A bit of His Story.

"A person's never too old for stories, Bill. Man and boy, girl and woman, never too old. We live for them" – Stephen King

 

How I wish this was just a story...

The bombs dropped September 23, 2081 at 6:17 PM.  It was a Tuesday.

But first, a bit about me. 

I was born December 10, 2051 to Helen and Jacob Carson, in rural Iowa.  I was 8lbs, 16 inches.  Average.  Normal.  I was like any growing boy, nothing new to anyone who has watched someone grow.  I excelled in academics, graduating Valedictorian from a small school outside of Waterloo.  I received a special commendation in my History classes.  I love the allure of the past, showing us how people are the same throughout all time.  Fighting.  Always fighting. How I have come to hate that of us. 

I guess that’s what this boils down to though, huh?

But I’m jumping ahead.  

My parents, not unlike me as a child, were nothing but the average pair.  My mother was a teacher at the University of Northern Iowa.  And you guessed it, she taught History.  She got me hooked young, teaching me to read with Tolkien, which is basically a history novel of another land.  As I grew older, she moved me on to textbooks and historical accounts.  I became engrossed with Roman and Greek history, devouring all I could. 

Father was never around much.  Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a dead beat dad or anything.  Just traveling.  He worked for a company in Japan, getting a job there out of business school.  He would spend 8-10 months of the year there, working for Viatech Industries, coming home for the two months, and one weekend every other.  He loved his job, but he loved seeing us more. 

The two solid months he was home were spent on vacation.  Mom and Dad went back and forth every year on the destinations, and I was thrown in the process when I turned 15.  I always chose Rome.  I devoured the city every year. 

Aside from that, we were every bit the normal family.  Went to church (less and less as I pushed myself further into studies, both for school and recreation), had a dog, and even went on the occasional camping trip on Father’s weekends home.

I attended U of I for undergraduate studies, learning more and more on history.  After my years there, I was accepted to Princeton University of History Studies, and thanks to my father’s high paying job, was lucky enough to attend. I didn't take many extracurriculars, but found a love of fencing class.

My mother died while I was in my fifth year, dying as a civilian when a group of CSA militia made a stab into the northern territories.  My hatred of war and first inklings of dislike for the southern nations sprouts.

I went on the get a Doctorate of History and a masters in Archeology, Latin, and Philosophy.   I gained a job at the New York Museum of Natural History, working in the restoration and classification department, "Starting at the bottom" as my Father would have said.  I was awarded this job in my first fall out of school.    

The fall of 2081.