More artifacts

What jumped out of my closet tonight were a few of my family's old photos, from the '40s and '50s. This is my Mom (R) and Dad and a friend, in San Antonio in 1943.



My Canadian aunt and uncle sent this telegram after I was born. (You have to click on these photos to see them properly.)



According to my baby book, I spoke my first word at 7 months: "Dada." A few months later, I appear to have been rather confident on my feet.

By 1951, my girlfriend Susie and I were capable of condescending to our neighbor across the street, Billy. He had a pretty big head. (You really have to click on this one.)



Here's how Mom and Dad and their generation turned out by the '60s, when we lived in Bay City, Michigan. (I call it 60 b.c.) I do not mean this in a mean way. After all, we are all prisoners of our time.



Meantime, true to my generation, I became a radical, an activist, and finally, a writer. In 1991, on its 125th anniversary, The Nation asked me and a lot of others to write something about the theme, "Patriotism."

So, here's how we turned out -- my kids and me, late in '98. All six of them.

-30-