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The founder of the environmental movement had Baltimore roots

Rachel Carson's three lyrical books on the sea made her an acclaimed author, but 1962's "Silent Spring" — the title conjuring a world without birdsong — made her a heroine. Her clear passages describing DDT and chemical contaminants' toxicity to humans and nature created one of the most influential tracts of all time and launched the modern day environmental movement. The clarion call was Carson's last work before she succumbed to cancer in 1964 at the age of 56.

Today, 50 years after her death, Carson's legacy is receiving new attention. But little has been said of the inspirational role Baltimore and the city's newspaper played in her story the 1930s. When she was a young woman working for the federal Bureau of Fisheries, The Baltimore Sun Sunday magazine published Carson's first pieces of journalism on the natural world. They mainly focused on the Chesapeake Bay, as she worked in the Baltimore field station. The majestic Maryland and Virginia estuary gave rise to Carson's love of oceans.

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Even then, her talent for engaging the public in a conversational voice was clear. Carson, who earned a master's degree in zoology from Johns Hopkins University, had the rare ability to crisply translate specialized knowledge for the everyday reader. She jumped fences in her prose then and for the rest of her career. After the agency expanded to cover wildlife, Carson rose to become the editor of all its publications on fish and wildlife. She also wrote radio scripts.

With her training in the lab and out in the field, she took the latest research and data and simply made sense of them for lay readers. Ironically, she wrote the first government press releases on DDT in the 1940s, which is how studies on the mass-produced pesticide's lethal capability crossed her path.

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Carson honed a vivid voice in The Baltimore Sun, writing at least half a dozen stories that supplemented her income during the Depression's depths until roughly 1940. In "On a Farther Shore," her biographer, William Souder, said those pieces "were her first adult paid assignments in writing stories for the general public" and allowed her to "capitalize" on her budding expertise. The extra income would be no small change to a single woman who was, effectively, her family's breadwinner.

Carson grew up in Springdale, Pa., and studied at a woman's college in Pittsburgh. But Baltimore was the city where she grew wings, in a way, at the university, at the newspaper, at the field station. Her storytelling talents beyond the walls of academia and government made her singular.

A decade after leaving her government post in Washington, Carson packed everything she knew about birds, fish, flowers, insects, air, soil and crops into a devastating critique of the chemical industry and agricultural policies on pesticides. She considered post-war chemical contaminants, sprayed indoors and outdoors, a central threat to humanity's health along with that of the ecosystem. She jolted millions of readers into a radically new conversation in the public square. The Cold War, which Carson spoke of as the other central problem of the age, was at its zenith then.

Carson composed her polemic at her cliffside house on a Maine island. This rugged place underlined her independence. The project took years, and Carson, already sick with breast cancer, knew her days were waning. She wrote right through the stages and treatment of her illness. She believed that the rampant overuse of chemicals ravaged what she held dear and advocated a more responsible approach; she did not favor a ban. Silent Spring, addressed to the general public, was her message to leave the world. Indeed, if she didn't write it, then who would? Far ahead of climate change, she warned that human excesses jeopardize all we hold dear.

The book even got President John F. Kennedy talking in August 1962, before publication. He read excerpts from it in The New Yorker, and in a White House press conference promised to have his science adviser evaluate "Miss Carson's book" and her findings. And he did. Before she died, Carson also sat down with Eric Sevareid for a CBS News report and testified before Congress.

"Every once in a while in the history of mankind, a book has appeared which has substantially altered the course of history," Sen. Ernest Gruening, an Alaska Democrat, reportedly told Carson at the time.

Today, Carson is lauded by historians, feminists and environmental advocates. Baltimore should be proud of the hand it and the bay had in helping her write one of the masterpieces of the 20th century.

Jamie Stiehm is a Creators Syndicate columnist on politics and history. She was previously a reporter for The Sun. Her email is JamieStiehm@verizon.net.

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