From the Director’s Chair

By Jim Giles

In November my grandfather died peacefully in a Veteran’s Administration hospital room in Indianapolis. It was not sudden, but rather the result of a small stroke that capped off a difficult several months for a man that had lived a full 89 years.

During the 34 years that I knew him, this man had always seemed old. From my earliest memories, Grandpa, whose real name was Ernest Gordon Giles, or otherwise known as “pop” to four sons, or to most, simply, Bud, he was old. He walked with a limp from arthritis and two hip replacements, had a bald head, and somehow remembered the owners and residents of every parcel of land in Boone County for the last 50 years- a feat I always thought to be amazing. These few details I gleaned from my parents or through eavesdropping at the dinner table (not to be confused with the evening meal served at the grandparent’s house as “supper”).

Beyond these scattered bits, however, I honestly didn’t know a great deal about large chunks of Grandpa’s life. Sure we had the family genealogy from the last several generations that my grandmother dutifully updated on her ancient Smith-Corona. A marriage here, a new baby there and much to her chagrin more divorces than she cared to acknowledge. But the stories that made up the man had always been elusive.

At the funeral service in the small town United Methodist Church where he had been a trustee (an example of my spotty knowledge) a young student pastor shared more about his life than many of us, including immediate family, had ever known. As she read a passage from a VFW book using my grandfather’s own words to describe his 48 months in an infantry division in World War II, I sat wide eyed.

He had written the following: “The largest invasion force in history was now being assembled all along the east coast. 300 ships in all, we embarked on our way to invade North Africa on October 24, 1942. It took 26 days on the water. Our amphibious training was tested here, as a very rough landing was encountered. Rocky cliffs and rough waves were a real challenge and a few men drowned. Enemy machine guns were encountered. Our company Commander was killed the first day, November 8, 1942. I will always remember this day, as my first son was born on that date.”

Ernest Gordon “Bud” Giles circa 1942.

An understanding wave engulfed us, including myself, my father (that first son), my grandmother-- his wife of 59 years--and not to mention the hundreds gathered at the funeral whose lives he had touched. Here was a piece that began to fill in the puzzle of how this seemingly unimposing man could persevere and thrive while managing a small midwestern farm for over 60 years. He raised a family, participated in a large extended one, dutifully farmed the land and raised cattle, participated in his community and was a friend to many. And yet what remains for me to touch is the Kinko’s produced copy of his funeral homily and the excerpt from the veteran’s magazine.

My ignorance is interesting. On one hand I never asked my grandfather to tell me about his past. But, on the other we were told not to. Therein lies a struggle that while not as epic as the chicken and the egg, begs the question - how then do we know history-if we do not ask - and if we do not tell.

The responsibility of preserving history lies with each of us. In talking with our family, our neighbors, and our teachers, doors can be opened and we can be regaled with the stories of the distant and not so distant past that may fascinate us – challenge us – and inspire us. And then in telling that same story again and again we give that all back. Recently I finished reading Tom Brokaw’s book, The Greatest Generation, which tells the story of men and women whose lives were touched in every manner imaginable by WWII. From that reading I moved on to one of Kansas City’s favorite sons, Ed Matheny’s book, The Pursuit of A Ruptured Duck. While I will never get to hear my grandfather tell me about his stories or the battles and hardships he endured I know through the written word just a taste of what it meant to others.

This is the mission of the Jackson County Historical Society and within these pages lies proof of its commitment - stories about our county and its rich and wonderful heritage. Stories about people and places that make it one of the most exciting places in our country. And most of all, stories that document and make accessible history for all. I challenge you today to read them, share them, and join us in making history. We are…dedicated to the future of the past.