My grandmother – we call her Mama Dot – tells stories. Not lies, stories. Tales. As in “Remember what happened when…?” Or “I know I told you about the time that….” She tells stories and laughs before anyone else can. She’s told the same bank of tales over and over enough that we can predict what will be said at Christmas dinner.


She tells the story about how Uncle Steven wore the same clothes all week at camp one summer. The same shirt and shorts the entire week. Or the one about my grandfather, who, not knowing what to do with a dirty diaper, threw it in the yard. Or the time dad climbed out of the second story window to sneak off with his friends and my grandmother mistakenly almost shot him.


I want to tell stories too. Our stories. I’ve wanted to write out what has only been spoken for years in folklore. I’ve wanted to tell the stories we tell around our holiday tables. I want to tell the stories we tell around ANY table with friends, family and newly acquainted. We all like stories.


This is my attempt.


Everyone has a blog. This is nothing special. There is little outline or plan. But I’m sure there will be talk of good books, a few sports references here and there, truth of how the Lord is shifting and changing us all, maybe a few recipes sprinkled in. And family stories – mine and yours too. Admittedly, this is for me, therapeutic like scratching an itch. But I hope there is enough joy to go around.


Let’s see how this goes, shall we?


Oh, and don’t be afraid to invite me to dinner. All stories told, written and used by permission. Girl Scout’s honor.