People are natural storytellers and a good story can live for generations. My family, for example, still recalls a particularly cold winter back in the mid-1800s; the Mississippi River froze over completely and our forebearers skated back and forth across it.
I grew up hearing stories like this all the time. When I was a kid we had more tornado warnings than we do now and we’d often sit huddled in the basement while the sirens blared. My dad would pass the time by telling stories to my brother and me about a kid he knew named Billy Huff. Poor Billy – it was in the depths of the depression and Billy had a lot of older sisters. Because money was so tight Billy had to wear his sisters’ hand-me-down bloomers. And that was just the start of Billy’s troubles. Though it wasn’t nice to laugh at Billy’s misfortunes, it did take our minds off our impending doom.
My mother took things a step farther – she wrote stories and my brother and I would often fall asleep to the sound of her typing. Sometimes she chronicled the misadventures of our family and her stories would appear in the Omaha World-Herald’s Magazine of the Midlands – half the state knew how hapless we were. I think the worst (and funniest) was about the time she had the flu and sent my dad and my brother and me grocery shopping. As we approached the checkout line my brother asked if the purse in our cart was Dad’s. I’ll never forget the look on Dad’s face – we’d been putting our groceries in someone else’s cart. We quickly abandoned that cart and started all over again.
My great-aunt, Ruby Wright, told lots of stories about growing up in the 1800s but sadly, I’ve forgotten most of them. One that’s stayed with me, though, was told while I was rummaging through some old things she had packed away in her basement. I came across a delicate porcelain vessel with a long, narrow spout that looked like Aladdin’s lamp. Aunt Ruby explained that her adopted son, Eddie – who I’d heard many stories about – had been very ill before he came to live with her. His heart had been damaged by the illness (probably rheumatic fever) and when he was in his early 20s it gave out. At the end of his life he was so weak he couldn’t even raise his head to drink; Ruby had given him broth from this strange device, sticking the narrow spout into the corner of his mouth.
My grandfather Russ, though, told more stories than everyone else combined. Stories about growing up in early Albion; stories about trains and homemade skis (not too useful on the nearly-flat prairie). Stories about fighting with his twin brother Ray and about learning cuss words by sitting near the outhouse listening to “Old Man Stout” – an elderly man his family lived with and cared for (and the namesake of Stout’s Addition to Albion) – when he hadn’t been eating enough fiber.
I guess that’s why I like to tell stories – I grew up immersed in them. Stories are an important part of what binds a family – and sometimes a community – together.
So I’m very pleased to be working with others in our community to tell the story of Albion’s WWI hero, Manderson Lehr. Several local organizations are joining together this July to mark the 100th anniversary of his having been killed in action. Manderson’s tale is worth knowing, and events are being planned to make sure this important story from our community’s past isn’t forgotten.
It’s come to my attention that my columns haven’t been appearing in the Albion News for some time now. Worse yet, I’m told that my space has been filled by some talented young newcomer named Gabby – who, believe it or not – is a woman! I suppose if I actually subscribed to the News I’d have known all this sooner, but really, who ever heard of a woman in the newspaper business!
It all started some months ago when “Big Jim” – that’s what Editor Dickerson’s friends call him – summoned me to his office. “What’s up, Big Jim?” I asked when I arrived. “That’s Editor Dickerson to you, Hosford!” “Yes sir!” I squeaked.
“Hosford, I want to get to the bottom of what’s happening in Washington. There’s too much fake news floating around. Here’s $25 and a bus ticket. Get to Washington on the double and send me the real stories.”
Wow! This was the chance I’d been waiting for during all my 37 years as an unpaid intern. I headed off that very afternoon.
The Secret Service looked at me funny when I presented my credentials, but they let me in just in time for Sarah Huckabee-Sanders’ daily press conference. I knew she was a crusty character and I was prepared for some serious verbal jousting. My chance came sooner than I expected. Before starting, she squinted at me and said “Hey, new guy, is that your nose or are you eating a banana?”
I quickly stuffed my half-eaten banana into my pocket. “What paper are you from?” she demanded. “The Albion News,” I stammered. “Oh, Big Jim’s paper. He only publishes fake news.” And that was the last time she paid any attention to me even though I had a long list of questions, like what President Trump planned to do about the starving Armenians or the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa.
That is, until later in the day. $25 doesn’t go very far in our nation’s Capital, so after the press conference I looked around the White House for someone who could give me a lead on a cheap room. But I couldn’t find a soul. I eventually settled into an unused bedroom until I could find better accommodations.
The banana in my pocket was all squished so I went looking for the White House kitchen. It was empty, too, until Ms. Huckabee-Sanders came in. She seemed a little surprised to see me but told me to make her a sandwich. I learned later that the few people still there mostly ate McDonalds’ take-out – all they had was baloney so I made that for her while I drank the Kool-Aid.
After finishing her sandwich Ms. Huckabee-Sanders said, “Look, fella, you want the real story of what’s going on? I’ll give you the low down on things if you’ll get me something to eat besides baloney. The stuff I tell at the press conferences is all spun for the lame-stream media. But I can give you the real story. Just think how impressed Big Jim will be.”
She had a deal, and in exchange for a box of Twinkies every day I got the inside scoop. I sent all the stories back to Editor Dickerson via teletype – “Trump saves bus full of nuns!” “Trump beats Putin at checkers!” “Trump named Mr. Universe!” I could just see readership of the News skyrocketing because of my reporting.
But when my $25 finally ran out I had to come back to Albion and ask for more. You can imagine my surprise when Big Jim – er, I mean Editor Dickerson – read me the riot act for not sending any stories! I told him I’d teletyped a story every day, but he said the News hadn’t had a teletype in 40 years. Geez, like it’s my fault they haven’t kept up with technology!
After a lot of begging I got my unpaid internship back, but with the stipulation that I have to subscribe to the News so I know what’s in it (like I can afford that). So I’m back, but I still can’t get over Editor Dickerson not having a teletype – or allowing a woman to write for his newspaper!