Helen Cox Richardson, whom I blogroll every week (Letters from an American) mentioned recently that she fell in love with history early in life.
History and I have a had a rocky relationship for 58 years. We’ve been friends, even friends with benefits, but I’m not sure the relationship ever rose to the level of love.
I kissed her first in 1962, a month after my tenth birthday, when, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, my mom put my brother and me to bed one night by telling us there might be nuclear war before morning. That dalliance continued for a decade of duck-and-cover, during which she was an overhanging presence.
Then we started going steady in my teens. I understand that it wasn’t uncommon in my generation for teenage boys to be interested in World War II. I read all the books I could find on the subject…
[See this entire entry here]