When I walked into Clemson Libraries’ Digitization Lab, I honestly thought digitization was simple. In my mind, it was just a big camera, a quick click, and done. Easy, right? Turns out, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Before the lab visit, I went through Cornell’s https://www.library.cornell.edu/preservation/tutorial/ tutorial and watched the Library of Congress video https://www.loc.gov/preservation/digital/. Both made it clear that digitization isn’t just “taking a picture.” It’s about creating a digital copy that’s accurate enough to stand in for the original—color, detail, everything. That means resolution, lighting, calibration, and a whole lot of technical know-how.
Seeing it in person with Kelly Riddle, our Director of Digitization and Digital Projects, really drove it home. I was shocked at how long it takes to digitize even a simple page. And those cameras? They’re not just point-and-shoot. Kelly explained that the settings have to be recalibrated every single morning because even humidity can affect the sensitive lens. For projects like the National Park Service grant, there are strict https://planning.dc.gov/publication/nps-electronic-format-standards—and if those aren’t met, the image has to be redone. No shortcuts.
It made me think about my own work with metadata. For years, I’ve worked on metadata after the image is created—never during digitization. My experience started with historical Clemson photos, where I spent hours digging through Taps yearbooks to identify faces. Sometimes I’d find the exact photo, sometimes not. Later, I moved into cataloging rare and very old books, which is just as tedious in its own way. Metadata creation is slow, detailed work, and often involves building localized vocabularies for people and places as we identify them.
Right now, metadata and images live in separate worlds. The images are stored in numbered boxes, while metadata goes into CollectiveAccess. We match them by ID numbers, but they’re not bundled together. I’ve been told this workflow isn’t efficient—and I agree. We need a way to connect images and metadata into a single package. That would require new software capable of handling both. Clemson’s Collections Discovery department is actively working on new workflows, and there’s talk of a shared platform for Archives, Special Collections, and the Digitization Lab. At first, I thought that sounded overly complicated. Now, after seeing the digitization process up close, I understand why it’s necessary. A unified system would make collaboration smoother and ensure that the digital object and its metadata stay together.
What direction will this take us? I’m not sure yet. But I do know this: digitization isn’t fast, and it’s definitely not simple. It’s photography, metadata, compliance, and research—all working together. And I hope I get to work with historical images again. I miss that part a lot.
Walking out of the lab, I realized digitization isn’t just about creating access; it’s about creating trust in the digital record. And that trust takes time, skill, and a lot of patience. We made need to work to other technologies.
Child labor shaped the early textile industry in South Carolina, leaving behind stories that are hard to imagine today. To uncover these realities, researchers turn to archives—repositories of authentic voices and records that bring history to life.
One collection that stood out to me during my research was the Clifton Manufacturing Company Records (Mss-0136) at Clemson University Libraries Special Collections and Archives. Why this collection? Because it contains work permits for children, a rare and powerful window into the lives of young mill workers. Most permits are for 14-year-olds, but some, like the one for Charlie Walker at age 12, reveal how families and companies navigated the law—and sometimes bent it—to keep mills running.
By 1915, South Carolina passed a law requiring a signed statement from a parent or guardian affirming that a child was of legal employment age. This was meant to protect children, but in practice, it opened the door to abuse by desperate families seeking extra income.
Domestic and agricultural workers were exempt. Children over twelve with a widowed mother or disabled father were excused from age limits. Orphans could be employed at any age—one child reportedly began working at just five years old (South Carolina Encyclopedia).
This context makes the child work permit for Charlie Walker, age 12, especially striking. Found in Series 6, Box 52–63, Folder 56, this U.S. government-issued permit authorized his employment at Clifton Manufacturing Company. It’s a tangible reminder of how legal frameworks were stretched to accommodate economic realities. For a future research project, this permit could serve as a focal point for studying enforcement gaps and family survival strategies during the Progressive Era.
Child labor wasn’t the only challenge in mill life—health care loomed large. Among the Clifton records are letters that reveal how medical issues were handled.
One letter, dated October 6, 1925, from the company president to Dr. J.R. Sparkman, discusses medical concerns for employees. Another, from June 3, 1923, addresses payment for medical services. Both are housed in Series 6, Box 52–63, Folder 75.
These letters suggest a complex relationship between mill owners and healthcare providers. They raise questions about corporate responsibility: Were mills genuinely concerned about worker welfare, or were these negotiations driven by economic necessity? A future research project could explore industrial health care practices and their role in shaping labor relations.
Numbers tell their own story. A ledger entry showing statistics for three mill villages, also in Series 6, Box 52–63, Folder 56, offers demographic and housing data. This single document could underpin a study of living conditions in mill communities—how family size, housing quality, and village layout influenced labor patterns and social life.
Combined with the work permits and correspondence, this ledger helps paint a fuller picture: mills weren’t just workplaces; they were ecosystems where economic, social, and health factors intertwined.
The Clifton Manufacturing collection is not fully curated. While the finding aid provides basic descriptions of series and folders, detailed item-level descriptions are missing. Researchers must rely on scope and content notes and series descriptions, then dig into boxes to uncover treasures like these permits and letters.
Together, these documents provide a multidimensional view of mill life—legal, medical, economic, and social. They are not just relics; they are reference points for future scholarship on labor history, public health, and industrialization in the South.
Archival research transforms abstract history into tangible narratives. By engaging with primary sources like those in the Clifton Manufacturing Company Records, we uncover the lived realities behind child labor statistics and legislation. These materials invite us to ask deeper questions—and perhaps, to tell stories that have long been silent.
In The Princeton Guide to Historical Research, Zachary Schrag emphasizes that verifying information is not just about confirming facts—it’s about understanding how sources are used to support historical arguments. This principle came into focus for me when I applied it to a close reading of Thomas Hudson Cartledge III’s 2019 master’s thesis, Recollections: Life in South Carolina Mill Villages.
I selected a two-page section from Cartledge’s thesis that discusses the role of children in mill village life, particularly their early entry into the workforce. Cartledge asserts that children as young as ten worked in spinning rooms and that this labor was normalized within mill communities. He cites oral histories from the WPA’s Federal Writers’ Project and census records to support these claims.
To verify his assertions, I located one of the WPA interviews he referenced, available through the Library of Congress’s American Life Histories collection. The interviewee, a former mill worker, recalled starting work at age ten and described the long hours and physical demands of spinning. I then cross-referenced this with the 1900 census, which listed her occupation as “spinner” at age twelve. These two sources aligned well, confirming Cartledge’s claim about the age and type of labor children performed.
However, not all citations were equally strong. Cartledge references a 1912 Congressional hearing on child labor, but the citation was vague. I tracked down the hearing transcript and found that while it did discuss Southern mills, it focused more on national policy debates than on firsthand accounts from South Carolina. This doesn’t invalidate Cartledge’s point, but it does show how a source can be used to bolster a narrative even if it only partially supports the claim.
This exercise reinforced Schrag’s point in Chapter 9 that historians must evaluate sources not just for what they say, but for how they’re used. Corroboration is key. Even seemingly objective sources like census records carry limitations—they don’t capture working conditions, family dynamics, or the emotional toll of child labor. That’s where oral histories become invaluable, offering context and nuance that raw data can’t provide.
Schrag also reminds us in Chapter 5 that the classification of a source depends on how it’s used. In this case, the WPA interview functioned as a primary source for understanding lived experience, while the census served as a supporting document. Together, they verified Cartledge’s assertions and deepened my understanding of how to use multiple types of evidence in tandem.
This process also echoes Jacquelyn Dowd Hall’s call to rethink historical timelines and narratives in her essay “The Long Civil Rights Movement.” Hall encourages historians to challenge conventional periodization and to consider how memory and interpretation shape the stories we tell. Verifying information, then, is not just about accuracy—it’s about accountability to the past and to the people whose lives we study.
Works Cited:
Cartledge, Thomas Hudson, III. Recollections: Life in South Carolina Mill Villages. Master’s thesis, Clemson University, 2019. TigerPrints. https://tigerprints.clemson.edu/all_theses/3236/
Hall, Jacquelyn Dowd. “The Long Civil Rights Movement and the Political Uses of the Past.” The Journal of American History 91, no. 4 (2005): 1233–1263. https://www.jstor.org/stable/3660172.
Schrag, Zachary M. The Princeton Guide to Historical Research. Princeton University Press, 2021.
Library of Congress. American Life Histories: Manuscripts from the Federal Writers’ Project, 1936–1940. https://www.loc.gov/collections/federal-writers-project/about-this-collection/
FamilySearch. United States, Census, 1900. https://www.familysearch.org/en/search/collection/1325221
Wayne Flynt’s Dixie’s Forgotten People: The South’s Poor Whites offers a thoughtful and deeply researched look into a group that’s often been overlooked in Southern history. Rather than relying on stereotypes or generalizations, Flynt brings these communities to life with empathy, nuance, and historical insight.
After reading the book, I examined four scholarly reviews to gauge historians’ responses to Flynt’s work. Each reviewer brought a unique perspective—ranging from labor history to folklore, music, and gender studies—which helped me see the book in new and unexpected ways.
In this post, I’ll share how these historians interpreted Flynt’s study, compare their viewpoints, and reflect on what I learned from reading their critiques alongside the book itself. It’s a chance to see how historical scholarship becomes a conversation—one that’s rich, layered, and full of insight.
As I read through the four scholarly reviews of Dixie’s Forgotten People, I was struck by how each historian brought a different lens to Flynt’s work—almost like looking at the same landscape through four distinct windows.
James A. Hodges, writing in The Journal of Southern History, approaches the book from an economic and labor history angle. He appreciates Flynt’s detailed account of poor whites and their long-standing marginalization, especially in relation to New Deal labor policy. For Hodges, the book fills a gap in economic narratives that often overlook class divisions among white Southerners. He sees Flynt’s work as a much-needed correction to those broader historical oversights.
William B. McCarthy, on the other hand, takes a cultural route. In his review for The Journal of American Folklore, McCarthy focuses on Flynt’s ethnographic storytelling—his attention to folk traditions, oral histories, and cultural practices. He praises the book for affirming the uniqueness of Southern cultural narratives and sees poor whites not just as economically disadvantaged, but as keepers of rich and meaningful traditions. Where Hodges is drawn to policy and structure, McCarthy is captivated by memory and storytelling.
Bill C. Malone, writing in The Journal of American History, finds a middle ground between social and cultural history. Known for his work on Southern music and working-class identity, Malone highlights Flynt’s ability to connect historical analysis with artistic insight. He describes the book as accessible and relevant, particularly for readers interested in the intersection of class and culture. Like McCarthy, Malone values Flynt’s attention to everyday life, but he’s especially attuned to how music and labor shape identity.
Margaret Ripley Wolfe, in The North Carolina Historical Review, brings yet another layer to the conversation: gender. She applauds Flynt’s portrayal of Southern women and families, noting how the book sheds light on domestic life and the roles women played in sustaining poor white communities. Wolfe’s review adds depth by emphasizing the social fabric of the South and Flynt’s contribution to a more inclusive historical narrative.
Together, these reviews demonstrate the multifaceted nature of Flynt’s book. Hodges sees structural inequality, McCarthy sees cultural preservation, Malone sees class identity through music, and Wolfe sees the strength of family and gender roles. None of them contradict each other—instead, they build on one another, offering a richer, more layered understanding of the South’s poor whites.
In the early 20th century, it wasn’t uncommon to find children as young as ten working long hours in South Carolina’s textile mills. Their small hands and quick reflexes made them ideal for tasks like mending threads or cleaning machinery — but the reality behind those jobs was far from ideal. This chapter of labor history reveals how industrialization reshaped childhood, family roles, and entire communities.
Mill Owners and Economic Justification
Lewis W. Parker, a prominent South Carolina mill owner, testified before Congress in 1914 to defend the practice. He claimed that some children earned more than their fathers, framing child labor as a financial necessity for struggling families. To Parker, children were simply better suited to mill work — a practical solution to poverty, not a moral dilemma.
Reformers and the Power of Photography
In stark contrast, photographer Lewis Hine captured haunting images of child workers for the National Child Labor Committee. His photos, often labeled with names, ages, and job descriptions, were designed to stir public outrage. Hine’s work helped fuel the push for reform by highlighting the human cost of industrial progress.
Everyday Life in the Mill Villages
The book Like a Family: The Making of a Southern Cotton Mill World offers a more nuanced view. Drawing from oral histories and archival research, it shows how child labor was woven into the fabric of mill village life. Families often relied on every member — including children — to make ends meet. The tone is empathetic, showing how economic hardship and cultural norms sustained the system.
This history isn’t just about labor laws or factory conditions — it’s about how childhood itself was redefined. In many mill families, work blurred the lines between child and adult. As one chapter of my thesis puts it:
“In South Carolina’s textile mills, children as young as ten routinely worked twelve-hour shifts, their small hands and quick reflexes prized by manufacturers. For many families, child labor was not a choice but a necessity — one that blurred the boundaries between childhood and adulthood.” Understanding these stories helps us see how industrialization shaped not just economies, but lives — especially the lives of the youngest workers.
As a Library Specialist and a graduate student working on a thesis about South Carolina’s textile industry and its impact on children between 1877 and 1921, I’ve recently revisited Zotero—and I’m glad I did.
Zotero’s ability to pull citation information directly from websites, databases, and even my library’s catalog has saved me hours of manual entry. In many cases, it even retrieved the full-text PDF of the article and attached it to the citation record—an unexpected but very welcome feature.
For my first round of experimentation, I gathered 12 secondary sources from a variety of platforms: JSTOR, Project MUSE, ProQuest, Internet Archive, Google Scholar, and the Clemson University Library catalog. I intentionally mixed formats—books, journal articles, a photo, and even a thesis I’m using for inspiration. Zotero handled all of them seamlessly.
Beyond Bibliographies: Notes and Organization
While Zotero’s automatic citation generation is impressive, my favorite feature is the note field. I use it to record how I plan to use each source, highlight relevant pages, and jot down ideas. Although Zotero allows you to underline passages within PDFs, I find the notes more helpful for organizing my thoughts and tracking the purpose of each source.
How Zotero Is Helping Shape My Thesis
One key insight I’ve noted is that the Great Depression began affecting the South much earlier than the 1929 stock market crash—some sources suggest as early as 1921. This economic hardship deeply impacted textile mill communities, and I’m especially interested in how children adapted to these cultural and labor shifts.
Final Thoughts
If you’re working on an extensive research project, I highly recommend Zotero. It’s user-friendly, powerful, and adaptable. Whether you’re writing a thesis, organizing archival materials, or just keeping track of your reading, Zotero can streamline your workflow and help you stay focused on what matters most: your ideas.
Let’s be honest—research today looks nothing like it did a few decades ago. Gone are the days of flipping through card catalogs and wandering the stacks (though I still love a good browse!). Now, we’re navigating massive digital archives, search engines, and algorithm-driven discovery tools. And while that sounds like a dream, it comes with its own set of challenges. One thing I’ve learned from reading authors like Turkel, Key, and Roberts, Messer-Kruse, Tara Calishain, Matthew Reidsma, and Caroline Criado Perez is this: being prepared matters more than ever.
Digital tools give us access to more information than ever before—but that doesn’t mean we’re finding better information. Search engines can make it feel like everything is just a click away, but they often prioritize popularity over quality. As Messer-Kruse puts it, “Today people search rather than study.” That hit home for me. To really get the most out of digital research, we need to be intentional. That means using tools like Zotero or Mendeley to organize our sources and metadata. It also means setting up RSS feeds (thanks, Tara Calishain!) to keep up with new content in our field—so we’re not always starting from scratch.
Reidsma’s work reminded me that even library search tools aren’t neutral. Algorithms can reinforce bias by favoring certain sources or perspectives. And Criado Perez shows how data itself can be biased—especially when it’s built around male-centered norms. If we’re not careful, we can end up with a skewed view of the world without even realizing it.
Doing research today isn’t just about finding information—it’s about understanding how that information is organized, who it represents, and what tools we’re using to access it. With a little preparation and a critical eye, we can make the most of the digital tools at our fingertips—and avoid falling into the trap of shallow searching.
Chepesiuk, Ron. “JSTOR and Electronic Archiving.” Information Today 17, no. 7 (2000): 30–31.
Spinella, Michael. “JSTOR and the Changing Digital Landscape.” Serials Review 34, no. 3 (2008): 171–173.
Turkel, William J., Kevin Kee, and Spencer Roberts. “A Method for Navigating the Infinite Archive.” In History in the Digital Age, edited by Toni Weller, 61–75. London: Routledge, 2012. eBook.
Messer-Kruse, Timothy. “How Google Scrambled the Academic Mind.” Chronicle of Higher Education, January 2019. PDF.
Perez, Caroline Criado. “Preface” and “One-Size-Fits-Men.” In Invisible Women: Data Bias in a World Designed for Men, vx–xix; 157–168. New York: Abrams Press, 2019. eBook.
Reidsma, Matthew. “Bias in Library Discovery.” In Masked by Trust: Bias in Library Discovery, 117–146. Duluth, MN: Litwin Books, 2019. eBook.
I’ve always loved the idea of making research visual. There’s something satisfying about seeing your work take shape—not just in words on a page, but in images that reflect the heart of your topic. Recently, I created a word cloud to represent the textile industry, and the biggest word in it was Cotton. It felt right. Cotton is central to the story I’m telling, and seeing it front and center made the whole cloud feel alive.
But before I got to the fun part—choosing fonts and colors—I had to do the real work: research.
When I begin a new project, I don’t dive straight into databases or archives. I start with a simple Google search. It’s like casting a wide net into the sea of information. I’m not looking for deep analysis at this point—just trying to get a sense of the landscape. Who’s writing about this topic? What are the key terms? Are there any authors or organizations that keep popping up?
This first step gives me a foundation. It’s where I gather the edges of the puzzle.
Once I find a promising article or book, I start chasing its sources. I look at footnotes, bibliographies, and any mentioned works. This part feels like detective work—following clues to uncover deeper layers of the story. Sometimes one citation leads me to a whole new direction I hadn’t considered.
When I’m ready to dig deeper, I head to the Databases A-Z list on the library website. It’s my go-to spot for finding reliable sources. I especially love JSTOR—it’s rich with journal articles and often helps me validate the information I’ve found elsewhere.
I also use Google Scholar when I’m hunting for books. It’s searchable, and sometimes it even links to previews or citations that help me decide whether a source is worth tracking down.
As I go, I keep a running list of sources in a simple Excel spreadsheet. It’s not fancy, but it works. I log every book, article, and journal I use or plan to use. It’s my personal works cited list, and it helps me stay organized—especially when I’m juggling multiple threads of research.
Researching feels like solving a puzzle. You start with scattered pieces, and slowly, the picture begins to form. Sometimes it’s frustrating. Sometimes it’s thrilling. But you keep going until your question becomes clearer.
And then—if you’re lucky—you get to turn that clarity into something beautiful.
Once I had enough material, I started pulling out key terms: names, places, concepts, and of course, Cotton. These words became the building blocks of my word cloud. The bigger the word, the more central it is to the story I’m telling.
Creating the word cloud was more than just a creative exercise—it was a reflection of the journey. A visual map of the ideas I’d uncovered, the connections I’d made, and the story I’m still piecing together.
What is life, if not a meridian of choices?
Zachary Schrag, who wrote in The Princeton Guide to Historical Research, reminds us that history is shaped by the decisions people make. Whether as individuals or as part of a group, they face specific circumstances. It’s a simple idea, but one that carries profound weight. At its core, history is about the choices we make.
Other disciplines have their own focus. Geologists study the land and water. Archaeologists sift through material remains. Epidemiologists track the spread of disease. But historians? Historians ask why. Why did people respond the way they did? What motivated their actions? What shaped their decisions? Who were they?
My research focuses on textile workers and their families. Ordinary people navigating lives shaped by forces beyond their control, yet still making meaningful choices within those constraints. I used to think that psychology would help me understand the human mind, but I’ve found that history, with all its complex layers and moral nuances, offers even more profound insight.
Schrag’s examples of tobacco and chocolate illustrate this beautifully. Why did early Europeans choose to transform chocolate into a bitter drink and cultivate tobacco as an ornamental plant? These were cultural choices, influenced by taste, trade, and imagination. At every moment in history, the paths people chose reveal something essential about who they were and how they perceived the world.
Historians are note-takers, archivists, and accidental comedians. I’ve followed the old style of using notebooks the size of notecards for my research notes. However, I learned from the reading that I need to improve my habits. I need to organize my notes by time, theme, or other system. I have notebook upon notebook, but I have only put them under class name, date, and within the notes, the title of a book. This is fine for a class paper, but for my thesis, I won’t be able to find essential resources. While I do cling to the written word, I need to begin using technology. I am considering creating a spreadsheet for my notes that can be sorted by theme, date entered, and source citation.
And we record surprises, like the time a rooster disrupted a town council meeting by crowing every time someone mentioned the word “budget.” That’s not just a funny story. That’s gold dust.
No one person has all the control; as human beings, there are always external factors, circumstances, and other people that bring about change. This is why, at first, simply stating that History is about choices seemed too simplistic. Numerous factors influence the decisions made. Nothing is inevitable.
History is the study of choices—but not just the ones made freely. It’s the study of constrained decisions, of reactions to change, of people trying to make sense of their world. And in that sense, historians aren’t just keepers of the past, but interpreters for the most chaotic and compelling of topics, humanity.
