How people understand and interpret what they hear or see is always interesting to me.  Sometimes in conversations with friends I find that our interpretations of the same piece of ‘information’ are totally at odds.  That’s not always a bad thing – at least it makes for some lively conversations.

But, when it comes to understanding the written word, I find I am a little less tolerant.  This is especially true if someone has misunderstood or is mis-quoting something written by me.  My blog offers a perfect example. I am so gratified to hear from folks that they have enjoyed something I’ve said or written but am completely mystified by some of the threads of misunderstanding that I apparently foster.

One is confusing my relationship with Willard Espy.  I often refer to him in my writing.  He was the uncle I knew best – perhaps my favorite uncle, and certainly the uncle who most influenced and shaped my life.  My readers often speak of him as my grandfather, much to my annoyance.

For one thing, our ages don’t match a two generational difference, Willard was just 25 years older than I.  Secondly, he was my mother’s brother, not her father.  Thirdly, I almost always refer to him as my Uncle Willard.  Obviously, it’s a detail that people don’t pay attention to,

But, when people do remember the details and then make unwarranted generalizations based on them… that is more problematic.  Recently, a reader wrote to me that I had no business being so proprietorial about Oysterville because I wasn’t even from here, I was from Boston.  Hmmm.

Well,  I was born in Boston.  It was where my father grew up and where he was working when he and my mother were married. They had met at the University of Redlands and had intended to remain on the West Coast but that was in 1930 in the midst of the Depression.  My father felt lucky to find work when he graduated, even though it was on the “wrong” coast.  We lived there until I was three and he was able to find employment out here.

I don’t think I’ve ever said I came from Oysterville – only that my mother’s family has lived here since its beginnings.  But I do feel proprietorial about Oysterville.  Actually, I think everyone who lives here does and also a number of folks who don’t live here.  It’s some special quality about Oysterville that makes us feel protective and proud and probably a bit possessive.

Of course, when readers get their facts confused about me, it’s of little importance in the great scheme of things,  Sadly, though, I think big decisions are based upon equally confused thinking.  And it’s an election year…