On July 14, 1994, Mary was in the top shape of her life. A hobby cyclist, she had biked 6,000 miles that year. This would prove to save her life. While outside of the Caterpillar World Headquarters in Peoria, she found herself suddenly pinned under the body of a drunk driver’s automobile. The incident, which Mary makes a point to call “the crime,” left her blind in the left eye and partially paralyzed the right side of her face. This traumatic experience marked the day she and her husband became “soul mates.”

Mary and Bob met through a mutual friend and were married 3 months after spending 10 consecutive days and a weekend together. After Mary’s rehab, they moved to Arizona and spent countless hours riding on a tandem bike to continue sharing the hobby that resembled their lives before the accident. During this time they made a pact: to honor how close they had become in life, they vowed to die together. This innocently romantic pledge of eternal companionship became all too real in May of 2004 when Bob was diagnosed with lung cancer.

Bob passed away in July of 2004, and Mary found herself making extensive plans to carry out her promise, including the arrangement to have a dual memorial. She moved back to Peoria and made her plans known to a very good friend of hers who accompanied Mary to the Pere Marquette Hotel. That night Mary took a host of sleeping pills. Shirley (the accompanying friend), unable to live with the idea of witnessing Mary’s death, rushed Mary to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.

Neither the suicide attempt nor the drunk driving accident registered in Mary’s memory. A new lease on life had come as a result of these experiences, not in spite of them. After the car accident, she became affiliated with the Red Cross’ Victim Impact Panel where she began to speak to 80 people a month who receive DUI tickets, hoping to influence their future decisions to drive while intoxicated. She also travelled Peoria, speaking to high schools and community organizations to spread a message that she hoped would save lives.

Mary proceeded to explain another issue that is close to her heart.

“If you take a US dollar bill out of your pocket, hold it in your hands and close your eyes, you can’t tell how much money you’ve got. We were in Australia right before the accident and I noticed that they had different sized bills. I thought ëWow how neat that would be for someone who is blind.’ Not knowing that in the next 3 months, I would be blind.”

Mary goes on to describe her crusade to assist the 1 out of 30 Americans who, because of visual impairments, are unable to identify their currency. The issue of making U.S. currency tactile has gained steam from a number of organizations. Among these is Mary’s own website, www.blinddollars.org, where she prompts citizens to contact their local legislature to bring the issue to the forefront of political debates.

“If our currency was tactile, Unemployment would go down because then people can work where cash gets dealt with.”

Mary’s efforts describe the printing of tactile monies as a “win-win.” And as I leave her home in downtown Peoria, she hands me certified proof of that victory. Federal courts have ruled that upon the next redesign, all U.S. dollar bills MUST be made accessible to the blind and other visually impaired persons. Mary admits to believing this triumph is one of the reasons she is still alive. She has found purpose – hers is a life seemingly destined to affect the lives of others.

Even Mary’s dog Cruiser, which she received 2 years ago, is getting into the act. She has signed Cruiser up to be a therapy dog. He visits people in nursing homes and hospitals to give the love and support he has given Mary in some of the harder times in her life.

So goes the story of Mary finding herself at the Pere Marquette once again. The Heartland Hero Award was confirmation of Mary’s efforts to simply live her own life to the best of her abilities. When asked, Mary doesn’t see herself as a hero. She can, however, attest to the fact that this hotel is home to a failure that sparked a mountain of successes. A champion for all walks of life, Mary’s heroism will prove most visible to those who can see the least.

-National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA)

Wear a seat belt. Wear a seat belt. Wear a seat belt. It is echoed again and again by schools, parents, public service announcements and new laws. It is often ignored or forgotten or considered redundant by teenage drivers. The simple act of putting on a seat belt does not just save your life. It saves the lives of the people you love.

The following three stories are personal and tragic reminders that go beyond the teenage driving statistics and into the lives of families who have lost someone in a car accident.

Bonnie, Randal and Stephen Arends

The day that Stephen and his twin brother Greg got into a car accident started out like any other day. It was yearbook picture day. Greg and Stephen wore their Future Farmers of America jackets as they ate breakfast. They left for school. Moments later the car was “wrapped around a pole” by the side of the road.

“We thought our lives were changing because you were seniors and the empty nest syndrome might happen,” Bonnie says to Stephen who sits with his legs up on the MobileBooth seat. “Looking at that car not knowing if either of you would survive. It was devastating. The doctor that delivered you and Greg was the same doctor that came up to us and said that Greg was gone.”

Randal remembers the differences between Greg and Stephen. “I remember Greg liked loud rock music and you liked your country music. Greg liked fast import cars and you likedÖ”

“Big Chevy trucks,” Steve says, finishing Randal’s sentence.

“You guys both had such a track record of taking risks,” Bonnie says.

Stephen lights up with memories of rebellion, teaming up with Greg in the pursuit of mischief. “We took huge waterguns – supersoakers – and filled them up with gasoline and made beautiful fountains of fire,” Stephen says.

Going from a 6-month coma to only being able to move a finger to now being able to speak, walk and raise beef cattle, 23 year-old Stephen has come a long way. Although his speech is still slow, he speaks with a confidence.

“As parents, when it came to driving, we were scared in the normal way parents of teenagers are scared. But we thought, you’re farm boys. You’ve been driving since you were young. You surely will be good drivers,” Bonnie says.

“We were invincibleÖor so we thought,” adds Stephen.

Stephen spreads the message of good driving in front of huge audiences. He sometimes speaks at his old high school. “I wanted – my whole life – to help others. And now I’m doing that through such tragedy.”

Penny Gold and Danny Bent

Penny Gold’s son Jeremy Gold Amor was killed in a car accident in 2004 when he was 18 years-old. Penny sits across from Danny Bent, Jeremy’s best friend since he was 4 years old.

Danny remembers the moment when he and Jeremy met. “He asked, ëDo you want to play?’ and we bolted off leaving you in the dust to go back to your house, because you guys had a playground and we didn’t,” He tells Penny. “It was perfection from there.”

“Our imaginations were so big,” Danny says remembering the basketball games he used to play with Jeremy. “We’d never play against each other, so we always played against imaginary people.”

Danny also remembers a more recent memory of a trip with Jeremy’s family to North Carolina. Jeremy pulled a rope out of the ocean triumphantly, thinking it was a squid. “He was fearless,” Danny says.

“If I was there, he would have worn his seat belt,” Danny says to Penny.

“So he did usually wear his seat belt?” Penny said. “He always wore one when he was with me, but I wasn’t sure if he wore one when he was with other people.”

“What do you miss most about him?” Penny asks.

“Every single thing,” Danny says. “I even miss fighting with him.”

“What did you and Jeremy teach each other?” I ask.

“He taught me how to be a good friend, regardless. Now I cherish every friend,” Danny says. “One thing I taught him is it’s not unmanly to show emotion towards a friend. I told him I loved him. I hugged him.”

Penny remembers a hug she had with Jeremy 4 days before his death. “Ever since he was little, I would hold his hand going across the street. But man, as soon as he was old enough to not have to hold my hand, he didn’t want to hold my hand anymore. A couple days before he died, I said “Jeremy, come and give me a hug. And he gave me a hug. I’m so grateful for that.”

The friendship between Penny and Danny has grown since Jeremy and Danny’s first childhood moment at the family playground. Danny introduces Penny as his “best friend” now. They share a bond as distinct as family. “It’s kind of like having another child, but not with the conflict, the angst or the worry,” Penny says.

Penny and Danny also keep Jeremy alive through their conversation. “We share memories all the time – the good, the bad, the wonderful, the funny, the ugly. It’s nice to have somebody else you can say anything to. It’s nice to have someone in my life that wants to talk about Jeremy too.”

Marianne Epstein and Elisabeth Epstein

Marianne Epstein and her daughter Elisabeth Epstein remember Jamie, Elisabeth’s sister and Marianne’s daughter who died in a car accident in her Freshman year of college.

The conversation between mother and daughter is a nostalgic chronology of Jamie’s life – her talents, her quirks and her kindness. “Jamie would only wear dresses until she was in the 2nd grade. You would only wear sweatpants,” Marianne says to Elisabeth.

Elisabeth laughs about Jamie’s nickname in softball. “They called her ëWheels’ because she was so slow.”

“You were always striving to outdo her,” says Marianne.

“I didn’t strive. I did.” Elisabeth says. They both laugh.

“One time, Jamie insisted on swimming across the lake at Tomahawk. I wouldn’t let her do it unless her father went with her in the rowboat. She still insisted and her father and the neighbor took the rowboat alongside her the entire way,” Marianne remembers.

Elisabeth and Marianne tell Jamie’s story all the way up to her Freshman year of college. This was the year that Jamie went to visit her Uncle Dave in New Jersey with a few of her friends.

“The girl who was driving reached for something and lost control of the car and it just spun around and flipped into the median. People don’t realize the physics when a car starts somersaulting. Jamie got thrown from the car and died instantly. The two girls in the front seat had their seat belts on and they walked away from it. That was it,” Marianne says.

“Can you remember where you were when you heard about the accident?” I ask.

“Elisabeth was at dinner, before a school dance. I was at the computer sorting out photographs that I had taken on my digital camera. The doorbell rang and there were two state police officers at the door,” Marianne says.

“You’ve got two choices when something like this happens to you. One is to stop living yourself. The other is to put one foot in front of the other and to take it sometimes minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, but your life has to go on,” Marianne says.

Since the accident, the Epstein family has started a scholarship fund in Jamie’s name. “It’s amazing the amount of people who still donate on a yearly basis to the fund,” Marianne says. “It’s also amazing the number of people who told me that they didn’t wear seat belts before Jamie’s accident, but since Jamie’s accident they always put their seat belt on and they always think of her when they do it.”

– Uncle Albert in Mary Poppins

I can hear laughter coming from across the parking lot at Metro Centre. It is Marlene Olson and her nanny Linda Blakey. Marlene has a flower in her hair and Linda wears a baseball cap.

“You’ve been the other half of me for a long time, caring for my kids when I couldn’t be there,” Marlene says to Linda.

Linda talks about the activities she spontaneously concocted in her daytime nanny duty at the Olson residence. “We used to dress up and play music on oatmeal boxes. We played Army and I would paint the kids’ faces green and they would slide down the stairs on their bellies.”

Linda also liked to make up songs on-the-spot. One such tune was “The Rainbow Song.” The three kids would stand in front of the refrigerator waiting for the light coming through the stained glass window to decorate their bodies with rainbows: “Got a rainbow on my shoulder, got a rainbow on my knee. Got a rainbow here for you and a rainbow here for me.”

“Didn’t you go to the moon or stars sometimes too?” Marlene asks.

“Oh yeah,” Linda remembers tilting her head up as if she can see the sky. “We used to lay in the grass at the park and make animals out of clouds and feel the breeze around us.”

Marlene and Linda met when Marlene was in search of a housekeeper. “It was hard for me to have that trust when I wasn’t there,” Marlene says. One day she was home sick and Linda was cleaning. “I knew the house sparkled, but I didn’t know how you did it. You Windexed and Pledged everything in sight. I knew you were a hard worker.”

Marlene soon decided to ask Linda if she could be the nanny to her children. Now, 25 years later, the children call her “grandma.” “They say it takes a village to raise a child,” Marlene says. “When I was in search of a village, I got you. Talk about an instant village.”

Linda chews gum while she laughs. She talks about the daytrips she took with the kids to every possible part of Peoria. “I showed them how to hop a train. We went into the woods and down into the gravel pit. I showed them the hill that I went down when I was seven in the wagon. We ran down it. We didn’t do too many naps. We just had a lot of fun.”

Linda and Marlene were role models for how to have a good time. “The kids liked that we made each other laugh,” Linda says. “They really got a kick out of it.”

“Laughter is the best medicine,” says Marlene.

“Well that’s pretty much all we did,” says Linda.

Peoria, Illinois has become famous for its ability to most accurately represent a microcosm of the United States of America. Due to its diverse demographics, and perceived mainstream Midwestern culture, Peoria has often been used as a primary test market for a variety of products, services and policies that subsequently reach the whole of the U.S. Peoria’s utility as America’s litmus test was certainly not lost on the theater industry. During the days of Vaudeville, the phrase “Will it play in Peoria?” was coined as a reference to a show’s ability to appeal to the mainstream American Public. This mandate has undoubtedly lived on for 90 years in the care and keeping of the Peoria Players Community Theater.

In its 90^th season, Peoria Players is the longest continuously running community theater in Illinois, and the 4^th longest running theater in the U.S. Throughout its lifespan the stage has never gone dark for any season, even when faced with daunting obstacles ranging from economic hardship to national crises.

During World War II, the city of Peoria experienced a shortage of men, opting to cast mustache-laden 8^th graders in lead male roles to remedy the problem. In the 1950s the creation of the “super highway” I-74 forced the company to move, with construction plans calling for the new transit artery to run directly through the space they inhabited. The 1960s found the Peoria Players in a leaking building and in a financial bind. A partnership was arranged with the Peoria Park District to transfer ownership, unburdening the Theater from the onus of maintenance, and allowing the group to focus more intently on filling the seats.

Let’s be clear that none of the aforementioned challenges stopped the Peoria Players from putting on a show. Be it Gypsy, Singing in the Rain, or I Never Sang for My Father, the Peoria Players have maintained a nucleus of artists and citizens dedicated to the survival and success of the Theater.

Emerging from the long line of passionate players are Jerry Klein, Bob Brandes and James Wilhelm. All have been with the Theater in some capacity for a number of years. From actors, to critics, to board members and even president, these gentlemen discuss the strengths and challenges of maintaining their rich artistic heritage in a small town.

“The first commitment of a community theater is to entertain. And if you don’t entertain, then you’ve missed the boat” says Bob. “It has been proven time and time again that comedies and musicals pay the bills.”

Discussing the finer points of commercially viable theater versus more artistic and intellectually challenging work, they reminisce and relive more than 50 years collectively spent supporting the Peoria Players: a period representing nearly half of the Theater’s existence. Differences aside they rest on a single agreement: Community Theater cannot exist without strong community. And it is their success in reflecting Peoria, IL that has sustained the Peoria Players for 90 years.

“We have people today that the only difference between them and professional actors is that they don’t get paid.”

Coupled with the support of a devoted community of theater-goers, 90 more years are sure to follow.

At Metro Centre in Peoria, pink flags wave on top of parking lot lights. October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, but these flags stay up all year. Metro Centre used to be farmland, a place where Susan G. Komen, namesake of Susan G. Komen for the Cure, would go horseback riding. Now it is a community shopping center owned by Eric Brinker.

Eric came to the MobileBooth on one of the first crisp fall days to talk about how his family started Susan G. Komen Foundation. “Susan G. Komen was my aunt. She died of breast cancer at age 37,” Eric says. Susan had breast cancer in “the dark days” of the disease. “You didn’t talk about it. You called it the big C word. They weren’t providing treatment options that were anything more than barbaric. People thought it was contagious.”

Photo courtesy of Eric Brinker and Susan G. Komen for the Cure

Susan was treated with high magnitude radiation. She had third degree burns all over her body, down to her legs. On Susan’s deathbed she told her sister Nancy (Eric’s mother), “Nanny, we need to do everything that we can do to change the face of this disease. We need to raise awareness. We need to eradicate it.” Nancy Brinker promised her sister that she would do everything she could do to make sure this happened.

Nancy G. Brinker and Susan G. Komen

Photo courtesy of Eric Brinker and Susan G. Komen for the Cure

“My mom was driven in a way that she wasn’t going to fail,” Eric says of his mother’s motivation to follow her promise after Susan’s death. Nancy began with the people she knew, calling a “shoebox full of names.” She kept calling. Then she called businesses. Many doors slammed in her face on her business-to-business odyssey. One time, Nancy went to a bra company to pitch the idea of putting self-breast exam tags on the bras. “She must have had 20 doors of bra companies slammed in her face. They all said ëWe don’t want to be associated with negativity and bad news.’”

Click here to view the embedded video.

“Is there ever a moment when your mom was about to throw up her hands and say, this isn’t going to work?” I ask.

“The rejection was intense. There were slammed doors, rolled eyes, snickering and laughing. The attitude was so different back then and I felt it through my mom when she would come home from meetings where she thought she would have a breakthrough.” Eric continues, “But all the rejection in the world can’t stop the power of a promise that you make to a loved one.”

Nancy Brinker had the same form of breast cancer that Susan did, going through 16 reconstructive surgeries in the past 25 years. Eric remembers his childhood reaction to his mother’s disease. “It was scary for me seeing my mom with tubes hanging out of her and no hair.” Now he says, “I’m proud to say that I am a co-survivor with my aunt and my mother. Breast cancer is a family disease. When your mom has breast cancer, your whole family has breast cancer. Your family fights it together.”

“My mother went through a lot of determination, defiance and anger. She channeled that anger into something positive,” Eric says.

Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure started in Dallas, TX in 1983 with 800 people that Eric says were “mostly friends and relatives convinced to show up on a rainy day.” Three years later, Peoria Memorial was the second race to start. Now there are over 125 Race for the Cures with millions of participants every year.

Susan G. Komen Foundation has raised over $1.5 billion invested in the cause of breast cancer research and education. In the past 25 years, every single advancement in the science of breast cancer has been touched or funded by the Susan G. Komen Foundation.

Eric is now taking over Metro Centre, a project that his grandfather left him. He is preserving his grandfather’s office in the same way it was left – orange shag carpeting and suede wallpaper. He will continue to be an integral part in the movement that started with a promise between his mother and his sister. The power of the color pink is now a symbol for Breast Cancer Awareness in the parking lot of Metro Centre and around the world.

Phil Doubet wears a self-designed t-shirt with the quote above. These are the words of Willie York, a well-known homeless man in Peoria, Illinois, who Phil once talked to at a gas station on Monroe Street.

In 2005, Phil talked to 333 people. He honored them through self-publishing their stories word-for-word in a 600 page book entitled My Pryor Year: A 333 Soul Anthology. His inspiration was a book from his own childhood, called Pioneers of the Ozarks, written by his great uncle Lennis Broadfoot. Lennis lived in Dent County, Missouri and his life work was to compose character profiles of the Ozarks pioneers. He “would go to different villages and draw people in charcoal and then listen to their stories.”

Phil did not carry the charcoal that his great uncle carried decades before. He carried a tape recorder. “When I decided to go out and talk to people, I really didn’t have a plan in mind. I went out to restaurants. I went out to bookstores. I went out to people on the street. Random people at random times.”

Phil wanted his book to be “Central Illinois-centric.” He sought to define the area through other people’s words: Caterpillar Inc. employees, Michael Reagan, Richard Pryor, Jr., Arlo Guthrie, tamale salesman Willie Smith, and mortician Joe Hott, to name a few. “Whether they are famous or the average person on the street, or people who don’t even have a home, he found out what was important to them,” says Fitz Doubet of his father’s project.

When he approached a stranger, Phil told them that he was writing a book and then asked, ” ‘Can you have a conversation with me?’ And they would,” Phil says matter-of-factly. “One of the first guys I talked to was Harold Quinn. I was at a restaurant in Farmington and this guy dropped his pack of cigarettes, so I picked them up and we got to talking. I asked him if I could record our conversation. He told me a story about getting his hand mangled in a corn picker.”

“You know how some people won’t really tell people who are close to them certain things, but they’ll tell total strangers intimate details?”

Sometimes Phil asked specific questions, surprising people in their daily routines. He remembers a moment when he was standing in the entryway of Barnes & Noble. Just waiting. “This young girl walked in. I didn’t say anything to her except, ëWhat’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?’ She looked up in the sky and told me a story about going fishing with her father and watching the sunrise. And then I told her what I was doing.”

“What was your purpose in writing this book?” Fitz asks.

“I was looking for answers without really knowing what the question was. I was just having a rough time in my life then. I just wanted to learn more,” Phil says.

Learning about our own lives through the powerful act of listening… as a StoryCorps Facilitator, I seek to be as courageous as Phil Doubet by opening my ears to words of wisdom in every crevice of every conversation.

The retirement celebration of Dr. William Farley, MD brought along a sea of smiles, amazing stories, and gratitude. Generations of families lined up to say goodbye to the father of 8 and small town Obstetrician/Gynecologist whose practice had spanned 57 years. It was a fitting end to the career of a man who had delivered between 15,000 and 20,000 babies; all with such a personal touch that were it not for his age, his practice would still undoubtedly be going strong to this day.

“I had the dubious honor of saying that I was delivered by a veterinarian.”

This is William’s way of introducing his father whose influence on his own decision to practice medicine was huge. A large animal veterinarian, William recalls accompanying his father on trips to farms to deliver calves and horses, all without the use of tranquilizers. There were only ropes and brute force at play as William watched his father pull a 500 pound sow into a field to perform a cesarean section on it. The impact was lasting on William as he watched the careful hands of his skilled father save the health of both cows and in turn save the money of the farmer.

So the scene was set. And the backdrop came with the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It was during this time that the government arranged for all medical students to “Ö end one school year on a Friday and start the next one on a Monday”. Help was desperately needed on the front lines and William’s medical program was decreased from four years to three without the luxury of summer breaks. Once his naval duties, schooling and residencies were completed, he found himself married to a nurse and practicing OB/GYN in the small town of Peru, IL.

Little did he know that there wouldn’t be many deliveries in such a small town; not enough to sustain a focused practice anyway. So he performed all types of general practice, including a large amount of pediatric work. The hospital would direct his patient’s children back to William for treatment by default because he had been the one to deliver them. Soon the hospital staff increased to fit the needs of a practice area which grew to 35,000 patients. Now at 10 to 12 deliveries a month, William was able to focus on the practice of delivering children with the care he watched his father use in tending to farm animals.

His focus (and that of the hospital at the time) was to keep cesarean sections at the lowest rate possible. Complications involving this level of surgery were deemed a largely unnecessary risk. It is this practice that allowed William to learn the techniques that served him most frequently. He remarks on having delivered an 11-pound child for an Amish woman whose beliefs wouldn’t condone being operated on surgically. Perhaps Williams most famous and heart-warming stories involve his discount. He started a deal where if had delivered four babies for a family, the fifth baby and all relating surgeries (circumcision for example) would be free. This included twins. This was done by returning any and all monies he received from the insurance companies to the families themselves. He continued this practice until it was brought to his attention that he was in fact committing insurance fraud, a sad reality instilled by modern legal practices.

Believe it or not there were many “fifth babies” in attendance at William’s retirement party. In fact there were even “tenth babies” where families had received this discount twice. There were people from all walks of life who had gathered to bid farewell to a man who had touched their lives in such a profound way. William placed the patient before the rules. He inspired his son to practice nursing and supported his son leaving that practice to become an entrepreneur. And he inspired me to give birth to this blog. And although it’s my first one, it’s still on the houseÖ

Cheers to you Dr. Farley.

“Since then,” Burton says, “I have purchased many knot books. I have broadened my horizons by being able to tie knots. I have worked on trees. I have worked on steep barn roofs. I’ve hauled things with vehicles and tied things on top of cars. It all started with that first interest in knots.”

Luckily for us at MobileBooth West, Burton carries a rope in his pocket. He demonstrates many knots: slippery square, sheep shank, sheet bend ,and bow line. He finishes with a grand finale: the jar sling, which he uses to pick up a Gatorade bottle.

People often ask Burton for advice on knot-tying. A neighbor once asked, “I haven’t seen you lately, what have you been up to?” Burton answered, “I’ve just been reading this knot book.” The neighbor got a confused look on his face. “Knots? Like K-N-O-T-S?” He spelled. He then asked, “Is there a special type of knot you can tie a boat anchor with?”

Burton grimaces at the mention of the term “granny knot.” It is best to tie a reef knot in nearly all circumstances.?A granny knot can release unpredictably. Burton gets excited about the use of knots in problem solving. “Knots broaden my horizons. It’s nice to tie something I can depend on.”

Opening day in Peoria came with amazing fanfare. There were refreshments, press, staff from our partner radio station, WCBU, and curious onlookers who wandered over from the nearby Metro Centre Farmer’s Market. There was also a ribbon cutting ceremony with the biggest pair of scissors any of us have ever seen!

The first story of the day was told by Mrs. Jessie Banks, who will be 101 years old later this month. Her energy was amazing as she remembered what it was like to be the only teacher in a one-room schoolhouse during the segregation era. Her grandchildren have all learned from her.

George Banks was also a teacher and tells his grandmother, “You speak with a whole lot of common sense. When you taught there were no curriculums readily at hand. You made up what you wanted to teach. I’ve used that common sense approach in my own career.”

When Mrs. Jessie Banks left the booth with her family, she was greeted by an entourage of reporters also wanting to know her story. “I’ve never had this type of fame before!” she exclaimed.

One reporter was the Peoria Journal Star‘s Fred Zwicky, who also produced this brief YouTube video on the StoryCorps presence.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Peoria is known for many things: It’s the home of Caterpillar Inc. It’s got it’s own metaphor that roots back to Vaudeville days (“Will it Play in Peoria?” is now a phrase asking whether a new product will appeal to the general public). It is also the birthplace of Susan G. Komen, namesake of Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. And now, StoryCorps has become part of Peoria history by opening our MobileBooth doors in Metro Centre.