Grandma Jobe spent her entire life living in either Brownsville, Indiana, or Rural Route 1, Brownsville on the family farm.

In her final years, she lived on the farm with her only child, Huburt, and family – my dad and our family. There, Grandma shared a bedroom with her only granddaughter, me.

She slept in a plain twin bed, but as grandmas do, she bought me a new, double one – a white, four-poster with a light-blue canopy and matching bedspread. I loved it.

She told me many of her life’s stories, as well as those handed down from her mother, Sarah “Sally Ann" Whetsel. Both of our mothers had us later in life, so the tales date to the middle-1800s.

They were stories that reached deep into not only the history and heritage of one typical, Hoosier family taking up a small spot in the cornfields of Indiana, situated on the Whitewater River banks, in and  near the Union County village of Brownsville.

These were tales that heard now, seem to transcend one family and reach into American history: stories that included Indians and Abe, as well as local drama.

I was 9 or 10 when, armed with grandma’s stories in my mind and imagination, I penned an essay called, “The Good Old, Bad Old, Days of Brownsville.” I still have it because my mother saved everything.

The piece took second place in the 4-H essay contest, and I got a check! Never mind that the prize was $7 (if memory serves) and there were probably all of three in the competition. It was my first essay, ever. And at age 9 or 10, I was paid for writing it.

Fast forward thousands of essays, letters, feature and news stories, columns, emails, and blog posts later, not to mention about a half century’s worth of time.

A year ago my friend Janis Thornton told me that Indiana University Press was accepting essays for a book called Undeniably Indiana. She said what editors wanted were Hoosier essays and that this project had my name written all over it and I should hurry up and enter because the deadline was near.

So I sat down and updated those stories, simple, old ones you don’t hear firsthand anymore, ones that came from Grandma, and from her mother; sort of a fiftysomething granddaughter rewrites grandma’s memories. Somehow, it felt like the article I should submit.

And guess what? The piece was chosen for inclusion.

Still, I didn’t say too much about it or get up my hopes in case it got bumped.

So when Undeniably Indiana was recently released, I held my breath and bought it on Kindle.

Grandma’s stories are there, on pages 147-148. Of course, tons of other people’s stories are there too, but I had to see hers first. (You know you’d do the same.) Then I picked up the printed version.

I read my piece aloud last weekend on the Union County Courthouse square, not far from the original sites mentioned in the essay. It was broadcast over the public address, this summary of 170 years of community history as reported from the Whetsel-Jobe-Cronk women.

This is ironic when you consider that I was asked to participate for the weekend as a storyteller.

Those coordinating the program didn’t even know going in about this essay.
I’ll read the piece again next week – as I talk about the importance of families sharing multi-generational stories and talking to one another in this age of electronic devices during family night at a local elementary school. I was asked to give the opening program.

This just occurred to me: Grandma would be proud.

We’ve come full circle: Sally Ann from the mid-1800s, Hazel from the late 1800s to 1968, and me, still at it – storytellers.

Donna Cronk is author of two novels inspired by her Union County hometown. They are on Amazon or available from the author. The first is Sweetland of Liberty Bed & Breakfast. The new one is That Sweet Place: At Home in the Heartland. Cronk enjoys giving inspirational programs. She welcomes subscribers to this website. Reach her at [email protected].

Often it's the non-obvious thing someone says that inspires a column or blog. Here's a little story I didn't think at the time about telling, so I didn't get the lady's name.

While spending the weekend on the Union County Courthouse square  peddling books, I relished visiting other people's booths.

I bought a gift at the fiber-arts tent where several women were giving demonstrations and showcasing their beautiful handmade rugs, knitted, and crocheted pieces.

I struck up a conversation with a fiber artist in her 80s. I figured she was old-time Union County, but no. After a busy career and life in Ohio, she retired in her 70s and set upon a quest to relocate to a place of her choosing.

She found Liberty, Indiana, in an Internet search. Her main criteria? A spot on the map with a thriving fiber-arts organization. She found two in or around Liberty. Then she found a house that suited her, complete with wonderful drinking water from a well, something important to her. But here's what sealed the deal:  When she passed the courthouse and spotted the Templeton Cabin, she said that's it: She's moving to Liberty.

A decade later, she still loves it.

Isn't it interesting what connects someone to a place? For me, Liberty is home and history. But this woman had different criteria that suited her wants, needs, and dreams.

Thanks to the Founders Day Committee for including me, and a huge thanks to Kelly Finch for the invitation, encouragement and the use of a tent.

The fundraiser set a new record. Only one regret from me: I should have bid higher on the black lantern.