The Detour that told a Story

The Detour That Told a Story

As we were driving through Iowa, we noticed a few signs—one in particular caught our attention: “Hannibal” That sparked something in us. Hannibal? Isn’t that Mark Twain’s town? But we were in Iowa... weren’t we? Turns out, we were closer to Hannibal, Missouri than we thought. Curiosity got the better of us, so we took the exit to check it out.And we were glad we did.

Hannibal is a charming little town—almost like stepping into a time capsule. The whole place feels preserved, like history held its breath. Each old building proudly displays a sign out front telling its history: who built it, who bought it next, who lived there—stories layered on top of stories. We stood where Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher supposedly grew up. It was surreal.

Naturally, we had to stop into Becky’s Ice Cream Parlor. Inside, we were spinning a rack of bumper stickers, laughing and reading them aloud, when we met a couple on their way out. They told us about a special event happening that night: The Liars’ Storytelling Weekend. You could actually win a prize for telling the best tall tale!

Later, we saw a man wearing a shirt that said, “I Got Caught Lying at the Tall Tales Storytelling Festival.” It was too cute. We were supposed to be staying a couple hours east of there that night, but decided to play it by ear. After all, Hannibal sits right on the Mississippi River, and we thought it would be the perfect sunny day for a riverboat ride. We were already sunblocked and ready.

But the boat had other plans.

The captain came out and apologized—after 17 years, it was the first time he had to cancel a ride. Mechanical issues. We were disappointed, but not deterred. Our money was refunded, and we figured, “Why not just stay a little longer and check out the town more? We'll go to the storytelling tonight, then see about lodging later.”

Well, turns out Peggy’s hotel reservation hadn’t gone through. So there we were, searching for a place to stay in Missouri. We eventually found one, and thank goodness we did—because that evening storytelling event was something we’ll never forget.

It was the 11th Annual Storytelling Weekend in Missouri, and the crowd was buzzing to see Dr. Gladys Coggswell. She’s been a huge inspiration to the storytelling community. Despite aging, vision issues, and memory decline, she still came to share her heart. She brought a flashlight, large print, a magnifier... but the words didn’t come as easily as they used to. Still, you could feel her love for storytelling. When she sang Down by the Riverside, the whole room fell silent in awe.

There were other storytellers too: one spun a tale about Daniel Boone, another wove a Mark Twain story, and Dr. Gladys’ apprentice—Angela Wilson—delivered a story from her own life. Her family had run the only minority-owned funeral home in town. Despite the heavy topic, she told it with humor and heart. We laughed, we cried. She described doing someone’s eyebrows once on a deceased body (under pressure from her dad), and how he was always her superhero. When the day came that she had to prepare him for burial—giving him his last haircut in the very business he built—it was heartbreaking, but beautiful.

It made me think deeply. Listening to these strangers felt like listening to family. Even though they weren’t my people, their stories felt familiar—comforting, grounding. I started to reflect on my own roots.

Now, I realize how much those moments matter. I want to retell their stories the best I can and pass them down—because I worry this next generation might miss out. We're losing those porch talks, the campfire tales, the "remember when" moments that help us know who we are.