Although any errors of fact, emphasis, or interpretation in this book are wholly my own, I have had a great deal of help in getting Brothers from my head to the printed page. I am grateful to the following institutions for making their resources available: the Concord Museum; the Forbes Library; the Charles Willard Memorial Library; the Enoch Pratt Free Library; the Booth Research Center of the Historical Society of Harford County; and the Bel Air branch of the Harford County Public Library. I am also indebted to the following people for their generous assistance: Mary Butler of Heritage Battle Creek; Juliette Johnson of the Center for Adventist Research at the James White Library, Andrews University; Garth “Duff” Stoltz, former director of Historic Adventist Village in Battle Creek; and Tiffany Hilton and Betsy Cook of the S. White Dickinson Memorial Library.
Thanks to my old Life magazine colleague Sasha Nyary for dogged last-minute research; to Rod Skinner for commenting on drafts of some of these chapters (and for his friendship); to Rob Farnsworth for the four-decades-and-counting conversation; to the Harvard Krokodiloes, my musical band of brothers, for glee and good humor; to Henry Singer for being the honorary fifth Colt brother; and to Mark Patrick O’Donnell for his fraternal example and for his companionship in the Forest of Arden.
For smoothing the way and enabling me to focus my attention on the sentences, I am indebted, once again, to Amanda Urban. For helping me to turn those sentences into this book, thanks to my literary SWAT team at Scribner: Christopher Lin, Mia Crowley-Hald, Carla Jones, Elisa Rivlin, John McGhee, and Kate Lloyd. Special thanks to Nathan Rostron for his judicious editing and to Daniel Burgess for his calm, careful shepherding. Above, all, thanks to Nan Graham for patiently waiting, enthusiastically supporting, and adroitly fine-tuning.
Thanks to my sisters-in-law, Sandy Bell Colt and Cathy Robinson, for not merely tolerating but encouraging Harry, Ned, Mark and me in our fraternal badinage. Thanks to my children, Susannah and Henry, for continuing to teach me what it means to be a sibling and for their example in going the distance whether in writing or running. A shout-out to Biscuit and Bean, guinea pig brothers who provide an ongoing example of how thin the line is between sibling rivalry and sibling love. Thanks to our dog, Typo, who spent much of the five years it took to write this book curled at my feet, perhaps dreaming of his canine brother, Fat Fred.
I am fortunate beyond measure that the best editor with whom I have ever worked happens to be my wife. Anne not only gave successive versions of Brothers the benefit of her unblinking editorial eye but unhesitatingly put her own work aside whenever I needed to parse some half-buried incident from my childhood or to share my excitement at a newly-unearthed detail about the Thoreaus’ Concord Academy curriculum. I thank her for gracing this book with her attention and for blessing its author with her love.
When I was a child my parents taught my brothers and me to savor words by reading aloud to us. Half a century later they graciously allowed me to read aloud much of this manuscript to them. I will always remember our weekly sandwich-and-editing sessions. I am grateful for their helpful comments, for their willingness to answer questions about our family history, and, even more, for their forbearance, gentle guidance, and love. A few years ago, Mark and I were visiting Harry in Maine. We were discussing a childhood mishap when we suddenly found ourselves talking about how many of our core values we learned from our parents. “How to get through difficulties,” Harry said. “The value of hard work,” added Mark. “Loyalty,” I said. The nouns kept coming: Honesty. Independence. Persistence. Forgiveness. For all these—and for giving me three brothers—I will never be able to thank them enough.
“Children born into the same family remember different things and the same things differently,” observes Victoria Glendinning in her biography of Leonard Woolf. Harry, for instance, insists that because his birthday fell at the end of summer, he was never given birthday parties; I recall that precisely because his birthday fell at the end of the summer, Harry was given the most carefully planned and best-attended parties. I don’t remember Ned chasing me with a knife around the kitchen table when he was twelve, though Ned insists that he did. These days, when a disputed memory surfaces, my brothers and I laugh, but each of us is, no doubt, secretly sure he is right. Although I spoke at length with all my brothers about the events described in this book, Brothers is my version of our shared story. My intent is not to define my brothers but to describe my own experience of our fraternal world.
For their generosity—and intestinal fortitude—in allowing me to share my version of our relationships, I owe Harry, Ned, and Mark an unpayable debt. (I’m told that when Ned was asked by someone why he had given his blessing to this book, Ned said, “He’s my brother.”) Their patience and understanding throughout this process have been remarkable. That they know me so well and continue to love me is a gift for which I will always be grateful.