The Stories

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Pop likes to tell stories. They usually fall into one of three categories: childhood adventures, investment triumphs (or blunders), and brushes with the Chicago “Outfit.” 

Sometimes, shortly after launching into a tale, he'll stop to ask if you've heard it before. Your answer is of no consequence; he's going to repeat the story even if you've heard it a hundred times. This isn't out of spite. Pop can't help himself. Once the memory is recalled, it must be played out. Even if you help him finish the story, even if you beat him to the punch, or offer a summary, Pop will continue his spiel. It makes no difference how many times you interrupt with, "Yes, yes, I know. I've heard this one before.”

What's nice is that Pop never tells a story the same way twice. He always adds a new detail, or shuffles the chronology of events. But he never lies—or, rather, he never intends to lie. Since the stroke, his memory still, occasionally, plays tricks on him. And while Pop might embellish a bit, he doesn't tell tall tales. But, oh, how I wish he would. 

My older stepsister's Irish hubby is the best storyteller in the family. He has a knack for spinning the most mundane story into a narrative worthy of the Pulitzer Prize. I’d like to believe it's an Irish trait; one I wish ran more strongly through my own DNA. 

4 May 2004

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