It probably appeared every Sunday, a story of a family under the kicker, &uot;Here We Go Round.&uot; One Sunday it would be the story of a local family. The next it would be the story of an area family. I once figured out that I’d written more than 800 of them and more followed.

I’m not complaining, you understand. I met more interesting people in the process of writing those stories than I could have dreamed existed. Sometimes I was told, off the record, things I could not include in the stories. Had I been of a mind to go in for blackmail, my financial condition would have been a bit more promising than it is now.

Sometimes my family didn’t tell me what they wanted left out and things got a bit frantic. As the time when I faithfully recorded that my couple had met at a dance. Turned out that they both came from religious families that didn’t approve of dancing. But how was I to know?

For the most part, though, all went well. Sometimes I was afraid I’d run out of families. Often, though, I’d get suggestions and gratefully follow through.

This was sometimes a mistake. There was for a time a note on the bulletin board in the editorial office that read, &uot;It is not necessary to be insane to work for a newspaper, but it helps.&uot;

Not for the world would I have said that those with whom I worked were insane. Did not they set themselves to the task of teaching me all the things I didn’t know about the job and needed to know? Did they not teach me how to write headlines and give me a standing vote of &uot;no confidence&uot; when I wrote a bad one? Did they not when the time came even teach me to use a press camera so I could take my own pictures?

Oh, and for all this I was truly grateful. About the insanity &045; I’m glad I was never put in a position where I was under oath to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about that.

One of the most horrible family interviews I ever encountered sprang from the suggestion of one of my most helpful colleagues. He practically glowed with benevolence when he told me he’d arranged a family interview for me that would surpass in interest any and all family interviews I’d written to date.

&uot;Refugees!&uot; he burbled, &uot;Refugees from Czechoslovakia! Lovely people. Staying with friends of mine. But my friends are out this afternoon and I’ve already got a picture of your couple so I can just leave you to it. I have another picture or two I have to get this afternoon, but I’ll be back in a couple of hours and you’ll probably be finished by then.&uot;

Sure. It’s a question anybody would ask. Anybody but me. Always a trusting soul, it didn’t even occur to me to ask it. Most Europeans I’ve met have been bilingual or have had a translator at hand. With their first &uot;Allow,&uot; I experienced the sickening realization that my ever so attractive Czechoslovakian couple spoke Czechoslovakian period.

It was no surprise to me, of course, to realize that I spoke English and, except for a phrase here and there, nothing but English.

There is a nightmarish element in sitting face to face in an interview situation with someone who doesn’t speak the same language you do. For two hours, too.

I will say for my subjects that they were extremely sensitive to the problem. They had two remedies to offer; a phrase book with such phrases as &uot;Are you feeling well this morning? Shall I call a physician?&uot; and &uot;Will you call me a taxi? Will you please direct me to a post office where I can buy a stamp?&uot;

Even more memorable was a child’s picture book with pictures of animals and their names beneath the pictures in both English and Czechoslovakian. It’s been almost 50 years ago now, but it seems to me I learned to say &uot;goat&uot; in Czechoslovakian. Though, I can’t anymore.

There were long and dreadful moments of silence between us, when we cast anxious glances at each other. From time to time in the spirit of encouragement they would throw an idiotic &uot;allow&uot; at me or I would throw an equally idiotic &uot;hello&uot; at them. I think it gave all three of us the illusion that we were in some way communicating.

It wasn’t quite two hours later when my Judas of a colleague returned, grinning from ear to ear, the proverbial cat who has just dined well on the proverbial canary. By that time I was too broken in spirit to slay him as I had been looking forward to doing.

Someplace along Tribune files is a copy of that interview. It wasn’t brilliant. It probably isn’t accurate, but I got it written. I’m sorry, though, that I can no longer say &uot;goat&uot; in Czechoslovakian. No matter how hard an experience, one should always learn a little something from it.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.