Things my parents gave me:

A Gibson B-25 for my 18th birthday. I still have the guitar. I still play guitar.

A love of music. My mother played the piano. I sang as she played.

A love of history. As we traveled the country we went places, Yorktown, Williamsburg. We saw where Billie the Kid was jailed. We trod the boards of Judge Roy Beane’s place. My dad and his brothers fought in WWII.

A love of books. They bought the Encyclopedia Britannica. They gifted me the We Were There series.

A love of family. We always stopped in to see my dad’s family as we moved around the country.

A love for the US Navy. My dad served, my mom served, and I served. A trifecta.

Somewhere in there I learned to think for myself. I’m not actually sure how that came about. But while I respected authority, I learned to question it. Maybe it was studying World War II where an entire country became genocidal because they adored a man. Or maybe it was because I read books like Catch-22 or 1984 or The Diary of Anne Frank or Hiroshima. And I also came to question my religion, which I suppose came from the willingness to question authority and ask why.

Finally, I learned empathy which probably was forced upon me. As the perpetual new kid on the block during my early years it paid to understand what people were thinking. But on the flip side, it also showed me I had the ability to remake myself, to learn from my mistakes. That’s worked really well over the years. Although, there are times when I wonder if I really know who I am, or if I’m always being what someone else wants me to be. It might be a little late in life to discover the real me although maybe this is it and I should just be happy with what I am, if I’m anything at all, which I think I am. And that feels like a real life Möbius strip.

Part 27, Living in America: An Old Man’s Journey into His Past