There are scores of local historical museums across North Dakota, nobody knows just how many — county museums, community museums, organizational museums, special-interest museums. Some people regard this as a problem, for how can they be maintained and their collections cared for? We have more history than we have people. It’s the too-much mistake, many would say, echoing historian Elwyn Robinson — who, although a great historian and teacher — well, let’s just say there are a couple of things I would like to talk to him about.
I’m thinking, these local museums are an undeveloped resource. They are short of staff and money, but chock full of cool artifacts, great stories, and the sense of life on the northern plains. What is the case, then, for a mill levy, for community support, for investment in these museums?
This question I mulled during the congruence of two activities: first, along with my students, participating in a cloud-cataloging project for the McIntosh County Heritage Center. My friends in Ashley, like Randy Woehl and Marvel Gross, along with Dale Lennon of the North Dakota Historical Foundation, got me into this. It makes me more aware than ever of the richness of local museum collections, but also the logistical problems of their curators.
Second, and it was no coincidence, I reread a classic work on the practice of local history, Nearby History, by David E. Kyvig and Myron A. Marty. This 1982 book came at the right moment to counterpoint the dead-end direction of scholarly history at the time, quantitative “new social history.” This type of history in the academy enervated students and the public, but local, public history, the kind described by Kyvig and Marty, generated enthusiasm. Now, on the prairies, forty years later, that enthusiasm may be running out of gas. Except at places like the McIntosh County Heritage Center, which is undergoing an efflorescence. And I’m all in. So, what’s our story, what’s our case?
My personal motivation may not be germane. I am engaged in the long-term reconsideration of the history of the Great Plains, will be doing this until I die, and local history gives me cases and texture. Nor will the personal interests of local partisans carry the day — antiquarianism is nice, but it’s not a public good.
I suggest there are three levels of argument for local historical museums as a public good deserving of support. These will all sound academic-wonky, so we’ll have to work on translation. The first argument is transactional. Museums are resources and infrastructure for heritage tourism. Most of them don’t look like it, and are not well positioned to fill the role, but they can be. We should work on this, but it should not be the first priority.
The second argument is relational. In communities challenged either by atrophy or chaos, this should be first priority. Historical museums build relationships, across groups and generations. They should be inclusive. Is there a daunting amount of work to do? Good. Antiquarians, if you really love this stuff, start networking, and not just among your cronies. Bring people together to meet the challenges. Such relationships are good for their own sake, but they also get things done.
This will allow us to talk about the third argument, which is communitarian. By engaging with artifacts and places and memory, we achieve identity — identity that situates us in relation to one another and on the land. When we get to that point, then we are ready to invite the world in.
