You don't have to scratch my personal life history very deeply to determine that I have never been one to advocate going to war. Let's press the reverse button and try to better understand the context within which my opinions were formed.
As a little boy, my hero was Davy Crockett, as portrayed by Walt Disney in my all-time favorite TV series. I had my own coonskin cap (and in those days, it was a real raccoon skin), my own (fake) rifle, and a loyal band of followers, all of whom happened to be girls.
"Let's go, men!" I would shout, as Susie, Bonnie, and Kathy fell duly in line behind me in the field behind our house on North Wilson in Royal Oak, Michigan, circa 1953.
Years passed and I got my own real guns, first BB guns, then a shotgun, my prized 16-gauge, which still sits safely under my bed to this day. My teen years were spent, more often than not, with my dog trudging through the corn fields and woods behind our house on the edge of Bay City, Michigan, hunting game.
That sounds good, but I must admit I never actually harvested any game. I had my chances at pheasants, rabbits, even (with slugs) deer, but I never actually bagged anything.
Nope, I never killed anything except for rodents, fish, and a few unlucky birds.
When it came to the age where I might have taken my place in my country's armed forces, I was a deeply conservative Republican who felt that Barry Goldwater would be the best man to lead our country.
It was 1964, and I was 17.
Up until this moment, as far as I can tell, I was straight on track to do what my dear cousin Dan in fact did, which was go to Vietnam and fight on behalf of our country.
But then something deep inside me changed. I'd done well in high school and won a tuition scholarship to attend the University of Michigan. My high school class went to Ann Arbor the June of my junior year, when President Johnson delivered the commencement speech.
None of that affected me, but orientation week later the following summer, did.
(end of part one)
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