I am no historian, just a student of history, fascinated by the stories told by so many others who have come long before me, stories that help me understand why I am who I am, how I got here and to some degree, why I came back after so many year living in other places far away from here.

Even as a little boy as young as three or four years old, I was entranced by the many stories I heard my grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends of the families in our little community tell about their earliest memories.

I found it hard to believe that people as old as they, were ever as young as I back then. I was amazed to learn that old people were not always old, that they used to be young and little just like me.

What caught my attention the most were the stories they had been told when they were young, stories that their grandparents and parents had told them and they grandly repeated filled with exaggeration and hyperbole.

They spoke of horses, mules and buggies and ice boxes and coal and of water wells and wash boards and they always told stories about farms and especially about trains.

Since I grew up around railroad tracks, the train stories always grabbed my strictest attention, particularly those about the Underground Railroad. I could just imagine it rolling underground, deep inside dark tunnels that led from the Deep South all the way to Canada and back, packed full of happy travelers eager to come to Niagara Falls to see the water and eat hot peanuts and popcorn, candy and ice cream just like we did as kids when my parents would take us down there to Falls Street when it was what it was.

Of course, as I grew up and older I came to a different understanding of a lot of things, especially the Underground Railroad.

Since I was old enough to know better, I have taken the time, a lot of time to study and research that whole thing we now conveniently refer to as the Underground Railroad. I am no expert but I do know a little.

I have built a small library of books on the subject and as time permits, I frequently browse through them in some effort I suppose, to replace the voices of my grandparents and others now long gone.

So when I was asked a few months ago to speak at a local school as part of their Black History Month observance, I immediately accepted the offer and inked it into my little black book along with directions to the school and the time I was to appear. I decided that I would talk about, what else ... the Underground Railroad.

I headed into my study and pulled a book off the shelf, “Sketches in the History of the Underground Railroad” by Eber M. Pettit, originally published in 1879. Mine is a reprint copyrighted in 1999 by Chautauqua Region Press.

As Paul Leone notes in his Introduction in the 1999 publication, “The Underground Railroad was just being distinguished by that descriptive name when James and Eber Pettit established their stations along the Lake Erie shoreline in Western New York.”

After paging through that book I selected another, and then another, I was prepared to deliver nothing short of a dissertation on the subject of the Underground Railroad in Western New York and its connections to Niagara Falls, N.Y.

I was absolutely determined that the students I would lecture would leave with a clearer understanding of the subject, with names, dates, places and facts about the Underground Railroad and how it operated in Western New York.

A day before I was to make the presentation I went over everything a few times, and I called the school to confirm my appearance.

I had learned a long time ago that “cramming” for an exam was probably not the best way to prepare, that actually learning and knowing the subject matter, rather than trying to memorize it was the better way to prepare, a lesson that Linda Silvestri, playwright and director/producer with the Western Door Playhouse with whom I have worked at the at the Niagara Arts and Cultural Center’s Woodbox Theater had also taught me.

So I knew my stuff and I was ready!

The next day, with time to spare, I headed to my destination. When I arrived, I realized that I had landed at the Prince of Peace Church and School campus at 1055 Military Road. Perplexed, I thought I was in the wrong place. I was looking for something called the Catholic Academy of Niagara Falls.

I drove around to the back, parked and tried to enter the locked doors. Clearly there were people in there, the parking lot was nearly half full. Eventually someone heard my panicked knocking and let me in.

When I explained who I was and what I was there for, I was escorted to a classroom filled with eager faced four year olds and a teacher, Miss Maria as she was introduced, who seemed very glad to see me.

I had arrived at the Catholic Academy of Niagara Falls: The Elementary Site, exactly where I was supposed to be, but not exactly prepared for 30 bouncing, but well-behaved little cherubs.

Miss Maria, actually Maria Arist introduced me to her class and in unison they all welcomed me. I took a deep breath and quickly dismissed my dissertation.

It was story telling time and I had suddenly traded places with my grandparents.

Arist had already primed them. She had been reading to them as they sat quietly on the floor looking at the oversized print pictures in the big book on the little tripod in the front of the class.

I took my seat and listened to the rest of the story, and then it was my turn.

I told them that I used to be young and little just like them, and I smiled when a few of them rolled their eyes in disbelief, but as soon as I mentioned the words Underground Railroad, they were ready to hear the rest of the story, which was all about treating each other fairly despite our differences.

I know that some of them probably dreamed that night about trains under the ground filled with happy people on their way to Niagara Falls for peanuts, popcorn and candy and some of them may just wonder, “what in the world was he talking about?”

And that’s all right too.

Contact Bill at: bill.bradberry@yahoo.com.