Around 1980, when I was the regional archivist for the National Archives in southern California — and probably taking myself too seriously — I was driving along the San Diego Freeway with my son Ken, then 11 or 12. A California Highway Patrolman had pulled someone onto the shoulder and appeared to be giving them a ticket. Ken and I began to talk about the police officer and what he did.
Ultimately, Ken asked, “How much does he make?”
“Oh, about as much as I do,” I replied.
“That’s not fair Dad, he does so much more than you do.”