I am a child of the 50s. Life, it’s been said, was much simpler then. Not quite. Post-war America was churning its way to prosperity. A new baby-boom lifestyle was inventing itself in the suburbs. But baseball was still king, and pennies still useful currency.

We listened to AM radio and learned about the Cold War. Parents expected us to entertain ourselves. We had our job. They had theirs.

Roles drove relationships. Fathers worked hard and came home tired. We didn’t expect much from them, aside from conversations at the dinner table.

My father and I had a warm relationship, but not a particularly intimate one. He had lost his own father at an early age. As a child I sensed that loss. After high school, Dad dutifully followed a favorite uncle’s advice, applying for admission to the U.S. Military Academy at West Point. He spent seven months there before acknowledging he didn’t belong.

Those seven months had a profound effect on him. He told endless stories about life as a lowly plebe, taking abuse from cynical upperclassmen in the name of discipline and military formation. Yet to me West Point seemed a mystical place, filled with clues about Dad’s journey to adulthood. A child’s imagination spinning out of control, I yearned to understand what I could.

Years later, as a young adult married and living on the East Coast, I arranged for my parents and uncle to join me in visiting West Point, just a few hours away.

I grew more excited as the day approached. Somehow I had hoped a bonding experience with Dad would fill holes I found in my own passage to maturity.

We entered through the main gate and began our day. Cadets were moving in all directions. We walked the parade grounds and toured Trophy Point, the Battle Monument, and other historic sites. Everyone enjoyed themselves. But something seemed askew.

It gradually dawned on me. I was now in my early thirties. Those cadets, once symbols of intimidation to my dad, were at least ten years younger than I was. I could no longer recognize them as threats the way he had. West Point now seemed tame to me, its stories no longer menacing. Was this an opportunity missed? A lesson misunderstood?

Our visit ended on a high note. My father and I now had a shared experience. But I also realized the lessons that shaped his own life’s path could not guide me the same way. I would have to forge my own.