Grandpa Schmitmeyer loves telling stories, and at 85, he's got lots of stories to tell, especially about growing up on a farm in western Ohio in the 1920s and '30s.

On a trip to Ohio for my niece's wedding this past weekend, our family sat around the kitchen table after breakfast — eggs and grits (pork parts cooked with pin oats) — listening as he spun tales about his boyhood.

"I was about 10," Grandpa began, smacking his lips in anticipation of the story he was about to tell, "and there was this light on in an abandoned farmhouse. John Dillinger had escaped from the Lima jail, and people were saying that Dillinger was holed up in the house. They knew if they'd catch him, there'd be a big reward."

As Grandpa told his story, which I have heard many times before, I thought of the other stories he has shared through the years: of his father racing the horse and buggy home from church on Sunday, running neck and neck with the neighbor's horse. Of boys catching varmints and turning their tails or heads in for cash.

Local authorities organized competitions to rid the area of pests, Grandpa explained, and they would pit farms on the east side of the schoolhouse against those on the west. To win, boys would sneak into barns at night in search of sparrows, which they caught with their bare hands. "Some boys would come in to the schoolhouse with a pocketful of sparrows' heads," Grandpa said.

Grandpa also told of his father buying a second farm when he and his brothers got older and the family needed more land to farm. "Pop paid $100 an acre in 1939," he told us, "and my brother Henry sold it (in the early '80s) for $6,000 an acre."

A good student, Grandpa wanted to study agriculture science in college; instead, he left school after the 10th grade to help out on the new farm.

Later that evening, as I watched Grandpa dance with my daughter, Elly, at the wedding reception, I thought about how different their childhood experiences were. Born 66 years after her grandfather, Elly is, in part, defined by the time in which she grew up. Her life encompasses a technological world far different from that of her grandfather's, one in which changes occur faster than the tip of a buggy's whip.

Grandpa grew up during the Great Depression, when farming was done with mules and workhorses and his evening meal consisted of bread and warm milk. Back then, men often married a neighbor's daughter and settled on farms not far from where they lived.

Grandpa met Grandma when her dad, a barn builder, spent several months on the Schmitmeyer farm rebuilding a barn that had burned to the ground. Later this week, on Aug. 23, they'll celebrate their 61st wedding anniversary.

Through the years, Grandpa's been known as a wonderful storyteller. His yarns 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.

Weaving his tale back to the gangsters in the abandoned farmhouse, he concluded: "Armed with rifles and shotguns, the men surrounded the farmhouse at dusk, when their chance for escape was best. The men decided that the two bachelors should go up to the house while the others hid behind trees."

But they didn't find Dillinger, Grandpa said, only men making moonshine.

"They had a heck of a party that night," Grandpa said, chuckling at the memory.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.