Columnist Susan Snyder: Mistakes come in all shapes, sizes

Friday, Aug. 8, 2003 | 4:52 a.m.

Apologies to Joanna McGoldrick.

In an e-mail she sent Tuesday, McGoldrick said the most recent Ms. Wheelchair Nevada wasn't crowned in 1986, as reported here Aug. 3.

"In 1989, I was named Ms. Wheelchair Nevada. I went to Mobile, Ala., for Ms. Wheelchair America," McGoldrick wrote.

My information was based on the fact that 1986 was the last year members of a state advisory board for the disabled approved sponsorship of the pageant. McGoldrick said her competition was privately sponsored by the Pilot Club of Las Vegas, an international women's civic group. She was crowned in 1988 to serve for 1989.

It was a banner week. I also learned that the "fat crow" making lazy loops over Cactus Springs, as noted in Monday's column, actually was a raven.

Patricia Pearlman, the resident profiled in Monday's Valley Views, told me so. She also says she is a witch, and I have decided it's better to cut my losses. If she says it's a raven, it's a raven.

I thank McGoldrick and Pearlman, however, for being polite and kind in pointing out my most human characteristic: Sometimes, I make mistakes.

Mistakes always bring mail. Typically, mistakes are the only reason we get mail. Trust me when I say that we, too, are often amazed people pay us to do this. Yes, we realize we are sometimes defective. And when we forget, readers will remind us.

Errors in fact and differences of opinion are all the same to the reader who has the time and passion to write. This is why columnists receive a lot of mail. Our biggest mistakes typically are adopting opinions that don't match those of other people.

"Maybe you should invest in some hearing aids if you can't hear what the lyrics are to a great deal of today's music," one irate reader wrote in reference to a column I wrote in May about a high school dance recital.

Letters such as these rarely begin with, "Dear" or end with, "Very truly yours."

They begin with such sentiments as: "Pathetic, sniveling Snyder ..."

And end with: "P.S. Are there any more writing jobs open at the Sun that require no knowledge?"

Nope, but send your resume. I'll retire someday. Pays pretty well.

Hey, at least the guy signed his name.

Newspaper writers considered mail lethal long before anthrax scares. And we know the contents are toxic when the envelope has no return name or address. We don't call hazmat, but we still hold our breath.

Some letters we can't read at all, such as those written in teeny little handwriting with sentences that continue around the perimeter of the page. We can't follow the path, let alone the train of thought. I used to receive a fair amount of this variety signed simply, "Jesus Christ."

He hasn't written in a while.

Must be busy.

E-mail has made it even easier for readers to tell us how misguided we are. No envelope to address. No stamp to find. No trip to the mailbox. No time for a second thought. Hit "send" and bing! I've got mail.

"I am looking for my daughter," one distraught father wrote. "I don't know if you can help me or not."

Lost children, lost pets, lost causes. The mail brings these to our desks too.

Maybe it's in spite of our mistakes. Or maybe it's because of them.

After all, we're only human.

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