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.