Both my father, Dave, and his younger brother, Keith, are storytellers.
They live across the country from each other, Keith in Oregon and my dad, Dave, in Illinois. If I could have, I would have gotten them in a room together, given them a beer, and pushed, “Record.” As it is, I asked them to write to me about their childhoods in the late 1940s and 1950s in Franklin Park, Illinois. Below are their emails. (Storytellers tend to drone on, so this is Part II of II. You can read the first post HERE.)
I couldn’t wait to get up in the morning. I used to walk up Britta, carrying my baseball bat and glove. By the time I got to the high school [Leyden] at the end of our street, I usually had enough kids to start a small baseball game. Everything was sandlot in those…
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