My wife and I could seldom pass a book store without ‘dropping in.’ Once in, the magic of the place would seduce us with whatever munificent powers the rows of books possessed. On the one hand, you appreciated the sweat and pain all these authors experienced to share their imaginations and knowledge with you. At the same time, you realized you would, you must, ignore the vast number of offerings. There was no conceivable way to embrace all these gifts. The cruelty of life would only enable you to sample a fraction of the available delights.

I believe I’ve shared my early and unexpected love of books before. Still, at our age, who remembers what we read last week. My simple, working class home had few works of literature… Reader’s Digest Condenced Books which were delivered periodically and a whole bunch of Perry Mason mysteries penned by Earl Stanly Gardner. Oh, and there was an entire set of the Encyclopedia Brittanica which dated to shortly after WWII. But that was enough to capture my attention. Perhaps I was doomed from the start.

In that long ago and unrecognizable world, we working class ruffians were told to get out of the house and not to come home until the street lights were on. Like the other budding delinquents I maraudered through the local streets and backyards and parks playing games, rough housing, and I imagine making a general nuisance of myself. But I also did something else…repair to the local library to peruse their treasures. That was my private vice to be shared with few. My childhood friends would hardly understand.

Slowly, my heroes became those who could move others with the written word, writers like John Steinbech. Oh, that seemed like a magical power beyond my poor talents. Hell, I kept getting failing warnings in penmanship, back when they taught us kids the secret language of the primitives … cursive writing.

At the same time, no one encouraged me toward the arts. Not quite true, actually. My father was curious whether I had inherited any of his skills with the graphic arts. So, he got me a few starter books. I had zero talent or interest. My mother pushed me to learn the accordian, she saw a future for me on Lawrence Welk. That was a second disaster. Singing? They told me just to move my lips in during any group school singing project. I even tried buying beginning sculptor sets to see if any spark lie in that direction. NOTHING!

I am certain that there were many other artistic paths to explore, ballet for example. But such pursuits would have been beyond the pale in my culture. Besides, have you ever seen my graceful movements though space. Of course you haven’t. No one has.

It probably wasn’t until I could put the essential question off no longer … after Peace Corps and a Masters Degree that prepared me for very little. Up to that point, I harbored a Walter Mitty dream of becoming the next great American author. I had written an novel about a few memorable characters in a 1960s American city being torn apart by race and class divisions. I wish I could now find it. I think it was pretty damn good. I know I enjoyed writing it on the edge of the Rajasthan desert.

But I took another route. One which promised both economic security and some interesting challenges. I did want to eat 3 squares a day and have a roof over my head, after all. I stumbled (and I do mean stumbled) into a career as an academic-based policy wonk. That was a perfect career for someone like me who wanted to call his own shots, teach the next generation, and have rather complete independence and control over what social problems he might pursue. Check out my book A Wayward Academic: Reflections from the policy trenches.

If you have followed my blog, I have relayed the positive feedback on my writing I received from my academic colleagues. That always tore at me about the career choice I made. Had I been too practical? Then again, it was a rather perfect spot for me. Being associated with a nationally known ‘think tank’ (the Institute for Research on Poverty) opened all kinds of doors for me and offered an ever changing set of issues to explore. On the other hand, I found the publication venures narrow and stifling. I could not be creative enough there.

The tension within between wanting to express myself creatively and also wanting to make calls few practical contributions to society was never fully resolved. But, in the end, especially as I retired, I managed to whet both appetites.

I was lucky beyond measure. I managed to be both a bit if a Rebel and an Artist. And all from a ruffian kid from the mean streets of Worcester Mass. Who would have thunk?