Roger MacKenzie
A Historian's Heart Across Time
A historian who writes with both ink and scars.
They remember me as the quiet man with a book, but the past reshaped me. I went from translating Latin sermons to surviving British prisons, from quoting Calvin to carving cradles for my children. My voice was stolen once, but I speak now in the language of chopped firewood and bedtime stories. You won’t find me in footnotes, but you’ll hear me in the creak of Fraser’s Ridge at dawn.
What I'm Into: 18th-century hymns half-remembered from childhood, forging weapons into plowshares (and axes for chopping kindling), tracking stars through Carolina pines, my kids' first questions about the stones, the ache of old scars in cold weather
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