My first love was not named Jenny or Sandra or Kay or Jackie. My first love’s name was “history”. I first met this mistress long before I knew its actual name. As far as love goes, our relationship has been remarkably stable and predates any dealings I ever had with the opposite sex. History as a paramour2) will never leave me. We are wedded for life. It will forever enrich my knowledge of the human condition while providing insight into the future. Santayana3)’s words could not be more prophetic4). I have found that those who forget the past never cease to repeat it.
This enduring affair commenced at exactly age four when I began reading and taking out books at the Southfield Public Library in Michigan. After my father spent endless hours getting me to master the child’s Munster easy reading series, and whatever else he could find, I started to check out more difficult works even though I couldn’t read them yet. On one occasion at the library, fate directed me to a shelf that contained Louis L. Snyder5)’s The First Book of World War II. It could have been called The Little Person’s Guide to World War II with its big print and light text. The work was amazingly simple but astoundingly accurate. On page 9 there is a picture of Mussolini, Tojo, and Hitler. Next to their faces in black print are the words “The Dictators”. Yes, things really were much simpler back then. I was not yet at the level of proficiency to read the book by myself so I begged my uncle to read it out loud to me. I spent many a summer afternoon on his lap listening to Snyder’s free seminar on those years of infamy6).
Perhaps it seems startling that I can still remember the book so well, but there is a shameful reason as to why. At the age of eight, I had not yet developed a firm sense of character, so I decided to abscond7) with the book when we moved. I had checked it out countless times before we left and could not bear the thought of never hearing those stories again.
An interesting question is whether there is a genetic disposition behind a person’s fields of interest. My mind is not made up on the matter. My father never directed or coerced8) me into studying history and English, but that’s exactly what I decided to do. In college I was torn as to which one I liked better, so I played it safe by majoring in both. Later, I would do graduate work in psychology, but its historical context was also of great interest to me.
My love of history was the basis for my first serious vocational opportunity. It happened about a month before I was due to graduate from John Carroll University. The history department chair invited me to his office, which is something he did for all graduates, and inquired as to what I thought of the program. I spoke briefly about which professors I liked and which ones I didn’t and about which texts were good and which ones were not. Then I spent 15 minutes telling him how wonderful our particular branch of knowledge was and how much it had benefited every day of my life. The professor was wide eyed and was very impressed with the sincerity of my admiration for the field, and asked me if I’d consider becoming a recruiter for the university. I declined his invitation but sometimes wish I hadn’t.
Shortly thereafter I took a trip to the British Isles. It was there that I realized that my bond with the past is a spiritual one. I’ve always treasured old things, and when I was in Britain, I was unable to resist the temptation to collect various “free” mementos9) that I stumbled upon10) during my stay. Before my flight back home, a customs agent in Heathrow11) pointed to the x-ray camera and asked, “What are those things?”
“Rocks.” I answered. I began to feel rather guilty and added, “But I didn’t take them from any buildings or castles. They were strewn12) out along the lawn. The coloring of the rocks made me certain that they were once part of the structures though.” Surprisingly, he nodded and let me through with my precious cargo. When I got home, I showed them to all who’d see.
The love of history has also been interpersonally influential. On one occasion, I was invited by my French neighbor, Fabian, to attend a party that he was holding. The crowd appeared to all be in their early twenties, and the atmosphere was rather relaxed. My neighbor introduced me as a sage13) who could tell them anything they wanted to know about World War II, which struck me as an odd thing to say to that particular crowd, but they paid me little notice. I then sat at the party and conversed with a frivolous14) Deutschlander15). As I listened to his marijuana16) steeped blather17), a very blonde and Aryan girl suddenly pulled her chair over to mine. She stuck her finger in my face and began questioning me.
“Why do you like World War II?” she demanded.
“What?”
What do you like World War II? What is wrong with you that you would like a war?”
Now, this is not an effective way to go about getting information from me, as I despise people I don’t know disrespecting me like that. However, I politely explained myself to her. “I didn’t say I liked it. I said I liked studying it. It’s a fascinating period of history.”
“No, it isn’t. You must not ever say that you love World War II again.”
With that one command, I lost my temper. I cannot tolerate others telling me what I will or will not read. If only I had one of those historical dunking chairs18) at that point in time, but I digress19). “Oh, in that case Miss, I love World War II! I love it, love, love, love it!”
She said no more, but glared at me for the remainder of the night, and then when I tried to leave, she grabbed my hand and asked me to stay. As I walked out, I realized that an important iron law of life had been demonstrated: Those who oppose historical study are nuts20).

Years later, I ascertained21) that for those completely politicized in outlook, it is impossible to value history independent of its ability to support their own individual agenda. The political animals usually are bored by history, but only like to use it to establish victimology22) claims or make one group of citizens seem more righteous than another. It’s a sad and empty outlook that I am grateful not to share.
At present I still enjoy the roller coaster of thrills that historiographers craft. Biography is one of my favorite sub-areas in the field. Today, like tomorrow, is the perfect time to exhume23) and rehabilitate24) the personalities that committed errors we may avoid. To those who wish to know about psychology and relationships, I echo the words embossed on the Lincoln Memorial: “Study the Past!”

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