987 research outputs found
Travis McDaniel
No full textThe Legend of Old Shakey is a story being told by Travis McDaniel about coming into possession of a dog at Noxubee National Wildlife Refuge and the efforts of it's owner to get back at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service for confiscating him along with his other dogs.
Organization: FWS
Name: Travis McDaniel
Years: 1960-1994
Program: Refuges
Keywords: Manager, Wapanocca National Wildlife Refuge, WaterfowlThe Legend of Ole Shakey
By
Travis H. McDaniel (1960- 1994)
Brief Summary: This is the story of “Ole Shakey” as told by Travis H. McDaniel, Manager of the Noxubee Refuge in 1975. Mr. McDaniel talks about the impoundment of deer dogs on the refuge and one in particular, Ole Shakey. He tells the story of coming into possession of the dog, the owner fighting him in every step of the process to get the dogs back, and what happened with the dog. He recounts going to a meeting in Starkville, Mississippi where the owner of Old Shakey showed up and accused Mr. McDaniel of shooting his dog, in which McDaniel had not shot the dog, but was given to a local man where his father-in-law lived. When the original owner called the local man who had Shakey, the local man stated he never heard of such a dog, in which Mr. McDaniel had to call the original owner and explain to him what happen. The original knew that the man wasn’t about tell a total stranger about the dog, but his story would follow Mr. McDaniel throughout his career.The Legend of Ole Shakey
It was 1975 if I remember right, about three years into my tenure at manager at Noxubee Refuge, when an event occurred that stuck with me for the rest of my career. I was the brunt of many jokes because of this, and the story was even retold at my retirement roast, albeit it with a little embellishment. By then ole “Shakey” had reached legendary status in the annals of memorable tales from Noxubee, a refuge noted for stories made famous by the previous manager of 23 years, Burt Webster. Here’s my recollection of how the events unfolded:
By my second hunting season at Noxubee we were going strong impounding deer dogs caught running on the refuge. The local dog hunters were in an uproar and I was getting hate calls and threats fairly regularly. As unpleasant as this was, I knew I had to hang tough with this policy or we would have continued to be over run with deer dogs. Our efforts had reduced the number of dogs found on the refuge considerably, but we still caught a few each season. Some of these may have come from legitimate hunters hunting off the refuge with dogs that happened to chase deer onto into the refuge. However, many others still had their buddies turn dogs loose on one of the many boundary line roads and let them run into the refuge, where they were waiting on deer stands.
Anyway, one day some of the crew picked up three deer dogs on the refuge and brought them in. Two of them were prime walker hounds, the worse kind for us because they were great trackers and would run until they dropped rather than give up the chase. The third dog was a pitiful looking mixed breed that looked to be mostly blue tick. As a puppy he had distemper and it left him with a constant tremor – thus the name Shakey. Evidently, this had no affect on him when he was running a deer. As was my custom, I checked the collar for a phone number and called the owner that night. The owner told me he was not going to pick them up, but instead was going to call his congressman. This was nothing unusual. People not pleased with refuge policies were always calling their congressmen or senators. Mostly they wanted me fired – or at least transferred and out of their hair. He warned me I had better take good care of his dogs while I had them impounded, since the walkers were worth “several thousand dollars each.”
The Code of Federal Regulations outlined a sequence of steps to go through for impounded animals. Briefly, I had to contact the owner by certified mail and give him 30 days to retrieve his property. If no results, a formal notice in the newspaper gave another 30 days. If nothing had happened by then I could follow up with an auction to try and recoup expenses. If none of these worked, the animal could be dispatched. I immediately mailed the owner a certified letter and began the long process.
The owner fought me all the way. He knew exactly how long he could leave a letter at the post office box without retrieving it. He waited out this limit, then the 30 days, then 30 more days for the newspaper, and then the days we had to wait for the auction. In the meantime, we kept the dogs in our pen. We kept them so long they were almost like our own. Of course the congressman got into it, but I had done everything by the book, and there wasn’t much he could do about this specific incidence. The owner was furious! He had tried every stall tactic he knew and they had all failed. If he had picked up the dogs the day after they were caught, he would have owed only a modest catch fee. Now, he not only owed the catch fee but also the expense of food and board for the several months we held the dogs.
The day finally arrived for the auction, which was set for 11:00 am. I couldn’t believe it when my assistant, Lee Fulton, came running into the office the first thing that morning, all in a huff. “They’re gone! The dogs are gone. I can’t find them. I haven’t the slightest idea how they got out or where they can be. All I know is they’re gone.”
I put the entire crew out on the refuge roads looking for the dogs, with instructions not to come back until they were found. In the meantime the owner arrived about an hour before the appointed time for the auction, demanding his dogs since obviously no one else was going to bid. Of course, I knew no one would bid against him, no matter how much they were worth. I was sweating bullets by now, with the dogs still missing. I gave him a bureaucratic response about having to wait until the official time for the auction. I could see my career going down the tubes, and owing him a couple thousand dollars to boot.
As I sweated out those last fifteen minutes, I finally heard a refuge truck pass the office going towards the dog pen. A minute or two later I heard a second refuge truck, and it pulled into the office parking lot. The dog owner was in my office and had his back to the door. Curtis Smith came into the office, walked to my open door and gave me the high sign – without the owner seeing him. What a relief to see Curtis with that big grin on his face. As calmly as I could, I stood up and proceeded to tell the owner what we were going to do.
“Well, it’s just a few more minutes ‘till time, but I don’t think anyone else is coming, so lets get started,” I said, as if everything was going as planned. “Since there’s no one else to bid against you, you can have your dogs for the total amount of expenses we have invested in them. That’s the cost of boarding and the salary cost involved in catching them,” I told him as I handed him the bill, which was a couple of hundred dollars as I remember.
“Just figure it for the two walkers,” he said, “You can keep Shakey. I’m not paying that kind of money for him. He’s your worry now.”
I was surprised and shocked at this turn of events and wasn’t quite sure how to react. But there was nothing I could do to make him pay if he didn’t want to redeem his dog. He paid for the two walkers and left.
Lee suggested we go ahead and shoot Shakey, since no one would want him and we obviously couldn’t keep feeding him indefinitely. I almost agreed, but in a moment of fortuitous insight I made one of my better decisions and said no. I had a feeling this case wasn’t over yet and I wanted another option. Lee eventually thought of one and took Shakey to Alabama to his father-in-laws place and found a local man to take him.
A year or so later the impoundment of hunting dogs and stray cattle, as well as other topics the locals were concerned about, were generating a lot of congressional inquires and local complaints. The regional office decided to hold a public meeting to address these concerns. The meeting was to be in Starkville, Mississippi and would give theconcerned locals from Noxubee and Winston counties an opportunity to say their peace. Hopefully, when finished, and we had explained our position, things wouldn’t be quite as tense.
During the course of the meeting many of the owners whose deer dogs had been impounded in the past stood up to make speeches denouncing my impoundment policy. One of these men was none other than Shakey’s old owner. He gave a synopsis of the events surround Shakey and then accused me of shooting him. By this time he was on a roll and went on and on about what despicable behavior it was for a government employee to do such a thing. He threatened to advise the Humane Society of my actions and to sue the Fish and Wildlife Service for what I’d done.
You can imagine my relief to know I could honestly tell the audience I had not killed Shakey. However, my explanation of what we had done with him brought nothing but an “Oh, sure you did,” especially when I couldn’t give him the new owner’s name. Finally, my supervisor, Curtis Wilson, was able to calm him by promising the new owner’s name if he would come to the refuge office the next morning, which he did. By calling Lee’s father-in-law the next morning we were able to get the man’s name and telephone number, which we gave to the now subdued hunter. I suggested he call the new owner to confirm our claim. He indicated that he might, although it was now obvious he was much relieved at what I had done. He even indicated he would use his influence with his fellow dog owners to make a stronger effort to keep deer dogs off the refuge.
Out of curiosity, we call Shakey’s new owner a day or two later to see if anyone had called him about the dog. The poor old man indicated someone had called, but he had denied knowing anything about such a dog. I couldn’t believe it! All the humiliation of standing before a group in a public meeting and letting them run you down, all the trust and cooperation I had developed with the dog hunters over the last week, I could just see all this going down the tubes. But what was I to do?
I immediately call the old owner to explain as best I could why I thought the new owner had lied to him about Shakey – knowing I didn’t have a chance in a million of his believing me. “You’ve got to believe me; I wouldn’t have lied to you about this.”
“Oh, I know you didn’t lie to me. That man didn’t know me from Adam’s house cat, and I caught him unawares. I didn’t expect him to tell a stranger who called him on the phone the truth about a dog he knew had been mine.”
And so ended the story…the legend of ole Shakey.
Travis H. McDaniel Retired (1960- 1994
The Ash Wednesday Storm
No full textMr. McDaniel recounts a storm that happened while he was assistant manager at Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge in 1962. The storm was the effect of a northeaster and the “spring tide” coming together and causing major flooding and beach erosion along the eastern shore. Mr. McDaniel talks about the condition of the beach, having to evacuate, checking in with the manager of Back Bay, and beach combing after the storm. He also shares stories of a couple locals there, one that ended on a happy note and one that did not.
Organization: FWS
Name: Travis McDaniel
Years: 1960-1994
Program: Refuges
Keywords:Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge, Don Pollard, John Sincook, RefugesThe Ash Wednesday Storm
Travis McDaniel
Retired (1960-1994)
Mr. McDaniel recounts a storm that happened while he was assistant manager at Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge in 1962. The storm was the effect of a northeaster and the “spring tide” coming together and causing major flooding and beach erosion along the eastern shore. Mr. McDaniel talks about the condition of the beach, having to evacuate, checking in with the manager of Back Bay, and beach combing after the storm. He also shares stories of a couple locals there, one that ended on a happy note and one that did not.
Keywords: Back Bay National Wildlife Refuge; Don Pollard, John Sincook, refuges
In 1962 I was the assistant manager at Back Bay Refuge in Virginia, which at that time was in region four. My family and I were the only ones living on the refuge at that time, and the refuge was only accessible by driving five miles of beach – there was no road. Gale force winds were common, and when we had some really strong winds
The Great Noxubee Cattle War
No full text"The Great Noxubee Cattle War" Travis McDaniel shares a story concerning trespass cattle on the Noxubee Refuge.
Organization: FWS
Name: Travis McDaniel
Years: 1960-1994
Program: Refuges
Keywords: History, biography, narrative, employee, cattle, refuges, Noxubee National Wildlife Refuge (now Sam D. Hamilton Noxubee National Wildlife Refuge)The Great Noxubee Cattle War
Travis McDaniel
Retired (1960-1994)
In this story retired Fish and Wildlife Service employee Travis McDaniel shares a story concerning trespass cattle on the Noxubee Refuge. He states they had issues with locals cutting the fence surrounding the refuge and letting their cows graze. Mr. McDaniel recounts when they finally caught trespass cattle, how the refuge couldn’t store the cattle at the barn in Starkville the second time they caught cattle, and what they did to fix the situation and win the cattle war.
The Great Noxubee Cattle War
Noxubee Refuge had a history of trespass livestock. From the time I was assigned to Noxubee as the manager in 1972, we had been trying to roundup trespass cattle that folks living on inholdings had let run on the refuge. The previous manager had fenced the entire refuge to prevent such trespass, but the locals merely cut the barbed wire, turned the cows in on our wildlife plots, and then tied the fence back. We had tried many times, unsuccessfully, to catch the trespass cows.
A terrible tornado swept through the middle of the refuge a year or so after I came to Noxubee and a tremendous acreage of forest was blown down. It was springtime and the grass was just beginning to green up in our wildlife openings. A few days after the tornado, assistant manager, Lee Fulton, was driving through the refuge when he spotted some cows grazing on the fresh growth in one of the refuge openings. The locals had turned their cows in on the refuge since their pastures had been overgrazed all winter and offered little in the way of nutrition. An hour or so later Lee burst into my office, uniform messed up and all in a huff.
“Travis, we got ‘um this time. We finally got ‘um where we want ‘um,” he said excitedly! “There’s a bunch of cows in some of that tornado blow down. I’ve already caught one and got her tied up. I know we can catch more if you get the crew out there to help,” he blurted out, hardly able to contain himself.
“If you think we can catch ‘um run up to the shop and tell everybody up there to get ready and follow us. Be sure and get all those catch ropes we bought and bring them along. I’ll be right behind you as soon as I can get in my boots.”
A few minutes later three truckloads of employees were speeding down the refuge road towards the spot Lee had identified. The cows were still in the opening when we got there. We all slid the vehicles to a stop on the loose gravel, jumped out, and chased the cows into the tangled mass of blown down trees and broken limbs.
Cooter Smith, our mechanic, hollered, “Try to catch all the caves first. A momma cow won’t leave her calf. Catch ‘um by the tail and hand on!”
We all followed Cooter’s instructions; each picked out a calf and tried to chase it down. Sure enough, after a mad dash around, over and through shattered limbs and tree trunks, Cooter, Lee and I each caught a calf. We tied them up on the spot and, like Cooter said, the cow came back and just hung around her calf. All we had to do was slip a rope over her head and we had two for one. We were catching so many cows I sent Cooter home in one of the trucks to get his personal cattle trailer. When he got back he found the rest of us a little worse for wear, with scratched arms and faces, but now guardians over a dozen or so cows. With one of us pulling on a rope tied to the cow’s neck, and one of us pushing on the freshly manure splattered rear end, we finally got all the cows and calves loaded in the cattle trailer. Cooter and his brother, Curtis, took them to Starkville to the cattle barn while I went back to the office and called the barn to tell the man we were coming with a trailer load of cows – and, he could expect more later. After all our earlier failures, Lee had learned the secret to cow catching success. All we needed was to stick with it and something to slow them down a little. The tornado had provided the jumble of tree trunks and limbs to do just that.
After making the call, I drove to Starkville to the cow barn. We hadn’t even finished unloading the cows before the owner showed up at the barn – wanting his cows back. I suspect Cooter and Curtis passed right by his house as they were carrying the cows to Starkville. I figured the cost of everyone’s salary for the time involved, gas for the vehicles and a rental fee for the use of Cooter’s trailer and gave the owner a price for what it would take to gets his cows back. I reminded him I could also charge him with cattle trespass, but out of the goodness of my heart I was only charging him an impoundment fee. He was mad as a wet hen, but he had no choice. If he didn’t pay right away he would also have the overnight stay at the cattle barn added to the bill. He paid the couple of hundred dollars fee… probably swearing under his breath to get even with me if he got the chance.
I was ecstatic over the success we had in catching that first batch of cows. The trick was in catching the calves first, but we also found if we just stuck with the chase and the cows didn’t have open woods to escape through, we could catch them. I was so sure of future success that I had Cooter leave his cow trailer at the refuge. Sure enough, in a few days Lee spotted another bunch of cows. I had hoped the first impoundment had taught all the cattle owners I meant business, but such was not the case. We went through the same routine as before and in a few hours had another trailer load of cows. Again, I sent Cooter and Curtis to Starkville with the cows while I went back to the office to call the stock barn about another load.
“Mr. McDaniel, I’m sorry to tell you this but I’m not going to be able to hold any cows for you,” the owner of the stock barn said apologetically.
“You don’t mean you’re full up do you?”
“No, I’ve got plenty of room. That’s not the problem.”
“Well what is it them,” I asked in a puzzled tone?
“Look Mr. McDaniel, I don’t own this barn free and clear. I still owe a good bit on it. And I got a call – I ain’t tellin’ you from who – and they told me not to take in any of your impounded cows anymore. I hate it, but that’s the way it is,” he said, apologizing again. “I wish I was a young man, I’d help you fight ‘um,” he said. “But I just can’t afford to.”
I told him thanks for his support and not to worry about it. There’s more than one way to skin a cat – and more than one way to pen up a cow. I immediately called Cooter on the radio and told him to forget about dropping the cattle at the barn and to bring them back to the refuge. But, before he left town he should go by Vanlandingham’s Hardware and buy about four rolls of barbwire. We built a four-strand barbwire holding pen in a secluded spot near the headquarters and put the cows inside. We built it good enough to last for several years and convenient enough so that we could put impounded cows inside it whenever we caught more. Well, that did the trick. The owner showed up the next morning asking if we had seen any of his cows that had somehow broken out of his pasture. I told him we had some cows and if he wanted to claim them and pay the impoundment fee, they were his. I also warned him that each new cattle owner was getting one free ride without being charged in federal court with cattle trespass - and that he had just had his. He paid the fee and took his cows without much of a squabble.
We never had to use the holding pen again. The great Noxubee cattle war was over and we had won, hands down. True, there would be other type battles to come that I would loose, but we won this one fair and square. Oh, the taste of victory is sweet!
Travis H. McDaniel
Retired (1960-1994
The Great Ruddy Duck Chase
No full textThis is a recount of a story by Travis McDaniel while manager at Wapanocca National Wildlife Refuge in 1960. Mr. McDaniel was going out to various locations around Wapanocca Lake to check duck traps when he decided to chase some ruddy ducks and ended up flipping the boat he was in when he realized he was coming up to the turn to where the first trap was. He recounts what he did to get back to the clubhouse and to get dried off before was overcome by hypothermia and before his wife and kids came back from shopping.
Organization:FWS
Name: Travis McDaniel
Program:Refuges
Keywords: Narrative, history, employee, Wapanocca National Wildlife Refuge, waterfowl, refuge manager, duck traps, boatsThe Great Ruddy Duck Chase
Travis McDaniel
Retired Fish and Wildlife Service (1960-1994)
This is a recount of a story by Travis McDaniel while manager at Wapanocca National Wildlife Refuge in 1960. Mr. McDaniel was going out to various locations around Wapanocca Lake to check duck traps when he decided to chase some ruddy ducks and ended up flipping the boat he was in when he realized he was coming up to the turn to where the first trap was. He recounts what he did to get back to the clubhouse and to get dried off before was overcome by hypothermia and before his wife and kids came back from shopping.
The Great Ruddy Duck Chase
I was the manager at Wapanocca in 1962 when we acquired the first tracts of land that established the refuge. Except for hunting and fishing, there weren’t too many other things to do for outdoor entertainment or excitement in the delta. Two of the things I did for excitement on the refuge were driving the Korean War era open jeep as fast as I could down the narrow levees and through the winding woods roads, and running the 14’ aluminum Jon boat, with the 10 horse Johnson, wide open through the narrow twist and turns of Wapanocca Bayou out to the open lake.
One cold and windy Saturday morning in January, I was going out to run the duck traps which were scattered in various locations around Wapanocca Lake. The boat often had rainwater in the bottom and, as everyone knows, the standard routine was to pull the drain plug and let the water drain out as the boat was underway. I had pulled the plug and was headed up the beautiful, narrow, cypress lined bayou towards the lake - wide open. It was a clear day and, although quite cold and windy, I was dressed warmly in my insulated coveralls. It was a great day to be alive.
When I got to Little Lake, the first open water portion of the lake, I saw there was a rim of ice around the edge of the lake an inch or two thick. I also saw a bunch of ruddy ducks jump up in front of the boat and begin their laborious attempt to get airborne. As any wildlifer knows, ruddies and other diving ducks have to run along the top of the water for some distance before they can get up enough speed to fly. This was too good an opportunity to miss for a little excitement. I just couldn’t resist. I fell in behind a few of them, still going wide open. Half flying and half paddling across the top of the water as fast as they could, they tried desperately to get away.
Normally, when pressed, divers can eventually get far enough ahead to dive and escape their pursuer. I was pressing these ruddies hard, however, and they could never get far enough ahead to dive. I had cut three or four out of the bunch, like a quarter horse cuts out a calf, and was right on their tail. I was almost on them when I realized I was about to past my turn off into where I had my first duck trap. Giving up on the great ruddy duck chase, but without cutting back on the throttle, I shoved the outboard handle hard to the right for a 90-degree turn to the left. It’s always been a puzzle to me how your mind seems to go blank in an accident.
The next thing I remember was gulping for air as I came up out of the icy water! The ammunition box containing my banding tools was floating a few feet away, as was my binocular case, a boat paddle and seat cushion. I was standing in water about waist deep near the edge of some willow bushes. Broken ice chunks were bobbing on the water. The boat was upside down a few feet away. I grabbed up all my equipment, flipped the boat over and pulled on the start rope to try and start the motor again – knowing there was no way it was going to start. Naturally the drain plug fell out of the boat when it flipped. I knew I had to act fast before I became so numb from the cold that my hands wouldn’t work. The water was right at the freezing point and the air temperature was in the 20s. I pushed the boat towards the buttonbush and willows and took the motor off, wedging it as best I could in some limbs above the water. Then I raised the bow up on some willow limbs as high as I could reach and, pushing from the stern, shoved the boat as hard as I could up out of the water and into the willows. That got most of the boat out of the water, but not all. The last foot at the stern was still in the water. I broke off a dead willow limb and shoved it into the drain hole as tight as I could. I then pulled the boat off the willows, rolled myself over into the half swamped boat and began to paddle for the other side of the lake and high ground.
The stiff wind was blowing hard against me and I wasn’t making much progress. I was also getting colder by the minute. After ten minutes of this it was apparent I needed to try something different – I was getting nowhere. As hard as it is to believe, I had actually been warmer when I was in the water. So, about half way across Little Lake, I slid over the side of the boat and into the water again. Holding onto the stern of the boat, I began to wade the chest deep water and push the boat to the other side. As hard as this was, I was making better progress than when I was trying to paddle. All I had to do was stick it out, and I could make it.
When I eventually got into the cypress trees on the other side of the lake, and the water became shallow enough, I tied the boat to a tree and abandoned it. Leaning on my paddle, I made my way through the cypress and willows swamp towards high ground, about 500 more yards to the west. When I finally made it to the high ground and the narrow dirt road near our boundary, I was about a mile from the clubhouse. Although by this time my hand and feet were totally numb, I wasn’t about to go out on the highway for help. If I could help it, I wasn’t going to let anyone see me until I was out of this mess. My hands were so numb I couldn’t pull off my hip boots to drain the water out. The best I could do was to roll them down to the knee and raise my foot to let some of the water drain out.
I made up my mind to jog the whole way back because I was afraid I might be overcome with hypothermia if I stopped. I was in good shape, still carrying less than 200 pounds on my 6’2” frame, and figured I could make it if I didn’t let myself stop. After what seemed forever, I somehow made it back to the office in the clubhouse. My wife, Joyce, and the kids were still in West Memphis shopping. If I was lucky, I could get inside, get the small gas heater in the office going, and hopefully be thawed out before she got home. She’d never know what happened.
At first, my hands were so numb I couldn’t turn the door knob to open the door. Eventually, however, I got the door open, found the matches, and tried to light the heater. But, my fingers were so numb I couldn’t make them work enough to strike the matches. Using my mouth to hold the wood matches, and run them against the striking portion of the box, I was finally able to strike a match. I used up about half the box however, before I could successfully shift the match from my mouth to my hand and onto the gas jets before it went out. At long last I got the gas on and after another painful half-hour got all my wet clothes off. If you’ve ever thawed out your fingers after nearly being frost bitten, then you know how painful that can be. I was eventually able to get out of my wet clothes and into some dry ones. An hour or so later I heard Joyce’s car in the driveway.
“Well, we’re back from shopping. What have you been doing all day while we’ve been gone?”
“Oh, you know, just regular refuge stuff,” I lied.
I didn’t let Joyce know what happened, but I did have to swallow my pride and get my maintenance man, Franklin Robins, to help me get the boat and motor from the lake. That experience didn’t cause me to completely give up chasing ruddy ducks whenever I got the chance, but I did learn not to turn a flat bottomed aluminum boat quite so hard when you’re going wide open. They have been known to flip!
Travis H. McDaniel
Retired (1960-1994
Octavofest Guest Speaker Travis McDade
No full textThis Program is in partnership with Octavofest: Celebrating the Book and Paper Arts.
Program: Professor McDade will begin this program with a general discussion of his research, books, and his latest project, with a primary focus on how thefts of valuable rare books have been handled by the law. This discussion will utilize the 2007, 6th Circuit case of the United States vs. Charles Thomas Allen, II, et al. , utilizing the prosecution of Allen and his colleagues for the theft of valuable rare books from the special collections library at Transylvania University (Lexington, KY) as an example of how the law handles the theft of cultural heritage objects. Law, library and information science, anthropology, museum studies, and art students will find this program of interest, as well as professionals in these fields, and other individuals who value the preservation of our cultural heritage.
Travis McDade is the Curator of Law Rare Books and Associate Professor of Library Service and the University of Illinois College of Law. Professor McDade, a lawyer and a librarian, is the country’s foremost expert on crimes against rare books, maps, documents, and other printed cultural heritage resources. He is the author of three books on the subject: The Book Thief: The True Crimes of Daniel Spiegelman; Thieves of Book Row: New York’s Most Notorious Rare Book Ring and the Man Who Ended it; and Disappearing Ink: The Insider, the FBI, and the Looting of the Kenyon College Library.
Refreshments will be served.
Contact Barbara Loomis at [email protected] for more information
The Author\u27s Series: Writing 101, Publishing and Marketing
No full textThe Author\u27s Series: Writing 101, Publishing and Marketing
Featured Author: Damion J. Walker, Empowering Underserved Communities: Social Equity Through Collective Action & Founder of Cognitive Justice Intl.
Guest Author: Travis Davidson, Overcoming the Odds , Gospel Hip Hop Artis-TX3
Book Signin
Henri Temianka Correspondence; (travis)
No full textThis collection contains material pertaining to the life, career, and activities of Henri Temianka, violin virtuoso, conductor, music teacher, and author. Materials include correspondence, concert programs and flyers, music scores, photographs, and books.https://digitalcommons.chapman.edu/temianka_correspondence/4217/thumbnail.jp
Henri Temianka Correspondence; (travis)
No full textThis collection contains material pertaining to the life, career, and activities of Henri Temianka, violin virtuoso, conductor, music teacher, and author. Materials include correspondence, concert programs and flyers, music scores, photographs, and books.https://digitalcommons.chapman.edu/temianka_correspondence/4216/thumbnail.jp
Henri Temianka Correspondence; (travis)
No full textThis collection contains material pertaining to the life, career, and activities of Henri Temianka, violin virtuoso, conductor, music teacher, and author. Materials include correspondence, concert programs and flyers, music scores, photographs, and books.https://digitalcommons.chapman.edu/temianka_correspondence/4218/thumbnail.jp
Thomas Frederick Arndt ; Men in America : Photographs, 1973-1987
No full textTravis describes Arndt's photographs of stereotypical working-class heterosexual men. Biographical notes on both artist and author
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