More than 10 years ago, my daughter and her family visited me in Asheville, North Carolina. My eldest grandson was about 5 years old. Like lots of kids his age, he adored comic book characters with superhuman powers, and unbeknownst to me, his uncle, my eldest son, told Michael that Grandpa was a superhero. He told the kid: Every night, your grandpa goes out into the city and fights the bad guys.
Later that afternoon, Michael asked me about a sword and scabbard hanging on the wall of my bedroom, a ceremonial sword I had carried long ago as an eighth-grader in military school. After taking that rickety apparatus from the wall, I held it to my side, drew the sword from its scabbard, and with a flourish, aimed it toward the ceiling.
