I think I’m going to just jump in and start telling a story.
When I think of telling stories we have to go back many years ago. The history of telling stories called “oral tradition” with the Native American Indians was commonplace. Oklahoma State Historical Society has written a whole section on oral traditions, folklore and narrative that explains how they kept their stories alive. (More to come relating to Sycamore Springs on this subject).
Many years ago my family would receive letters and postcards (that is another story) from family members who were missionaries. It was always a long letter that you always had to “jump in” somewhere and start reading because it was written all over the page not in an orderly way. They had great words of wisdom in every letter that we received.
So, in order for me to tell this story I have to “jump in” somewhere and start telling my story.
I think it was from the movie “Amistad”, one of the slaves said that “we are products of our past, we are who we are because of who and where we came from” (not a complete quote). I truly believe the words are true.
I remember an incident as a young child when my grandparents’ home was being sold and where they were no longer able to take care of it. The family had an auction to sell off the furniture and extra belongings.
I was too young to know what was important to keep and my parents allowed the neighbor men to clear out the house, cupboards and drawers too. My father only allowed my mother to keep a few pieces. The men focused on the things that seemed most important and hauled the rest of the things to a ditch to be burned later (this was in the early 1960s when you could do this).
My mother had enough sense to know that there were probably documents that needed to be kept and we went down to where they were going to burn the pile and we picked through most of it and she chose a bag full of papers and photos that should be saved. Years later, she gave those to me and I tucked them away in the attic for many more years.
I can remember one winter when we had lots of snow in Kansas and we could not go anywhere, I was depressed and just needed some kind of a lift. I had put all those old papers in an antique chest of drawers where it didn’t have handles. For some reason, I felt really drawn to that the drawer.
I got a screwdriver out and you know how you wiggle the end on each side until you get the drawer partially to open? There in the drawer were old family pictures and letters that were just scattered. I decided it was time to make sense of what was going on since I love to organize everything.
There were old photos from my grandfather’s side of the family. He had grown up in Hillsdale, Michigan and later moved to Nebraska with my grandmother.
My grandfather was a lay preacher. In the messed up papers and pictures there were a bundle of his letters. They were handwritten letters tied together with a string.
More to come….