If I had only found this book in high school – and had been fluent in German at 15 – I would have been a lot smarter in history class, particularly when I was forced to stay studying at home as a result of the infamous “Hot Dog Incident” of 1990.

When I was 15, I was trotting along main street in my hometown of Ridgefield, Connecticut to get a hot dog, as one does on a suburban Saturday. My high school class mates will fondly remember ‘Chez Lenard,’ the god of the town gourmet hot dog stand. When we “went into town,” which was the only thing to do in Ridgefield, a visit to the stand was the adventurous highlight.

On this particular day, I never got the hot dog because I was hit by a car.

I didn’t look both ways when crossing the street, as often happens to those hit by cars. Ultimately, I was fine, but my poor mother watched from the car and had a Mom Freakout, as anyone with a child (or five) would do.

[Fear not: this is not a tangent, we'll get to the book.]

I was home for awhile, recovering from some bruises, but had to keep up with my schoolwork. While generally a good student, I loathed ancient history class. It was likely the only class in which I ever received less than a B.

I would rather stick a fork in my eye than read my ancient history text book.

But there I was, stuck at home, with pages and pages of essays to write about what I read in Chapters 2-10. I remember it vividly since it was associated with the hot dog car incident, which is one of those incidents that are hard to forget.

Fast forward 18 years. When I first started reading Gombrich’s A Little History of the World, I thought, “Here we go again.” Snore. But it was recommended to me as different, easy to understand, fun to read. Even with that assurance, I was skeptical that ancient history and fun were related.

I was wrong.

From the start, Gombrich enlists the reader on a journey, taking her or him on a pilgrimage from ‘before there were any people’ up to the end of World War II. That’s a long time to cover in 280 pages.

But he does it masterfully, in a style written for young readers – and yay! – we adult readers like it. Simple sentences, easy explanations and wit. Chapter titles like “An Unlucky King and Lucky King,” and “Heroes and Their Weapons,” wrap it all up in digestible morsels with factual information.

What’s even better is that it covers more than American and British history, which is most of what we were taught in the U.S., China, Turkey, Africa are all included equally.

And yes, while Gombrich illustrates that history *does* repeat itself, he doesn’t write the same bland comatose-invoking text over and over. It’s fresh in each chapter.

Thankfully, I received it as a gift two years ago; since then, I’ve given it as a gift to 5 people, who’ve all attested to resulting increased intelligence. You will be smarter after reading this book, I promise. Like “Jeopardy” smarter. If you aren’t, I guarantee your money back on the purchase.

P.S.: I’m fine since the car accident, just have a bit of sciatica, which I mostly attribute to aging. I don’t eat hot dogs anymore.

How did you learn about history when you were growing up? Any favorite historical topics that keep you coming back for more?

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Not long ago, I visited Ecuador on a short holiday. I spent my time hiking, horse-back riding interviewing and hanging out with locals, trying to perfect my mediocre Spanish.

As with all of my adventures, I met so many great people along the way. One of them was Mignon Plaza, who owns and runs Hacienda San Agustin de Callo, a magical palace right outside of Quito, Ecuador. San Agustin is replete with rich history, culture and adventure – I noticed it the minute I was greeted at the entrance.

After I finished my horseback ride, Mignon and I had coffee, chatted about life and our interests. I shared my writing and marketing experience and my obsession with researching and capturing the stories of the global cultures, people, places and things. Mignon graciously invited me to come stay with her and the staff there to help capture the San Agustin story, brainstorm innovative ideas to help raise awareness of this exquisite cultural destination and spend time with the magnificent people of the village.

Of course, accepting this invitation was a no-brainer. I am eternally grateful and hope this is one of many such projects and expeditions I’ll lead during my lifetime.

I have a million ideas, completed many weeks of research, outlined my activities and planned a few intended adventures during my stay. I know not all of this will go according to plan, and that’s the part of the expedition that I love.

To round this out though, I need your thoughts, your creative minds, your insightful angles.

What do you want to hear about from the expedition? Questions I should ask the people to help bring the culture alive in words, photos and video? Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below – let’s make this a collective project!

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This is another guest post from my Dad, Ron. He loves to tell stories – you can read Dad’s previous TJCC guest posts here.

You did not misread the title.

Yes, my Mom . . . that sweet little Italian lady . . . was a bootlegger.

Here is the true story:

Following World War I and into the early 1920′s (Jun 16, 1919 thru Dec 5, 1932 to be exact, the 18th Amendment to the United States Constitution prohibited “… the manufacture, sale, or transportation of intoxicating liquors within, the importation thereof into … or the exportation thereof from …. the United States and all territory ….”.

This meant: legal booze was ‘out ’.

My father and mother were married in Italy on January 6, 1920, and emigrated to the US a short time after. My sister Adeline was born about 2 years later (followed by 4 more children, my birth being the last). During this period of time, Mom took care of the house, cooked breakfasts, lunches and dinners for everyone, including the boarders living in our house, and did all the laundry by hand. The greatest gift she received years later was a washing machine!

In her abundant spare time, she made the wine, beer, and ‘bathtub’ gin, all of which she sold for about $1 a gallon for wine or beer, and “who-knows-how-much” for the gin. This process went on for a number of years.

Then one day in 1932, in the depths of the U.S. economic depression, she walked into the Peekskill Savings Bank (one of three private banks in New York State that didn’t fail), and plunked down $5000 dollars (!) to pay off the mortgage on the house.

The president of the bank, Mr. Gish, boisterously welcomed her and made sure those waiting in line to withdraw their money (for fear that the bank would fail) heard his loud comment that “Mrs. Cococcia is depositing HER money”. Well, just about everyone in town knew and trusted Mom, so most of them left their money in the accounts. Until the day he died, Mr. Gish always said that Mrs. Cococcia saved the bank from failing.

A follow-on part of the story deals with my father’s construction business. When he needed a loan for a new truck, all my father had to do was mention it to Mr. Gish who, unhesitatingly, gave him the loan and ‘took care of the paperwork’ himself, personally. Mr. Gish never forgot the good deed my Mom had done for the bank.

None of the children – my three sisters, my brother, nor I – knew about Mom’s bootlegging career path.

The Discovery

The first “clue” (and at the time we didn’t know it was a “clue”) happened at Mom’s funeral wake. One of the family friends – Mr. Aloysio – (who owned a dog that understood only Italian) – commented to me in his best English: “Ronnie, she made-uh the best-uh wine .”

I had no idea what he was talking about. My thought was he was saying the requisite nice thing about the deceased person, and it got lost in his translation to English.

About 6 months later, my brother and I were cleaning out the basement of our house. My brother found a case of beer, bottles un-opened, covered with much dust. While examining the bottles (no, the examination did not involve drinking that stuff), my father happened to walk in. My brother exclaimed: “Pop! We found a case of beer! ” My father hurriedly and immediately said to get rid of it. But my brother persisted, and my father finally admitted
it was beer our mother made, and left over from the “old days”.

He then told us the whole story about Mom and her “career” in banking; he had kept it secret all of those years so that none of the children would think badly of their mother.

Of course, all the other families knew about Mom’s bootlegging business, but they too maintained the ‘omertà ’.

And that, dear readers, was my wonderful Mom.

What family stories or traditions still live on until this day? What lesson or memory stands out the most for you?

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