What a privilege to tell stories at the Northwood Historical Society — my home town historical society. They know me — but they invited me anyway. Seldom have I spoken to a crowd where I recognized every face and knew most of the names. They were good hecklers. When crowds talk back, we’re communicating.

I told the story of the poultry inspector at town meeting who got kicked out of the meeting, went outside to his truck, returned to the meeting with his arms full of chickens, and set them loose on the legislative body. Bob Bailey said, “That was Roscoe Demerritt!” So now I have a name to go with the story. Thanks, Bob.

A man named Ron volunteered to tell a story about his honeymoon. His wife didn’t object, much. He’d bought a second-hand car for the occasion. His father said he ought to have it checked out before taking off, but Ron didn’t get around to it.

Bride and groom left the wedding celebration, drove as far as Connecticut. Car broke down. Ron called home — where the party was ongoing — to let folks know what had happened. His dad answered the phone. Ron explained the situation. Next thing he knew, his dad hollered to the assembled. “Ron burnt out his spark plug!”

Sixty-one years later, Ron’s bride blushed.