So we tell stories in my family. We sit around on grandma's couches-- the ones that I can't ever remember her not having, with little pink flowers and little edges that always scratch-- and grandpa talks and we listen and laugh until we're crying more than laughing. Grandpa has a way with words, the stories never last long enough even when there's a million details that don't really matter.
"Joe," grandma will always screech when he licks his lips laughs a little. When we know that a good story is coming. "Joe, not that one!" And then we know it's a good one. We ask for our favorites. About the boy who stood at the corner swinging a long rope of snot from his nose, or the time grandpa walked into the restaurant with the meat hanging from the ceiling and the flies swarming.
"Not that one," grandma will always yell and then sit to hear the whole thing. We tell stories in this family, but no one like grandpa.