I have always thought myself to be more of a story teller than a writer. In my judgment, a writer knows the difference between a verb and adverb. A noun and a pronoun. For myself, I believe I can tell a story and make it enjoyable for others to hear or read, but don’t ask me about an adverb or pronoun.

I have been fortunate in my life to have met others that I consider to be excellent story tellers. In my case, four men whose verbal skills made their storytelling interesting for others. They possessed a unique ability to add small details or a change in facial expression while telling a story that made the listener want to hear more. Unfortunately, those men I am referring to have passed into history. But, I believe if I refine my story telling abilities and make my stories enjoyable, I may continue their legacy in my own words. It would be impossible not to admit they gave me inspiration to retell a story, and do it with a bit of their individual skills.

The first storyteller was a man named Buck Burlingame. I wish that I could tell you I knew Buck’s first name, but I never asked during my visits with him. I guess I’ll never know his real name, he was just Buck in my memories. By the time in my life when I first met him, I remember him to be an old man. He lived in a small house in Burlington on the old road coming from out the creek. I would ride my bike to town and Buck would be sitting on his porch. I would stop and he would tell me of the days when he knew my dad in his younger days. Later, I got my first motorcycle at the age of fifteen. As I passed, he would motion for me to stop and talk. He admired my shiny new Honda. Then he would proudly tell me of his Indian motorcycle he rode in his younger days. I was fascinated by his stories on the open road in his youth. Now the truth was, I never saw Buck’s motorcycle and I have only his stories to verify he ever had one. But I enjoyed his colorful tales of riding a genuine Indian.

The second story teller I had the good fortune of knowing was Lemoyne Coffield. I first knew him as my family doctor. I came to know him as a story teller after he retired. Occasionally, I would stop by his home and he would tell me of a time when he began practicing medicine. He also talked of watching the community grow. He told me stories of Bruce Pool and how it came to be built. Once he told me of his decision to become a physician. There was a time when he was deciding what to do with his life, and he was not sure he wanted to become a doctor. He credited his father for helping him to make the final decision. His stories of the early days of his medical practice were interesting and enjoyable to hear. I remember him as a gentle spoken man and I very much enjoyed hearing about his life and living in our community as it grew.

The third man I remember was by profession a story teller. Or maybe more accurately, he was a chronicler of the town’s history, Jim Fitsimmons. Jim was a man of remarkable memories of the town and the people who made it what it is today. Or should I say what it was at one time. His job working for the newspaper gave him insight in the community as it built itself with the help of its local citizens. Jim seemed to believe that the community was more about those people and their lives. I very much enjoyed going by the museum that he and his other history friends started in the old Wells building. When I visited, he would show me new things people had brought by for display. Each artifact had a story, and Jim knew every word of it. He was proud of what he and others had built for the community to visit and glimpse into our past. I miss Jim and our talks in the museum.

The last man I will tell you of is the best story teller I ever had the privilege of knowing, Wayne McCaskey. I knew Wayne from work and also as part of the community. Now, Wayne was a true story teller in every sense of the word. He knew when to embellish a point in a story or when to pause and let you think before continuing. He had the ability to pull a person into his story by asking a question in the middle of the tale. He did that just to see if you were paying attention or merely listening to his words. He might come to a point where something went bump in the night, he would then suddenly slap his hands together making you jump. Sometimes he would ask you a question as he was telling the story hoping you would have your own ideas where his story was going. He was entertaining and a walking history book.

All four of these men I had the privilege of sitting down with and drinking a cup of coffee while listening to their stories and tales of yesteryear. Were they embellished and added to in each retelling, maybe. But these men were part of a long tradition of passing history and stories down to the next generation by word of mouth.

Before the written words of man, stories of family, great hunts, unknown events in the night sky and even the first words of faith were told in images on walls and around night fires. Today the future is being told inside electronic devices where our digital images of thoughts, and words are bits of arranged electrons. We feel comfortable storing world events and the birth of new children in this electron universe. I wonder, in ten thousand years the first drawings of mankind will still be on the walls of cave and cliff dwellings. Will the words of today’s events still be around for mankind’s descendants to read as they look Through the Lens.