Stories at Eleven ©) Bill Oliver 21 November 2004 Vol 8 Issue #34 ISBN: pending Good Evening Nebraskans and all Ships at Sea, There are as many versions of an event as there are witnesses to that event. As time passes and details become fuzzy, other events might enter into the story. Thus, an event might become a composite of events. These thoughts came to mind during the week because several of us talked about the preservation of family “stories”. Years ago my family [aunts, uncles, cousins, Grandma and occasionally one or two other persons who were included as family, would gather at one of the aunt’s homes for “Sunday Dinner”. The men would gather in the living room or the back yard for their discussions while the women would converge in the kitchen for the preparation of the meal and their discussions. The cousins would chase each other around the yard [or neighborhood], up and down the steps of the front porch, in pursuit of their “discussions.” Sometime during the late afternoon the dinner would commence. We would all sit as directed by the matriarch, Grandma Oliver, who like all matriarchs had her own perception of where individuals should sit. If allowed to sit at the main table, cousins were usually spaced between aunts and uncles. I suppose this was stifle any “too friendly” acts of us young’uns. The meal would always begin with a long prayer by Grandma. Then came the joyous and noisy feast, followed by a period of silence interrupted by the clattering of dishes and silverware being removed from the table. This would signal the commencement of “table talk”. Cousins listened while aunts and uncles argued over every conceivable subject of importance. There were stories about family heroes, stories about family experiences, stories of the past, humorous stories, even some tragic stories – all these stories were stories of our family. This was our family Sunday ritual. As I grew older, World War II intervened and my nuclear family drew away from this tradition. While they lasted, no one had to tell me what it meant to be a part of this family. No one had to tell me who I was or give me instructions as to the view points for the folk who gathered together. No one had to explain to me that I belonged. There at that table we were initiated, nurtured, and claimed into the family. There we found our place. I recall to this day, the excitement felt then about the tales told of the youth of my parents and other relatives gathered at that table. These oft told stories were my link to family history. The depression years seemed good years to me. My parents and their friends could buy a deck of cards and a bag of peanuts and have a whole evening’s entertainment. Even though my youth consisted of living on several military bases, World War II seemed remote from me as I grew up. Only after attaining adulthood did the realization come to me that those days during the depression and the world war were less romantic and harsher than my awareness. For many years the search for other family stories has established that every generation of my family has faced their own less than romantic experiences. For example, one of my ancestors lived in the Louisiana Territory, close to the epicenter of the 1812 earthquake that Tecumseh believed was the sign he had visioned to begin the war against the Euros. Another set of great grandparents uprooted themselves from Switzerland to Nebraska when the end of the railroad line was in Red Cloud. They arrived with few belongings, no money and five young children to establish themselves on that frontier prairie. Their first “home” was a “dugout”. Fifteen years later they built their “frame” farmhouse. Another of my great grandfathers was the first casualty of the French and Indian wars at Pittsburgh ... certainly not the greatest statistic. Nor the knowledge that two great grandfathers serving in the same regiment during the War Between the States didn’t return home either. The statistic that please me to retell to my grandchildren is that my Grandma Oliver lived to be 102 years of age before she passed on. And, that she, at age 100, had ninety six living blood descendants. She had five children and she lived to see five generations in each of her lines. Record your stories, good folk, someone will love to read them. e-la-Di-e-das-Di ha-wi nv-wa-do-hi-ya nv-wa-to-hi-ya-da. (May you walk in peace and harmony) Wado, Bill -=- PostScript: Other sites worth visiting: Past articles are archived at: http://archiver.rootsweb.com/th/index/NEBRHeritage http://www.usgennet.org/usa/ne/state/BillsArticles/NebraskaStories/archive.html http://www.olden-times.com/OldtimeNebraska/stories@11/s@e-archive.html