Collections Magazine, Fall 2021

FALL 2021

COL L EC T ION S A P U B L I CAT I O N O F T H E B E N T L EY H I STO R I CA L L I B RA RY

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On the cover: A Washtenaw County sheriff vehemently believed witnesses who, in 1966, maintained they saw something strange in the skies. Was it of this earth? Read more on page 16.

(This page) Griswold and State Streets in Detroit circa 1880, with a view of Capitol Union High School. Read about how Detroit was shaped by unlikely U-M astronomers on page 10.

contents We Demand Education

DIRECTOR’S NOTES

Louisa Reed-Stowell was the very first woman hired to teach at U-M. Though she struggled against discrimination at Michigan, she never stopped encouraging women to learn and supporting the right of women to an equal education.

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10 What Time Is It Now?

Papers at the Bentley Historical Library reveal how desperate Michiganders turned to U-M astronomers for help finding and regulating accurate time. The Detroit Observatory helped usher in an era of temporal order in the state—and beyond.

16 Flying Saucers and Swamp Gas

In March 1966, a rash of UFO sightings in southeastern Michigan were so widespread that elected officials, law enforcement, and researchers would become involved, trying to figure out what happened. Bentley documents reveal an X-Files-sized mystery.

1 Michigan’s Moderates 2 Select Bentley Bites IN THE STACKS

24 The Terrible Tempest of Battle 26 Exploring the Great Migration PROFILES

28 “All I Did Was, What We Ought to Do”

BENTLEY UNBOUND

30 Heavy Metal 31 Fifty-Five Years of

Michigan Football

(COVER ILLUSTRATION) PATRICIA CLAYDON

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DIRECTOR’S NOTES Terrence J. McDonald Director, Bentley Historical Library

Michigan’s Moderates

(LEFT TO RIGHT) HS2562, CARL LEVIN PAPERS

THE RELATIVELY RECENT DEATHS of former Congressman John D. Dingell, former Michigan Governor William G. Milliken, and, most recently, former United States Senator Carl Levin have removed from the political scene three long-serving giants of Michigan political history. Levin was the longest-serving senator in Michigan history, Milliken its longest-serving governor, and Dingell the longest-serving congressman in American history.

What can the lives of such remarkable public service and long-term political success and recognition teach us? Scholars will no doubt argue over this in coming years, and they will do so, in part, by visiting the Bentley archives. The Bentley holds the collections of all three politicians; two of them (Milliken and Levin) are open to the public.

But books about each of the three reveal some important preliminary answers.

Carl Levin’s autobiography, Getting to the Heart of the Matter (Wayne State University Press), was published in 2021; John Dingell's autobiography (written with David Bender), The Dean: The Best Seat in the House (Harper), was published in 2018; and Dave Dempsey's insightful biography of Milliken, William G. Milliken: Michigan's Passionate Moderate (University of Michigan Press/Petoskey), was written with Milliken’s cooperation and published in 2006.

All three fit the description of Milliken as “passionate moderates.” They were each

engaged in policymaking driven by high ideals, but also deeply experienced in the political world and, therefore, committed to the institutions in which they worked.

Today, ironically, such experience and institutional commitment marks one as a “moderate.”

John Dingell was, in effect, “born” to his office. His father, John D. Dingell Sr., was elected to Congress from Detroit in 1932.

John Dingell became a congressional page in 1938 at age 12 and was paging in the 1941 session when President Roosevelt asked for the declaration of war against Japan.

Dingell was 29 when his father died in office, and he took his father’s seat in the special election that followed in 1955. He stayed in Congress until 2015.

Milliken also came from a political family. Both his grandfather and father had represented the Traverse City area in the Michigan State Senate, and Milliken’s own first office was the seat in the State Senate formerly held by his father, in which he served from 1960–1964. He became Michigan lieutenant governor in 1964 and governor in 1970, serving three four-year terms.

The Theodore Levin United States Courthouse in Detroit is named after Carl Levin’s uncle. Carl’s older brother, Sander, was elected to the Michigan State Senate in 1964 and to the United States House of Representatives in 1982. Carl began his

(Left) William Milliken, far left, walks in a parade with George Romney, middle, and Robert Griffin.

(Right) Carl Levin, left, and John Dingell confer in Congress.

Dingell signed the photo to Levin “with respect, affection and high regard.”

political career with election to the Detroit City Council in 1968. It was from there that he made the jump to the Senate in 1970, where he stayed until his retirement in 2015.

Levin tells the story of how surprised he was to realize that election to Detroit City Council just meant that he had to work with the nine other elected members, all of whom had their own strong opinions.

And this experience carried through his career, leading him to believe that “if you don't come to Congress to compromise, you don't come to Congress to govern.”

Dingell agreed: “Quoting another famous Michigan man, Gerald Ford, that ‘compromise is the oil that makes governments go.’”

In his farewell address, Milliken movingly quoted the famous federal judge, Learned Hand, extolling “the temper which does not press a partisan advantage to its bitter end . . . .”

As human personalities, these three men could not have been more different. As insightful, courageous, and faithful public servants, they could not have been more similarly “moderate.”

Terrence J. McDonald

Arthur F. Thurnau Professor, Professor of History, and Director BENTLEY.UMICH.EDU 1

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420 games from 1930 to 1986 Number of football games now digitized and available for viewing through the Bentley’s Digital Media Library. The original films were on 16mm reels and spent much of their life stored in the basement in Weidenbach Hall. In 1992, a team of

archivists moved the films to a more appropriate environment and added them to the U-M Athletic Department collection at the Bentley.

Read more about this project on page 31.

(Pictured here, Gerald Ford circa 1934.)

Number of essays in U-M historian and alumnus Jim Tobin’s new book, Sing to the Colors (University of Michigan Press, 2021). The essays explore centuries of moments—some well-known and celebrated, others inconspicuous or even troubling—that have shaped the University of Michigan. The publisher notes that the book is for “readers who not only cherish the University of Michigan but who also want to better understand the long work of the many generations who envisioned and built and sustained the place.”

“North Campus look[ed] like a scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind last night.”

Quote from The Michigan Daily describing the Ann and Robert H. Lurie Tower dedication on the University of Michigan’s North Campus on October 17, 1996, complete with fireworks and laser lights. Composer and alumnus Chip Davis (’69) presented the song “True Blue,” created especially for the event. Homer Neal, U-M’s interim president at the time, spoke of the connection between the Lurie Tower and Central Campus’s Burton Tower. “Today, these two lofty structures bridge the distance between our two campuses,” Neal said.

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COL L E C T ION S

392 Number of pages in Getting to the Heart of the Matter, the new memoir by Michigan’s longest-serving senator, Carl Levin. Levin died on July 29, 2021, in Detroit at age 87.

The Bentley holds his papers along with those of many other elected Michigan officials.

DANDIN, LEANDRE, LA COMTESSE, PETIT JEAN Some of the characters in the French play Les Plaideurs (The Litigants) published by Jean Racine in 1669. The University of Michigan French Dramatic Company, pictured here, performed the play in June 1882.

October 10, 1995 Date the Ocker Field Hockey Field was dedicated at U-M in honor of Phyllis Ocker, former director of women’s athletics.

Ocker was first hired at U-M in 1961 to teach physical education. After the passage of Title IX, she became the women’s varsity field hockey coach in 1974. She retired from U-M in 1990 after growing the women’s athletic program “from $100,000 in 1974 to $2.4 million in 1990,” according to an article in the November 1990 issue of the Michigan Alumnus.

“Phyllis has built a program from nothing,” said Virginia Nordby, former U-M affirmative action director, in the Alumnus article. "And she's been able to do that within an atmosphere where not everybody wanted to have a women's program at all, let alone a strong and good one."

@UMICHWD: Christmas has come early! GAME FILM from Michigan Football from 1930 (!!!!!!!!!) to 1986 has been uploaded to [the] Bentley Historical Library’s site. @umichBentley is second to none in showcasing college athletics history.

OUTER SPACE DETROIT, MICHIGAN ALBEE, MICHIGAN FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS Locations visited in this issue of Collections magazine.

Tree groups, caves, rock formations, trunks and branches, undergrowth, moss, lichen, fungi, forest flowers, and bushes Some of the “pictorial material” requested by Helen DeForce Ludwig of Walt Disney Productions in a 1938 letter to the director of U-M’s Herbarium, Edwin Butterworth Mains.

Mains responded that only a few of his photos had been “taken in natural surroundings” but that he could “probably make arrangements” to furnish Ludwig with “a few photographs of special subjects.”

Jennings Stockton Cox was a Michigan mining engineer. He was also the rumored inventor of the daiquiri.

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COL L E C T ION S

The first woman hired to teach at U-M was Louisa Reed-Stowell, a brilliant botanist who fought tirelessly for women’s equality, especially in education. Despite her prestigious contributions in the field, in the classroom, and beyond, U-M would discriminate against her time and time again on promotions, salary, and recognition.

NEVERTHELESS, SHE PERSISTED.

We Demand Education

By Madeleine Bradford

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Inside was just as loud. Newspapers described the crinkling of long coats and squeaking of galoshes, mingling with a hum of excited voices. People quickly filled the seats, settling into the largest theater D.C. had to offer at the time.

They needed the space. The Baltimore Sun reported that the first International Council of Women (ICW) had an audience of at least 800.

Speakers would spend the next several days calling for equality, for women’s education, for involvement in politics, for the right to vote. Along would come Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, Frederick Douglass—and, on this first day of speeches, Louisa Reed-Stowell of Ann Arbor.

Women’s education was the topic of the day. Reed-Stowell asked the audience to imagine the year 1854, when American women’s access to education consisted of

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hearing men recite their lessons on the school steps.

“We demand education that can give efficiency to the intellect, light to the feelings, and dignity to the whole character,” she said, quoting one of those women. Some men claimed women only needed education on “culinary matters,” Reed-Stowell said. She brandished another testimonial, reading aloud: “We claim the opportunity of pursuing the same course of study provided for males, and that this shall be limited only by inclination or capacity.”

Reed-Stowell spoke at the 1888 Council as a representative for the Western Association of Collegiate Alumnae, but she may have been more well-known for being the very first woman ever hired to teach at the University of Michigan.

Reed-Stowell would never stop encouraging women to learn and supporting the

right of women to an equal education.

However, she struggled against discrimination; she knew very well that women had a harder time getting promoted, and that their job prospects were not equal. After all, she worked for the University of Michigan as a teacher and expert in microscopic botany for 12 years, starting in 1877.

Despite her achievements, she was never promoted beyond assistant.

Ferns and Crayfish Antennae

Fascinated by the natural world, Louisa Maria Reed entered U-M’s Scientific Course in 1872, just two years after women were first admitted. She faced mixed reactions from a sea of men in bristling beards and sideburns. “Sympathy, admiration, [and] co-operation” came side by side with “criticism, rudeness, opposition,” according to

(PREVIOUS PAGE) HS12083; (THIS PAGE) HS891; (OPPOSITE PAGE) LOUISA REED-STOWELL PAPERS

Brilliantly colored flags were draped across the balconies of Albaugh’s Opera House as women streamed into the building. It was March 26, 1888. Outside, freezing rain thundered against the roof.

COL L E C T ION S

(Opening spread) Student portrait of Louisa Reed-Stowell circa 1976.

(Opposite page) Unidentified woman in U-M’s microscope laboratory, undated.

(This page, clockwise from top left) An 1882 issue of The Microscope, founded by Reed-Stowell and her husband, Charles; interior page of The Microscope; title page of Reed-Stowell’s volume of drawings.

(Following page) The Michigan Alumnus notes Reed-Stowell’s death.

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student Harriet Holman, who wrote about women’s experiences at U-M in the 1870s, in her response to an Alumnae Survey in 1924.

Undaunted, Reed hurled herself into learning. U-M’s doors were open to her now, and she spent time in classrooms, the library (well, the women’s side of the library), and among peers—even getting elected as an editor of the sophomore newsletter, The Oracle.

But it was the microscopical laboratory that she fell in love with.

Sunlight streamed through the laboratory windows, crucial for microscopic work at a time when Edison had yet to sell his first incandescent light.

Here, Louisa Reed tilted the circular mirror under her microscope back and forth, just so, reflecting a beam of light into the slide she hoped to examine. She peered through the lens at the cross-section of a fern’s stem, lit up like a stainedglass window.

She began to draw.

She labeled drawings of everything from lilies to crayfish antennae, in swift, spidering cursive. Her work was exquisitely detailed—and people noticed. Microscopic photography was still a rarity, making scientific drawing a critical skill.

Published in places like The Therapeutic Gazette of Detroit and the Scientific American, her “pen drawings” would go on to be described by the St. Louis Medical and Surgical Journal as “equal to photomicrographs.”

Studying during the school year wasn’t enough; Louisa Reed eagerly volunteered at the University Museum during breaks.

She was soon called “indispensable.” Using her keen eye and love of plants, she helped develop and catalogue herbarium collections for 16 years, starting the year after she enrolled.

Her bachelor of science degree was granted in 1876. Her master’s degree in science in 1877 quickly followed (as did her marriage to Charles Stowell, another microscope enthusiast, in 1878). Her passion for museum work landed her a job upon graduation: she was kept on as a museum assistant and paid $30 a month. The quietly momentous decision was made, later that same year, to offer her a position as assistant in the microscopical laboratory.

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Hired for the laboratory position in October 1877, she would hold this title in the Botany Department until 1889. At first, according to the University of Michigan: An Encyclopedic Survey of U-M, she acted as the title suggests: an assistant to Professor Volney M. Spalding, as he taught classes in microscopy.

Then, she began to teach.

Beyond Doubt

The University soon relied on Reed-Stowell to provide courses in “structural botany, histology, pharmaceutical botany, and microscopy,” leading, by herself, half of the botanical courses U-M offered at the time.

She was even asked to sign diplomas as a member of the faculties.

When Byron M. Cutcheon, an Ypsilanti Civil War veteran and former U-M regent, wrote an opinion piece in the student publication Castalian in 1896, he declared that women should be hired as University teachers. He cited his memory of Reed-Stowell’s exemplary work as an instructor.

That was how she was remembered: as an instructor. Not an assistant.

“The day is gone by,” Mr. Cutcheon wrote, “in my judgment, when a woman can be barred from any field of work … simply because she is a woman.”

Yet even as Reed-Stowell’s husband, Charles Stowell, was promoted steadily over the years, rising from instructor, to lecturer, to assistant professor, to professor of histology and microscopy; even as the two co-founded and co-edited the scientific journal The Microscope; even as they co-wrote a book on Microscopical Diagnosis (which Reed-Stowell additionally illustrated); even as she taught classes, signed diplomas, and was elected as the first American woman ever to join the Royal Microscopical Society of London—her title remained “assistant.”

Her husband was furious on her behalf.

Charles Stowell later wrote a frosty letter to the University, noting his wife’s achievements, and the fact that her work had been omitted from an edition of the General Catalogue of Officers and Students, a publication compiling the names of previous students and staff.

“She received many letters from her old

pupils protesting against such action by the catalogue committee, but of course that availed nothing,” he wrote. “If the University accepted her work as an instructor, why should it not now give her credit for the same?”

Reed-Stowell “was very successful in instructing,” Professor Harley H. Bartlett wrote, in a typewritten draft of Botany at the U of M through the first Century. Yet “the vexing problem of Mrs. Stowell’s title” remained.

“The Regents gave her an increase of pay for the year 1879–80, but, not knowing just what to call her position, compromised by calling it nothing at all,” Bartlett wrote.

Her salary, incidentally, became precisely the same amount her husband made when promoted to instructor—a title she was never awarded. A promotion for Reed-Stowell to assistant professor was even recommended in 1882, when a committee proposed the creation of a new microscope lab.

The promotion was never given.

Still, the lack of recognition for her work was not enough to discourage her.

At a time when “women had no place on campus where they could rest or meet in groups,” according to the Michigan Alumnus magazine, Reed-Stowell “secured permission for the use of a room” for early coeds, creating a kind of parlor where women could gather, study, and socialize. She brought furniture from her own house to fill it. Her support for students was constant; Fanny K. Read, a graduate of the class of 1890, remembered her as the “only woman advisor” during her years at the U-M. Beyond the classroom, she advocated for women’s postgraduate education to the Western Association of Collegiate Alumnae (WACA) in 1875. She became WACA’s president in 1887 and would give her speech at the International Council of Women just one year later.

She clearly meant it when she said that an “unending effort” to prove the importance of higher education for women was the “duty of our time.” She believed strongly in supporting other women to learn, and to keep learning. She knew very well that a love of learning was not restricted by gender.

COL L E C T ION S

Speaking Up

“Her title did not do justice to her responsibilities and attainments,” the U-M Encyclopedic Survey would later acknowledge, adding: “She certainly deserves recognition as the first woman instructor of the University.”

Yet, in the face of what the Michigan Alumnus called “intense prejudice against women teachers,” she decided to speak at the 1888 International Council of Women, and demand that equal access to education be considered seriously.

Inclusive Education

collection of microscopes to the University of Michigan, and her written words, many housed at the Bentley, encourage others to continue her work.

“The genius of the American college is not in sympathy with any ruling that excludes from the halls of learning any person, or class of persons, who desire their advantages,” Reed-Stowell said during her 1888 speech. She called it a “prophecy” that people would one day see a simple truth: Education should be inclusive.

To see more of Louisa Reed-Stowell’s work, the Bentley holds a volume of her microscopic illustrations, her co-written book Microscopical Diagnosis, her co-edited journal, The Microscope, and her “Pamphlets and Reprints.” Her diploma from the University of Michigan was also preserved and can be shown in the Bentley’s reading room.

The Bentley’s digitized Alumnae Surveys are an excellent resource to learn more about the experiences of early women at the University.

REED-STOWELL NECROLOGY FILE

A debilitating, unnamed illness struck Reed-Stowell in 1889. Unable to keep teaching, she left U-M to work in the U.S. Department of Agriculture, again as an assistant microscopist. Later, she continued her work in the field of education, as one of the first women trustees of the school board for the District of Columbia.

Over the course of her life, she

“contributed over 100 scientific papers to leading magazines and periodicals,” according to the 1914 Women’s Who’s Who of America.

The organizations she worked with kept growing, especially the Western Association of Collegiate Alumnae, which she represented at the ICW. The organization would eventually become the American Association of University Women (AAUW).

They’re still supporting women today, and are, according to their website, “one of the largest funders of women’s graduate education” since 1888.

The ICW has expanded, too. It continues to advocate for women’s rights, consulting with the United Nations on topics including women’s access to nutrition, clean water, literacy, and leadership. From the nine initial countries, it has grown to a membership of 70 countries around the world.

Reed-Stowell thought of Ann Arbor as her hometown. When she died, she was buried in Forest Hill Cemetery. She left a

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COL L E C T ION S

WHAT TIME IS IT NOW? D E T R OI T Trains crashing. People dying. Businesses struggling. The perils of keeping incorrect time in Detroit were significant, and the city desperately needed a solution. A visionary academic, a knowledge-loving businessman, and new technology to plot the stars would converge on a small hill at U-M, changing Detroit—and the campus—forever.

By Andrew J. Rutledge

BENTLEY.UMICH.EDU 11

IT WAS ENOUGH TO GLANCE FOR A

sense of how long until dawn or dusk. It wasn’t until the 1800s that this needed to change. As more and more Americans were drawn to the factories of industrializing cities, their days were increasingly governed not by the sun, but by the chime of the clock. This created a new need for widespread and accurate timekeeping.

Perhaps nowhere was this more true than in Detroit.

The growing hub of the industrializing Midwest was bedeviled by inaccurate and haphazard timekeeping.

The railroads that ran through the city used different times from each other, causing unending chaos for

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travelers and goods. Michiganders wandering the city’s streets were sonically assaulted by the discordant chiming of clocks, each running on its own time.

Something needed to be done.

Enter the Detroit Observatory. Papers at the Bentley Historical Library reveal how Michiganders turned to the astronomers of the University of Michigan for help finding and regulating accurate time. The University’s first President, Henry Philip Tappan, envisioned the observatory as placing the school at the forefront of scientific research—and it did. It also helped usher in an era of prosperity and temporal order throughout the state—and beyond.

(PREVIOUS PAGE) BL001681; (THIS PAGE) THE HENRY FORD

FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS, HUMANITY HAD LITTLE NEED FOR OR INTEREST IN KNOWING WHAT TIME IT WAS.

COL L E C T ION S

THE DANGERS OF RAILROAD TIME

One of those frustrated by inaccuracies in timekeeping on both a personal and professional level was Henry Nelson Walker. A lawyer by training, Walker had migrated to Michigan from New York in the 1830s. He had served as Michigan’s Attorney General before becoming involved with the rapidly expanding banking and railroad industries. Eventually, he became Vice President of the Detroit Savings Bank and President of the Detroit, Grand Haven & Milwaukee Railroad Company. He was also the President of the Detroit Young Men’s Society, perhaps the most powerful cultural force in the state, which hosted public lectures and debates on scientific, political, and historical topics. Walker was keenly interested in the problem of time.

From the first steam locomotive’s journey through Baltimore in 1829, railways exploded across the United States. By 1850, more than 5,000 miles of track had been built; by 1860, more than 80 percent of farms in the Midwest were within five miles of a railroad track.

The spread of railroads and their rapid travel speed tied American society together in a revolutionary way and made time differences between cities more stark. Before this, when it took days to travel between Detroit and Kalamazoo, the 10 minutes’ difference in local time (determined by sundial) made no difference. But when a trip by train took only a few hours, the time difference was much more noticeable.

To account for this, and to simplify the process of calculating a train’s location, railroads noted the local time at one station, then Walker’s solution presented itself in the form of the set the clocks at each station, as well as the conductors’ watches, University of Michigan’s first president, Henry Philip Tappan. to that same time. Known as “railroad time,” this system meant Long a critic of the state of America’s colleges, Tappan comthat no matter where a train was physically, its time was stanplained that “in our country we have no universities . . . They have dardized along the whole line. This meant timetables would be neither libraries and material of learning, generally, nor the large accurate at every station. Depending on a station’s location, these and free organization which go to make up universities.” timetables could be quite different from local time. For examWhen Tappan arrived in Ann Arbor in 1852, he gave a speech ple, the Michigan Central Railroad used Detroit time since that is outlining his vision for a new type of university. Drawing on the where it was headquartered, but this was 42 minutes ahead of the German model, he sought to transform the University of Michilocal time at its station in Chicago. gan into an institution where knowledge was not just taught, but This issue of time difference was made even worse when a town created. He argued that learning must be valuable to society as had multiple railroads. In 1864, the four railroads that passed a whole, for “literature, science, arts, educational apparatus, through Saginaw ran on three different time schedules: Chiand labor all increase the commodities of trade, and add to cago time, Detroit time, and Hamilton, New York, time. All the national wealth.” of these differed dramatically from local time.

Tappan proposed creating a scientific curriculum that As “railroad time” became more confusing, and as railincorporated mathematics, civil engineering, chemistry, roads expanded across the nation, more and more accithe industrial arts, and “astronomy with the use of an dents occurred. Between January and August 1853 observatory.” alone, at least 66 railroad collisions left more than One of those listening to Tappan that day in 1852 190 people dead and nearly 400 injured. Many of was Henry N. Walker. Identifying with Tappan’s these accidents were caused by inaccurate or faulty vision, Walker approached the President after his clocks, or by differences in the time used by difspeech and asked how he could support his efforts. ferent railroads on the same track. A public outcry Tappan replied that he could help by funding the arose over what The New York Times described as construction of an observatory. the “wholesale slaughter by railroad trains,” while The observatory wouldn’t just put U-M on the businessmen fretted not only over the loss of life, but (Opening spread) map as a great American university in keeping the destruction of the goods trains transported.

The Detroit Obserwith Tappan’s vision, it would also solve the probRailroad industry leaders were not the only vatory circa 1877. lem of time. ones interested in a more uniform time; the public This was because, due to the way astronomers (This page) Sketch wanted it too. One Detroit newspaper laid out the recorded the location of stars, they had long been depicting the headfrustrations of time in the city: obsessed with time. Astronomers used a system on collision of two When persons speak of “Detroit time,” they speak trains on the Provisimilar to longitude and latitude, but with one key of a very curious and indefinite thing . . . It is here dence & Worcester difference: they measured their longitude in hours, and there and everywhere, and it is rather doubtful Railroad, 1853. minutes, and seconds instead of degrees. As a result, it is anywhere. Every man . . . carries the true time Thirteen people absolute accuracy in timekeeping was required to according to himself. The bells in the various towers died and several chart an object’s location in the sky. strike at various intervals, as it may happen, often more were injured. varying from ten to thirty minutes of each other.

Walker swiftly arranged a meeting for Tappan Amid all this jargon the anxious inquirer after the with other prominent Detroiters who agreed to true time is liable to become hopelessly confused. donate funds for an observatory. Tappan had only

A VISION OF THE STARS

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(This page) The Meridian Circle telescope at the Detroit Observatory, photographed after 1907.

(Opposite page) Etching of M.S. Smith & Co. showing the ball that marked “Detroit time” each day at noon.

With these donations, Tappan traveled to Germany, where he commissioned the creation of one of the finest meridian circles in the world. With a magnifying power of up to 288 times the human eye, it could see the stars with great precision. Illuminated “spider threads” set into the lens allowed for the precise timing of the passing of stars across its face. To calculate celestial latitude, the two circles on either side of the telescope were covered with angle markings so small and precise they had to be read with a microscope.

In gratitude to its sponsor, Tappan dubbed it the Walker Meridian Circle. And in gratitude to the rest of the donors, its home was named the Detroit Observatory.

HS3790

“contemplated to secure a large telescope and erect a suitable building,” but Walker suggested adding a second telescope to the project: a meridian circle.

Meridian circles were the main means by which astronomers calculated astronomical time. They are aligned on a north-south line and cannot move left or right, only vertically. When a star appears in the field of view, the meridian circle makes two measurements: the time at which the star crosses the meridian as it travels from east to west, and the angle of the star above the horizon. From these, local time can be calculated with extreme precision.

Walker personally donated $4,000 ($130,000 in today’s dollars) for the meridian circle, while other donors provided funds for the rest of the observatory.

COL L E C T ION S

Not to be outdone, the jewelers Roehm & Wright swiftly erected their own time ball also controlled by the Detroit Observatory at their store next to Detroit’s opera house. Soon other public clocks, such as the Central United Methodist Church clock, also began using the new “city time” supplied from the observatory. Time in Detroit became standardized.

In the wake of this new service, the Michigan Central Railroad decided to adopt the observatory’s “Detroit time” across its entire operation, which stretched outward from Detroit to Chicago, Toledo, Mackinaw City, and across Ontario. Time was sent along more than 1,000 miles of track from Detroit.

As time traveled with the trains, many towns along its tracks decided to end confusion by adopting “railroad time” as their local time. Thus, a uniformity in time began to emerge across the Midwest, paving the way for the eventual creation of modern time zones.

THE HISTORY OF DETROIT AND MICHIGAN BY SILAS FARMER, 1884

COST, BENEFIT, AND LEGACY

TIME FOR PROGRESS

The Detroit Observatory was completed in 1857, but it was not until 1863 that it began providing relief to time-addled Michiganders. In September of that year, the observatory’s Director, James Craig Watson, grandly announced in Detroit’s newspapers that he had reached an agreement with the jeweler Martin Smith of M.S. Smith & Co. to send “by telegraph at five minutes past five o’clock P.M. precisely, the correct time for your city, derived from transits of stars observed at this Observatory.”

Every morning, an employee of Smith’s would haul a four-foot diameter red canvas ball up a pole on the business’s roof, which was connected by telegraph to the Observatory. When the highly precise clocks at the observatory showed noon in Detroit, Watson would strike a telegraph key, causing the ball to fall. The sight of a large red ball, dropping from 150-feet above the ground, must have been visible to most of the city.

Henry Tappan did not get to see his observatory standardizing time. In June 1863, he was dismissed by the Board of Regents following a decade of clashes and controversy over a variety of issues, including his “Eastern Airs,” his support for the “foreign” German system, a controversy over establishing a college of homeopathic medicine, and the costs of the observatory.

Nevertheless, he had transformed the University of Michigan into a place where knowledge was created, not just learned, and where public service was a core element of its mission.

The Detroit Observatory continued transmitting time signals for nearly 40 years, only halting with the expanded use of standardized time zones in the early 20th century.

The observatory still stands on the University campus today, along with its original instruments. A new 6,000-square-foot addition to the observatory, completed in 2021, has once again made its centuries of science relevant, illustrating key scientific concepts that are still applicable today.

For more on this boldly reimagined new space, please visit detroitobservatory.umich.edu.

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Flying

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Saucer

s and Sw

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amp Gas A rash of UFO sightings across Michigan in the mid-1960s launched investigations by the highest levels of the U.S. government. What was happening in the skies?

Collections at the Bentley document several aspects of these widespread close encounters. Was it spaceships or swamp gas? The answer may depend on whose papers you peruse.

By Lara Zielin

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F Frank Mannor was spending a quiet night at home with his wife and teenaged son, Ronald, on the evening of March 20, 1966. All was peaceful at their farmhouse just northwest of Dexter, Michigan—until around 8:30 p.m.

That’s when they saw the lights.

Something unusual was in the sky outside their farmhouse.

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They watched from their windows as a strange object appeared to land on their property. Then Frank and Ronald dashed from the house to investigate.

The object hovered above a nearby marshy area, pulsating red and green lights. Frank and Ronald described it as large, brown, and sphere-shaped, with a “quilted” pattern on its surface.

At one point the object’s lights went out and it disappeared, only to reappear seconds later, about 500 yards away. Then they heard a sharp sound, “like a rifle bullet ricocheting off an object.” The strange craft lifted into the air, paused directly above them, and disappeared.

WASHTENAW COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE, DEXTER STATION

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The Mannors phoned law enforcement to explain what they’d witnessed. Instead of being laughed at, their report was taken seriously. Police officers on patrol that evening had seen something similar. Washtenaw County Sheriff’s Cpl. David Severance even drew a picture of it based on witnesses’ descriptions.

What’s more, sightings had been happening all week. The previous Monday, police on patrol in Lima Township, southwest of Dexter, had witnessed four lights flying with great speed and “amazing maneuverability” in the early morning hours. One officer even attempted to take photos.

The day after the incident at the Mannor farm, lights were reported about 60 miles (This page) Officer southwest of Dexter at Hillsdale College.

David Severance’s In this case, several undergraduate women drawing of a UFO saw lights outside their dorm windows. above Dexter They phoned William Van Horn, the HillsTownship in 1966, dale County Civil Defense Director, who as described by arrived with a patrol car and also saw the witnesses. lights firsthand.

The incidents were so widespread and witnesses were so credible that senators, governors, law enforcement, and researchers would become involved, trying

to understand what was happening. Today, numerous collections at the Bentley document much of this activity—from archived newspapers to governors’ papers to faculty correspondence and more.

What happened in spring 1966 in Michigan? It may be impossible to know, but a dive into archived materials certainly reveals what happened next.

f “These People Have Seen Something”nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn Washtenaw County Sheriff Douglas J. Harvey knew the Mannors and had visited them on the night of March 20. He found their testimony to be credible and took their account seriously. “These people have seen something,” Harvey said, refuting rumors that the family was seeking publicity or was somehow deranged.

Harvey’s officers were among those who had also witnessed the unexplained lights. “I know my men and I trust their reports,” Harvey told the Ann Arbor News on March 22. “I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure they have seen something aloft.”

Harvey asked for help investigating the incidents from several federal agencies but was repeatedly

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gInto the Fieldnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn Hynek was a respected academic who had worked at the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory during World War II, then as a full professor in physics and astronomy at Ohio State University. He eventually left Ohio State to conduct research at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, where he worked on a U.S. satellite program in the late 1950s.

When the program ended, he returned to teaching at Northwestern University, where he chaired the astronomy department.

He did all this while consulting on the side for the United States Air Force about UFOs. Beginning in the late 1940s, Hynek was asked to advise the military on Project Sign, an investigation into a rash of reports about strange objects in the sky.

Project Sign eventually morphed into Project Blue Book in 1952.

Hynek initially approached the UFO reports with a great deal of skepticism. After all, they were reports.

Hynek was largely behind a desk, reading accounts from people he hadn’t met and from places he’d never been.

Things began to change when Hynek went into the field, visiting with people making the claims and hearing them firsthand.

“The witnesses I interviewed could have been lying, could have been insane, or could have been hallucinating collectively—but I do not think so,” he wrote in The Hynek UFO Report: The Authoritative Account of the Project Blue Book Coverup (MUFON, 1977).

Hynek would go on to write exhaustively about UFOs, even creating a classification system for alien encounters (close encounters of the first, second, and third kind). But when he arrived in Washtenaw County on March 23, 1966, he couldn’t see much evidence that

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anything was awry. In fact, he devised a tidy explanation for all of it.

zNothing to See Herennnnnnnnnn On March 25, 1966, Hynek gave a press conference where he said that the incidents at the Mannor farm and Hillsdale College were the result of rotting vegetation in lowland areas. The vegetation created gasses that were trapped in winter. During the spring thaw, the gases were released. This so-called “swamp gas” phenomenon could cause lights and even sound.

Hynek called it “highly localized.”

“A dismal swamp is a most unlikely place for a visit from outer space,” Hynek said at the press conference.

Furthermore, Hynek asserted that the strange photos taken by a police officer were nothing more than “trails made as a result of a camera time exposure of the rising crescent moon…and the planet Venus.”

The public wasn’t buying it. Among the skeptics were Sheriff Harvey, who continued to support his patrol officers and the Mannors. “With all due respect to Dr. Hynek, I’m not ready to accept this weak excuse of gas from marshes,” he told reporters.

Hynek’s explanations were so unsatisfying to the public that pressure mounted for a deeper investigation.

Congressman Vivian continued to put pressure on the Air Force for more investigative resources. And he wasn’t alone. Representative Gerald Ford from Michigan also became involved, requesting a full congressional inquiry about the UFO reports.

The Air Force caved under pressure. On April 6, 1966, they announced that they would convene a group of “scientific observers to further delve into recent sightings.”

By the fall of 1966, the U.S. Air Force had commissioned the University of Colorado and physicist Edward Condon to head up a two-year project to study UFOs and to determine if the government should continue funding UFO investigations.

Known as the “Condon Committee,” this group of 11 scientists—give or take some part-time consultants— released a report in 1969 that was more than 1,000 pages long and concluded that there was nothing of scientific value in any of the documented UFO phenomena.

The report dismissed hundreds of eyewitnesses across the country—including those from Washtenaw County who saw something strange in the sky in March of 1966. The report supported all of Hynek’s findings. The Mannors were dismissed as having been too far away to know what they saw. The Hillsdale College students likely saw “young men [who] played pranks with flares.” The photos by the police officer were just what Hynek said they were—streaks of light

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ignored. Desperate, he reached out to Weston Vivian, his congressional representative.

Vivian took Harvey’s request seriously. This may have been motivated, in part, by his constituents’ concerns about UFOs. A file in his collection contains letters from citizens pre-dating the 1966 incident, asking for information and relaying worries about UFOs. (More public letters conveying UFO concerns and predating the 1966 incident can be found in the collections of other politicians, including Michigan Senator Phil Hart and Representative William D. Ford from Michigan’s 15th district.)

Vivian pulled enough strings to get the U.S. Air Force to send out an investigator—J. Allen Hynek, Ph.D., an astrophysicist from Northwestern University.

But soon Hynek’s presence would create more problems than it would solve.

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(LEFT TO RIGHT) ARTHUR GALLAGHER PAPERS, BOX 5; WILLIAM D. FORD PAPERS, BOX 2

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from Venus and the moon.

In its conclusions, the report fails to validate any of the hundreds of eyewitnesses featured in its thousand-plus pages: “In our experience those who report UFOs are often very articulate, but not necessarily reliable,” the report says.

project’s objectivity, and copies of the memo were leaked to the press. Look magazine ran a highly publicized article about it.

Controversy or no, the Air Force acquiesced to the report’s findings, and Project Blue Book was shut down in 1969.

eReporting on the Reportsnnnnnnn uOne Grain of Red Sandnnnnnnnn

The Condon Report was scrutinized by members from the National Academy of Sciences to ensure its accuracy. Among the reviewers was H. Richard Crane, a distinguished professor of phys(Previous two pages) ics from the University of Michigan.

Details about a Crane and his colleagues concluded that 1967 UFO sighting the Condon Report got it right—that UFOs in Ann Arbor, auweren’t worth more scientific investigathor not identified. tion, and most of what people were seeing (This page, left to was highly explainable. right) Cartoon sent But tucked into Crane’s archived to Arthur Gallagher, papers at the Bentley are letters from editor of the Ann Condon, on which Crane is copied, Arbor News, by a which speak to one of the more controreader after the versial aspects of the report: a memo by rash of local UFO Condon Committee member Robert J. sightings in 1966; Low, an assistant dean at the University letter in the file of U.S. Representative of Colorado.

Low’s memo, dated in 1966, assured UniWilliam D. Ford from versity of Colorado administrators that 14-year-old Gregory they could expect the study to find that Gulyas, requesting UFO observations have no basis in reala five-year investiity. The memo raised doubts about the gation into UFOs.

UFO sightings continue to this day, and in June 2021, an unclassified report was released to Congress about Unidentified Aerial Phenomena (AEP)—a.k.a. UFOs. The report confirms sightings by credible military personnel of objects that behave in ways that defy explanation and “may require additional scientific knowledge.”

Once again, the door is open for further investigation.

In the archived collection of U.S. Representative William D. Ford is a 1965 letter from 14-year-old Gregory Gulyas who says he thinks “75 percent of UFO sightings are from other planets, most likely from Mars” and urges Ford to “try to ask the Senate to form a comittie [sic] to investigate UFOs for five years and publish their findings monthly in all major papers of the country.”

Ford’s response to Gulyas commends the boy’s curiosity. “You are to be complimented on having a young inquisitive mind,” he writes. “Your belief that life exists on another planet…is supported by the fact that there are numerous solar systems like our own.

“Is Earth as unique as one grain of red sand in a white sandy beach?”

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The Terrible Tempest of Battle In 1862, Michigan student Orson B. Curtis joined the Civil War and lived to tell the tale—which includes lost limbs, mistaken identities, and “returning from the dead” to the shock of U-M President Henry Tappan.

The Bentley takes a closer look at his incredible story.

By Callie Teitelbaum

CONFINED TO HOSPITAL DUTY AND DEEMED UNFIT for active service, Orson B. Curtis sat idly as his regiment fought in the Civil War. Warned he was not physically suited to make the required 10-mile march, Curtis’s pleas to go to battle were ignored by his superiors.

So he took matters into his own hands.

Hearing the boom of a cannon, Curtis abandoned the hospital, grabbed his musket, and set out in search of his regiment in December 1862. After a 14-mile journey, Curtis landed with the Seventh Michigan Regiment at the Rappahannock River, just in time to make history at the Battle of Fredericksburg.

Following orders from Colonel N.J. Hall, Curtis and the Seventh Regiment traversed across the river, dodged volleys of enemy bullets, and heroically swept up the bank to capture rebels from pits surrounding Fredericksburg. Soldiers cheered and young women watching from afar waved their handkerchiefs in support of the unionists.

Curtis himself described the encounter as miraculously

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accomplishing “what 10 hours and tons of artillery metal had failed to do.” Curtis wrote about the battle in his 500-page book, History of the Twenty-fourth Michigan of the Iron Brigade, which documents his experiences as a soldier. The Bentley Historical Library holds a copy in its vault. Other collections at the Bentley, including the Michigan Alumnus, note Curtis’s military service, heroism, and the deplorable conditions under which he fought.

WAR COMES TO U-M Earlier in 1862, President Lincoln had called for 300,000 more troops to join the war effort. At that moment, thousands of young men’s lives, including Curtis’s, were irreversibly changed.

Leading up to Lincoln’s announcement, the political climate on the University of Michigan’s campus was divisive and tense. Most students aligned themselves with either secessionists or unionists.

Abolitionists, on the other hand, were (Left) President often frowned upon for lacking soluTappan’s letter to tions-oriented responses to the war.

Abraham Lincoln in In January 1861, American minister, lecApril 1861 promises turer, and advocate Parker Pillsbury gave a that “the 700 young speech in Ann Arbor defending the abolimen” at U-M are tion of slavery. Pillsbury was aggressively ready to march to driven out by a mob, sparking outrage support the Union. among students.

(Right) Tappan According to an article published in the speaks to a crowd Michigan Alumnus by U-M student Noah gathered in Ann Cheever, “A mob collected soon after the Arbor during the meeting commenced, and broke in the doors early days of the and windows with stones, drove Parker

Civil War.

Pillsbury and his audience, mostly women, out of the rear windows, tore up the seats and gutted the building.” After the mobbing of Pillsbury, “the war spirit was aroused,” according to Cheever.

Amid this growing tension and patriotic fervor on Michigan’s campus, Curtis was not alone in his desire to fight for his country. For example, within the 24th Michigan Regiment, one of Michigan’s largest and most notable, the majority of participants were from Detroit and under the age of 25. Colonel Marrow, commander of the 24th Michigan Regiment, organized a variety of guests to speak on campus in an effort to recruit soldiers.

Curtis’s service in the Seventh Michigan Regiment, the 24th Michigan Regiment, and the New York Regiment earned him the reputation as an honorable veteran—but he didn’t glorify his experiences.

Curtis detailed the harsh realities of war in his book.

Rampant death, maggot-infested food, and brutal winters colored everyday life.

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MUSKETS AND MISTAKEN IDENTITIES In November 1862, after “passing through the terrible tempest of battle,” Curtis was wounded and taken to a hospital in Washington, D.C. Coincidentally, this was the same hospital where his cousin, Roswell Curtiss of Nankin, Company C, died one month prior of diphtheria after a fatal rain-march on October 26.

Not only was Curtis sent to the same medical facility as his deceased cousin, but he was reportedly placed in the exact same cot.

According to fellow U-M student George S. Hickey, the Michigan papers confused the relatives and declared Orson B. Curtis dead.

Upon hearing the news, U-M President Tappan “delivered a discourse” about Curtis from the Michigan University Chapel. A few months later, Curtis shocked everyone, including President Tappan, when he appeared on Michigan’s campus during chapel exercises, walking “up the aisle to a seat, amid the stamping of his classmates.”

Curtis eventually returned to the front and joined the New York Regiment. Due to an exploding shell, his arm was amputated by a surgeon in the field. (The timeline in which Curtis lost his arm is disputed—some sources indicate Curtis’s arm was amputated before being placed in the same hospital as his deceased cousin in 1862, whereas a timeline from Curtis’s book suggests he lost his arm at the end of his military career.)

Curtis was discharged from his regiment in 1863.

A MICHIGAN REMEMBRANCE After the war, Curtis returned to U-M and graduated in 1865 with a bachelor’s degree, and later obtained his master’s degree. Over his full career, he was employed as deputy collector of customs, statistical clerk of the customs department, as well as secretary of the local civil service board.

Curtis died in 1901 at 60 years of age after a months-long battle with diabetes. His eulogy, written by fellow U-M student George S. Hickey and published in the 1901 edition of the Michigan Alumnus, described him as a brave and well-known soldier among comrades: “In whatever sphere of activity he was engaged, he was attentive to business, strictly conscientious, and above the scramble for position.

He was a man of superior intellect and a warm heart. His friendship was true and abiding.”

A FEW MONTHS LATER, CURTIS SHOCKED EVERYONE, INCLUDING PRESIDENT TAPPAN, WHEN HE APPEARED ON MICHIGAN’S CAMPUS DURING CHAPEL EXERCISES, WALKING “UP THE AISLE TO A SEAT, AMID THE STAMPING OF HIS CLASSMATES.”

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Exploring the Great Migration Undergraduate students dive into Bentley collections to better understand Black community building and to help make important history more accessible.

By Callie Teitelbaum

Harvest Home celebration at Second Baptist Church in Ann Arbor circa 1940. The church made civil rights and social justice issues a focus of their faith and community.

PROFESSOR JENNIFER DOMINIQUE JONES grew up hearing stories about the Great Migration—the movement of some six million African Americans out of the Jim Crow South to towns and cities in the North and West between 1915 and 1970.

She learned how her relatives migrated to a small town in Albee, Michigan, and established a local community from the ground up.

But what routes did they take to get to Michigan? What was life like in the small town? How did they define and build community? These questions about small-town life remained largely unanswered by other literature on the Great Migration, which, according to Jones, commonly focuses on the migration’s impact on larger cities like Los Angeles and Detroit.

With a personal connection to the topic and desire to dig deeper, Jones was inspired to lead a 2021 undergraduate research project on the Great Migration’s impact on Black community building in Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti.

“Even though there’s voluminous literature about the Great Migration, so much of that literature has focused on major cities,” Jones said. “And so these smaller communities where people also migrated, also built institutions, also created a community, have been largely overlooked. This seemed like a wonderful opportunity to use the collections of the Bentley Historical Library to bring those stories to life.”

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DIVING INTO COLLECTIONS Jones wanted the project to go beyond the scope of the University, noting that the Bentley collects information not only about U-M but also the state of Michigan.

Jones saw this project as an ideal opportunity to highlight local history.

Five students were selected to explore this theme alongside Jones in a rigorous, eight-week research fellowship through the Michigan in the World (MitW) program.

The fellows scoured various digitized Bentley collections to answer questions such as: What were the primary routes of migration between the early 1910s and middle of 1970s? How did gender, class, and sexuality inform the development of Black institutional and social life in Ann Arbor and Ypsilanti? How did racial segregation and

activists whose papers preserve records of “EVEN THOUGH THERE’S racial discrimination cases.

In 1963, the congregants of Bethel AfriVOLUMINOUS LITERATURE can Methodist Episcopal Church called on ABOUT THE GREAT their pastor, Reverend Parks, to defend fair housing in the fight for civil rights. Parks, MIGRATION, SO MUCH OF they felt, wasn’t doing enough. (It’s unclear IT HAS FOCUSED ON MAJOR whether he answered the call or not.)

In addition to the Bentley’s archive, CITIES. AND SO THESE fellows explored collections from local resources such as the Ann Arbor News, the SMALLER COMMUNITIES Ann Arbor District Library Living Oral HisWHERE PEOPLE ALSO tory Project, and the A.P. Marshall papers at the Ypsilanti Historical Society.

MIGRATED, ALSO BUILT INSTITUTIONS, ALSO APPROACHING HISTORY Buzynski said Bentley fellows met weekly CREATED A COMMUNITY, to discuss their research, methodology, HAVE BEEN LARGELY and their responsibility to dignify stories of the past.

OVERLOOKED.” discrimination impact these communities?

From the research, each student worked to create a public-facing project about what they discovered. To facilitate this, students learned about narrative storytelling and story arcs, creative writing techniques, and how best to use photos.

Bentley fellow Isabella Buzynski focused her research on the impact of religious institutions on social and political culture within Black communities. Buzynski studied the papers of Charles W. Carpenter, who was pastor of Ann Arbor’s Second Baptist Church from 1929–1966.

In Carpenter’s collection is a 1965 letter defending Ypsilanti activist Mattie Dorsey, who was a former congregant. Carpenter vouched for Dorsey’s character after she challenged Ypsilanti’s “urban renewal” program, which, beginning in 1961, displaced thousands of Black residents and destroyed countless Black homes on Ypsilanti’s south side. Dorsey’s opposition to the program led to conflict with law enforcement.

Buzynski said the papers provided insight about the relationship between church leaders and congregants—in this case one of mutual support, where pastors weren’t afraid to take a political stand.

In contrast was a letter Buzynski discovered in the Emma and Albert Wheeler papers. The Wheelers were Ann Arbor community members and civil rights

“We were trying to be reflective and think deeply about our methodology, in not only writing these histories, but also how we’re approaching the archive,” Buzynski said.

An upcoming virtual exhibit will feature the students’ projects. Gregory Parker, manager of U-M’s Eisenberg Institute for Historical Studies, is currently helping create the site.

Parker emphasized that U-M students and faculty have a responsibility to share their work with the public and make history education accessible.

“One of the big ideas with public history is this idea of shared authority, where historians are experts, but they don’t own history,” Parker said.

Jones is currently exploring methods to put the website and student research in conversation with community institutions and other historians.

“Michigan in the World projects tell stories and introduce them to audiences that perhaps are not familiar with them,” she said. “These stories also can help do the work of amplifying stories of communities we oftentimes don’t think about, or maybe have been marginalized in our historical and public memory.

“Those viewing the exhibits will hopefully see how history is made by all different types of people—not just the rich and powerful—and how people who aren’t privileged can challenge the status quo.”

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PROFILES She risked personal freedom and possibly her own life by helping to hide Anne Frank and her family. For Miep Gies, there was no hesitation to do what she called her “human duty.”

By Katie Vloet

IN THE 1993 LETTER SHE SENT to a Michigan teacher, the writer claimed that she was not a hero—just “an ordinary woman, who once did the thing all human being shoud (sic) do: to care for people in distress.”

As if she had only wrapped a bandage around someone’s injured arm or brought them ice water on a hot day. As if she had not played a key role in helping families— at considerable personal risk—during one of the darkest periods of human history.

The letter writer was Miep Gies. In 1942, her boss, Otto Frank, had asked if she

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would be able to help when his family went into hiding.

YOUR HUMAN DUTY Amsterdam in 1942 was a terrifying place.

The Germans deported massive numbers of Jewish citizens to concentration camps and killing centers, primarily Auschwitz.

Dutch police and city administrators cooperated with the deportations that sent thousands to their death.

So it would be understandable if Gies and her husband, Jan, opted not to help the Franks and other families that went into hiding. They had no way of knowing if a death camp might await them if they were found to be hiding Jews. Most people in Amsterdam did not help or hide their Jewish neighbors. For Gies, though, the answer was easy.

Of course, she told Otto Frank. She never hesitated. The Gieses and a few other helpers kept the Franks and other families alive and informed with daily check-ins, grocery trips, and reports from the outside world.

“Yes, it requires some courage, some discipline and also some sacrifice,” she would write to a Michigan teacher several decades later, “to do your human duty.”

PAR AVION In the 1992–93 school year, teacher Jan Bower’s eighth-grade English class read The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank.

The students in Ida, Michigan, a township near the Ohio border, were struck by the harrowing journey of a girl so near to their own age. They were accustomed to historical figures who were adults, people with whom they could not relate.

“They were so impressed with her bravery, and that a girl that age could write so well,” recalls Bower.

They also learned that Gies was still alive. Bower had the students write letters to her—never expecting a response. But on March 22, 1993, Gies replied in a typewritten note to “The Children of the Class of Mrs. Janet Bower.”

“I was very touched by your letters and

(THIS PAGE) BNA PHOTOGRAPHIC/ALAMY STOCK PHOTO; (OPPOSITE PAGE) JAN BOWER

“All I Did Was, What We Ought to Do”

how your teacher explained ‘The Diary of Anne Frank’ and told about me (Miep).”

She mentioned that she and her husband hid a student in their home while also helping the Franks and other families who lived in the small space that became known as the “secret annex.”

In the letter, Gies shared that she had coauthored a book about her story: Anne Frank Remembered: The Story of the Woman Who Helped to Hide the Frank Family (Simon & Schuster, 1987, coauthor Alison Leslie Gold). She had been reluctant to do so, “but reading the many letters I have received every day, we now feel it was the right step.”

THE WOMAN WHO HELPED Gies wrote to the students about what it was like to enter the room where the Franks and other families were hiding so that she could collect their shopping list: “. . . nobody would (Opposite page) speak, just waiting Miep Gies and husfor me to begin. A band, Jan, at the terrible moment entrance to Anne for me, because Frank’s “secret it reflected their annex,” 1987. dependence on us, (This page) Portion the helpers. of a letter, now ar“They would chived at the Bentjust silently look ley, which Gies up to me, except wrote to an Ida, for Anne,” Gies Michigan, English wrote, “who in a

class in 1993.

NO ONE HAS EVER BECOME . . . THE WRITER CLAIMED POOR BY GIVING THAT SHE WAS NOT A Gies gave the annual Wallenberg Lecture at in 1994. The lecture and accompanying HERO—JUST “AN ORDINARY U-M award are named for Raoul Wallenberg, a U-M architecture alum who is credited with WOMAN, WHO ONCE DID saving tens of thousands of lives by helping THE THING ALL HUMAN Jewish people evade capture by the Nazis.

During the lecture, Gies again expressed BEING SHOUD (SIC) DO: humility about her own role in protecting Jewish people during the war. She told a TO CARE FOR PEOPLE IN standing-room-only audience at Rackham Auditorium, “I myself am just an ordinary DISTRESS.” cheerfully (sic) tone said, ‘Hallo, Miep, what is the news?’” Gies brought them so many treasures—especially books and vegetables—that Anne appreciatively called her a “pack mule.”

When the Frank family was arrested in 1944, Gies made “a last desperate attempt to free the people who had been arrested.”

She took a big risk and walked into the headquarters of the Sicherheitsdienst (Nazi Security Service). But it didn’t work, according to the profile of Gies on the website of the Anne Frank House.

She did one last thing to help the family— the only thing she could do: Gies kept Anne’s writings in her desk and later gave them to the family’s lone survivor. Otto Frank, Anne’s father, would go on to publish the work that became a literary classic and provided a window into the world of Nazi-occupied Amsterdam during the Holocaust.

woman. I simply had no choice.” Gies knew of many other Dutch people who sheltered or helped Jewish citizens during the war.

Her name has become known, she said, only “because I had an Anne.” Gies assigned the title of hero to the eight souls who hid in the attic. “They were the brave people,” she said.

Bower, the teacher whose class received the letter from Gies, attended the Wallenberg Lecture with her daughter. Now retired, Bower has been greatly impacted

by Gies’s words and legacy, and she hopes that her students also carry the lessons with them. “Miep was so humble, but she was a hero,” Bower says, tearing up. “We all should do whatever we can do. I learned that from her.”

Bower recently gave the letter that Gies wrote to her class to the Bentley Historical Library for preservation in its archives. It was sent on a notecard that quotes Anne Frank: “No one has ever become poor by giving.”

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How two large, abstract sculptures in the Bentley’s courtyard came to be—and why they matter.

By Lara Zielin

WHEN PLANS FOR THE BENTLEY HISTORICAL Library were drawn up in the early 1970s, a sculpture garden was baked into the design. Art would be positioned just outside the large windows of the reading room for researchers to enjoy—and from which they might even find inspiration.

Hobart Taylor Jr., a U-M Law School graduate, trustee of the Michigan Historical Collections, and friend of the Bentley Historical Library, thought that a sculpture at the Bentley would be a fitting way to honor his father, Hobart Taylor Sr., a Civil Rights leader from Texas.

Taylor Jr. would fund the sculpture, but whose art to feature?

Papers in the Bentley’s collection reveal then director Robert Warner’s conversations about art and artists as he and Taylor Jr. tried to find exactly the right fit.

One artist’s “high soaring” work might be “difficult to enjoy from inside the building with the low panorama and deep overhangs,” according to one letter from consultants at Lantern Gallery in Ann Arbor.

Another artist’s stone pieces had “delicate surfaces” and wouldn’t work outside.

Then there was the “superstar” who was “without question the foremost Black sculptor in America.”

His name was Richard Hunt, and his résumé included exhibitions at both the Museum of Modern Art and Art Institute of Chicago.

He had received a Guggenheim fellowship

and served as a member of the National Council on the Arts. Born and raised in Chicago, he was “very much a Midwest product” who might be open to a commission from Michigan.

On September 14, 1975, the Hobart Taylor Memorial Sculpture was dedicated at the Bentley and included not one but two pieces by Richard Hunt: Historical Circle and Peregrine Section.

Both are large, abstract steel sculptures.

Historical Circle sits directly outside the reading room windows, while Peregrine Section overlooks it from a small hill a few yards to the northeast. “Abstract in character, the two works appear to carry on a visual dialogue,” reads the dedication program from 1975.

Taylor Sr. died in 1972 and never saw the artwork that memorialized his lifelong fight for Civil Rights in Texas, which included helping secure voting rights for Black citizens in primary elections and opening the Democratic Party in Texas to non-whites, among myriad accomplishments.

In 1977, Richard Hunt received an honorary degree from the University of Michigan. With

more than 125 pieces on public display, he is widely regarded as the foremost Black abstract sculptor in the world.

In a 1975 letter following the dedication of his pieces at the Bentley, U-M Vice President for Academic Affairs Frank Rhodes wrote to Hunt to thank him for his contributions: “You will already know how stimulating I found your sculptures, but I want to tell you also how much I value the privilege of meeting you, and discovering that great sculptors are human after all. Your work is much admired and will give joy to generations of Michigan students.”

A student in the Bentley’s courtyard reads alongside Richard Hunt’s Historical Circle sculpture. Hunt’s complementary Peregrine Section sculpture resides just a few yards to the northeast.

LON HORWEDEL

B E N T L EY U N B O U N D

Heavy Metal

B E N T L EY U N B O U N D

COL L E C T ION S

Chalmers “Bump” Elliott prepares to make a tackle during a 1947 football game.

Fifty-Five Years of Michigan Football A new digitization project preserves game-day moments, stretching as far back as 1930.

By Robert Havey

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ON A COLD NOVEMBER DAY IN 1947, U-M football halfback Chalmers “Bump” Elliott fielded a punt on the Michigan 26-yard line. He streaked down the sideline on his way to the endzone, a trail of diving University of Illinois defenders in his wake.

Elliott’s return is immortalized as the “Touchdown Express,” and is one of the many iconic moments that are now preserved through a Bentley project to restore and make available more than 55 years of Michigan football.

Currently, there are 420 games from 1930 to 1986 available for viewing through the Bentley’s Digital Media Library (BDML). A final batch of 125 games is being processed and will be added soon. Each game is condensed to 25–45 minutes, since they were recorded for the use of U-M’s coaches and not for broadcast.

“The football film project is important for both preservation and access,”

said Bentley’s Athletics Archivist Greg Kinney. “The old film stock is too delicate to risk running it through a projector, and there is a big demand for video content to be online.”

The Bentley has created an access page that provides links to the films as well as to supporting information to enhance the viewing experience. The BDML page includes annotations for scoring and other significant plays with the time-code, so viewers can advance directly to a specific point in the game—like Ron Johnson’s five touchdown runs in the 1968 Wisconsin game, or the Harbaugh-to-Kolesar touchdown pass against Ohio State in 1985.

The access page also provides a link to full Michigan team rosters for each season as well as links to The Michigan Daily and Michigan Alumnus magazine coverage for each game. The box score and play-by-play rundown are also provided when available.

These features are an important part of the database, Kinney says, “since only diehard fans may know that #40 was Elroy Hirsch in 1943 but Bob Nussbaumer in 1944. Or that #65 causing a fumble by Purdue’s Bob Griese in 1965 was Bill Yearby.”

The original films were on 16mm reels and spent much of their life stored in the basement in Weidenbach Hall on campus.

In 1992, a team of archivists led by Kinney moved the films to a more appropriate

environment and added them as part of the U-M Athletic Department collection at the Bentley.

The films themselves were generally in good condition, though some early films showed signs of brittleness or other deterioration. Some films were previously cut into segments to make highlight reels.

Sometimes, these clips made it back into the original, but not always. In many cases, the missing footage had to be salvaged from a duplicate print.

Over the two-year course of this project, Bentley archivists, technicians, and students selected the best copy of each game, cleaned and spliced the 16 mm film reels, rehoused them in new archival canisters, logged them in a database, and packaged them for digitization.

Scene Savers from Covington, Kentucky, digitized the films to archival preservation standards. Infrastructure support for the BDML is provided by the University Information Technology Service.

The original films have been retired to the Bentley’s cold storage room, but you can see them in all their digitized glory here: myumi.ch/51kZp

BENTLEY.UMICH.EDU 31

MAKE AN APPOINTMENT TO RESEARCH AT THE BENTLEY

WHERE MICHIGAN’S HISTORY LIVES

DID YOU KNOW THE BENTLEY HISTORICAL LIBRARY IS OPEN TO THE PUBLIC BY APPOINTMENT? This means all researchers are welcome in our reading room. All you need to do is request an appointment here: myumi.ch/ov83X Once you submit your request, a member of our Reference staff will be in touch with you to confirm the appointment.

Our priority is the safety of our patrons as well as Bentley staff. To that end, we have instituted procedures for using the reading room in person.

VISITORS AND STAFF MUST: n Wear a mask regardless of vaccination status. n Bring a photo ID and a completed ResponsiBlue screening check. n Wash hands before beginning their research.

Hand sanitizer is also available.

Remember, there is free parking at the Bentley if you have a parking permit. We will issue a permit to you when you arrive.

IF YOU HAVE QUESTIONS OR NEED ADDITIONAL ASSISTANCE, PLEASE EMAIL OUR REFERENCE STAFF: BENTLEY.REF@UMICH.EDU 32 BENTLEY.UMICH.EDU

Do You Have Michigan History to Share?

The Bentley is once again accepting donations of materials. More than 11,200 donors have entrusted us with their unique collections. Find out if what you have is right for the archive.

TO DONATE MATERIALS THAT ARE RELATED TO THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN:

Call Aprille McKay at 734-936-1346 or email aprille@umich.edu

TO DONATE MATERIALS THAT ARE RELATED TO THE STATE OF MICHIGAN:

Call Michelle McClellan at 734-763-2165 or email mmcclel@umich.edu

COLLECTIONS, the magazine of the Bentley Historical Library at the University of Michigan, is published twice each year.

Terrence J. McDonald Arthur F. Thurnau Professor Professor of History and Director Nancy Bartlett Associate Director Lara Zielin Editorial Director Robert Havey Communications Specialist Patricia Claydon, Ballistic Creative Art Direction/Design Copyright ©2021 Regents of the University of Michigan ARTICLES MAY BE REPRINTED BY OBTAINING PERMISSION FROM: Editor, Bentley Historical Library 1150 Beal Avenue Ann Arbor, MI 48109-2113 PLEASE DIRECT EMAIL CORRESPONDENCE TO: laram@umich.edu 734-936-1342 Regents of the University of Michigan Jordan B. Acker, Huntington Woods Michael J. Behm, Grand Blanc Mark J. Bernstein, Ann Arbor Paul W. Brown, Ann Arbor Sarah Hubbard, Okemos Denise Ilitch, Bingham Farms Ron Weiser, Ann Arbor Katherine E. White, Ann Arbor Mark S. Schlissel, ex officio The University of Michigan, as an equal opportunity/affirmative action employer, complies with all applicable federal and state laws regarding nondiscrimination and affirmative action. The University of Michigan is committed to a policy of equal opportunity for all persons and does not discriminate on the basis of race, color, national origin, age, marital status, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, gender expression, disability, religion, height, weight, or veteran status in employment, educational programs and activities, and admissions. Inquiries or complaints may be addressed to the Senior Director for Institutional Equity, and Title IX/Section 504/ADA Coordinator, Office for Institutional Equity, 2072 Administrative Services Building, Ann Arbor, Michigan 48109-1432, 734-763-0235, TTY 734-6471388, institutional.equity@umich.edu. For other University of Michigan information call 734-764-1817.

Land Acknowledgment Statement The Bentley Historical Library acknowledges that coerced cessions of land by the Anishnaabeg and Wyandot made the University of Michigan possible, and we seek to reaffirm the ancestral and contemporary ties of these peoples to the lands where the University now stands.

“

I desire to speak of the University of Michigan with gratitude that I have been permitted to be so long associated with it in its days of prosperity.

—James B. Angell

THERE’S NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT TO SUPPORT MICHIGAN’S PAST.

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The Bentley has digitized the legacy of a great University president, James B. Angell. Today, his letters, photos, lecture notes, articles, and much more are available online.

With your help, the Bentley Historical Library can bring even more University of Michigan history into the 21st century.

PLEASE USE THE ENCLOSED ENVELOPE OR GIVE ONLINE TO HELP US DIGITIZE OUR COLLECTIONS.

bentley.umich.edu/giving 734-764-3482

A B O U T T H E B E N T L EY

UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 1150 BEAL AVENUE ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN 48109-2113

Where Michigan’s History Lives Every day, people use the Bentley Historical Library to explore history.

With more than 70,000 linear feet of letters, photographs, books, and more, the Library is a treasure trove of primary source material from the State of Michigan and the University of Michigan. We welcome you to uncover Michigan’s history here.

The Bentley Historical Library is open to the public by appointment only.

REQUEST AN APPOINTMENT ONLINE myumi.ch/ov83X EXPLORE COLLECTIONS AND FINDING AIDS ONLINE bentley.umich.edu FOLLOW US ON SOCIAL facebook.com/bentleyhistoricallibrary @umichbentley @umichbentley MAKE A GIFT bentley.umich.edu/giving 734-764-3482

In the 1950s and ’60s, “urban renewal” programs destroyed Black neighborhoods and displaced countless Black residents. While normally associated with large cities like Detroit, urban renewal also impacted smaller cities like Ann Arbor, as this map shows. Learn more about how Black residents built communities after the Great Migration, partnering with religious institutions to respond to urban renewal initiatives and other civil rights issues, on page 26.