Mark Buske

Growing Up Buske Mark Buske

At the age of seventy, my dad sat down at his desk with a yellow pad of

paper and began writing stories--stories of growing up on a farm and

attending a one-room schoolhouse (Dad graduated top in his class. The only

other eighth grader came in second!) He wrote of his life in the army, of

meeting and marrying my mom, and raising a family on a farm of his own.

He spent the next eleven years adding to his book of stories, sharing them

with anyone who would listen.




It was New Year's Day, 2014, when my folks, Sis, and I had our final lunch

together (We grew up calling the noon meal dinner and the evening meal

supper. Lunch was served when you had family over on Saturday night,

around 9:00 PM, but I digress.) Dad passed away suddenly later that day,

and the job of telling stories passed to me. Initially, writing these stories

down was a way to grieve him.




The project grew and the stories kept coming, especially on evenings Mom

and I spent at her new home "in town". Life on the farm without Dad wasn't

the same, and, anyway, she'd grown tired of mowing the grass. Then, on

New Year's Day, just six years after Dad, Sis and I lost Mom. Our folks had

done everything together for sixty years; I guess we shouldn't have been

surprised.




In these pages you'll find stories that celebrate our family, memories of what

seem like more innocent years, and tales of growing up in rural Illinois.

They are a collection, some from those yellow pad pages of Dad's, some

from the quiet evenings reminiscing with Mom, most from the memories

still clear in my mind.