The years between 1865 and 1920 were eventful ones for the sake of Missouri. It was not only the time of Jesse James, Scott Joplin, and Mark Twain, of progressive governors Joseph Folk and Herbert Hadley, of the first general strike in St. Louis and some especially vicious vigilante activity, it was also the time when Missouri, like many other states, was being transformed by the tides of industrialism and economic growth. This social history examines the social and economic forces that resisted economic development in Missouri. Here, Thelen explores the various ways that people attempted to maintain their values and dignity in the face of overwhelming new economic, cultural, and political pressures, and analyzes the grassroots patterns that emerged in response to rapid social change. Thelen, who is one of the leading historians of the Progressive period in America, contends that people found their strength not in class solidarity or other Marxist responses but in what he calls "the resistance of folk memories," which allowed them to call upon the best elements of their collective past to help them cope with the new situation.

Some people make photo albums, collect antiques, or visit historic battlefields. Others keep diaries, plan annual family gatherings, or stitch together patchwork quilts in a tradition learned from grandparents. Each of us has ways of communing with the past, and our reasons for doing so are as varied as our memories. In a sweeping survey, Roy Rosenzweig and David Thelen asked 1,500 Americans about their connection to the past and how it influences their daily lives and hopes for the future. The result is a surprisingly candid series of conversations and reflections on how the past infuses the present with meaning.

Rosenzweig and Thelen found that people assemble their experiences into narratives that allow them to make sense of their personal histories, set priorities, project what might happen next, and try to shape the future. By using these narratives to mark change and create continuity, people chart the courses of their lives. A young woman from Ohio speaks of giving birth to her first child, which caused her to reflect upon her parents and the ways that their example would help her to become a good mother. An African American man from Georgia tells how he and his wife were drawn to each other by their shared experiences and lessons learned from growing up in the South in the 1950s. Others reveal how they personalize historical events, as in the case of a Massachusetts woman who traces much of her guarded attitude toward life to witnessing the assassination of John F. Kennedy on television when she was a child.

While the past is omnipresent to Americans, "history" as it is usually defined in textbooks leaves many people cold. Rosenzweig and Thelen found that history as taught in school does not inspire a strong connection to the past. And they reveal how race and ethnicity affects how Americans perceive the past: while most white Americans tend to think of it as something personal, African Americans and American Indians are more likely to think in terms of broadly shared experiences--like slavery, the Civil Rights Movement, and the violation of Indian treaties."

Rosenzweig and Thelen's conclusions about the ways people use their personal, family, and national stories have profound implications for anyone involved in researching or presenting history, as well as for all those who struggle to engage with the past in a meaningful way.

Once a thriving, multiracial community, the Sophiatown suburb of Johannesburg was home to many famous artists, musicians, and poets. It was also a place where residential apartheid was first put into practice with forced removals, buildings bulldozed, and the construction of new, cheap housing for white public employees. David Thelen and Karie L. Morgan facilitate conversations among today's Sophiatown residents about how they share spaces, experiences, and values to raise and educate their children, earn a living, overcome crime, and shape their community for the good of all. As residents reflect on the past and the challenges they face in the future, they begin to work together to create a rich, diverse, safe, and welcoming post-Mandela South Africa.

From the introduction by David Thelen and Karie L. Morgan: The names Sophiatown and Triomf evoke images of a storied and unique place in South Africa's history. Here was the world-renowned, multi-racial birthplace of modern urban African arts like jazz and poetry. And here too the new National Party government first put residential apartheid into practice in the 1950s by forcibly removing some 65 000 Sophiatown residents, bulldozing buildings, replacing them with cheap housing for whites, especially public employees, and renaming the place Triomf to proclaim the triumph of one people over others. But the Sophiatown that has been forming since desegregation in the 1990s is less a unique place than a fairly typical place where residents are living out themes often identified with the 'new' South Africa. Today's residents are generally familiar with the special pasts of this place - and sometimes express feelings of anger, pride, and shame about these pasts - but they more often depict that history as remote from their lives. For them Sophiatown is a place where people from all over the country, indeed the world, are trying to find and make shared experiences and values in order to face the challenges of life: raising and educating children, earning a living, overcoming crime or finding ways to make a difference in shaping their community.

Some people make photo albums, collect antiques, or visit historic battlefields. Others keep diaries, plan annual family gatherings, or stitch together patchwork quilts in a tradition learned from grandparents. Each of us has ways of communing with the past, and our reasons for doing so are as varied as our memories. In a sweeping survey, Roy Rosenzweig and David Thelen asked 1,500 Americans about their connection to the past and how it influences their daily lives and hopes for the future. The result is a surprisingly candid series of conversations and reflections on how the past infuses the present with meaning.

Rosenzweig and Thelen found that people assemble their experiences into narratives that allow them to make sense of their personal histories, set priorities, project what might happen next, and try to shape the future. By using these narratives to mark change and create continuity, people chart the courses of their lives. A young woman from Ohio speaks of giving birth to her first child, which caused her to reflect upon her parents and the ways that their example would help her to become a good mother. An African American man from Georgia tells how he and his wife were drawn to each other by their shared experiences and lessons learned from growing up in the South in the 1950s. Others reveal how they personalize historical events, as in the case of a Massachusetts woman who traces much of her guarded attitude toward life to witnessing the assassination of John F. Kennedy on television when she was a child.

While the past is omnipresent to Americans, "history" as it is usually defined in textbooks leaves many people cold. Rosenzweig and Thelen found that history as taught in school does not inspire a strong connection to the past. And they reveal how race and ethnicity affects how Americans perceive the past: while most white Americans tend to think of it as something personal, African Americans and American Indians are more likely to think in terms of broadly shared experiences--like slavery, the Civil Rights Movement, and the violation of Indian treaties."

Rosenzweig and Thelen's conclusions about the ways people use their personal, family, and national stories have profound implications for anyone involved in researching or presenting history, as well as for all those who struggle to engage with the past in a meaningful way.