Ed Gehrman lives in Quincy, California.
Not the Massachusetts one. The Northern California one — small enough that the coffee shop remembers your order, high enough in the Sierra Nevada foothills that the air still smells like pine sap in May.
One of my favorite ways to make history stick is to look for the hidden thread connecting distant events — not because it makes me a better historian, but because it gives me a story, and stories are how I remember things.
You’re sitting in your favorite café.
The kind with mismatched chairs and a shelf of lending library books near the door — dog-eared paperbacks, a few hardcovers with cracked spines, the occasional journal nobody claimed.
