Intrigued by Harry Potter (Part 2)

Today is Halloween, a holiday I never much cared for growing up except for the extra candy it brought. But for Harry Potter fans, October 31 carries a deeper meaning: it marks the night in 1981 when Lord Voldemort killed Harry’s parents, setting the story in motion. On this anniversary, I want to share my journey through the films, a journey I began seventeen days ago when curiosity finally drew me into this world.

After hesitating for years, I decided to watch all eight films, two per Saturday night, finishing just in time for Halloween. These are not professional critiques, but personal reflections: what I liked, what spoke to me, and what I learned.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (2001)

 

When I first saw it years ago, I dismissed it. This time, I found it a warm introduction, safe and inviting, almost like a bedtime story. The scene that struck me most was Harry before the Mirror of Erised, longing to see his parents. Dumbledore’s words, “It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live,” cut deep.

The scene that spoke to me the most was when Harry found the mirror of Erised and came back to gaze longingly at the reflection where his parents were in. Dumbledore soon appeared far behind him.

Dumbledore: Back again, Harry? 

Harry turns around and stands up.

Dumbledore: I see that you, like so many before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised. I trust by now you realize what it does. Let me give you a clue. The happiest man on earth would look into the mirror and see only himself, exactly as he is.

Harry: So, then it shows us what we want? Whatever we want?

Dumbledore: Yes...and no. It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desires of our hearts. Now you, who have never known your family, you see them standing beside you. But remember this, Harry. This mirror gives us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away in front of it, even gone mad. That is why tomorrow it will be moved to a new home, and I must ask you not to go looking for it again. It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry, and forget to live.

If I stood before that mirror, I would likely cry. It would reveal my own deepest desires, my own sense of incompleteness. The lesson was clear: I must not lose myself in longing for a life I cannot reclaim. I must live in the present and cherish what I still have.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (2002)

 

I once overlooked this film, but on rewatch I found it underrated.

Richard Harris’s gentle, wise Dumbledore stood out most, soft spoken yet commanding respect.

The lesson came instead from Gilderoy Lockhart, the fraudulent professor obsessed with fame. 

 

Watching him reminded me of my own conceit in my twenties, when I craved recognition without working hard enough to deserve it. Lockhart’s downfall became a mirror, showing me the cost of ego.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004)

This film raised the stakes. Darker, more complex, beautifully shot, it made Hogwarts feel less like a wonderland and more like a real, perilous world. The introduction of dementors and Sirius Black deepened the story.

Here, Dumbledore was portrayed by Michael Gambon after Richard Harris’s passing.

 Some prefer one interpretation over the other, but I accepted the change. To me, each brought something meaningful.

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005) 

This was my least favorite. It felt rushed, crammed with too much story and not enough time to breathe. A longer runtime, like The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, could have done it justice. Still, it served its purpose, pushing the story into darker waters.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2007)

Here the story regained strength. Dolores Umbridge, brilliantly portrayed by Imelda Staunton, embodied cruelty masked as order. Harry’s decision to secretly teach his peers inspired me to ask: would I have had the courage to resist unjust authority, or would fear have made me conform?

I hope I would stand with Harry, though I know my own caution. The lesson here was that true leadership demands principle, even at risk. On a lighter note, Staunton’s performance convinced me she will shine as Queen Elizabeth II in The Crown.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2009)

This film felt like a bridge to the finale. I wished it had been split in two, with more room to explore Voldemort’s origins. Still, one small scene with Professor Slughorn stayed with me.

“You recognize Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet. Always takes my owls, should I wish to register an opinion on the news of the day.”

Slughorn then points to another photo.

“Gwenog Jones, captain of the Hollyhead Harpies. Free tickets whenever I want them. Of course, I haven't been to a match in some time.”

Proud of his connections, he displayed photos of “famous friends,” hoping to collect Harry as a trophy. His vanity mirrored my own past obsession with proximity to fame, my photos with dignitaries, my hunger for recognition. That scene reminded me to seek worth not in association but in humility and true friendship.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 1 (2010)

A somber film, slower in pace, but necessary as preparation for the end. The characters, and the audience, had grown up. Darkness pressed in on all sides.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – Part 2 (2011)

Having completed all eight films, I can say I liked the saga, though I did not fall in love with it. It was too late in life for me to feel the formative magic others experienced growing up with Harry. Still, the films gave me lessons through their characters: Lockhart and Slughorn urging humility, Dumbledore teaching the balance between longing and living, Harry showing the strength of principle.

I may revisit the series again, perhaps next Halloween. I will not collect wands or Hogwarts dioramas, but if someone offers me the books, I will gladly accept.

A friend once wrote, “Hey, maybe you’ll fall in love with Harry Potter, and you and I could travel to Universal together and go to Hogwarts.” I would gladly go with her. To ride the Hogwarts Express, even as adults, would feel like stepping into that longed-for place we can never truly reach, yet always carry in our hearts.

Intrigued by Harry Potter (Part 1)

Since the passing of Queen Elizabeth II into history last month, I have not only been studying the history of the British monarchy in my spare time but also exploring other parts of British culture. One franchise has suddenly come to my attention, one I had ignored for so long: a series of seven fantasy novels, later adapted into films, known as Harry Potter, created by J.K. Rowling.

The story follows a boy named Harry Potter who discovers he is a wizard and attends Hogwarts, a magical school where he learns spells, makes friends, faces enemies, endures hardship, and ultimately triumphs.

What surprises me most is that, though I am in my mid-thirties, I find myself drawn to it now. I was not before. When the first book was published in 1997, I was eleven years old, the same age as Harry in the story, but I had no interest in reading at the time. I vaguely remember seeing the first DVD release of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone in 2001, along with the next three films as they came out, but I only watched each of them once. My attention was elsewhere, and so I never grew up with the excitement surrounding this series.

Now, fifteen years after the seventh and final book was published, I find myself strangely pulled toward it, almost as though curiosity is tugging at me like a moth drawn to a flame. I am not sure why. It feels like stepping into a darkened corridor filled with relics I have never seen before. Part of me is nervous, as if I am sneaking somewhere I am not supposed to be.

At first, I resisted. I worried I might become too invested, tempted to collect items or waste time on something meant for children. Was I too old? Was it foolish? I reached out to two friends online for advice.

One told me simply, “I love Harry Potter. You’ll probably get hooked but who cares—you do you. Don’t ever be embarrassed.”

Another friend, now a librarian, shared her story. She had not been interested either until she was nineteen. During tough college years, the first two films became her comfort, her safe place. She later read the books and found them even richer. She advised me to start with the films for fun and only turn to the books if I wanted more detail.

Encouraged, I bought a six-disc DVD set of the first six Harry Potter films on eBay for less than five dollars.

But when I realized the final two films were missing, I searched again.

Soon after, I realized I was missing the last two films, Deathly Hallows Part 1 and Part 2. Against my better judgment, I searched again and found an eight-film box set for ten dollars on Facebook Marketplace.

Meeting the seller was brief, almost cinematic. We exchanged the DVDs and money at a train station, and she vanished into the evening. I felt an unexpected sadness. She seemed kind, and I wished I could have spoken more, but I knew it was not my place. As I walked home under darkening clouds, I realized how lonely I was. Perhaps, like Harry, I too was searching for belonging and friendship.

Now, with the full film series in hand, I have set a plan for October: every Saturday night, I will watch two films until Halloween. At the end, I will see what lessons I can draw, whether I become a fan, and whether this journey leads anywhere unexpected.

I suspect I will enjoy the series, maybe even more than I expect, though I doubt I will dive deeply into the fandom. At most, it may become a guilty pleasure. Perhaps it will also teach me something about storytelling.

To close this first entry, I turned to J.K. Rowling herself. In her 2008 Harvard Commencement Address, she spoke about the power of imagination to change reality. One passage struck me:

“We do not need magic to change the world. We carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.”

Those words seem fitting. I stand at the beginning of this corridor, uncertain of what lies ahead. But imagination has always been the first step of every journey.

My Tribute to Queen Elizabeth II (1926-2022)

Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Mountbatten-Windsor
(April 21, 1926 – September 8, 2022)

On September 8, 2022, the world changed. Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain died, and though I was largely unaware of it throughout the day, the news struck me late that night. I had been at work with no way of knowing; I only have a flip phone, and no one mentioned it. I assumed it would be another mundane day, eager to return home and start my weekend. But past midnight, when I finally logged onto Twitter, I learned the news: the Queen was gone.

I was surprised. Her mother had lived to 101, and I thought she might do the same. Earlier in the day, I’d read a post saying the Queen was “resting comfortably” at Balmoral under medical supervision. Someone had replied that “resting comfortably” was code for the end. I hoped they were wrong, but alas, it was not to be. Death comes to us all, yet I could not imagine the world without her. I am still in my thirties, and she had reigned my entire life.

Because of the historical weight of her passing, I wanted to write this tribute. Others will pen far more eloquent reflections, but in my own words I hope to honor her memory and share what I have indirectly learned from her life.

By the time I was born in 1986, she had already been on the throne for 34 years. Growing up in the United States, I was largely indifferent to the monarchy. World history didn’t interest me until much later. The first time the Queen entered my awareness was after the death of Diana, Princess of Wales, in 1997.

I was 11 and knew little of Diana, but the television coverage was everywhere. On September 5, I remember watching the Queen’s live speech addressing the loss. She said:

“We have all been trying in our different ways to cope. It is not easy to express a sense of loss, since the initial shock is often succeeded by a mixture of other feelings: disbelief, incomprehension, anger, and concern for those who remain. We have all felt those emotions in these last few days. So, what I say to you now, as your Queen and as a grandmother, I say from my heart.”

Then she paid tribute to Diana as “an exceptional and gifted human being” whose smile, warmth, and devotion to her sons touched millions.

I watched from my room that afternoon, sensing this was history in the making. That was the first time I ever saw and heard the Queen speak.

For years afterward, I remained unaware of royal affairs. Then one Sunday in 2002, I came across a rebroadcast of the four-part PBS documentary “The Windsors: A Royal Family.” With little else on, I watched it all and I was captivated.

I learned how the family had German roots, prompting the change from “Saxe-Coburg-Gotha” to “Windsor” during World War I. 

I saw how Edward VIII abdicated to marry Wallis Simpson, and how George VI overcame insecurity and a stammer to lead Britain through its darkest days. His death saddened me, and I found myself believing he was one of Britain’s greatest kings.

Soon after, I watched “Bertie & Elizabeth," a television film about George VI and his wife. Together, these sparked a deeper interest in the monarchy. Without books of my own, I turned to the internet, but years later I found “Elizabeth the Queen: The Life of a Modern Monarch” by Sally Bedell Smith at a library book sale for two dollars. Though I have not yet read it, I still intend to.

Around that time, I also saw The Queen (2006) starring Helen Mirren. Later, I bought it on DVD. Watching it helped me see Elizabeth not just as a monarch, but as a human being carrying the weight of history.

My respect for her grew even more when “The Crown” premiered in 2016. 

Written by Peter Morgan, who also scripted The Queen, the series dramatized her reign with nuance and power.

One scene stood out above all: Queen Mary’s letter to her granddaughter upon George VI’s death. She wrote:

 “Dearest Lilibet, I know how you loved your papa, my son, and I know you will be as devastated as I am by this loss. But you must put those sentiments to one side now, for duty calls. The grief of your father's death will be felt far and wide, your people will need your strength and leadership. I have seen three great monarchies brought down through their failure to separate personal indulgences from duty. You must not allow yourself to make similar mistakes. And while you mourn your father, you must also mourn someone else: Elizabeth Mountbatten. For she has now been replaced by another person: Elizabeth Regina. The two Elizabeths will frequently be in conflict with one another. The fact is...the crown must win. Must ALWAYS win.”

This struck me as a lesson about self-control: principles must guide us above emotions. The sovereign exists to embody stability, stoicism, and impartiality when the world falters. That was Elizabeth’s burden and her greatness.

Even in a monarchy that owns all the power, one must remain impartial and dedicated to your duty to watch over your country. The Queen may not have particularly approved of certain people’s candid display of deep inner emotion; however, it was not hers or any Sovereign's duty to indulge in somewhat of a very biased subject. The Sovereign's purpose is to remain strong, focused, and unaffected in such profound and contentious circumstances and to serve as a guiding model through crises, but also understanding enough to adapt to the changes brought by time.

Another scene that stood out was in episode 4 when a thick fog had fallen over London, and Queen Elizabeth went to see her grandmother Queen Mary to ask for advice on to how handle the crisis she was facing. Queen Mary tells her:

“Monarchy is God’s sacred mission to grace and dignify the earth, to give ordinary people an ideal to strive towards; an example of nobility and duty to raise them in their wretched lives; monarchy is a calling from God.

That’s why you are crowned in an Abbey not in a government building, you are anointed, not appointed. It’s an archbishop that puts the crown on your head, not a minister or public servant, which means you are answerable to God in your duty, not the public.”

I liked this scene because of the way that Queen Mary, with her knowledge and breadth of experience, explained the necessity of a monarchy to her granddaughter. There were those who looked up to Queen Elizabeth II as a role model. I believe that she truly lived up to this view. I am saddened the Queen was the last or few left of the traditions, manners of her time and I do not see this role model quality or restraint in anyone else, except for King Felipe VI of Spain, who I also greatly admire. I hope that Queen Elizabeth’s successors to the throne of England will be able to carry the standard that she set for herself.

Through dramatization and history alike, I came to see Queen Elizabeth II as a servant-leader. For seven decades she bore her role with grace, dignity, and a deep sense of duty. In times of war, crisis, and change, she remained a symbol of continuity. As Winston Churchill once said of George VI, he could also have said of her: her “conduct on the Throne may well be a model and a guide to constitutional sovereigns throughout the world today and also in future generations.”

She was not without flaws, but her service outweighed her failings. We may never see another like her.

Her passing, and the series that illuminated her reign, stirred in me the same instinct I feel with the Kennedys: to collect, to preserve, to learn. I long to build a library of monarchs’ biographies—from the Plantagenets to the Windsors—but practical limits of income and space restrain me. For now, I have only a few, including Elizabeth the Queen and The Heir Apparent: The Life of Edward VII. It is enough to begin.

I will not predict how Charles III will reign or whether the monarchy will endure. Such speculations are for others. Instead, I remember a pledge Princess Elizabeth made on her 21st birthday in Cape Town in 1947:

“I declare before you all that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service and the service of our great imperial family to which we all belong.”

Her Majesty fulfilled that pledge for seventy years. Under her scepter, the Crown always won.

Longing For School

Yesterday, August 25, marked thirteen years since the passing of Edward Moore Kennedy, Senator of Massachusetts for forty seven years and brother of President John F. Kennedy, Senator Robert F. Kennedy, and Ambassador Jean Kennedy Smith. He died at the age of seventy seven in 2009. I wanted to pay my respects when he lay in state at the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, but at that time I was unable to go. I was in a very dark period of my life. I had just dropped out of school in my early twenties, and I felt completely unmoored. I had always hoped to meet Senator Kennedy. He had witnessed so much history, he had known ten presidents since entering the Senate, and he was the youngest of the siblings of his generation.

Yesterday was also the traditional Move In Day at Harvard University, when incoming first year students arrive on campus in late August. That sight made me sad as well. It reminded me of when I was a young college student full of anticipation. Now I feel like wasted potential. I wish I had their opportunities, their forward momentum. I sometimes fear that my possibilities are behind me, not ahead. Because of this, I decided to write a personal entry to confront something that has haunted me for years.

Several years ago, I left school for a mixture of reasons. I did not have enough money. I was not disciplined enough as a student. And the responsibility was my own. I cannot gloss over my failures. If I had worked harder, I would have finished. Instead I find myself trapped in a situation I do not know how to escape.

When I entered college as a first year student at the age of twenty, I was frightened. I had been bullied in high school and feared it would continue. I was shy and timid. To my surprise, I became well known on campus over the next three years. I developed an interest in politics, and both professors and students encouraged me to pursue that path. I listened to speeches by John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Bill Clinton, memorized their words, studied their techniques, and drew inspiration from their messages. People jokingly called me Mister President. I often shook hands the way a politician does while campaigning. I tried to be friendly to everyone, though not all friendliness was returned. For the first time in my life, I felt valued. At home I was seen as an outcast for wanting deeper conversation and intellectual challenges, but on campus I felt that I belonged and that a future was possible.

I loved school so deeply that I hated returning home for holidays and summer breaks. I felt confined among my small minded relatives. Each return home felt isolating. I longed for campus life. I miss the diversity of thought and the freedom people felt to express themselves. I crave an outlet where I can engage with ideas and learn in a peer centered environment. Sharing ideas with classmates taught me that the world was much larger than my hometown. I dreamed of graduating in 2010, traveling to places like Rome, and even one day meeting President Obama in the Oval Office. Even the difficult days felt meaningful because they were part of a promising path.

The greatest day of my college years was December 2, 2008, when I met Senator John Kerry of Massachusetts. He came to my college for a public discussion on the economy. Before he arrived, I asked my friend Meagan, who had a camera, to take a photo of me with him. Senator Kerry walked in at six thirty to applause. I thought, “It is really him.” After the mayor introduced him, he spoke for about an hour, then took a few questions. He mentioned he had to leave for an event in Charleston. I told myself, “You are not leaving until I get that picture.” When the meeting ended, most of the crowd moved toward the front entrance, leaving space near the doorway. As he stepped out, I called, “Senator.” He looked up. I hurried toward him and said quietly, “I am actually down here.” When I had his attention, I asked if I could have a picture. He said, “Oh sure.” I shook his hand and motioned to Meagan to take the photo. Afterward he said, “Good luck in school.” I replied, “Thank you, Sir,” and we shook hands again.

I was elated for the rest of the year. I had just shaken hands with a man who debated President George W. Bush, sailed with President John F. Kennedy, worked with Senator Ted Kennedy, campaigned with President Bill Clinton, and supported Barack Obama. I watched videos of his speeches the very next day, still amazed. Some people told me this encounter would push me further toward politics, and they may have been right. I was at the height of my happiness. Those were the best years of my twenties.

But the happiness faded. I procrastinated. I focused on courses I enjoyed and ignored those I did not. I spent too much time on my social life because I was filling the emotional void left by unloving relatives. These are not excuses, but they explain my mindset. I was placed on academic probation. With no remaining money for school, I had to withdraw. I was devastated. I felt as if my life had ended. I knew the uphill battle to return to school would feel as impossible as climbing Mount Everest. The pain came from knowing I was capable of more. I had deluded myself into fantasizing about greatness instead of disciplining myself to earn it.

In the years that followed, I attended forums and lectures during days off from my job as a dishwasher. Those opportunities allowed me to meet three governors of my state, two senators, two mayors, two congressional representatives, two ambassadors, a prime minister from another country at Harvard University, four presidential candidates, and even to receive a letter from President Obama in early 2017. These moments brought intellectual stimulation and gave me temporary relief from the reality of being a college dropout. They were small triumphs. But I still felt inadequate compared to my former classmates who had moved forward in life. I felt like a fraud when posting photos on Facebook. People assumed I had a career in politics, when in truth I was struggling in obscurity.

Almost a decade after leaving school, I moved closer to the Boston area because my college friends urged me to start fresh, find better work, and eventually return to school. But even now I am still stuck, without money to continue, and with few prospects. Each day I fear I have no future. I often wonder if my existence still matters. I do not want to live an aimless life working joyless jobs for ungrateful people. More than anything, I want to return to school.

What hurts even more is how I have tortured myself for not finishing my degree. I now live four miles from Harvard University, a place where eight presidents graduated. At first, I visited the campus to find peace, to be surrounded by history and academic energy. But recently it has become a place where I mourn my failures and worry that I am running out of time. It is a place I love and hate at the same moment. It represents everything I desire and everything I feel barred from.

One weekday afternoon, after a job interview near the campus, I walked through Harvard Yard and saw a group of students seated in a circle with a professor leading a discussion. I wanted to sit nearby, take notes, and listen. But I knew I was not a student, and I would not belong there. I later walked through the Harvard Kennedy School and saw students eating together, laughing, sharing camaraderie. I wished I was fifteen years younger and part of their world. I walked away, feeling wounded, and cried alone where no one could see me.

On another night in the spring, unable to sleep, I walked more than four miles from my apartment to Harvard Yard. It was past two in the morning. Students were still out talking near the statue of John Harvard. I sat on the steps of Memorial Church, looking across at Widener Library, thinking about my life. A young couple walked hand in hand up the library steps, laughing and chasing each other. Their joy sharpened my awareness of my own loneliness. I have never married or even had a girlfriend, and I mourn the emotional wounds that make it hard for me to open my heart. After hours of silent tears, I walked back home drained and defeated.

This was a difficult entry to write. I had to confront myself honestly for the first time in a public way. I also feared that future employers might see this and judge me unfit for work in government, education, museums, or universities. But I needed this outlet. Writing helps me steady my emotions and try to heal my mind. Even now I feel I have not fully captured the depth of my sadness. I may return to edit this entry in the future.

Above all, I want to return to school, finish what I began, redeem the time I wasted, and finally graduate. I know there will be challenges. I will be older than most of my classmates, and I will probably feel alone, but I will also be more focused. I hope that when I do return, I will find clarity about what comes next. I want to become a historian like David McCullough, one of my heroes. I dream of writing and publishing at least nine books, and perhaps meeting presidents and world leaders along the way.

I struggled to find a proper conclusion for this entry, so I turned to the words of Senator Edward M. Kennedy, spoken at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard on October 25, 1991. He acknowledged his failures and promised to do better. If he could strive for redemption as he faced tragedy and public scrutiny, perhaps I can strive as well. He understood humiliation, suffering, and being underestimated, even within his own family. His story reminds me that becoming better is always possible.

He said, “Individual faults and frailties are no excuse to give in and no exemption from the common obligation to give of ourselves. I feel a special obligation to those who share my hopes for this state and nation who in the past have given me their help and often their hearts. My views on some issues have made some people angry over the years and I accept that as the price of fighting hard for my beliefs. I am painfully aware that the criticism directed at me in recent months involves more than honest disagreements or the usual objections from the far right. It also includes the disappointment of friends and many others who rely on me to fight the good fight. To them I say that I recognize my shortcomings. I realize that I alone am responsible for them and that I must confront them. Today more than ever before, I believe that each of us must struggle not only to make a better world but to make ourselves better too. And in this life, those endeavors are never finished.”

My Tribute to David McCullough (1933-2022)

David Gaub McCullough

(July 7, 1933 – August 7, 2022)

Seventy years ago, on August 7, 1952, President Harry S. Truman held his 311th press conference in the Indian Treaty Room of the Executive Office Building. While much of the nation focused on the upcoming election, Truman spoke of a terrible drought and, more pointedly, of a different crisis: over 29 million adult Americans were not registered to vote.

“The privilege of voting is one of the most treasured rights on earth,” he reminded his audience. “But we cannot have a big vote in this country without a big registration.”

I grew up in Framingham, Massachusetts, thirty-six miles from Hingham. My parents did not instill a love of history, but through PBS programs narrated by David McCullough, a seed was planted.

I first heard his voice in middle school during Ken Burns’ The Civil War. While classmates grew restless, I was transfixed. His narration carried reverence and intimacy, unlike anything I had ever experienced.

In February 2001, I stayed up late to watch “Abraham & Mary Lincoln: A House Divided,” For the first time, I saw Lincoln and Mary Todd not as marble figures but as human beings. Lincoln’s struggle with depression mirrored my own feelings, and McCullough’s voice gave those struggles dignity. I recorded the series on VHS and watched it often. It became a quiet balm while my parents divorced.

Years later, in college, I briefly studied film, thinking I wanted to direct. But I soon realized what I loved were the stories themselves, especially historical ones.

In 2008, I watched the HBO documentary “David McCullough: Painting With Words.” Seeing his life and work laid out with such purpose, I knew I wanted to do what he did. I switched my major to history. My professors praised my papers and encouraged me. But I lacked the money to continue, struggled with required courses I didn’t care for, and eventually dropped out.

That failure led to years of depression and dead-end jobs. Yet McCullough remained a lifeline. At library sales I picked up 1776, John Adams, and Truman for a few dollars each. They weren’t just books to me, they were companions. His words gave me hope that history might still have a place for me.

In 2015, the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum hosted a forum featuring McCullough speaking on The Wright Brothers. I registered at once.

The day of the event, errands delayed me. By the time I arrived, the lecture had ended and the book signing had begun. I bought a copy of The Wright Brothers in the gift shop and joined the long line, nervous but determined.

I even let people pass me, wanting to be last. At one point I offered my place to a kind woman leaving Smith Hall, only to realize later that she was Rosalee, McCullough’s wife. The embarrassment still lingers.

When I noticed his son Geoffrey nearby, I asked if he might take a photo of me with his father. He kindly agreed. When my turn came, Geoffrey said, “Hey Dad, look up and smile. There’s a young man here who wants a picture with you.”

McCullough looked up, smiled warmly, and asked, “Oh? Do I know who he is?” I laughed nervously, but in that instant, I felt seen. Geoffrey snapped the photo. My quiet dream had come true.

I never met him again. Over the next seven years, I collected more of his works and revisited the places he wrote about: Quincy for John Adams, the JFK Library, local celebrations of American history. His words remained a companion, especially during lonely stretches of life.

McCullough often warned of historical illiteracy. In 2011, he told the Wall Street Journal how shocked he was when a college student confessed they hadn’t realized the thirteen colonies were all on the East Coast. He worried that too few Americans knew their own past.

He believed history should not be taught as a chore but as a source of joy. “History isn’t just something that ought to be taught because it will make us better citizens,” he said. “It will make us more thoughtful and understanding human beings. The pleasure of history, like art or music, consists in an expansion of the experience of being alive.”

That philosophy has become mine as well.

From McCullough I have four signed books and a single photograph. But his greater gift is harder to hold: the lessons, the inspiration, and the sense that history can be written with dignity and wonder.

He painted with words. He reminded us that ordinary people can live extraordinary lives. Through his books and his voice, he became my teacher, my mentor, and my quiet companion in lonely seasons.

As Edwin Stanton said of Abraham Lincoln, so too it can be said of David McCullough: “Now he belongs to the ages.”

David McCullough painted with words, not just to inform, but to inspire. He reminded us that ordinary people could live extraordinary lives—and that history, when written with care and reverence, could become a form of art. Through his books and his voice, he became my teacher, my mentor, and a quiet companion in my loneliest seasons. I hope to carry forward a portion of his spirit in the life I’m still building.

As Secretary of War Edwin Stanton said of President Abraham Lincoln when Lincoln breathed his last, so true it will be said of David McCullough: "Now He Belongs To The Ages."

I want to end with a passage from "The American Spirit: Who We Are and What We Stand For," a collection of his speeches:

“The lessons of history are manifold. Nothing happens in isolation. Everything that happens has consequences. We are all part of a larger stream of events, past, present, and future. We are all the beneficiaries of those who went before us — who built the cathedrals, who braved the unknown, who gave of their time and service, and who kept faith in the possibilities of the mind and the human spirit.

A sense of history is an antidote to self-pity and self-importance, of which there is too much in our time. To a large degree, history is a lesson in proportions.”

David McCullough gave us those proportions. Now it is our turn to carry them forward.