Grandpa Schmitmeyer relaxed in his seat at the head of the table. Several of the grandchildren had already gotten down from the dinner table to play, but the older kids lingered, listening to Grandpa tell a story about growing up on an Ohio dairy farm in the 1920s and '30s.

"Well, there was a light on in this old abandoned farmhouse," Grandpa began, smacking his lips in anticipation of the story he was about to tell. "John Dillinger, a famous bank robber, had just escaped from the Lima jail, and the neighboring farmers were convinced that Dillinger was holed up in that house. They knew if they could catch him, they'd get the reward money."

As Grandpa told his story, which I have heard several times before, I thought of the other stories he has shared through the years: Of racing home from Sunday church in a horse and buggy, running neck and neck against the neighbor's horse; of nickel dances at the local dance hall; of meeting Grandma Schmitmeyer when her father, a barn builder, came to the farm to rebuild the big barn that had burned to the ground.

Grandpa, now 82 years old, is the consummate storyteller. His stories unfold at an easy pace, and he tells them with an enthusiasm that mirrors the excitement he must have felt when they happened so many decades ago.

Listening to Grandpa tell the Dillinger story at a family gathering earlier this summer, I was reminded of StoryCorp, a national storytelling project that documents peoples' personal stories.

StoryCorp has been recording these stories at a New York studio as well as in two mobile studios that have been making their way across the United States since October 2003, when the project began.

Individuals record their stories in an interview-type setting, with the help of a family member or friend asking them questions, and some of the stories are being aired weekly on National Public Radio. The recordings eventually will become part of the oral history collection at the American Folklife Center, part of the Library of Congress.

Among the many stories documented have been that of the inventor of the hot dog vending machine, a Ukrainian immigrant who talked about the early days of his business; of a sportscaster on opening day at Yankee Stadium in 1956; and of a graduate student who is battling a fatal blood disease while attending school.

Although Grandpa didn't share his boyhood tale with StoryCorp when the mobile unit passed through Columbus, Ohio, last month, I wish he had. Listeners would have learned how the farmers, armed with rifles and shotguns, surrounded the abandoned farmhouse at dusk, when their chance for escape was best.

Two bachelors in the group, not having family obligations, were designated by the farmers as the ones to approach the house while the others hid behind trees, their guns raised in readiness.

When the bachelors knocked on the door, though, it wasn't Dillinger they found, but two farmers making moonshine whiskey.

"The only reward those farmers got that night was the whiskey," said Grandpa, "but you can bet they had quite a party."

There are so many wonderful stories to be told, and I applaud StoryCorp's effort to document some of them. Otherwise, like Grandpa's story, they become as ephemeral as mayflies.