In my youth I was obsessed with all things military. When I was 5, this huge (for me) red book arrived in our house that I could not effectively carry. It was “Life’s Picture History of World War 2”. That single book was responsible for my learning to read. My parents became alarmed at my insistence on dragging that book around from room to room to the neglect of all else, and they ignored my whining over the fact that I couldn’t climb the stairs to the bedroom with the book in tow. When I suggested we required an upstairs copy, they thought it prudent to drag me before an “expert” for evaluation. His conclusion amounted to my fixation as normal—the big red book as teddy bear substitute. “He’ll outgrow it”. By the time I was 9 or ten, my parents understood the doc was probably mistaken, as my folks concentrated on hiding me from adults in their sphere, lest I steered all conversation toward “war & death”, my derisive nickname as their private joke.