In defense of editing

There was a point about seven or eight years ago when I realized that I would not end up working at a newspaper for my entire career. Within the past few years, I had a similar epiphany about being a journalist.

I've been a journalist, by anyone's definition, since January of 1993, when I started covering the men's basketball team for the student newspaper at Catholic University. I became the sports editor the next fall, then was No. 2 at the paper the next semester. Before graduation, I was hired as a part-time agate clerk for Baseball Weekly, and after a winter off, came back full time when the 1994 baseball work stoppage was settled.

I have always been an advocate for editing, even at a student newspaper, which was sometimes a tough sell. At Baseball Weekly I spent hours watching over Margaret McCahill's shoulder, learning even more about editing. I eventually became a copy editor, and grew to pick up a lot of other skills along the way, some related to journalism, others to project management, content strategy, social media and web analytics.

But even though journalism and editing are not as valued as they once were, I will always be an editor, deep down. And what has happened to editing over the past few years is troubling.

Proofreading is not a replacement for editing. And spell-check is not a replacement for proofreading.

Recently there was an insert into our church's weekly bulletin with a letter from the church school's principal. It contained an error, where a sentence read, "... with food, fellowship and games run by out 8th graders." I don't know how many eighth graders are out. Spell-check doesn't know the difference between out and our. We also received a newsletter from the Bloomington public schools with a typo in the very first sentence of the lead story, which was a letter from the superintendent of schools.

And these are our educators. It's difficult for me to accept this from people paid to educate our children, even though I know they are simple typos. It's the lack of attention and care paid to writing that's the issue. But it's not as bad as it could be. I see posts from some people who home-school their children which are also riddled with misspellings and I cringe.

There's a local online news outlet that consistently confuses its with it's. And said news outlet doesn't seem to read its Facebook feed's comments to see what people are saying about its coverage, which is a social media failure even if there weren't errors.

The irony hasn't escaped me that I am writing this defense of editing on a blog, which is one of the least-edited mediums there is. And I know that newspapers place less and less emphasis on editing with every round of layoffs. But editing is not a luxury. As Arthur Polotnik said, "You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what's burning inside you. And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke."

Everything can be edited: news copy, blog posts, emails, Facebook statuses, tweets, you name it. And if you're a company which interfaces with the public, you should hire me to do it.

Smells like autumn

All three kids are in school full day for the first time and I am still at home all day, but now with a little more time on my hands. With the youngest two out the door by 8:15, that's plenty of time to think about dinner.

Yesterday morning I took advantage of that time to put a pork roast in the slow cooker. But instead of the standard pulled pork recipe, I gave it a bit of a autumn flavor, subbing out the onions for two medium-small Honeycrisp apples and adding a couple of tablespoons of brown sugar. I sliced the apples nice and thin so that they would basically fall apart. We don't like as much of a vinegar taste to our pulled pork, so I put in about half the normal amount and used water for the rest.

I just love how a roast fills the kitchen with the aroma of a meal to come. It cooked even more quickly than I anticipated, so it was ready to taste when the kids came home. Elizabeth loves just about everything, so she was easily pleased. Robert was intrigued, and ended up liking his sample as well. As for Colleen, well, you can't account for taste from a 6-year-old.

Next time I plan to add another half an apple, and I'm thinking about putting the onions back in for more of a savory flavor. It worked great on toasted buns, to keep the sandwich from falling apart, although Elizabeth campaigned for egg noodles. That will have to be some other time, however.

Keeping my word chops up to date

I was pleased that Cate came up with a pretty good use for an old comforter that otherwise we would have gotten rid of, so I tried to give her a high five. She looked at me, puzzled, and said something to the order of, "I don't do high fives very well, you know."

I know this. I responded, "Just trying to bring you into the fold. Would a fist bump be better?"

I demonstrated a fist bump. She didn't seem enthused. So I said, "How about a forearm bash, you know, like Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire?"

I showed her how they did the forearm bash. She suggested that it might be painful, and responded, "They actually did that?"

I said, "Well, it was the '80s, so they were all hopped up on steroids."

Cate responded, "In that case, why didn't they just hug each other?"

I told her I thought Canseco and McGwire must not have been that testosterone-depleted.

Then I thought better of it. "Or that estrogenal." (Accent on the second syllable.) I walked away to go back to what I was doing, then turned around. "No. The word should be estrogenous." (Think of it rhyming with erogenous, or more to the point, androgynous.)

Cate actually laughed. A genuine, not mocking laugh.

One last dash of summer

Something's coming!

The kids have been back in school for almost two weeks but this morning the weather reminded us for certain that summer was over. Before summer ended, however, Robert and I reached a goal we have been talking about for almost as long as we've lived in this house.

Our little boy loves trains, has loved trains for as long as he can remember. And while our fourth grader's days of watching Thomas the Tank Engine have been long left behind, there are plenty of other ways to enjoy trains around here.

There are train tracks about six blocks from our house, the perfect distance, in my estimation. They are close enough that you can hear trains blow their horns, but not very loudly. I wouldn't want to live much closer.

I don't remember whether Robert came up with the idea or I did, but at some point one of us heard a train whistle and thought it would be neat to go down to the tracks and watch it go by. And as we were riding bikes one day, it occurred to me that Robert was definitely capable of riding with me to go see one. And it's been our goal ever since, although for more than a year, we hadn't even attempted it.

Cate has started working an early morning shift, so I've been either with the kids all morning while working at home, or lately, making sure they get fed, dressed and out the door to school. In the last week before school started, Robert came downstairs to me in my office and said, "Dad, can we do something today?"

It was right around noon. Normally I would have to say that I couldn't, but the previous day Verizon had let me know that my contract was being cut by a little over two weeks. I'm a very loyal employee but was still reeling from that punch to the gut, so I was a little more open to, say, taking a long lunch. The train goal popped into my head, so we went out to the garage, made sure all of our bikes had enough air in the tires, and set them up, ready to go at a moment's notice near the garage door.

Satisfied we were ready to go, we went inside to wait. We were not waiting long, however. I hadn't even gotten my shoes off when I heard the first whistle of the train. That crossing point is almost two miles away, and the freight trains don't come through the neighborhoods very fast at all. I alerted Robert, who hadn't even heard it yet, and we sprang into action. Open the garage door, water bottle from the fridge, helmets, let Elizabeth know she was in charge of Colleen, and bolt.

Robert is one happy camper as the train goes by.

While we're riding, we get the ultimate reminders of our destination. The train horn sounds at three other crossings before it gets to ours, on Xerxes. Robert is saying, "it's getting closer!" and I'm certainly wishing he had a multi-speed bike so he could go faster, but he is pumping his little legs off. Three quarters of a mile, with a slow, gradual uphill grade and a busy intersection in between takes a 9-year-old a long time with one gear, but we end up making it in plenty of time. The train is still several blocks away when we get there.

We settled in a spot very close to the tracks, much closer than the cars' stop line. The train blew its horn as it approached our crossing and I acknowledged the drivers so they knew we weren't completely oblivious.

As the train went by, Robert marveled at how large it was. He hasn't been this close to a moving freight train in quite a while, and of course, it's bigger than the light rail train we've ridden to the ballgame. The train wasn't very long, and the show was over in a couple of minutes, but he loved it, so it was worth the trip. And the timing couldn't have been better.

Mission complete.