Recently, someone asked me if I had written a book. “Why, yes,” I replied with enough pride to beg the Universe to push me down, “Four, in fact.” “Was one a book about your experiences in the Sixties?” Sigh.

This was not the first nor worst time I’ve been mistaken for Mark Rudd, Sixties Radical and math teacher. My name is Mark and I’m married to Merri Rudd, so this mistake has come up many times. That surprises me, in part, because I wouldn’t expect the wife of a Sixties Radical to take his name.

I think the worst such experience occurred at a party. I was introduced to a doctor as, “Merri’s husband, Mark.” “Oh,” he exclaimed, “I’ve been wanting to meet you for so long.” I beamed. “Tell me about the Weather Underground.” I stopped beaming. (As Wikipedia will tell youngsters, this is not the service that reports weather information but a domestic terrorism organization.)

The funniest of these mix-ups involved a phone call I received at home one night twenty years ago. “Hi, this is Mark,” I said, as I did when I used to answer the phone. “Mark! I’m with Columbia University. We’re interviewing people about their experiences in the Sixties. Do you have a minute?” “Sure,” I replied. Hell, I remember the Sixties. I don’t remember how long into the conversation the caller asked, “Are you Mark Rudd?” “Uh, no.” Click. Sigh.

Can you imagine what it is like to disappoint people when they find out you’re not who they expected? I just hope someday, someone says to the Mark Rudd, “I really like your book on digital photography.”

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testing RSS feeds – please ignore.

Twenty-five years ago today, I left most of my friends and my family and the place I called home for 20 years – Alexandria, Virginia. I never expected it of myself. I like to move and had many times, but mostly around Northern Virginia. (After the big move from my first life in Hawai’i, to my second life in Virginia.) It says something that I deliberately left on Friday the Thirteenth. In the few weeks prior, one of my best friends had given birth to her first daughter and my Mother had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. (Had she not responded so well to her first treatments, I might not have left that day.)

I still love the friends I left behind and think often of my misadventures among them. I still miss the DC-area just before my birthday, when the flowers there are spectacular. I don’t miss the traffic, the crowds, or even the cultural amenities.

Twenty-five years ago today, I left comfort and security behind to join Merri in New Mexico. I love her, this place, and our friends here. It’s good to be home.