Childhood memories
are significant. The experiences of childhood shape us and
influence our life choices. Stories about these childhood
experiences, even when somewhat imaginatively enhanced, allow
the storyteller to share the sights and sounds of bygone years.
Many years
ago I discovered William Saroyan and his little book of stories
entitled My Name Is Aram. Saroyan effectively writes about
childhood experiences, and his stories vividly bring to life the
Armenian community in Fresno, California during the early
1900’s. Mundane experiences become subjects for good stories
when seen through the eyes of a child. These stories focus not
only on the child but shed light on the culture that nurtured
the child. No one but Saroyan can write like Saroyan, but his
stories, as those of other writers, remind us of the importance
of sharing our stories.
I write these
stories for my children and grandchildren. If they choose to
read them, it is my hope that they will have a better insight
into how we lived our lives in the Mennonite community in Meade
County, Kansas when I was a boy. We may not have been much
different than other communities, but each community develops
its own personality and often perpetuates its value system from
one generation to the next. The Meade community had some unique
characteristics. These characteristics are rooted in the
circumstances that brought these pioneers to the prairies, and
some of these are reflected in the stories contained here.
The Zielkes and the
Warkentins developed a unique relationship. Cousins and double
cousins, growing up within a few miles of each other,
experienced a close bond. As children, we played together,
celebrated holidays together, worked together in the harvest
fields, and went to school together. We watched our parents
interact with each other and we experienced the aging of our
grandmothers. We heard some of their stories and understood that
our grandparents had been immigrants and pioneers. I have a deep
and continuing affection for these, my people, and am grateful
for the contribution they made to my life.
The stories I share
are, for the most part, not based on profound experiences. Life
for a small boy at Meade was not filled with adventure and
excitement, for the most part. These stories reflect a time and
a place. The time has passed and the place, although no longer
the same, is still there. In many ways, this is still “home” for
me. Often, as I travel west, I feel that I am coming home as I
follow Highway 54. The far horizon seems to beckon, and the
prairie seems a welcome relief from the noise of the city. My
appreciation and affection for the community that nurtured me
will endure throughout my life.
