On February 14th, 2025, the Committee on Public Awareness (COPA) offered a storytelling event called “Finding Aid to My Soul: For the Love of Archives.”
This is one of the stories shared during that event.

The Last of the Thursday Morning Crew

Between the ages of about 11 to 15, I spent every Thursday morning having coffee with my grandpa and his friends. I would wake up early, he’d pick me up, and we’d drive downtown to the local bakery. He’d buy me a giant cinnamon roll, he’d get his coffee, and we’d sit around a table with his friends, where they would spend the next few hours solving the world’s problems or just talking about their week before or the week coming up. 

None of these men understood why this young girl enjoyed spending her Thursday mornings with them. And to be honest, I never really thought much about it. I enjoyed hearing their stories. I enjoyed feeling like a part of the group. It made me feel special. But really, I just liked spending time with my grandpa. Over the years, I heard 1000s of stories, and to be honest, I can’t tell you a single one today, but I did learn about these four old men. 

I enjoyed hearing their stories.

There was Ted, who was a pilot, a telegrapher, a photographer, and he learned how to cut cakes in the Navy, which he brought up every birthday as he passed out these beautifully cut pieces around the table.

There was Tom, who was a less frequent attendee of these meetings, but he was calm and always listening. I know a little less about him. I know he worked for the University, and for some reason, my young mind always equated him to a turtle. Don’t ask me why, but I still think of him as a turtle today.

There was Dick, who was a postman who loved discussing the rural routes on the edge of town and the best way to get from point A to point B. And well into his 70s, was prided himself on the fact that he still had brown hair while everyone else on the table, par me, was gray or going bald. 

And then there was Louis. He was my favorite. He was my grandpa’s best friend. He had served in the army, he had driven [a] truck, and he spent the latter years of his life helping others, most notably the widow of his former employer. 

Eventually, I started public high school and Thursday mornings were no longer my own, but every school break, you would find me at that table with those men, discussing the world and the town and everything in between. And eventually I started college, and a couple years in, I lost the first, Louis. Broke my heart. By the time I had finished grad school, I was the last of the Thursday morning crew left, which is a side-effect of being 60 years junior of your friends, but I think of them often to this day and drink coffee on all of their birthdays. 

I think of them often to this day and drink coffee on all of their birthdays. 

I eventually got a job at my local university archive, and in the following years, I was able to have coffee with each of these men again, at least once, if not a few times. 

The most frequent was Ted, who I initially found in a college yearbook. A photograph with him having a camera around his neck, he had served on the yearbook staff. This was before World War Two, when he left to serve, and he never returned to the university to get his degree. But he did return to town and became the photographer, and I often found [him] developing envelopes and local collections I was processing. 

And then there was Tom, who I had found in some staff and faculty photographs from the 60s, as I rehoused them. Turns out he had been a counselor at the university, which contradicted my memory of him being an AG professor, which goes to show that I might not have always been paying the closest attention on Thursday mornings.

There was Dick, who I didn’t necessarily find in the archive, though I’m sure he’s there somewhere. But every time I needed to move exhibit cases from one part of campus to another, we used his son’s moving company, and every time I saw the truck, I smiled. 

And then there was Louis. Again I didn’t find him exactly, but I did find his parents, who had participated in an oral history project in the 70s, discussing their migration from Italy to the rural area and their experiences there raising their family. I had no idea he was the son of Italian immigrants, but it made sense. 

Through my time in the archives. Over those years, I got to have coffee at least once with each of these men which bring brought joy to my heart and to this day, every time, every morning, I drive to work, and I see in a restaurant window backlit a group of old men sitting around a table drinking coffee, and it’s all my heart’s desire to pull over and see if I can join and maybe help them solve some of the world’s problems.