Drawn entirely from the library’s extraordinary collections, the exhibition presents rare books, photographs, manuscripts, posters, and other historical documents in two long display cases. Rather than telling a chronological story, it explores patriotism through a series of themes, including absolutism, inclusion and exclusion, American exceptionalism, and patriotism as ideology. The introductory label reads:
The U.S. Semiquincentennial offers history organizations an important opportunity to help communities reflect on the past while considering the future they want to build together.
The guide is terrific: clear, practical, and unusually easy to use. It grew out of a 2025 pilot project involving six history organizations and more than 120 community participants from nearly every region of the country. Turns out that people valued opportunities for deep, intentional conversation rooted in mutual respect and hosted by trusted local history institutions (that’s you!).
Rather than prescribing a single program, the guide provides a flexible framework that organizations can adapt to their mission, audience, resources, and community. It walks users through the entire process, including:
The Harriet Beecher Stowe House in Cincinnati, Ohio, following completion of its 2 Era Restoration. The project interprets both the Beecher family residence and the later Edgemont Inn period, revealing the building’s evolving role in the community across generations.
When I visited the Harriet Beecher Stowe House in Cincinnati, Ohio this February, I expected to learn more about Harriet Beecher Stowe’s years in the city and how her experiences there influenced the writing of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. What I did not expect was to come away thinking as much about the building itself as the woman who once lived there.
The Harriet Beecher Stowe House recently completed what it calls a two-era restoration, interpreting both the Beecher family period (1840) and the later Edgemont Inn period (1940). At first, I wondered whether trying to tell two stories in one house might feel confusing. Instead, I found it to be one of the project’s greatest strengths.
The tour begins with Harriet Beecher Stowe, her family, and the Cincinnati she encountered in the 1830s and 1840s. Visitors learn about Lane Seminary, debates over slavery, the city’s free Black community, and the experiences that shaped Stowe’s understanding of freedom and injustice. These stories unfold in rooms restored to the Beecher era, allowing visitors to imagine the world she experienced as a young wife, mother, and writer living in Cincinnati.
What impressed me most, however, was how the restoration itself became part of the interpretation.
For several years, I have been adapting L. Dee Fink’s taxonomy of significant learning for use in museums and historic sites. Fink’s framework is enormously useful in formal education because it pushes teachers beyond simple content delivery (i.e., foundational knowledge) to application, integration, human dimension, caring, and learning how to learn. That is a helpful corrective in classrooms, where learning unfolds over a semester and where students can be asked to practice, reflect, revise, and demonstrate growth. But I am increasingly convinced that this framework does not translate as easily as I hoped to the interpretation of house museums and historic sites.
The problem is not Fink’s taxonomy itself. The problem is that historic site visitors are usually not students in a course. They are often there by choice, joined by family or friends, have uneven prior knowledge, and motivated by many different reasons: curiosity, leisure, family activity, travel, identity, or a search for meaning. They may spend 45 minutes in a guided tour, 20 minutes in an exhibition, or an afternoon in the gardens. We need a framework that recognizes these distinct conditions.
My earlier handout, “Verbs for Significant Learning Outcomes,” tried to help museums define what they wanted visitors to know, feel, or do and to create relevant, meaningful experiences. That part still feels right. The challenge is that the categories remained too close to classroom learning. Some verbs—apply, execute, operate, practice, monitor—make sense for students or professional training but are less useful for visitors at a historic house. Because house museums and historic sites interpret history, the framework should also reflect the discipline’s core practices: using evidence, recognizing perspective, acknowledging uncertainty, connecting local stories to broader patterns, and inviting public dialogue about the past. More importantly, the framework did not clearly align with the visitor journey from first encounter to deeper meaning.
That’s a lot to juggle and I may be dropping a few balls, so here’s my preliminary draft work-in-progress revised framework organized around two related ideas: Outcome Level and Outcome Ambition.
Outcome Levels
The OutcomeLevel describes the kind of visitor change an interpretive experience is designed to support. In plain terms, it asks: What kind of change are we trying to create in visitors? Imagine levels as a journey on a nature trail: getting oriented at the trailhead; noticing plants, insects, animals, and geology; seeing how parts of the ecosystem connect; pausing at an overlook to understand the larger landscape; and leaving with a clearer sense of what you learned, what matters to you, and what you might do next.
Screenshot from “The Clip Economy is Eating Everything” by the Atlantic.
I was recently listening to a podcast from The Atlantic—“The Clip Economy is Eating Everything”—where Charlie Wartsall interviews business writer Ed Elson about the rise of short-form video. Their argument is straightforward: the dominant unit of media is no longer the article, the podcast, or even the YouTube video. It’s the clip.
That stuck with me and I’m uncomfortable.
Much of what rises to the top in this “clip economy” is not especially thoughtful or constructive. And yet, it’s how many people are now consuming information—not through television, books, newspapers, museums, or even longer-form digital content, but through YouTube Shorts, Instagram, and TikTok. Whether we like it or not, this is the environment our audiences are living in.
While I’ve been producing content for this blog for more than fifteen years, a few years ago I began producing YouTube videos. Based on research on the attention span of viewers, I aimed for a six-minute length but yikes, those take me days to produce. I don’t do it frequently so editing is slow, narration has to be re-recorded when I inevitably trip over a sentence, and assembling images into something coherent takes real effort.
A breakdown of the key elements in the timeline walkway at Rancho Los Cerritos in Long Beach.
A couple of weeks ago, Engaging Places spent two days at Rancho Los Cerritos in California as part of an interpretation and visitor experience assessment. Before I even reached the house, something caught my attention—and it’s stayed with me since.
Walking in from the parking lot, I encountered a pathway that integrates a timeline from past to present. It was developed as part of a stormwater and groundwater reclamation project designed by Studio One Eleven, but what struck me wasn’t just the infrastructure—it was the interpretive opportunity. The walkway quietly does something many historic sites struggle to achieve: it begins interpretation before the visitor even arrives.
I’ve long been interested in how entrance sequences can frame a visitor’s experience, and this is a particularly effective example. As you move along the path, you’re also moving through time. Each step becomes a kind of measurement—an embodied sense of duration and change. It’s intuitive, familiar, and requires almost no instruction. In a matter of moments, visitors gain a basic orientation to the site’s history and significance.
It was a brown cardboard box at a local auction filled with framed prints and miscellaneous ephemera. The sort of lot you bid on partly out of curiosity and partly because, if you’re lucky, you might discover something interesting. I did—it was a framed page from a 500-year-old German book.
As a historian, I enjoy reading. But more than that, I love books as objects. Their design, typography, and material presence give me tremendous joy. I got the bug in college in a federal work-study position in the rare books and special collections department of the library, where I learned how much evidence a single page can hold: paper quality, typeface, layout, illustration style, and wear patterns can all reveal a story before you even understand the words.
This page immediately caught my attention.
The typeface was Gothic, clearly German, probably around 1500. But the illustrations were strange. Instead of familiar late-medieval imagery (saints, cities, plants, kings) one woodcut showed a man lying in bed while another pressed a knife to his neck. Another showed a dining table with people seated around a severed head on a platter. Huh?
It was unmistakably early printed material, but not religious, political, or medical.
One of the most important roles museums play is sharing scholarship with the public—and it’s also one of the hardest. We are often asked to interpret complex events that unfolded over decades and involved many people, and in the process we rely on shorthand that makes sense to other scholars but not always to our visitors. Words like contextualize, agency, material culture, or periodization can quickly create distance rather than connection. Too often, we respond by simply “simplifying” academic work, when what we really need is something more ambitious: a distinct, rigorous form of interpretation designed specifically for public audiences.
In “How to Do Public Writing,” Jeffrey R. Wilson—director of the Harvard Law School Writing Center—offers a timely corrective: public writing is not scholarship “lite,” but a different craft altogether, one that requires clarity, narrative discipline, and deep respect for audience. Wilson is also the editor-in-chief of the new open-access journal Public Humanities, published by Cambridge University Press, and is currently developing a special museum issue—making his insights especially relevant for those of us working in museums and historic sites.
Wilson defines public writing as scholarship for people outside the academy—what he memorably calls “the folks we grew up with.” His premise is simple but urgent: as humanities education has declined and public trust in expertise has eroded, the responsibility for interpretation has shifted. Museums, libraries, and cultural organizations are now among the primary places where people learn how to make meaning from history, culture, and evidence. In this sense, public writing and museum interpretation are performing the same civic function.
Apple Podcasts recently named The Rest is History its Podcast of the Year, and in a December 4 interview on In Conversation from Apple News, hosts Dominic Sandbrook and Tom Holland reflected on why history is resonating so strongly today. Sandbrook argues that despite assumptions, young people are deeply interested in the past—provided it is presented through compelling stories and vivid characters. Academic historians, he suggests, sometimes struggle to reach broad audiences because they avoid narrative. For Sandbrook, stories of the Second World War, Greek myth, the Trojan War, and Rome endure because they are foundational to human identity.
Holland adds that today’s students confront unprecedented content pressures, but unlike earlier generations, they are no longer limited to school as the sole venue for learning. The internet has created a lifelong landscape for historical discovery—“an enormous seam of gold,” as he describes it.
The Heritage Foundation’s new The Heritage Guide to Historic Sites: Rediscovering America’s Heritage promises to help Americans find “accurate” and “unbiased” history at presidential homes and national landmarks. Presented as a travel and education tool for the nation’s 250th anniversary, the site grades historic places from A to C for “accuracy” and “ideological bias.”
At first glance, it looks like a public service. But a closer look reveals that even when Heritage cites “evidence,” its historical reasoning exposes deep methodological and ideological flaws.
Engaging Places 