I never had the pleasure of meeting Hal Rothman in person, but our single, brief interaction was one of the most memorable in over twenty years of writing and submitting work for publication. Lately I've had the occasion to revisit his 1992 book, On Rims and Ridges, and it has made me sad all over again to remember his generosity, kindness, and what I later came to appreciate as his seemingly boundless energy.

It was 1993, and I was probably on my 8th or 9th revision of a piece dealing with the Forest Service's Mount Rogers National Recreation Area in Virginia. I'm not exaggerating about the number of revisions. Their numbers arose in large part from my being a beginner, but also because I kept getting conflicting feedback from several interested parties strongly dissatisfied with whatever latest rendition. It's amusing to remember what a shock it was for me to get out of graduate school and enter public history; in the former situation I had enjoyed utter and complete freedom of investigation, in the latter, disparate interests harangued me to write their version of events. On one of the sides I had people in the field of Appalachian history who more or less wanted me to demonize the Forest Service as an "outside interest" to the region, already beleaguered with decades of absentee landowners and exploitative coal and timber companies. On another side I had various people associated with the Forest Service wanting (what struck me as) a sanitized version of events that omitted exploring things like eminent domain. There were other sides, and all seemed to be unhappy with the story I was trying to tell. At least one periodical had rejected the piece for publication; there might have been one or two others that I've forgotten. Anyway, I was reaching wit's end when I submitted the piece to what was then called Environmental History Review (EHR). I didn't even know about the publication until Mark Barrow kindly informed me. Told you I was a beginner.

Anyway, Hal Rothman was then editor of EHR. Out of the dozens of editors I've dealt with, Hal was only one of two who actually called me on the telephone to express interest in a piece. The other was Jeff Richards of the Washington Review (thanks Jeff, I've never forgotten that gesture). By the time I submitted the piece to EHR I was unemployed, so no fancy letterhead. I mention this only because later I came to appreciate how some editors discriminate upon just such superficial criteria; and I still endure this, working for a community college as I do. Unfortunately it is not too amazing that some people confuse socioeconomic status with intellectual merit. (I'll bet Hal would have found that humorous).

I cannot remember the details of our telephone call. This was well before he sent the work out for peer review, so maybe he had some preliminary suggestions for improvement. He certainly seemed instantly interested in the piece, and what I generally remember was his enthusiasm and moral support. He had to know I was a beginner, so maybe he took extra pains to help me.

A few months passed and the referee reports came in. Unique in my experience, Hal actually told me to ignore a portion of one of the referee's critiques. I've never seen another editor even come close to doing this (acknowledging that some circumstances do not need this level of intervention). Hal had studied it all carefully himself, of course, and determined (quite rightly, I might add!) that there was some "company line" bias that did not contribute to the intellectual truths we were pursuing. I'm sure this referee disagrees with us to this day. But Hal's deep engagement here was, I've learned, quite typical in his energetic pursuit of scholarship. Many editors do not seem to engage at this level, and let problematic referee reports dictate an outcome that the editors themselves should be adjudicating more actively. After all, anyone can function as a switchboard operator. In any case, I revised the piece according to the referee reports and Hal's additional comments, then submitted what I thought would become the published version. And then Hal did the unthinkable. Our conversation went something like this:

Hal: "By the way, is this study part of a larger whole?"

Me: "Yes. As a matter of fact, I hope it will be a chapter in a book someday."

Hal: "Okay, that makes sense. I see why you've arranged everything chronologically."

Me: "Yes, that was an important way for me to straighten out the story's complexity."

Hal: "Excellent. But now I want you to tear it all down and re-compose it topically."

I thought I would tear my hair out! I quietly agreed, of course, even though my thoughts contained a good deal of momentary or not-so-momentary profanity. I had labored through nearly a dozen revisions, and I thought I could take no more. I had had it with this damn piece! But, I got back to work. That night, around 2am, I remember the most uncanny feeling. It was like being the conductor of an orchestra that one has grown to know intimately. The final revision (and it would be final, this time) seemed almost to write itself. I had worked with each element of the material so much for so long that they must have lodged semi-permanently in some part of my brain. The components fell into place with a natural ease that I had never experienced before. By dawn I had the piece recapitulated, and wa-la, Hal had been spot-on (of course!). It was the best version ever, and he had been completely right to push me further precisely at the moment when I was sure I was finished.

He was one of the best editors I've ever worked with, and my experience cannot have been an isolated exception. During all his years at EHR there must have been a great many other writers who benefited from his energy and enthusiasm as I did. Shortly after my piece was published, I concluded his editorial excellence must be directly related to his own prolific writing. He was contributing, and helping others contribute. He was a cheerleader and just enough of the taskmaster coach. He was there to help you reach the highest level possible with your work, not for his sake, but for your sake and for the sake of the intellectual endeavor itself. This was extra important in my case, because I was just starting out. Hal was only a year older than me, but light years ahead of me in the scholarly world. Much later I would appreciate that his work in environmental history was merely a subset of his multifaceted life.

The good do not always die young, but it sure happened this time. Trite as it sounds, it remains apparent to all of us that Hal achieved more in his short life than most of us will in longer lives; the star burning brightest lasting the least amount of time, and all that. Still, in my humble opinion (based upon absurdly limited criteria), "achievement" does not come close to capturing Hal Rothman's spirit; "contribution" comes closer. I think it was in Laura Kalman's 1996 book, The Strange Career of Legal Liberalism, where I first learned about the Jewish tradition of the intellectual and the teacher giving back to society and community. Obviously anyone can partake in this tradition; in fact, it can be especially helpful for academic adjuncts like myself, who have frequent occasion to ponder our semi-pariah status. Often I have hoped that I was doing my share. I certainly received the lion's share from Hal. What a lucky privilege for me. To be introduced to the gold editorial standard so early became a crucial gauge for measuring so much that followed in the world of publishing politics.

From a former essay submitter who barely knew you, Rest in Peace, Hal Rothman.

February 2013