583 Armistice Day, November 11, 1918

My parents were small children when the First World War ended in 1918. They didn't know each other, but lived in adjoining counties in Illinois, and their one room rural schools were located just a few miles apart. Both were members of the Church of the Brethren, which had taken the word "German" out of its name just a few years earlier.

Both of them told me the same story about their memories of the end of the war. When I was young, I don't think it ever occurred to me to ask about World War I. WWII seemed the defining war of their generation, since my father was a Marine and my mother had moved with her four little children to be near his military base during the war. For my generation, kitchen clean up after meals when mothers and daughters worked together washing and drying dishes was the time to talk. I think that is when I heard the family stories passed down. Dishwashers and restaurant meals have probably created a huge generational story gap.

However, I didn't hear about WWI memories until sometime in the early 1990s. I had interviewed my father for an oral history to include in a family recipe collection for a reunion of the descendants of his parents who had died in 1983. I had interviewed my mother about her parents' personal library for two articles I wrote. Both recalled in their 80s the first Armistice Day (now called Veterans' Day) even though they were 5 and 6 years old. I imagine they listened in on adult conversations and caught the fear and dread that griped their communities. My mother's father who was 44 was registered for the draft. And although I haven't seen the record, I would assume my father's father, who was a much younger man, did too.

There were no radios or television, and newspapers would have been too slow. So the plan was to ring bells when word came to the nearest town that the armistice had been signed. The church bells would be rung; then each farmer would begin to ring the bells they used on the farm; then the next farmer a few miles further away would hear and begin ringing his bells. Both my parents had exactly the same memory of that first Armistice Day--hearing bells tolling throughout the countryside from all sides. The war was over.