During the period of America's swiftest industrialization and urban growth, fire struck fear in the hearts of city dwellers as did no other calamity. Before the Civil War, sweeping blazes destroyed more than $200 million in property in the nation's largest cities. Between 1871 and 1906, conflagrations left Chicago, Boston, Baltimore, and San Francisco in ruins. Into the twentieth century, this dynamic hazard intensified as cities grew taller and more populous, confounding those who battled it. Firefighters' death-defying feats captured the popular imagination but too often failed to provide more than symbolic protection. Hundreds of fire insurance companies went bankrupt because they could not adequately deal with the effects of even smaller blazes. Firefighters and fire insurers created a physical and cultural infrastructure whose legacy—in the form of heroic firefighters, insurance policies, building standards, and fire hydrants—lives on in the urban built environment. In Eating Smoke, Mark Tebeau shows how the changing practices of firefighters and fire insurers shaped the built landscape of American cities, the growth of municipal institutions, and the experience of urban life. Drawing on a wealth of fire department and insurance company archives, he contrasts the invention of a heroic culture of firefighters with the rational organizational strategies by fire underwriters. Recognizing the complexity of shifting urban environments and constantly experimenting with tools and tactics, firefighters fought fire ever more aggressively—"eating smoke" when they ventured deep into burning buildings or when they scaled ladders to perform harrowing rescues. In sharp contrast to the manly valor of firefighters, insurers argued that the risk was quantifiable, measurable, and predictable. Underwriters managed hazard with statistics, maps, and trade associations, and they eventually agitated for building codes and other reforms, which cities throughout the nation implemented in the twentieth century. Although they remained icons of heroism, firefighters' cultural and institutional authority slowly diminished. Americans had begun to imagine fire risk as an economic abstraction. By comparing the simple skills employed by firefighters—climbing ladders and manipulating hoses—with the mundane technologies—maps and accounting charts—of insurers, the author demonstrates that the daily routines of both groups were instrumental in making intense urban and industrial expansion a less precarious endeavor.
During the period of America's swiftest industrialization and urban growth, fire struck fear in the hearts of city dwellers as did no other calamity. Before the Civil War, sweeping blazes destroyed more than $200 million in property in the nation's largest cities. Between 1871 and 1906, conflagrations left Chicago, Boston, Baltimore, and San Francisco in ruins. Into the twentieth century, this dynamic hazard intensified as cities grew taller and more populous, confounding those who battled it. Firefighters' death-defying feats captured the popular imagination but too often failed to provide more than symbolic protection. Hundreds of fire insurance companies went bankrupt because they could not adequately deal with the effects of even smaller blazes. Firefighters and fire insurers created a physical and cultural infrastructure whose legacy—in the form of heroic firefighters, insurance policies, building standards, and fire hydrants—lives on in the urban built environment. In Eating Smoke, Mark Tebeau shows how the changing practices of firefighters and fire insurers shaped the built landscape of American cities, the growth of municipal institutions, and the experience of urban life. Drawing on a wealth of fire department and insurance company archives, he contrasts the invention of a heroic culture of firefighters with the rational organizational strategies by fire underwriters. Recognizing the complexity of shifting urban environments and constantly experimenting with tools and tactics, firefighters fought fire ever more aggressively—"eating smoke" when they ventured deep into burning buildings or when they scaled ladders to perform harrowing rescues. In sharp contrast to the manly valor of firefighters, insurers argued that the risk was quantifiable, measurable, and predictable. Underwriters managed hazard with statistics, maps, and trade associations, and they eventually agitated for building codes and other reforms, which cities throughout the nation implemented in the twentieth century. Although they remained icons of heroism, firefighters' cultural and institutional authority slowly diminished. Americans had begun to imagine fire risk as an economic abstraction. By comparing the simple skills employed by firefighters—climbing ladders and manipulating hoses—with the mundane technologies—maps and accounting charts—of insurers, the author demonstrates that the daily routines of both groups were instrumental in making intense urban and industrial expansion a less precarious endeavor.
This book discusses the impact of visuals on the study of history by examining visual culture and the future of print, providing an analysis of photography, film, television, and computer culture. The author shows how the visualization of history can become a driving social and cultural force for change.
The 1936 Yankees, the 1963 Dodgers, the 1975 Reds, the 2010 Giants—why do some baseball teams win while others don’t? General managers and fans alike have pondered this most important of baseball questions. The Moneyball strategy is not the first example of how new ideas and innovative management have transformed the way teams are assembled. In Pursuit of Pennants examines and analyzes a number of compelling, winning baseball teams over the past hundred-plus years, focusing on their decision making and how they assembled their championship teams. Whether through scouting, integration, instruction, expansion, free agency, or modernizing their management structure, each winning team and each era had its own version of Moneyball, where front office decisions often made the difference. Mark L. Armour and Daniel R. Levitt show how these teams succeeded and how they relied on talent both on the field and in the front office. While there is no recipe for guaranteed success in a competitive, ever-changing environment, these teams demonstrate how creatively thinking about one’s circumstances can often lead to a competitive advantage. Purchase the audio edition.
Explores the changing economic, social and political role of the Anglo-American firm. Focusing on its formative development between the later 17th and the early 20th centuries, the editors bring together a collection which employs selected documents and analytical commentary to illustrate the external role of the firm and public perceptions of it.
Newcomers to the "Mile-High City" of Denver, whether arriving during the 19th, 20th, or 21st centuries, have often remarked on how new the city seems, and how proud its citizens are of it. Heady boom times at various intervals have inspired successive waves of city builders eager to make their mark by building grand, new edifices. Often, these new wonders replaced older structures that earlier Denverites had once seen as great accomplishments. As Denver has grown to become the hub of a major American metropolis, remnants of its earlier heritage have vanished into history, leaving newcomers to ponder, "What makes Denver Denver?" and longtime residents to ask, "Where has my Denver gone?" Lost Denver celebrates what the city once built and has since lost, along with what has made it unique, exploring where and how Denverites once worked, shopped, and played.
The village of Old Mines is the oldest settlement in the state of Missouri. Lead miners were in Old Mines as early as 1719. The founding of Old Mines in 1723 coincides with the land grant awarded to Philippe Francois Renault by French authorities on June 26, 1723, to mine lead. Thus, the oldest village in Missouri began as a mining town. In 2023, the village marks three hundred years of the French in Old Mines. This book narrates the history of people in remote Louisiana and how they have kept alive a French heritage of culture and customs. The history of Old Mines is tightly bound to the Catholic faith the French settlers brought with them, the parish they founded, and the church, schools, rectories, and convents they built. The decade of the 2020s is filled with over twenty anniversaries to be marked and celebrated in the oldest mining town in Missouri, itself marking its Bicentennial in 2021. This is not a scholarly writing of history; it is a thirty-chapter narrative, grounded in research, of the continual presence of the French in Old Mines for three hundred years.
Hot Springs, known for its naturally heated springs and therapeutic bathhouses, became a major training ground in baseball. A must-have for fans of baseball history. Hot Springs, Arkansas, with its thermal water baths, attracted its first big-league outfit when the National League champion Chicago White Stockings traveled south for spring training in 1886. The baseball colony grew as dozens of other clubs followed. Individual players flocked here as well to hike, golf, and boil out in bathhouse steam cabinets prior to leaving for training camps elsewhere. Nearly half of Cooperstown's Hall of Famers made the pilgrimage to this baseball mecca. Major- and minor-league aggregations, legendary teams, players of the Negro Leagues, and baseball schools for budding players and umpires all come to bat in Images of Sports: Baseball in Hot Springs.
The Religious Right's most dogmatic and resolute faction has its roots in three generations of the Bob Jones family of Greenville, South Carolina. An Island in the Lake of Fire is the first in-depth history of this militantly separatist, ultrafundamentalist dynasty to be written by an "outsider" with the Joneses' cooperation. Mark Taylor Dalhouse focuses on Bob Jones University (BJU) and the three colorful, charismatic Jones patriarchs, who, in succession, have led the school. Founded in 1927, BJU has a student population of five thousand; in addition, it boasts thousands more loyal, well-placed alumni not only in pulpits and Christian day schools across the country but also in elective offices and major corporations. Through their BJU network, and by their vigilance as self-appointed theological watchdogs, the Joneses have, since the 1950s, played a pivotal role in defining the extreme limits of American religious and cultural conservatism. Billy Graham and Jerry Falwell (whom Bob Jones Jr. labeled the "most dangerous man in America") are among the leading figures who have not measured up to BJU's fundamentalist standards. The defining doctrine at BJU, says Dalhouse, is separation from secularism in the modern world. Drawing on interviews with Bob Jones Jr., Bob Jones III, and others at BJU, as well as on hitherto inaccessible archival sources at the school, Dalhouse discusses the school's separatism in light of such factors as its refusal to seek accreditation and the stringent codes of dress, conduct, and even thought to which BJU students submit themselves. Attuned to the ironies and contradictions of the Joneses' separatist enterprise, Dalhouse points to the high proportion of accounting and finance degrees awarded at BJU, the school's widely admired cinema department (which has a Cannes Film Festival award to its name), and its nationally acclaimed Baroque and Renaissance art gallery. Dalhouse also challenges some widely held impressions about BJU that have circulated among its detractors, including assumptions about the regional makeup of the student body, and about the prospects of BJU students to gain entry into graduate programs at other schools. Filled with insights into the attitudes and personalities of the Joneses, An Island in the Lake of Fire offers a unique window into their influential, yet generally unrecognized, place in right-wing Christianity.
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