Story-telling is a talent alive and well in many families, even if it is unrecognized as a family pastime. That is true in my family; we tell new stories and re-tell old ones almost every time there are several of us in a room. This blog is a place to keep some of those stories along with other memories and observations. Sharing them with you is a simple pleasure.

The best stories at my Mom’s table are near perfect, polished with age and use. They are the funniest, saddest, or most embarrassing of many that my family members know. They are here, changed a little as I write them through my eyes and voice. Some things happened before I was born, stories of my grandparents and parents we still tell.

My mother always made room for the company who dropped by near mealtime. We grab two extra chairs and plates. Mom magically stretches the food to serve two more. Dad clears his throat and begins the prayer for Grace. The din of food preparation and multiple cooks talking over each ceases immediately. After the Amen, the kitchen stays relatively quiet. Everyone passes bowls, fills plates, and butters biscuits.

The conversation is on a high level by the time the plates are stacked. No one moves out of the kitchen. Maybe because of the cobbler still on the stove, maybe not. We have company, a new audience, and an opportunity for family story-telling.

Everyone at the table but our visitors knows these stories, but we are good with hearing them again. We interject, correct, laugh at each other, laugh at ourselves. Maybe we pout because someone told an old, unflattering tale one more time. Sometimes the stories were sad or bittersweet, about illness, hardship, or family who have passed. Mom might bring the old photos to the table to put a face to the story.

Join me here at this virtual kitchen table. Be my guest; there is plenty of room. You will be considered family.

Here we are, full of virtual fried chicken with eyes on the virtual blackberry cobbler. I will make more sweet tea as the pitcher is low. Chairs pushed back and elbows on the table, along with a couple of old photo albums and a scrapbook. The little ones are out the door and already making noise. My older sister says, “Tell us about the time you tricked Mom.” She doesn’t have to say anymore. I know that story.