EDITOR'S LETTER

I opened a nice letter this morning. It's from a woman in Southern Arizona. Her name is Pamela Maddern, and she lives on the west slope of the Santa Catalina Mountains. It's beautiful there. Like the words she wrote about a column I'd written. I'll be saving the letter. It's something I'll look back on someday, when I'm taking inventory. That's not the point, though, of what we do. Our job, as editors, is to carry out the mission of this magazine — to tell the Arizona Story. But we're grateful for the encouraging words. They're an antidote to the unflattering jabs.

We get those, too. Sometimes it's personal. Sometimes it's a swipe at something in a story. There's reprimand, as well. Rigid declarations from readers intent on correcting things: the Latin names of plant species, misplaced landmarks, split infinitives. The tone ranges from schoolmarm to facetious. Arthur Plummer, a reader in Baltimore, was being facetious when he responded to a story we'd done about Tombstone.

"On page one, you say, 'The noise you hear is the old two-gun desperados at Boothill Cemetery turning over quietly in their graves.' How can you can make a noise, quietly, podnah?" Our editor's response was cleverly humble. “The noise you now hear is the editor of these pages frantically sharpening pencils to do a better job of proofreading.”

Mr. Plummer's letter was published in our July 1953 issue. Two years earlier, in 1951, Nicholas Roosevelt of Big Sur, California, corrected some points in a story we'd done about his cousin's role in bringing bison to Arizona's House Rock Valley. “I wish to call your attention to some minor errors in the article Buffalo Robes on the Hoof,” he wrote. “It so happens that I was with Teddy Roosevelt on the only hunting journey he made in Arizona. He and his sons, Archie and Quentin, and I spent a month on the North Rim hunting cougars. The herd of buffalo was there at the time, but T.R. had nothing to do with getting it there.”

 

Goethe said that letters are among the most significant memorials a person can leave behind. He wasn't referring to random quips from Baltimore. Or amendments from Big Sur. He was talking about something more profound. Like Jefferson's correspondence with John Adams. Or letters from soldiers oversees. The letters we get are abbreviated, but there's value in them. They tell the story of this magazine. And the history of Arizona.

For a few months now, I've been reading through every issue in our archive. Page by page. Month by month. It's research for a book I'll be writing about the history of Arizona Highways. There are so many important stories in the well, but what draw me in most are the letters. The features could have been published anywhere, but the letters are exclusively ours. And reading them is like listening in on a long-ago conversation between our readers and my predecessors.

"My congratulations on your last issue,” a seemingly random letter from 1946 begins. “It tops everything you have ever gotten out. I may avail myself of the opportunity on my national broadcast to recommend Arizona to tourists this summer. I would greatly appreciate it if you could obtain and send to me the various legends of the Hassayampa Waters. I have a recollection of many stories from my boyhood, but they are rather confused now.” The letter was signed: “Fiorello La Guardia, New York, N.Y.” La Guardia, I thought. I know that name. Everyone does. But what does he mean when he mentions his boyhood? Is he from Arizona?

 

Turns out, he lived here until he was 16. After that, he moved to Italy with his family, and later New York, where he became that La Guardia. In response to his letter, our editor wrote:

 

“We're always grateful for compliments, but doubly so when they come from native-born Arizonans like Fiorello La Guardia. All the legends of the Hassayampa have been sent to Mr. La Guardia, as well as a canteen of water from the river. According to legend, if you drink the waters of the Hassayampa, you will never tell the truth again. Be warned, Mr. La Guardia, be warned.”

 

That letter is one of many prominent letters in our archive. In 1940, the Crown Prince of Norway wrote to wish us a happy new year. We heard from Albert Schweitzer, too. And the vice president of the United States. “It seems to me you have done a remarkably fine job in your September 1942 issue on the beauties of Mexico,” H.A. Wallace wrote. “It is so good that I am passing it on to a friend of mine in the Mexican Embassy.”

 

Endorsements like that are something every editor hopes to get. It's how Julia Child must have felt when Jacques Pépin would mop up his plate of coq au vin. But the best letters are from you. And you and you and you and you. When you take the time to write, you help tell the story of this magazine. And the history of Arizona. Kenny Martin was kind enough to write.

"The feature on Monument Valley, and Harry and Mike Goulding, brought back so many fond memories,” he wrote. “My grandfather, Bernie Maher, was employed by the Gouldings in the 1940s and early 1950s as a tour guide and trader. He loved his work and Monument Valley, making it his career and home for decades. I visited my grandparents in Monument Valley as a child on several occasions, and Grandpa's storytelling and teachings of the Southwest and Navajo culture had an influence on me that has lasted a lifetime.”

 

Memories are memorials, too. Even if they're preserved in a letter to the editor. They're snapshots for future generations to look back on. And curating them is one of the most important things I do. It's also one of the best parts of the “job.” I appreciate every letter I get. And some I savor. Like the letter from the west slope of the Santa Catalina Mountains.

Thank you, Pamela. Your kind words are in a safe place.