WE MIGHT FORGIVE OUR GRADUATE STUDENTS IF THEY REDUCE THE FACT-filled paragraphs and biting arguments in C. Vann Woodward's 542-page masterpiece, Origins of the New South, to three words: change versus continuity. Even though we understand that all history is about change, especially the degree of and reasons for change, countless professors have urged countless graduate students to take their stands in this dichotomous debate. I remember the day I received this assignment and, ultimately, found myself standing behind Vann Woodward. (1) George Brown Tindall had paired Origins with Carl N. Degler's Place Over Time for my southern history class. (2) We met in Tindall's office, a space filled with moon pies, RCs, baseball caps, and photos of Elvis. There, amid these cultural artifacts, it didn't feel that all that much had changed lately. But Tindall made us choose sides: Would it be Woodward or Degler? As I often did when I was confused in graduate school, I turned to the primary source in my head--my grandmother, Candy Lovin, born in 1887, who brought me up. Which would it be, Candy? Change or continuity? Candy Lovin was herself reared outside of Hanging Dog, North Carolina, in a family that earned its living by raising fighting cocks. In the 1950s we found ourselves in suburban Greensboro, North Carolina, living in a house-on-a-slab with a great room and patio. Out back, where my mother had graded the yard for a tennis court, Candy had insisted on planting rows of corn, those Kentucky runners, and summer squash. Twice a day, in the dew of the morning and in the cool of the evening, Candy would put on a dress, roll down her thick stockings, pull on her men's work boots, don her sunbonnet to keep the Cherokee in her from popping out, hoist her hoe to her shoulder, and go out to tend to the garden. Once she set to hoeing, she would sing at the top of her lungs, off-key, in her mountain twang. Her repertoire ranged from dozens of verses of Barb'ry Allen, to plaintive Hank Williams songs, to a particularly nasal rendition of Amazing Grace. Sometimes, if in a mellow mood, she would croon that smash hit of the 1890s, After the Ball. I could scarcely ask for a more convincing demonstration of continuity. (3) Next door, though, our neighbors seethed. They had bought a double lot, erected a huge house with sixteen sliding glass doors, and settled in to entertain clients by their pool. He was the regional sales manager for the Dale Carnegie seminars How to Win Friends and Influence People. They might have a lot of money, my mother sniffed, but they aren't from here. As they and their business victims sipped Bloody Marys poolside, Candy would treat the group to her spirited renditions and pre-World War I attire. Finally, the Newer South neighbors built a high fence to screen her out. Even then, they couldn't shut her up. She simply sang louder and switched to medleys of slightly off-color songs from the 1920s. (You take the legs off some ol' table, you take the arms off some ol' chair, you take a neck off some ol' bottle, and from a horse you take some hair.... you take some hair.) (4) As historians, how we determine the extent and nature of change depends on the analytical tools we use to measure it. In my own Newer South, folk culture survived: an anthropologist would have had a field day with Candy. Nevertheless, the politics of World War II, the social transformations that made divorce more common in the 1950s, and the market economy had combined to set us adrift, ultimately, to wash up in our suburb. There, blotting out the farms where Albion W. Tourgee had set A Fool's Errand, Newer South developers had imposed two cul de sacs in the largest sense of the term. (5) A national franchise market had landed Dale Carnegie's Newer Man of the Newer South next door, even as regional isolation bound my mother to toil all her life as a secretary at a down-at-the-heels cotton brokerage, while dreaming of tennis, which she did not know how to play. …