Pull Up a Chair: September 11, 2026

Pull up a chair and stay awhile. I come from a family that tells the same stories over and over again. I don’t mean occasionally either. We have stories that have been told so many times everyone at the table knows exactly what is coming next, and somehow that has never stopped the person telling it.

Sometimes we even help. Someone will start with, “Do you remember that time…” Yes. We remember. Every single person here remembers. We also know you’re going to tell us anyway, so go ahead. The funny thing is that I don’t really mind. In fact, I think I’d miss it if we stopped.

Every family seems to have its own collection of stories. There are the funny ones, the embarrassing ones, the stories from before you were born, and the ones you were there for but remember completely differently than everyone else. There are stories attached to vacations, holidays, cars, houses, pets, and relatives who haven’t been with us for years.

Somebody only has to say a particular name and everyone starts laughing because we already know which story is about to be told.

That’s family.

We Never Agree on What Actually Happened

The best part about family stories is that you can have six people who were standing in the exact same room when something happened and get six completely different versions of it. One person remembers it happening in July. Someone else is positive it was Christmas. One person says Billy was there. Billy says he wasn’t. Charlie remembers saying something hilarious that nobody else remembers him saying.

I remember the entire thing differently from all of them and, naturally, my version is the correct one. This can turn a five-minute story into a thirty-minute argument over details that have absolutely nothing to do with the point.

“No, that wasn’t the blue car. We didn’t have the blue car yet.”

“Yes, we did.”

“No, because we got that car after Daddy…”

And off we go. Eventually nobody remembers why the story was being told in the first place. That’s half the fun. I don’t think family stories are supposed to be historically accurate records. If we were giving testimony in court, we might have a problem. Around the kitchen table, we’re allowed a little room. What matters is that everybody remembers enough of it to join in.

Every Family Has a Designated Storyteller

There’s usually at least one person who remembers everything. Dates. Names. What everybody was wearing. What the weather was doing. What someone said in 1987 that they’re apparently still not completely over. Then there’s someone else who remembers absolutely nothing.

You can tell them a story in which they are the main character and they’ll stare at you like you’re describing something that happened to a stranger. 

“I did that?”

Yes. You did. We were all there. I think this is why families need each other. Between all of us, we can usually piece together one reasonably accurate memory.

My brothers, sister, and I can remember completely different things about growing up. There are things Charlie remembers that I had forgotten until he mentioned them, and there are things I’ll bring up that he swears never happened.

Billy may have another version entirely. While my sister swears her and Billy were in a car accident that no one remembers ever happening.

Sometimes talking about one thing unlocks another memory. Someone mentions a restaurant we used to go to and suddenly I can picture where we sat. Then somebody remembers what they always ordered. Before long we’re talking about the car we had at the time, where we lived, who was with us, and something ridiculous that happened on the way home.

All because somebody mentioned a restaurant. That’s how these conversations go. There is no straight line.

The Stories Get Better With Age

I’m also convinced certain stories improve every time they’re told. The fish gets bigger. The fall gets more dramatic. Before you ask yes it really was that dramatic! The distance somebody had to walk gets longer. The amount of trouble someone got into becomes considerably worse.

Eventually you’re sitting there thinking, “That is not remotely what happened.” But it’s a good story now, so nobody ruins it. Families have their own versions of folklore. There are stories that have been repeated for so many years that I’m not sure any of us know exactly where the truth ends and the embellishment begins. We know the important parts. Someone did something they shouldn’t have. Someone else caught them. Everybody survived, sometimes just barely. Now it’s funny. That’s enough.

Of course, the person who was embarrassed by whatever happened may not find the story quite as charming as everyone else does. Every family also seems to have one story that somebody desperately wishes would disappear. It never will. Once you’ve done something funny enough for your siblings to remember, you might as well accept that it’s going to follow you for the rest of your life.

Siblings don’t forget anything useful. They may forget your birthday and call to tell you all about their camping trip instead (ask me about how I know that). They may forget they borrowed something from you or remember and just refuse to give it back. They may forget that they owe you money. They will never forget the time you fell down in front of somebody you were trying to impress. That’s going with them to the grave.

Sometimes the Stories Are How We Remember People

Not all of the stories make us laugh. Some bring people back into the room for a few minutes. There are stories about Daddy that I’ve heard and told more times than I could count. Losing him so young means there are years of my life he wasn’t here to see. There are new family members who never got the chance to know him themselves.

But they can know something about him through us. They can hear the things he used to say. They can hear about what made him laugh, what irritated him, the things he did that drove us crazy, and the things we’d give anything to see him do one more time. That’s one of the reasons I don’t get tired of old stories.

When someone is gone, the stories become another way we keep them with us. We aren’t sitting around giving a formal biography. Nobody says, “Tonight we will discuss our family history.” Someone simply says something that reminds us of Daddy.

Then another person remembers something else. Before long we’re laughing about something that happened decades ago. For a few minutes, he isn’t just someone we lost. He’s right there in the middle of the conversation again. I think that’s one of the best things families do for one another.

We remember.

Children Learn Who They Are Through Those Stories

I used to think children weren’t paying much attention when adults sat around talking. Now I’m not so sure. They may be playing nearby or looking at something else, but they’re listening. Eventually they start repeating stories about things that happened long before they were born.

That’s how family history survives. Not through a carefully organized archive, although I certainly think photographs and written memories are important. Most family history gets passed along while people are eating dinner, sitting on a porch, riding in a car, or gathered together during a holiday.

Someone tells a story. A child hears it. Years later, that child tells it to somebody else. The details may change a little along the way, but the people don’t disappear. I love that. I especially love when younger family members start asking questions. 

“What was Grandma like when she was young?”

“Did Daddy really do that?”

“What kind of car did you have?”

“Where did you live?”

Suddenly something that felt completely ordinary when you were living it has become interesting to someone who wasn’t there. It makes you realize that your everyday life eventually becomes somebody else’s family history. That’s a strange thought.

The Embarrassing Stories Are Staying Too

Now, I don’t want to make this sound overly sentimental because most family storytelling around here isn’t. A good portion of it is dedicated to making sure nobody gets too full of themselves. You can accomplish something wonderful, and your family will be proud of you. They will congratulate you and tell everyone what you’ve done.

Then somebody will remind the room about something ridiculous you did when you were twelve. Family keeps you humble that way. I actually think there’s something healthy about being around people who knew you before you had anything to impress anyone with. They remember the bad haircuts. They remember questionable clothing choices. They remember teenage attitudes.

They remember the things you were absolutely certain about that turned out to be completely wrong. You can’t reinvent yourself too dramatically around siblings. They have evidence. Probably photographic evidence. And if there’s an old photo album anywhere nearby, you’re in serious trouble.

Tell Them Again

I know we joke about older relatives repeating themselves. There are certainly times when you’ve heard a story so many times you could take over halfway through. Sometimes I do. Ma will start telling me something and I’ll know exactly where we’re headed. There are days when I probably don’t have as much patience for it as I should. That’s just the truth. When you’re busy and you’ve already heard something several times, it can be hard to act like it’s brand new information.

But I also know there will come a day when I’d give anything to hear some of those stories again. That’s the part I try to remember. Voices disappear faster than we think they will. Little expressions we hear every day become things we suddenly wish we’d written down. Stories that once made us roll our eyes become the ones we start telling. Maybe that’s why I’ve stopped worrying about whether I’ve heard a family story before.

Tell it again. I’ll probably interrupt and correct at least three details. Charlie will have his version. Billy may say we’re both wrong. Somebody will get completely sidetracked and start telling another story before we finish the first one. Eventually we’ll forget what we were originally talking about.

That’s all right. We’ll tell that one again next time.