There comes a point in many of our lives when the stories our parents told us stop being simply family stories.

They become history.

And suddenly, we realize that if somebody doesn’t preserve them, they can disappear.

My friend Marshall Terrill has done something about that.

Marshall returns to Boomerocity for our fourth interview together to talk about what may be his most personal book yet, Dust, Copper and Curveballs: A Globe–Miami Childhood.

The book brings to life the memories and experiences of Marshall’s late father and, through them, a piece of Arizona and America that is rapidly fading from living memory.

His father grew up in Arizona’s Globe-Miami mining country, where copper wasn’t merely an industry. It helped define the rhythm and identity of the community. This was a childhood of sunbaked streets, neighborhood baseball and kids who didn’t need expensive equipment—or electronics—to create a game. Sometimes a bottle cap and a little imagination were enough.

Those experiences helped shape a man who would go on to serve his country, become an Air Force colonel and educator, and devote countless hours to serving his community.

But Dust, Copper and Curveballs isn't simply a chronology of accomplishments. It is about the making of the man.

That distinction makes my conversation with Marshall especially interesting.

Marshall and I originally met through two people very special to both of us: our late mutual friend Ken Mansfield and Nancy Lee Andrews. Over the years since, Marshall and I have become good friends, which means this conversation naturally goes places beyond the usual author-and-interviewer exchange.

We talk about his dad.

We talk about what Marshall discovered while working with his father's memories and recorded conversations.

We talk about Globe-Miami and the kind of community that existed during his father's childhood.

And inevitably, we talk about legacy.

For Baby Boomers especially, that subject is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore because many of us have already lost one or both parents. With them went stories we assumed we'd always have another opportunity to ask about. Who was that person in the photograph? What really happened when you were a kid? How did Grandpa meet Grandma? What was your father like? What scared you? What did you dream of becoming?

There is always another question . . . until there isn't another opportunity to ask it.

That is one reason I believe books such as Dust, Copper and Curveballs matter beyond the family whose name appears on the cover.

Marshall preserved his father's story.

In doing so, he also preserved a small piece of the American story—the lives of people who worked, served, raised families, volunteered in their communities and rarely thought anyone would someday consider what they did to be history.

Perhaps that's the larger lesson.

Our family stories don't have to involve fame to matter. They matter because they happened. They matter because they explain something about who our parents were. And, if we're paying attention, they may explain quite a bit about who we became.

My fourth conversation with Marshall Terrill is about a book. But it's really about something much bigger.

It's about remembering where—and who—we came from.

Marshall Terrill - The Fourth Boomerocity Interview

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