Designing a Life of Curiosity: Gary McKechnie ’26MLS’s Commencement Address

“Liberal studies isn’t political. It’s magical”

Thank you, everyone—to the commencement organizers, faculty, families, and friends.

This experience is a lot different than my graduation from Winter Park High. I’m actually allowed to attend this one. Back then, the teachers had some crazy “rule” that you can’t start a food fight at senior class breakfast.

This afternoon, I’ll reflect on my Rollins journey, which I hope ties into feelings and experiences we all share—about how each of us got started and have kept moving forward. I got moving back in the winter of 1975 when I was thirteen years old. I’m reading a great book called Working by Studs Terkel. He’d interviewed adults about their careers and professions, and one particular profile caught my attention.

A young guy had landed a steady job with a good paycheck, great benefits, and, best of all, a two-week vacation. Then one day at his desk, he did the math and it hit him. Fifty-two weeks divided by two is 26. That meant he would have to work 26 years for the company just for one year to himself. He left that company and began designing his own life.

That started me thinking: if I designed my own life, that meant I could pursue anything that sparked my curiosity. I’d receive a personalized education that worked for me. The tough thing is, back then there were hundreds of books on careers, but not a single one that could take me in the direction I was going. I would have to figure things out for myself.

I’m not saying my way works for everyone. You may follow a different path. But where I was heading felt right to me.

But leaving high school ranked 853 out of 912 students, I needed confidence. My favorite teacher, Mrs. Zirot, lent me some of hers. That was exactly what I needed. I enrolled at Valencia College, and that’s when things started to make sense. That’s where I learned how to write. Mrs. Steffancin, my journalism teacher, put me on the newspaper staff. I wrote a humor column. I was starting to gain confidence. I was starting to design my life.

I took some of my columns to the Funny Farm, a comedy club in Orlando. The manager, Bill Cross, was nice enough to read them—but he was even nicer to actually pay me for writing sketches for his comedy troupe, as well as bits to use on his morning radio show. And I’m only a sophomore.

After leaving Valencia, I earned my bachelor’s degree at the University of Central Florida. The day after graduation, I was on a plane heading overseas to backpack solo across Europe. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I thought the plane had hit turbulence, but it was just my heart pounding. I was on my own. I was scared. I had a few hundred bucks in my pocket, no smartphone, of course, but worst of all, no family or friends where I was going. After I landed, I didn’t know anyone within 3,000 miles.

I’ve had decades to look back, and the best part was how that experience tested me. It forced me to figure things out. I found work where I could, slept where I could, and ate what I could afford—which became a lot harder after the little money I had was stolen in Scotland.

Seven months later, I had backpacked, hitchhiked, and jumped trains from the tip of Great Britain to the shores of Greece. It was kind of like college. It was always challenging, sometimes scary, but ultimately rewarding. In a way, this was a post-graduate education. I learned I had the ability to work my way out of any situation.

Back home, my first “real jobs” were at two different advertising agencies—but after each one fired me after six months, I noticed a pattern. I was 26, basically out of work, and had no direction. My mom passed away, and I wasn’t doing her memory any good. I had to think back to what I had learned at 13. I had to get busy—and I’d have to do it on my own.

I struggled as a freelance copywriter at first. Then after a few years I realized, with just a few minor revisions, I could become a travel writer. I had cracked the code. I could get paid to take vacations. I could go anywhere that caught my attention. Something or someplace would spark an idea, then I’d figure out a way to get there. Through curiosity and trusting my instincts, I was designing my life.

My articles began appearing across America in newspapers and magazines, but over time it started to become routine. I started thinking about writing a book about touring America on a motorcycle.

So I pitched 60 publishers on the idea—and I got 60 positive replies. They all said positively no. But when I cold-called No. 61, the editor asked me, “Where have you been? We’ve been looking for someone to write that book.” I got the contract.

My wife Nancy and I sold the house and hit the road. We spent the next year exploring the U.S., and Great American Motorcycle Tours became the nation’s best-selling motorcycle guidebook.

Once, while I was riding down U.S. 101 in California, I got an idea. I cold-called National Geographic, reached an editor, told him I wanted to write about 101 iconic American landmarks and experiences, and a few weeks later I had a contract to write USA 101.

My range was about to expand even more. The day that book came out, I found the phone number of the Cunard Line in England—their ships sail all around the world. I called them up, asked to speak to someone in their entertainment department, and a director picked up. I asked if Cunard worked with speakers. She said yes. I told her about my new book, and long story short, they invited me to join their Insights Series. Since 2009, I’ve had the privilege of sailing to ports around the world, lecturing on American history and musical icons.

While all this was going on, Nancy and I opened a bed and breakfast in Mount Dora. We also started producing shows and festivals. I began teaching history in D.C., started nonprofits for public projects, and ran for Florida State Senate. It all was rooted in that same passion I had as a kid.

But sometimes life gets in the way. Four years ago, I was airlifted to Orlando for emergency surgery. A disc had ruptured in my back, and I was paralyzed from my chest down. I spent four days in intensive care, 10 days in in-patient rehab, and three months learning to walk again. I added being paralyzed to a long list of fascinating experiences.

If you want to know how dependent we are on others—and how compassionate and caring people can be—just have a paramedic pick you up off the floor because you can’t move, or have a nurse walk you to the shower because your legs are almost useless. That introduces a level of humility and gratitude that never goes away. Thank you, Dr. Cory Hartman and the specialists at AdventHealth.

Now throw a pandemic in the mix, and I knew it was time for another challenge. I had stacked up 40 years of experiences—but it had also been 40 years since I had been in a classroom. I had no idea if I could earn a master’s degree, but I knew I wanted to try. Then someone pointed out that by the time I graduated, I’d be 63. So? I’d be 63 anyway—but now I’d be a 63-year-old with a master’s degree.

Some people asked how much money I’d make with a master’s degree. I never even thought of that. It never crossed my mind. What’s wrong with learning for the pleasure of it? As Emerson said, “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

Now remember all of this—everything I’ve told you, every single bit of it—relates to you. I may have done things differently, but you have also been on your own journey, one driven by the same sense of passion, curiosity, and discovery I used. That’s why we’re all here today at Rollins College.

This is where I discovered the Master of Liberal Studies Program. That’s a perfect fit for any lifelong learner. I studied religion, theatre, art, government, science, literature, philosophy, and history. Don’t let anyone fool you—liberal studies isn’t political. It’s magical. It’s magical when people who have been dead for more than 2,000 years actually talk to you.

And you wouldn’t believe some of the people I met in class. Socrates, Machiavelli, Zora Neale Hurston, and Isaac Newton. Marie Antoinette, the artist Vigée Le Brun, Einstein, and Aristophanes—God, he’s funny. Read The Clouds about a dad who sends his son to college. It was written 2,400 years ago, and you’d think he based it on a modern family.

I was introduced to Shakespeare. I read James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, Meditations by the incredible Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, and my absolute favorite, Miguel Cervantes. His masterpiece Don Quixote is 400 years old, and it’s like he wrote it yesterday—the greatest work of fiction ever written, and the funniest book I’ve ever read.

This has been an incredible journey—not just for me, but for all of us. And I know some of you are anxious about the future. Join the club. There have been times when I was flat broke, in tears, and felt hopeless—but I’m not the only one. That’s just life. Don’t dwell on it. You’ll be alright.

Let me remind you of something: I already know you’ve got what it takes. The fact you’re here shows you’re curious. It shows you’re passionate and determined. You want proof? In the first grade, you didn’t think you could draw a turkey with your hand—and now you’re here as college graduates. Think about it: there has not been one obstacle that stopped you from getting here, has there?

From now on, if anyone ever asks if you “got” your degree from Rollins, just say, “No, I didn’t get it—I earned it.” Always remember, you earned this honor.