Legacy Magazine

By Alan Leftridge
Originally published January/February 2011

NAI’s annual workshop signals the end of my autumn and the start of winter. I enjoy the opportunity to connect with lasting friends and colleagues, but am happy to return home because the beginning of winter marks the start of ski season in western Montana. Years ago, I was primarily a Nordic skier, spending a lot of time skiing in and near Yellowstone. I remain a cross-country skier, but I have since balanced my time with Alpine skiing. When I began downhill skiing in earnest, I decided that I wanted to be the best skier possible. I did not begin skiing at an early age. Nonetheless, I thought I could become an advanced skier if I devoted enough time to practice.

I felt that my opinion was validated when I recently read an excerpt from Rolling Stones’ guitarist Keith Richards’s book Life. In the memoir, he relates the Stones’ early years of playing before small audiences, “For three years—we played virtually every night, or every day, sometimes two gigs a day. We played well over a thousand gigs, almost back to back….” Richards’s account is similar to that of the experiences of The Beatles. While still an amateur high school rock band, they were invited to play in Hamburg, Germany, by a bar owner who employed bands to play nonstop, providing continuous entertainment to passing foot traffic. According to Pete Best, The Beatles’ first drummer: “We played seven nights a week. At first we played almost nonstop till 12:30….” John Lennon related, “In Liverpool, we’d only ever done one-hour sessions, and we just used to do our best numbers, the same ones, at every one. In Hamburg, we had to play for eight hours, so we really had to find a new way to playing.”

Malcolm Gladwell, in Outliers, estimates that The Beatles played 10,000 hours during their five stints in Hamburg. The number is identical to Daniel Levitin’s figure reported in This is Your Brain on Music. Levitin discusses various studies that involved mathematicians, athletes, chess professionals, ice skaters, writers, master criminals, and musicians, comparing innate ability to practice. Whereas talent is scientifically defensible, the studies point in favor of the view that practice makes perfect.

Levitin says, “The emerging picture from such studies is that 10,000 hours of practice is required to achieve the level of mastery associated with being a world-class expert—in anything.” Levitin continues, “Ten thousand hours is equivalent to roughly three hours a day, or 20 hours a week, of practice over 10 years.” The 10,000-hour theory is consistent with what we know about how the brain learns. Repetition and practice strengthen neural pathways, creating strong memory representations.

Ten thousand hours of Alpine skiing is beyond what I am willing to devote to the sport. But skiing is more than a form of entertainment to me. I have found that each time I ski, I learn something about how to adjust to changing snow conditions or how to negotiate new terrain. If I pay attention, I will improve and continue to set new goals.

Finally, I am on the chairlift, riding to the top of the mountain for my first ski run of the season. I think of my NAI friends. Most of them began their careers as frontline interpreters; many are now supervisors, trainers, academics, and managers whose responsibilities take them away from regular interactions with visitors. It occurs to me that the interpreters with the most developed skill sets are those who have the most experience relating with visitors. They should be the faces of their organizations. The visitor’s first contact should be with an experienced and skilled interpreter. My thoughts shift to an example from my own life. Bill Lewis, author of Interpreting for Park Visitors, trained me in frontline interpretation techniques three decades ago. At that time, Bill was a university professor, National Park Service trainer, and for many years a seasonal interpreter and trainer in Yellowstone. After his retirement from academia, Bill continued to facilitate sharing Yellowstone with visitors as a seasonal interpreter. Along with his passion for the resources and visitors, he developed skill sets formed from his considerable practice connecting with audiences. Experienced practitioners like Bill offer the best visible appearance for their organization.

It is an errant assumption that anyone can interpret informally. Research described in This is Your Brain on Music suggests that many hours of practice are needed to become proficient in the challenges of informal frontline interpretation. Interpreters with years of practice and highly developed skill sets will be the most effective at connecting visitors to the resources. In a visitor-based profession, it should be a priority to place the most accomplished interpreters “out front” where they can perform their long practiced art.

Alan Leftridge is a contract interpretive trainer, visitor services trainer, and interpretive writer based out of the Swan Valley of Montana. Contact him at www.leftridge.com.

Alan Leftridge

Last week, I decided to organize an out-of-the-way closet. Among the folded clothes, old shoes, and outdated coats, I found books and papers I had long forgotten. While selecting which papers to be recycled and which to file away, I came across a Junior Ranger newspaper. Yellowed and crinkled, it showed its age; stored in the closet for many years, it was clearly important to someone. I solved the puzzle when I recognized the handwriting. It was my daughter Miranda’s. Curious, I thumbed through the 12 pages to see what an eight year old needed to accomplish to earn the Junior Ranger award. I also wanted to find the date in which she received her patch. The activities were straightforward; several things she needed to do on her own, some with family members, and after fulfilling the requirements, she needed a park ranger’s signature in order to be awarded the Yellowstone National Park Junior Ranger distinction. The year was 1997, and unfortunately, the ranger’s signature was not clear. The first name was Sabrina, but her scrawled last name was illegible. I folded the paper and put it in the “to keep” pile, and wondered what Sabrina was doing now.

When I first started my university career, students would ask me about my experiences that led me to become a professor teaching interpretation methods. They wanted to hear my account about the seminal moment in which I knew the course of my life’s vocation. I had what I considered a formative experience and shared the story with my students. They seemed satisfied. Since then, I have come to realize it is rare that one moment changes a person’s life. Instead, multiple experiences—some planned, some fortuitous, and others that are significant—contribute to our world view and influence the direction of our lives. We become who we are because of our reactions to a multitude of happenings that take place over an extended period of time. Certain events may serve as catalysts, jolting us to make a leap in a willfully prescribed direction. Sabrina helped foster one such experience in Miranda’s life.

Interpreters provide opportunities for understanding, appreciation, and moral development. We help to change people’s lives in positive ways. It is unfortunate that most of us can never determine the impact we have on others. Frontline interpreters can receive immediate feedback from audiences about the effectiveness of their interactions. It is rare that interpreters who are planners, designers, and writers get reactions from their audiences. Byway signs, brochures, interpretive panels, or web pages do not recognize the writer, artist, designer, or planner. Nonetheless, each of us has an impact on our audiences even if we cannot assess the results.

A popular movie during the holiday season is Frank Capra’s “It’s A Wonderful Life.” Capra tells the story of George Bailey, a small-town savings and loan business owner during the 1940s who, through no fault of his own, faces financial doom and scandal. He attempts suicide so that his widow could collect on a life insurance policy, but a patron angel thwarts his self-destruction. Then, when George Bailey declares that he wishes he had never been born, the angel proceeds to show him what the world would have been like without him. Some of his influences were big, some small, but all were profound.

The storyline is good to remember, as we can apply it to ourselves. People are influenced by the efforts we make to interpret our cultural and natural history, and to conserve our heritage and resources for future generations.

I continued to reflect on Miranda’s brief interaction with Sabrina as I repacked the closet. I wondered if my daughter remembered any part of earning the Junior Ranger patch or the ranger who signed off on her accomplishments. Maybe. I am sure Sabrina does not remember; the interaction was part of her daily routine. Sabrina will never know, but I am sure she would be pleased to learn that at least one of her charges took seriously the Junior Ranger program and grew from that experience. For the last two years, Miranda has been a seasonal ranger in Glacier National Park. Sabrina provided the kind of legacy that all interpreters endow—they make big differences in people’s lives through small, seemingly insignificant, day-to-day efforts.

Alan Leftridge is a contract interpretive trainer, visitor services trainer, and interpretive writer based out of the Swan Valley of Montana. Contact him at www.leftridge.com.

By Alan Leftridge

Like most first-time visitors to Las Vegas, I was struck by the choreography and grand display of the fountains of the Bellagio Hotel. The water show and accompanying music provides yet another unique visitor experience in a city full of unique experiences. When the performance concluded, I stood with my companions as we talked about the one-of-a-kind display. Then, as the waters calmed to glass-like, I looked into the pool and saw shimmering in the late afternoon sunshine, a coin. I am certain that the managers of the Bellagio Hotel discourage people from tossing coins into their renowned fountain’s pool, but there is a strong pull within some people to make a wish for good luck and toss a coin in any fountain.

When someone selects a coin to toss in a pool, they ascribe a special value to the coin. Every object has a fundamental nature and, in this case, the coin is given a special essence unique to that person and the situation the coin represents. The coin might represent good luck, good health, or the fulfillment of a wish, and as soon as it is given that purpose, it carries with it hopes and dreams. However, soon after the coin hits the water and settles to the bottom to mix with the other coins, it loses its intent and takes on another meaning. It is now a coin to be collected along with all the others by an employee, dried, grouped by denomination, sent to the bank, or given to a charity. The coin no longer possesses its momentary spirit, when it had personal value.

The special attributes that we give to objects serve as the core of the objects’ meanings. This is known as essentialism and is the concept denoting an underlying reality or true nature of things that one cannot observe directly. This hidden nature of tangible objects and events is what matters to us as human beings. Essentialism provides meanings, and meanings are the most valued when interpreted. Visualize a painting. If the painting is an original Picasso, it may be worth millions of dollars. If the painting is a perfect reproduction by a talented but obscure forger, it may be worth nothing. The actual Picasso painting is a valued artifact, the essence of which is inferred by the act fundamental to its creation.

Part of my 1915-period cavalry attire for the Fort Yellowstone Walk included a 1911 45-caliber pistol. Some visitors familiar with antique guns would ask if they could hold the gun. When I told them that it was a replica, they were no longer interested. What made the difference? Their perception of the essence of the object changed. Authentic objects hold special essences that define them and give them heightened value.

Prizing the quintessence of any object is fundamental to being human. Psychologists have studied this fundamental spirit for decades, and the following provides an example of their findings. Researchers in Germany gave “lucky” golf balls to a group of golfers, and to another group golf balls that had no history attached to them. The golfers who were given the lucky golf balls tended to have better scores than golfers without the lucky ones.

Paul Bloom, in his book, How Pleasure Works, provides another example. He tells of Juan Molyneux, who paid $48,875 for a tape measure that was owned by President John F. Kennedy. When asked what he did with it, Mr. Molyneux replied, “When I bought the tape measure, the first thing I measured was my sanity.” I doubt the tape measure would have been priced little more than a few dollars if it were found at a flea market.

Historical events are similar because they have the potential to bring meaning to our lives. Every real event has at its core, a past, and a future that moves us. I recall such an event in 2002, when a participant in a Certified Interpretive Guide training used a silver medallion as a prop. He asked a participant to come to the front of the room to hold the medallion, to describe the object and tell what she thought of it. He then went on to explain that Lewis and Clark distributed what are known as Jefferson Peace Medals to important Native Americans they encountered from 1803 to 1806 during the Corps of Discovery expedition. He noted that the object in the participant’s hand was one of 13 that size. He then asked her to imagine the evening in early spring 1803 at Monticello, when Lewis presented the medals to Jefferson for his approval, and that the medal she held was likely handled by President Jefferson and Meriwether Lewis that night. He then placed it around her neck, for it was attached to a beaded necklace, and explained that Lewis may have done the same for an honored chief. He then asked, “What do you think of this object now?” Interpreting the essence of objects and events allows us to make meaning for today.

The National Park Service and NAI have promoted the structure of using tangibles, intangibles, and universal concepts when developing interpretive content. I have found that when conducting CIG training, participants have a difficult time grasping the concept of intangibles. I think it is because, by definition, intangible means something that cannot be qualified (not tangible), and the words insubstantial, elusive, vague, and ethereal are listed as synonyms. Participants understand this definition and have a hard time relating the concept to interpretation because it is a difficult fit (“not-tangible” to a resource). I suggest that we focus instead on the fundamental quality manifested in the object or event. I believe that interpreters understand better the concept of essence rather than the intangibles designation, and can more easily apply the principle of essence to communicating meanings that strike at the center of our visitors’ interests.

Alan Leftridge is a contract interpretive trainer, visitor services trainer, and interpretive writer based out of the Swan Valley of Montana. Contact him at www.leftridge.com.

By Alan Leftridge

The pitcher hurled a pitch so hot that it turned the August air to steam as I heard the ball sizzle past my bat. The ball pounded into the catcher’s mitt for a strike. It was the bottom of the last inning with two outs. The game featured the teams with the best season records playing for the league trophy. My challenger was a relief pitcher, assigned to get one person out: me. With the next pitch, I connected with for a line drive toward first base and into the outfield, foul. Had the ball landed two feet to the left, the runner on second would have scored, tying the game, but it landed foul. I had the pitcher’s fastball measured, though. I knew how hard he could throw, and I was not that impressed. I knew that I could make him pay dearly if he got another pitch near my strike zone. I repositioned my feet so that I could drive his pitch toward the outfield gap in left-center. A line drive there would score the runner from second with ease, and get me into scoring position for the winning run.

“You haven’t a chance. He is gonna strike you out,” the catcher mocked. I cast a muffled reply back to him.

I settled into my batting stance and stared at the pitcher. He was a tall guy who seemed even larger on the mound. He peered at the catcher and nodded, agreeing on the pitch and its location. He then looked at me with what appeared to be a smile. He had a secret.

I blocked out the frenzied crowd. My concentration was sharp as he threw a beautiful pitch toward at my strike zone. In less than a second, my muscles reacted to attack the ball. My swing was smooth and powerful.

Who throws a curve ball in little league? Nobody! The ability to throw curve balls is learned in high levels of baseball, when the pitchers are physically mature enough to avoid damaging their arms. This guy, however, could throw a curve ball, and instead of getting an 80mph fastball, I got a 65mph breaking ball. I had never seen a pitch like that. I swung too early. Strike three, end of the game, and end of the season.

“You win some, you lose some” is a sports cliché. Although the outcome of a game is often decided by chance alone, failure on the part of the players has a significant role. Even so, as filmmaker Ken Burns stated, “Baseball is the only sport where you can fail seven out of 10 times and still end up in the hall of fame.”

Coaches and trainers at the lower division levels know how to develop players’ talents by identifying and working with their failures. Players must learn to deal with the physical and psychological demands of a sport that requires concentration, physical conditioning, and intelligence. From Little League to American Legion through the classifications of professional leagues (A, double A, and triple A), players are expected to develop by learning from their errors. When the most talented and outstanding players have learned enough, they may earn the opportunity to play in the big leagues.

The scheme of advancing through the echelons of baseball provides lessons for our profession, too. Frontline interpreters, writers, illustrators, designers, managers, and supervisors need opportunities to try new methods, analyze alternative techniques, and explore new ways of operating in proactive nonthreatening environments. It is easy to accept “programs as usual” when we are rewarded for doing something well. However, “programs as usual” can tempt us toward stagnation. When that happens, interpreters might avoid trying new approaches out of concern that one negatively assessed program, criticized panel, or rebuffed interpretive plan will have ominous consequences. Even at our regional and national workshops, it is difficult to find dialogue about innovative advances, favoring instead the sharing of confirmed success stories.

We need training that takes place in a nonthreatening atmosphere that allows interpreters to try new ideas and methods, where their performances are accurately critiqued. To this end, I propose the concept of an interpretive academy, with program tracks in frontline interpretation, nonpersonal interpretation, supervision, design, and management. Like the tiers of amateur and professional baseball that develop players’ skills and new approaches to the game, an interpretive academy would serve as an opportunity for promoting innovative visions across the disciplines for inexperienced and experienced interpreters. An academy would help us to determine how failure can serve as a positive mechanism to meet our program needs and target the interests of our publics.

Alan Leftridge is a contract interpretive trainer, visitor services trainer, and interpretive writer based out of the Swan Valley of Montana. Contact him at www.leftridge.com.

By Alan Leftridge

Water lapped against my ankles as I strolled the soft white sands. The big Pacific waves were arrested by the barrier reef several hundred yards to my right. The left side of my face was warmed by the late morning sunlight, my feet by the 80-degree water of the lagoon. It was Sunday morning, and the visitors that had filled the few hotels on the island were almost three hours into their bus tour of Saipan. I walked alone on this impeccable beach, enjoying the untroubled ambience, well aware that this was where the Second Marine Division came ashore during the invasion of Saipan, June 15, 1944. A pair of binoculars directed at what might be mistaken for rock outcroppings in the lagoon would focus on relics of the invasion that floundered in the shallow water.

The gleaming roof of a low-lying building caught my attention. Typical of Pacific island houses, it was constructed of concrete block, with a metal roof designed to blow off when typhoon winds reached super velocity. The building looked like more than a residence, due to several tables scattered about, suggesting a restaurant. I saw no customers, but a lone man sitting in an Adirondack chair was watching me. Interested in a late breakfast, I took a step toward him, and without pause, he waved me forward. We greeted one another, and I asked if breakfast was still available.

“Yes, of course. Ohana!” he called out. A woman approached from the building. “What would you like?” the man inquired of me.

“An American breakfast.”

“Fix this man some Spam and eggs and toast. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“And get him a cup of coffee, too.” Ohana nodded and disappeared into the house as he remained in his chair and I sat across from him.

“Been on the island long?” he asked.

“Just a couple of days. I came to do some diving and look around. I’m working for the DOE on Guam. How about you?” I shuddered at my lame question. It was apparent that he was an islander.

“I came here June 15, 1944.” He motioned with his head, “By way of that beach. Stayed with the Marines for a while. Then back to the States. Moved here for good with Ohana in the mid-70s.”

“So, you were part of the invasion?”

“Yes, I was here. They even made a movie about me in 1960, and what I did here during the war. It’s called Hell to Eternity. Jeffrey Hunter played my role. Can you believe it? Nice guy, but six feet tall, light-brown hair, and blue eyes! And here I am, Guy Gabaldon, barely over five feet, and Mexican-American. Have you seen the movie?” he inquired.

I told him I wasn’t familiar with it, but I would like to hear his story.

“Before the invasion, Saipan was a possession of Japan, given to Japan by the League of Nations as a concession of the first war. By ’44 most of the population was not the local Chamorros, but people of Japanese ancestry. As the war went on, many residents believed the propaganda that Americans were butchers and would slaughter civilians if we ever took the island.”

“Oh, I did my share of killing during the invasion, but one time I was behind enemy lines and captured a group of Japanese soldiers. My commanding officer scolded me, because we had no place to hold prisoners. But about the same time, civilians began leaping from cliffs in mass suicides. One day, I watched as a mother threw her baby over a cliff. Then, she jumped. Because I could speak Japanese, I decided to talk people into surrendering.”

“How did you learn Japanese?” I inquired.

“I was raised in East LA. In those days, kids would spend a lot of time with neighbor-kids’ families. Throughout high school, I practically lived with a Japanese family, hanging out with their two sons. I learned street-Japanese. When the war began, I tried to join the Navy. Too short, they said. The Marines wanted me though, because I could speak Japanese.”

“So, because I knew the language, I’d go alone day or night and seek out the caves where people were hiding. I would go up to the cave’s mouth and jabber, and soon people would start coming out. Sometimes I’d bribe them with chocolate, cigarettes, and food. Other times I’d capture about six soldiers but release three, telling them to spread the word about good Americans and fair treatment. Then I’d tell them that if they didn’t return, I’d kill the others. It worked! The military credited me with capturing, or persuading to surrender, up to 1,500 Japanese soldiers and civilians—including 800 in one day. Afterwards, my commanding office tagged me ‘The Pied Piper of Saipan.’

“I was wounded by machine-gun fire about the time the battle was over, and they gave me the Silver Star. I left the Marine Corps still a private, though.

“I married Ohana, and after several years living in the States, we moved here in the mid-70s. Many people have campaigned for me to receive the Medal of Honor. I plan to write my memoir some day, and hope to include the award in my story.”

I sat transfixed throughout Guy’s narrative. With measured bites, I ate breakfast. I asked a few questions, he said a few things more, but I could tell he was growing weary. Excusing myself, I said while shaking his hand, “It is an honor meeting you Mr. Gabaldon.” Turning to Ohana, I thanked her for the great meal, then said, “I am glad your restaurant was still open for breakfast.” She looked at Guy and they both laughed. I looked back at Guy, who revealed, “This is not a restaurant, it’s our home.”

This episode happened almost three decades ago, yet the story looms large in my memory. I have since learned more about the war in the Pacific and found that everything Guy told me was accurate. He finished his memoir in 1990, but died in 2006 without receiving the Medal of Honor. I recently rented Hell To Eternity on DVD, and saw that he was listed as a consultant on the movie.

I visited Saipan with the aim of exploring the sea life that abounds in its surrounding waters. The generosity of a war hero introduced me to the complexities of the island’s cultural heritage, as well. This episode helped me realize that wherever I travel there are rich human and natural history stories to be heard. All I must do is be open to the myriad narratives. I may not be looking for them, but they are revealed when I am open to unexpected opportunities.

Alan Leftridge is a contract interpretive trainer, visitor services trainer, and interpretive writer based out of the Swan Valley of Montana. Contact him at www.leftridge.com.