My history tutor

For Christmas, Bob got a copy of Thomas Raddall‘s history of Halifax.  This guarantees me brief but nicely plotted local history lessons at the weekend lunch table.  Today’s sandwich diversion specifically dealt with the upstart colonists in Massachusetts who hied themselves north to deflect what they saw as a French threat at Louisbourg.

Faster than a speeding bullet–at least than a shot from an 18th century musket–Bob then asked if I had noticed the stunning resemblance between one of our son’s friends and Tanya (aka Patty Hearst during her Stockholm Syndrome-esque period).

This is one of the joys and hazards of living with someone for whom history is ever present as colour and sound: you are sometimes asked to leapfrog among centuries, to say nothing of sensibilities. (By the same token, my interests require that conversational topics sometimes spin rather noisily into phenomenological investigations and Bob is willing to go there, at least insofar as I need humoring). The fact is, I realize, that I absolutely thrive on history as narrative, although–perhaps because I’ve long been surrounded by folks for whom history has been a first love as contrasted with my mere enjoyment of it as pastime–I’ve never considered myself a history buff.

This has me feeling rather early 19th century and Jane Austen-y, as though dilettantism is a suitable option.  Or maybe this should show me that it was and is an option?

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