Writing a weekly regional history column has its rewards,
especially when it’s the positive feedback from readers eager to
know more about our local lore. The hours spent each week on
research pay off when the result is a lively, factually correct
account. The key phrase here is
”
factually correct.
”
That’s because, however rare the occasion, and despite
triple-checking before submission, a mistaken factoid will slip
through. And that’s when someone, compelled to publicly point out
the error, writes a letter to the Editor. For folks in my business,
it’s cringe time.
Writing a weekly regional history column has its rewards, especially when it’s the positive feedback from readers eager to know more about our local lore. The hours spent each week on research pay off when the result is a lively, factually correct account. The key phrase here is “factually correct.” That’s because, however rare the occasion, and despite triple-checking before submission, a mistaken factoid will slip through. And that’s when someone, compelled to publicly point out the error, writes a letter to the Editor. For folks in my business, it’s cringe time.
I’ve found that the ordinary mistake is so small it passes by the casual reader. When it doesn’t, even the most responsible, dedicated writer finds it painful to open up the newspaper and find one’s work being criticized or “corrected.”
Especially hard for me are the few occasions when I’ve known the person, and wished like heck the individual could have informed me personally. Then, I’d have been glad, and relieved, to issue an explanatory correction. Any writer will tell you that sort of kindness is a blessing: it saves hours of roiling around in embarrassment after one stern finger-shaking reveals all your faults to the entire world.
Albeit rare, for some reason, my most painful experiences in this area have been from park rangers. I’ll never forget my first, and worst encounter of this sort. I’d written a travel feature about a trail walk atop a small cliff overlooking picturesque Monastery Beach, just south of Carmel. In an outraged letter to the Editor, a man blasted me for writing about the beach, saying it was dangerous due to rip tides and a sudden offshore drop shelf. Self-righteously, he cited his numerous water rescues of tourists who ignored the surf warning signs. He suggested the paper I wrote for should have censored my article, since now the entire reading public would know the beach’s location. And there he’d be, burdened with countless future ocean rescues. But his letter was confusing. Jewel-like Monastery Beach is mentioned as a scuba diver’s paradise in every guide book on the area. Was the man some sort of volunteer, posted at the beach on a personal 24/7 schedule, vigilantly awaiting his next sea rescue?
It all came to light after the letter self-ignited. A firestorm of back-up letters from his supporters outed him as a ranger at Pt. Lobos State Reserve. For a week, arrows flew across the Editorial page, for and against public access to Monastery Beach. Meanwhile, I spent time inspecting the underside of the nearest, largest rock I could find. At least the individual had done the correct thing in writing as an ordinary citizen and not in his capacity on the ranger staff. Public employees generally do not write letters to the editor unless they are department heads writing a clarification. Lesser personnel generally shy away from taking any stands as they are supposed to be serving everyone – that’s us taxpayers – not just a certain position.
In the end, it became evident the ranger hadn’t taken the time to read my article carefully. If he had, he’d have seen the references to surf warning signs. But, in a way, we had each committed an omission. The incident made me more aware when writing about potentially dangerous places. And the letter writer demonstrated that indignant stances don’t change other people’s viewpoints. Later, to mend fences, I wrote him offering to make amends. He never responded.
I had another ranger encounter when writing about a large regional park in Carmel Valley, one with 30 miles of hiking trails, which wind between meadows and ridges. The place is glorious with lupine and poppy patches in spring. It’s a historic site, too, with a path curving alongside a cluster of grinding rocks from an ancient Mutsun Indian village. When I arrived to keep my interview appointment, the ranger in charge hastily informed me that he didn’t want me to write the article. He was already upset because Sunset Magazine had just featured the park’s ranch-themed nature center. When I explained I was writing for a small local publication, he countered, “too many people already know about the park, they fill up the parking lot on weekends and it makes too much work for me.” Apparently, the “no trespassing” edict meant he considered the county property as his alone. As I politely began the interview, he abruptly got up and walked away. Of course, I wrote the article: weekend daytrippers will go where they please.
Last but not least was the ranger who took me to task because I’d written that a certain historic figure in 1845 had traveled to California from New York on a train ticket. Yes, duh, Senior Moment, mea culpa, an old slip-though-the-cracks wrong factoid. Of course, I’d meant to say ship ticket, not train ticket. Everyone knows the eastern railroad hadn’t reached the west by that time. However, in just wanting to “to set the record straight,” the letter writer declared the transcontinental railroad “wasn’t built until the late 1860s or 1870s.” Well, then, let’s set the record straight: the first transcontinental railroad was completed on May 10, 1869. That’s when the Union Pacific Railroad, building west of Omaha, and the Central Pacific Railroad, stretching east from Sacramento, met at Promontory Summit, Utah. There, they drove the golden spike and linked the continent. From that date, New York and California were linked by 3500 miles of track. And there are the facts.
The ranger’s haste to point out my glaring error created an error, in misspelling my last name as “Barrett.” It’s Barratt. But never mind. We all make mistakes.
For my part, I promise, Camp Fire Girl’s honor, that after this, I’ll quadruple-check everything, before my submissions go in to the paper.
