady unfolding of time, as if history were on a forced march, and the changes spread to every corner of our lives … For me this is history of a personal kind, the story of a decade in which I came of age, and in which my professional aspirations took shape … I knew as a journalist beginning my career in [1968] I wanted to write about these things, and that the line between history and journalism was thin (xi). Regardless of which genre seems most applicable, A Hard Rain is a panoramic, encyclopedic elegy of the Sixties—the Civil Rights struggle; the Vietnam War; the rise of movements for the rights of women, Native Americans, Latinos, and gays; the Pill and the sexual revolution; the counterculture; the first astronaut on the moon; and the generational schism that shattered and traumatized virtually every American family. The frenetic pace of the saga that unfolds in this book is reminiscent of “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” Billy Joel’s pulsating 1989 rock ballad. The Sixties, of course, featured its own musical accompaniment— an amalgamation of the blues, jazz, country, folk, and rock and a soaring constellation of artists—Elvis...

Remembrances of Sarah Woolfolk Wiggins Ruth Smith Truss and David E. Alsobrook Click for larger view View full resolution IN MEMORIAM Sarah Woolfolk Wiggins 1934–2020 Photo courtesy Rebecca Minder ruth smith truss Remarkable. This word has many connotations and is overused. Yet, it captures much about Sarah Wiggins—who she was and what she accomplished. Other terms are just as meaningful and apt: elegant, strong, intelligent, forthright, supportive, demanding, exceptional. Trying to capture the essence of Sarah Wiggins in a way that would make her proud and reflect well on her life’s work is a daunting task. Indeed, even as I write this tribute, I hear her voice and feel her influence. I met Dr. Wiggins in 1985 when I visited her office, in an old home (since razed) on the campus of the University of Alabama. That home, with its high ceilings, wooden floors, tiled bathroom, and wide porches front and back, situated in a yard of mature oak trees, came to symbolize so much of my sense of Sarah Wiggins. Here more than any other place, she passed on her love of Alabama history, her dedication to the profession, and her work ethic during countless hours in the “parlor” area of that house, reading manuscripts submitted to the Alabama Review. At an old dining room table, Dr. Wiggins evaluated submissions, assigned them to her research assistant for source- and fact-checking, and proofread multiple revisions on the path to publication. If an error crept in at any stage of the process, it did so at its own peril, because Dr. Wiggins’s eye, like her mind, was keen. From October 1976 (vol. 29, no. 4) to April 1996 (vol. 49, no. 2), Dr. Wiggins edited the Review. As editor, she allowed the author’s voice to shine; her work and contribution remained behind the scenes. The result was a journal that was uniformly polished, professional, [End Page 196] and recognized as a model for state-level publications. In short, she had the rare ability and rarer willingness to enhance rather than override the author’s voice. She was satisfied knowing that the published article was the best and most accurate work possible. Click for larger view View full resolution Dr. Ruth Truss (left), professor of history at the University of Montello, and Sarah Woolfolk Wiggins attend the induction of Sarah Haynsworth Gayle into the 2016 Alabama Women's Hall of Fame. Truss and Wiggins co-edited The Journal of Sarah Haynsworth Gayle: A Substitute for Social Intercourse, published in 2013 by the University of Alabama Press. Photo courtesy Rebecca Minder. A native of Montgomery, Sarah Woolfolk early developed a love for the stories of Alabama, both the state and the people. She left for Baton Rouge to attend graduate school, taught briefly in Virginia, and then in 1961, twenty-seven-year-old Sarah returned to her home state, to Tuscaloosa, to take a history faculty position at the University [End Page 197] of Alabama. On the day she moved into one of three apartments in a converted house, a charming fellow tenant with a wonderful smile knocked on her door and offered lunch—a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich and a Coke. In the telling, over twenty-five years later, she smiled reminiscently as she recalled the meeting that eventually led to her marriage to Peyton Wiggins, a young English professor. In my five years as her research assistant, Dr. Wiggins rarely shared personal information, making this story even more special. I quickly realized that Dr. Wiggins had definite priorities, in this order: daughter Henrietta, first; work, second. Her family retained always that ranking in her heart; by the time of her death, her family included not only her beloved Henri but also her son-in-law and two granddaughters. I trust that her granddaughters will come to appreciate fully their maternal grandmother and know that she was immensely proud of them, appreciating and valuing their individual identities, talents, and accomplishments. Dr. Wiggins’s work as a historian never ended. In her own research and writing, she was meticulous, a perfectionist; her approach was to be concise, accurate, and true to the sources—and to use...

Reviewed by: Thomas Goode Jones: Race, Politics, and Justice in the New South by Brent J. Aucoin David E. Alsobrook Thomas Goode Jones: Race, Politics, and Justice in the New South. By Brent J. Aucoin. Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2016. 248 pp. $54.95. ISBN 978-0-8173-1913-7. Thomas Goode Jones (1844-1914) was one of Alabama's most influential, enigmatic public figures of the New South Era. Utilizing a rich array of primary and secondary sources in this ambitious, incisive biography, Brent J. Aucoin vividly reveals the panoramic arc of Jones's life and times and his distinguished service as a soldier, lawyer, politician, and jurist. As a biography and historical monograph, Aucoin's much-anticipated work will be of keen interest to a wide audience of readers. Historians, attorneys, and casual aficionados of the Alabama saga will discover some familiar topics in this book—the postbellum Bourbon Democratic political agenda, the rise of populism in the 1880s and 1890s, the bitterly contested gubernatorial elections of 1890-92, the tumultuous constitutional ratification campaign of 1901, and the protracted struggle over the regulation of railroads in [End Page 72] the early 1900s. But Aucoin also includes a wealth of fresh insights into Jones's personal life, his phenomenal relationship with Booker T. Washington, and his philosophical evolution as a public official and jurist. Like so many other young men of his generation, Jones's courage was forged in the horrific crucible of Civil War combat—as a lieutenant commanding Company K of the 53rd Alabama Infantry Regiment and as an aide-de-camp to General John B. Gordon in the Army of Northern Virginia. Wounded in his baptism under fire at Thompson's Station, Tennessee, in March 1863, Jones later saw extensive action in some of the war's bloodiest engagements, including Gettysburg, Cold Harbor, and Petersburg. In April 1865, General Robert E. Lee ordered Jones and a small cadre of staff officers under a flag of truce to Appomattox Courthouse, where they personally witnessed the Confederate surrender. Jones's memories of battlefield carnage and its indiscriminate toll on comrades and foes alike haunted him until he died a half-century later. He emerged from the war with deep respect and admiration for his former enemies and became a vocal champion of reconciliation between the North and South two years before the end of Reconstruction and a decade prior to Henry W. Grady unveiling his famous New South Creed. In his meteoric postwar public career, Jones served as a Montgomery alderman, chief counsel of the Louisville & Nashville Railroad, speaker of the Alabama House of Representatives, and governor (1890-94). During the twenty-five years after the war, he became entrenched in the state's Bourbon Democratic leadership hierarchy that espoused fiscal austerity, generous subsidies and minimal taxation for industries and railroads, and white supremacy. Yet, as Aucoin meticulously documents, Jones frequently drifted away from the Bourbon Democrats' doctrines and dogma. As a legislator, for example, he vociferously opposed the state's lucrative convict leasing system and, openly breaking ranks with the Louisville & Nashville Railroad, he supported a bill that obligated railroads to pay injured workers' medical expenses. He cast the deciding vote [End Page 73] in 1886 against the Wiley Contract Bill, a cleverly drafted initiative to provide white planters with unfettered control over African American laborers. Early in his first gubernatorial term, Jones cited the Fourteenth Amendment's due process clause in haranguing legislators on the legal pitfalls of withholding state appropriations for black public schools. Almost twenty years later, Jones vehemently exclaimed that the legislature's recalcitrance on this issue "was not only unconstitutional, but … wrong in principle, morals, and policy" (31). Despite Jones's seemingly enlightened positions on black educational funding and labor contracts, the author argues that "he was not a racial egalitarian or immune to the racist ideas of his day" (32). Jones, as a product of his ancestry and environment, was a racial paternalist who fervently believed that African Americans' salvation lay in segregation, industrial education, and gradual economic advancement—all under the vigilant guidance of their white superiors. Thus, both Jones and Booker T. Washington, Tuskegee Institute's principal...

A Portrait of the Archivist as a Young Man David E. Alsobrook (bio) For over four decades, my wife ellen has provided me with much wise advice and counsel about my public remarks—for example, "Always remember that your audience is not nearly as interested in your topic as you are; and be sure to stay on message." I always have tried to follow her suggestions. However, during the preparation of my remarks, I thought of a story, which is a bit of a digression, but also clearly illustrates why I should listen to my wife. One of the truly wonderful perquisites of being a presidential library director is the opportunity to meet so many fascinating, gifted people from across the arts and entertainment spectrum. When Julie Andrews visited Little Rock about fifteen years ago, Bill and Hillary Clinton were out of town. So, I had the privilege of showing Ms. Andrews around the Clinton Presidential Materials Project, which was located in a renovated Oldsmobile dealership. For over two hours, I showed her samples of presidential documents, photographs, artifacts, and memorabilia. She asked very serious, thoughtful questions during our tour. Then it was time for her to leave. Pausing at the door, she said, "I'm really looking forward to returning someday to see the Clinton Presidential Library." I replied, [End Page 283] "I'm sure that the former President and First Lady would love to give you that tour." She looked me straight in the eye and softly said, "No, David, I want you to do it." Click for larger view View full resolution Image 1. The author (middle) with Warren and Mary Finch, White House North Lawn, ca. December 9, 1992. Image courtesy of Bush Presidential Library, College Station, Texas. I floated home on air. Julie Andrews wanted ME to show her all of the Clinton Library's treasures! When I related this story to Ellen, she smiled and said, "Yes, David—that's why Julie Andrews is such a great actress." We all need someone like my wife who keeps our feet anchored on terra firma. My presentation today is a departure from past AHA presidential addresses. President George H.W. Bush has recalled his mother's stern admonishment not to be a "braggadocio" and speak only about himself. Similarly, the popular humorist Finley Peter Dunne suggested in 1899 that a more accurate title for Teddy Roosevelt's egocentric [End Page 284] narrative of his heroics with the Rough Riders at San Juan Hill would be Alone in Cuba.1 Thus, I fully realize that a first-person account squarely places me in "braggadocio" and Alone in Cuba territory. This format also lacks the comfortable safety net of a tight chronology with a beginning, middle, and end. What follows are some personal recollections of my life as an archivist—not objective by any stretch of the imagination, but also hopefully not a revisionist history. During the winter of 1992-93, the National Archives established a small beachhead in College Station, Texas, officially designated as the Bush Presidential Materials Project—a chrysalis of the future George H.W. Bush Presidential Library. The Archives selected a young married couple, Warren and Mary Finch, as my partners on this ambitious mission. Since none of our colleagues from the Archives or other presidential libraries volunteered for duty in this remote corner of Texas, the Finches and I were on our own for almost a year. The responsibility for laying the earliest foundation for the Bush Library thus fell upon the shoulders of three Alabamians who had earned graduate history degrees at Auburn University.2 In mid-February 1993, Gina Howard, a young reporter for The Battalion, Texas A&M University's student newspaper, visited our quarters, a converted bowling alley about a mile from the campus. [End Page 285] Since we were not natives of the Lone Star State, she emphasized the importance of our understanding the bitter rivalry between Texas A&M and "TU," the University of Texas. We three Auburn Tigers smiled at each other, and I said, "Hum a few bars of that tune; we might recognize it." As Ms. Howard flipped open her notepad, I asked...

The Best Years of Their Lives: Alabama Polytechnic Institute’s World War II Veterans Era, 1946–1950 David E. Alsobrook (bio) Between 1946 and 1950, World War II veterans dominated virtually every aspect of campus life at the Alabama Polytechnic Institute (API), which later became Auburn University. API’s “experiment” in the conversion of veterans into college students was a small part of a greater historical watershed in American higher education. By the autumn of 1946, over half of the nation’s two million collegians were World War II veterans. This explosion in postwar enrollments immediately created unprecedented crises in housing, instruction, and funding for colleges across the county. API’s innovative responses to this emergency and the veterans’ impact upon “town and gown” in Auburn laid a foundation for the dramatic evolution of this small Land Grant institution into a modern diversified university.1 In 1944 Congress opened the door for veterans to college campuses with the passage of Public Law 346, the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act, popularly known as the GI Bill of Rights. Soon after President [End Page 316] Franklin D. Roosevelt affixed his signature to P. L. 346, colleges prepared for the arrival of the first wave of ex–servicemen. In March 1945, API President Luther N. Duncan predicted that since postwar employment in engineering, agriculture, and veterinary medicine required “definite preparation along scientific, technical, and practical lines, […] we shall have as many of these veterans as we shall be able to house and teach.”2 With only one hundred ex–GIs on campus at that time, Duncan’s words proved to be remarkably prescient. Duncan quickly recognized the potential financial opportunities inherent in the GI Bill. Yet, he also understood that this new federal program was not a long–term source of funds for the college. Since the veterans would earn their degrees within two to four years, government funding for tuition paid directly to API provided only a temporary infusion of money into the college’s cash–starved accounts. Moreover, API assumed a significant administrative burden in its GI Bill contract. Anticipating this obligation, in late 1945, Duncan established the Auburn Veterans Affairs Office as a central clearing house for all GI Bill and Veterans Administration (VA) paperwork, including verification records of students’ eligibility for monthly subsistence allotments. Duncan also appointed P. M. “Mike” Norton as the coordinator [End Page 317] of this office. A graduate of Birmingham–Southern College and a former high school teacher and coach, genial Mike Norton was an ideal choice for this demanding job. He streamlined administrative procedures and implemented rudimentary counseling services for ex–GIs with academic and personal problems, thereby facilitating their transition to civilian life.3 The GI Bill’s flexibility and the VA’s generous subsistence allotments expedited many veterans’ adjustment to college. Thus, young men with meager incomes could resume or initiate college careers without incurring any sizable debts. Effective January 1, 1946, the federal government funded all approved college and vocational training for veterans for one full year plus their time in uniform. Since World War II veterans typically served from two to three years, this stipulation allowed a realistic time frame for the completion of their studies. API received direct payments via the GI Bill for veterans’ tuition, books, equipment, and supplies. The VA mailed monthly subsistence allotment checks of $60 and $90 to single and married students, respectively. In 1948 allotments were raised to $75 for single veterans and $105 to $120 for men with one or more dependents.4 By the time Auburn’s veterans era had run its course in the spring of 1950, 9,277 ex–servicemen had received GI Bill and VA benefits. Of this number, 4,052 had completed their degrees, with 3,515 still enrolled under P. L. 346. Collectively, the GI Bill and the VA disbursed to API over $10,000,000 for tuition, books, equipment, and supplies and about $20,000,000 directly to students in subsistence allotments. In June 1949, as veterans’ enrollments declined, API requested a 54 percent increase in its annual legislative appropriation. Of Auburn’s [End Page 318] Click for larger view View full resolution Photo...