My Dad could start a conversation with anyone, even a perfect stranger, and before you knew it, they were an open book. He used to say, “Everyone, no matter who they are, what they do, or where they come from, has a unique story worth telling.” Guided by my Dad’s words and Sarah’s encouragement to write a memoir, I started going through photographs, documents, and other memorabilia I saved over the years. When I found an old photograph of my grandmother wearing a stylish hat and a beautiful smile, I was drawn to her dark, penetrating eyes and couldn’t turn away.

I stared at her face for the longest time and got teary-eyed for not asking her questions about her life when I had the chance - stories I could have passed on to my kids and grandkids. I joined an ancestry website hoping to find information about both sides of my family. I started a family tree but didn’t get far on my Mom’s side. I discovered the names of distant relatives and received a world map highlighting Romania in purple, informing me I was 79% Ashkenazi Jew.

But instead of maps, percentages, and cousins’ names far removed, I wanted stories. I began reaching out to relatives and found out my parents were children of immigrants who came to America in the early 1900s. When my Dad was twelve, his older brother, Joe, changed the family name from “Slomowitz” to “Sloan” because people with Jewish names couldn’t find jobs in New York. I discovered Dad had a first cousin, Max Sloan, who owned and operated the largest grocery store chain in New York City, “Sloan’s Supermarkets.” I wondered why Dad never mentioned a word about Max, Max’s family, or Sloan’s Grocery - A story worth telling but now lost.

Had I known at the young age of twenty-nine that both my parents, who were the center of my world, would be gone in the next couple years, I would have bombarded them with questions and begged them for more stories about their lives. I’m now in my seventies, my kids are in their forties, and my grandsons are close to the ages my grandmothers’ were when they immigrated to this country. It occurred to me going through my memorabilia, how many "unique" stories were bubbling inside me; all I needed to do was take action.

I grabbed my computer and began writing my first story, “Why Didn’t I Ask More Questions?” The more I wrote, the more connections and purpose I found in reliving and recounting the past. Even the book’s title, “The Hippie & The Marine,” kept me smiling and focused for a long time, but it wasn’t until Rocky agreed to add a few stories of his own that I knew there was no turning back. Dad, you were right when you said there are unique stories inside all of us, and you would be happy to know I’ve written a few of my own.

You’ll find short stories about family, childhood memories, the rebellious 60s and 70s, and observations on religion, politics, the Vietnam War, love, music, the arts, living with MS, and more. Sarah, Jake, and my brothers, Steve and Bobby, added some gems of their own, and Bennett’s description of meeting Joe Biden in 2019 when he was fifteen is priceless. But first, two important definitions…

HIPPIES:  free-spirited young people who reject established culture and advocate liberalism in politics and lifestyle. In broader terms, hippies usually have long hair parted in the middle and dress unconventionally. This hippie lived in San Francisco in 1969 and marched against the Vietnam War.

MARINES: distinguished by their mission, their training, and their heroism. Marines are not called soldiers; they’re Marines! They serve on air, land, and sea, and “Once a Marine, Always a Marine.” This Marine was a Captain in the Marine Corps and fought in Vietnam, in the air, on land, and sea. Semper Fi. Always Faithful.