In all their stories, and there were many, both of my grandfathers made themselves into the hero.
They always saved the day, or at least the girl. They rescued the kids. They made the other fellow back down. A few of these stories actually happened more or less the way they were told.
The best of these were personal anecdotes that fit into a general context of local history. Like my grandpa prosch’s story about tarring the roof of the Lutheran school, a building now long gone. Or Grandpa Erickson (seen above ca. 1962) recalling the early days of Wausa, Nebraska.
When I tell stories about my life, I’m usually the butt of the joke.
Not my grandpas. Most of the time they pulled it off with a kind of underlying humility that didn’t seem too full of hot air.
Most of the time.