The little girl sat down quickly on her grandfather’s lap, eagerly awaiting her nightly bedtime story.  Her grandfather shifted a bit on the big soft chair as to get into a comfortable position.  Tonight he was going to tell a very important story.
     The girl turned her big brown eyes to her grandfather’s wrinkled face, as if to say, “Hurry up!”  Grandfather seemed to sense her tension and thus began his story.
     “Tonight,” he began, “I am going to tell you a very special story.  Listen to it carefully, so you will be able to remember it always.”
     The little girl changed her smile into a solemn frown, as if she was about to undertake a dangerous mission.
    “Yes, Grandpa.” 
     She folded her little hands into her lap and focused all her attention on her grandpa who continued, “A long time ago, far before you or even your parents were born, there was a young boy whose name was Henry.  Henry lived in Russia with his aunt Sophia and his uncle Jacob because his own parents had died when he was very young.  Life was not good for Henry in Russia.  His family did not have much because they were not allowed to have good jobs.  They were immigrants in Russia.  Many years before Henry had been born his family had moved from Germany to Russia in search of freedom, but they had not found it.  They had tried their best but now realized they that must move on.  Besides, Henry was approaching the age when many boys were drafted into the Russian Army.  His aunt and uncle wanted him to have the freedom to choose what he wanted to do with his life, so they decided to make the harrowing journey to America.  A land, it was said, that was flowing with milk and honey.  First, they made the long journey to France where they boarded a ship called the S.S. Mosel.  It was a big ship that took them across the cold waters of the Atlantic Ocean to America.
     When they finally reached America they began to discover a true freedom, and a sense of belonging that they had never found in Russia.
     Henry was a young man by this time and he had decided to live in a small town named Kaylor, located on the Dakota prairie.  It was here that he married a lovely woman named Christina and raised his 13 children.
     Henry’s firstborn son’s name was Fredrick.  Fredrick had 5 children and he also lived in Kaylor next to his father.  One cold, snowy night, Henry was out driving with two of Fredrick’s brothers, when the car slid off the road and rolled into the ditch.  All three men were found and brought back to Henry’s house, where Christina tried everything she could to fix their scrapes and wounds.  Fredrick’s brothers seemed to be fine, with only minor injuries, but Henry was hurt very badly. 
      All of Henry’s grandchildren gathered around him, wondering what would happen to their grandpa.  Fredrick’s little four year old son watched his grandpa slowly slip away and tucked the memory in the back of his mind, never to forget his grandpa.
     That little boy grew up, married, and had a family of his own.  He lived on a farm not far from where his grandpa had lived.  He eventually moved to a ranch near a tiny town called Piedmont, when his 6 children where older.  He lived there for a long time, but he never forgot his grandpa.  He told all his children and grandchildren of this special man who had come to America so that his children could live in true freedom.”
Grandpa stopped and looked at the little girl in his arms.
      “Is that the end of the story, Grandpa?”  She asked.
      “Oh no,” Grandpa said, “This story never ends.”
      “What do you mean, Grandpa?  Is it a long story?”
      “No, child, it’s a true story, so it never ends.”
     The little girl thought about this for a while, and then asked, “What was the little boy’s name?  The little boy that told his children and grandchildren stories of his grandpa.”
     “His name is Ruben.”
     “But, Grandpa, that’s your name!”
     “That’s right.”
     “Then the little boy was….?”
     “The little boy was me.”
      “So the people in your story, were your dad and your grandpa?”
     “Yes, child, you’re right again.”
     “So the story never will end then.  Because I am part of the story and I am still going.”
      “Yes, “laughed Grandpa, “You are definitely still going.  But the story could end.”
      “How’s that?”
      “Well, you could forget the story, or you could forget to tell it to your grandchildren.”
      “So…..” the little girl considered this for a long time, “So this story is very special, because if I don’t tell it to anyone, than it will disappear when I am gone someday, and no one will ever know where we came from, and Henry and Fredrick’s stories will disappear with me.”
    “That’s right.”
     “But that can’t happen!  I won’t let it happen!  If it does, than, eventually, no one will know where they came from.  Don’t worry, Grandpa, I won’t forget.”
     Eight years later the, not-so-little-anymore, girl is sitting on her bed, writing.  Writing a story that her grandpa had told her when she was a little girl.  She was going off to college soon, and she knew that she must write it down before she goes.  Before she gets too caught up in the hectic world she’ll live in after college.  She puts down her pencil, sighs, and gathers up her papers.  She grabs her car keys and heads out the door.
     On the drive, she thinks about what she has just written and what she is going to do with it.
     She finally reaches her destination.  The green grounds stretch on for what seems to be miles.  White stones rise up like columns, in rows, marking places where past heroes now sleep.  She parks her car and walks over a hill to a small grassy knoll.  Her grandfather’s name comes into view and she sits on the ground next to the cool, hard stone.  She pulls out her notebook full of her writings and holds them close to her body.
     “Grandpa? “she whispers to the air, “I just wanted to tell you thank you.  Thank you for telling me your story.  My story.  Thank you for telling me of its importance.  I wrote it all down -everything you told me.  The story will not be forgotten.  I will not forget.”
     Her vision blurs and she walks back to her car.  And as she walked she could not help feeling as though a torch had been passed to her.  She knew it was her job, now, to keep the torch lit and, when it was time, to pass it on.
     Her owns words echoed back in her mind as she started home, “I will never forget.”

 Author’s note
 All the people in this story are true.  Henry was my great-great grandpa, Fredrick was my great grandpa, and Ruben was my grandpa.  I am the little girl, and this story that I have written is entirely true.  When I was deciding what I was going to write I thought about writing another plain research paper that would basically mean nothing to me personally.  Instead, I decided to dig through my family’s own history and tell my story and one of the reasons why it is so important to me.   All information in this story was found in the Bertsch family genealogy research papers.