I’m a historian who tells the stories of our nation’s past.

Now, let’s be honest. Storytellers have been a part of our heritage since the earliest days, and those stories are critical to understanding who we are as a nation and how we have developed as this republic that, while flawed and imperfect, still exists as the most noble experiment in the stories of government. We have the documents — the Mayflower Compact, the Fundamental Orders of Connecticut, our Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and its Bill of Rights, and others — but it is the stories that led to those documents, the men and women who designed and served this country through the moments of blessings and the agonies of hardships, that give life to the American text.

Why would I want to write about our past when there are hundreds — no, thousands — of textbooks, interpretative studies, biographies, and timelines available for reading?

My goal is simple: I want young and old readers alike to be awed by their country’s past, stung into action by moments of darkness and inspired to become active, engaged citizens. I truly believe that the future of our country as a sovereign nation of individuals with “certain inalienable rights” requires each of us to understand the colorful tapestry of our past so that we can be informed citizens today who can lead and serve with our eyes looking forward to the future.

I was drawn to history as a field of study because of the stories.

I am the product of a family that loved telling the stories and singing the songs of the past. Much of my childhood was spent surrounded by the elders — my parents and grandparents, several of my great-grandparents, and the multitude of older family friends — who spent Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons gathered on the porches and scattered across the yard in groups of conversation, laughter, and the occasional tear. As an only child, I moved quietly from one story to another, breathing in the history of my family and the region.

I sang “The Wearing of the Green” along with my paternal grandfather long before I knew anything about the centuries of conflicts between the Irish and the English. My grandmother encouraged me to memorize the folk tales and poems of our past and then share them with those weekend audiences. While I had no ancestors that braved the rugged northwest of the Alaskan gold rush era, I knew “The Ballad of Sam McGee” and marveled at the courage of those who explored, fueled by hope and the idea of a new beginning. I ran through the wilderness with Hawkeye and fought alongside the frontiersmen in the French and Indian War. I breathed in the stories of ancestors who had crossed the mountains in defiance of British mandates — ancestors who had worked diligently to secure a promising future for their families, armed with long guns and a faith in their Creator’s promise of grace.

My other grandfather was the family genealogist long before genealogy became a science and digitized sources could easily verify connections. He had learned the stories of his ancestors as his own family gathered around the fireplace on cold evenings. He talked about his namesake immigrant ancestors who had fled the never-ending wars of religion in the low countries in hopes of finding religious freedom and fertile lands. He breathed life into Solomon and his son, Henry, as soldiers of the revolution who left the Pennsylvania valleys after independence and came south to establish a new community and a church that bears their name.

The division of nation and families of the American Civil War seemed almost within my grasp as he recounted the memories of his grandfathers who had fought, one for the Union and one for the Confederacy. His mother, my great-grandmother, would often join the conversation with her mother’s memories of hiding food and horses from the “bushwhackers” that roomed the countryside. I asked question after question; as I grew older, I made notes of the stories and drew charts to trace the familial connections. Their stories became my stories.

Our family’s stories connected directly with the story of the United States. Their experiences encouraged my love of history, which in turn served as the “true north” directing my studies and my profession. Almost a decade of college pursuing the stories, degree by degree, led to scores of years teaching and writing — and still the stories of our past inspire me.

So back to my original question: Why do I write? Why do I want readers to know the history of our nation and our people? I believe that the stories are intrinsic to understanding not just where we have been but how we can correct our course and fulfill the dreams of liberty, equality, and justice. The stories offer meaning and, as humans, we are designed to search for meaning in our existence.

Join me as we learn from the past, connect with the present, and design our future pathways.