This is where I am from

When people ask me where I am from I always hestitate because everyone seems to be so critical and judgmental. I guess I don't feel like telling people where I am from on the map can give them a clear idea of where I am really from. The people I am from. The love I am from.
My Dad just sent me the story below. Read it and you will have a better idea about where I am from. It's not a state or a town. It's people and their stories. That's where I come from.

Storytellers by Perry Ross

There were at least six storytellers that had a big impact on me during my childhood. There was a cousin, Herb Beard; my grandfather, Perry Mendenhall; Dave Ross, another cousin; a childhood friend named Billy Jackson; and, of course, my mother and father who had a profound impact on me.

Herb was a colorful character that lived along the Skunk River near Faulkner Bridge. He had red hair and was always dressed in bib overalls and seldom wore shoes. He usually didn't wear a shirt under the overalls. The only time I ever saw him with shoes and a shirt was when he came to town and in the wintertime when we visited his house. I am not sure if he owned a coat.

The thing I remember about Herb's stories is that they started almost before you saw him so by the time he got to you he was well into it. He could weave a tail that he swore was true. There are the stories Herb told and then there are many stories about him that I will tell in time.

My grandfather, Perry, was a great storyteller and shared his tales with a smile. He was a great fisherman as well, which naturally goes hand in hand with storytelling. Back before television, great sources of stories were neighbors, friends and relatives who brought news when they came to visit. My mother says in her childhood days her home was a beehive of visitors…everyone with stories to tell and I am sure Grandpa did his share.

Dave Ross, my father's cousin, visited our home many times as I grew up. He originally was from the Merrimac area and liked to reminisce with my father. He often came around Old Threshers time. Each time he came he brought new stories and memories. He was so funny that many times I couldn't contain myself and I would burst out laughing even before he started to talk. Dave watched the stories play out in the eyes of his listeners and could tell when the story was going well and when to add a new twist. He would often begin to get this slight smile on the left side of his lips when he could see the story was going well. Dad taped many of Dave's stories. One I remember was the time Dave went to the doctors in Ottumwa to have a cancerous spot removed from his nose. He said, “They cut me up so bad I didn't know what piece to bring home!” We laughed hard every time he told us that one!

Billy Jackson came to our house regularly as we grew up. He would often show up and stay forever. My mother often had to prompt him repeatedly when it was time for him to go home. I guess he must have liked us. Billy could weave a story like no one else. He would start out with something completely believable and it would grow until it couldn't possibly be true. All the time he would watch your reaction and carve out the story. Most of the time, I think, he knew he wasn't fooling us but that didn't stop him from trying.

Of course, the truly great storytellers in my family were my parents. My mother can paint stories with words that could draw in any listener. I remember, at bedtime, her weaving stories for me using the images on the wallpaper in my bedroom. That wallpaper is still there. When you visit sometime look for the stories on the wall. They are still there. She can make a story out of anything! Mother is such a master of words that she can create vivid images in a line and a whole story in a poem. She still tells about her days with Lucille, the time the gypsies came to their house, riding her horse, her doll being thrown down the cistern, and many more.

My father savored good stories and searched them out by reading, researching, listening to others, and drawing on his own imagination. He would track down local folklore and try to determine if there was some truth to it. I remember him tracking down a story about a boy being killed in the mill at Merrimac. The story was that a boy working there was sent to the third floor of the mill to oil the gears. They were huge and he was pulled into them and crushed. Dad said he saw the blood stains on the floor when he was a boy. For sometime the old timers he talked to said it didn't happen but then his research led him to the Fairfield Ledger with a possible name and a three-year range that it might have happened. After pouring over microfiche of the papers for hours he found the newspaper story about the incident. He was elated.

Although storytelling is entertaining it was and is how we make sense of our life experiences. Sometimes they have to be told over and over before they begin to make sense. I often say, “there is no stopping a good story” It is fundamentally necessary to our existence. Without stories we can never learn. Listen to the stories. Listen to your own story.