Every family has a history of funny, quirky stories. Sometimes, the endings don't reveal themselves for years. Frequently, the stories show that God, however we see Him (or Her), has a sense of humor.

One example of the sense of humor kind of family story is this:
From the time I was almost 12 until just after I turned 16, we lived in the northeast corner of Connecticut. The first three years were in the little town of Thompson, just across the line from Webster, Massachusettes, the last year-and-change in South Woodstock. While we lived there, my mother joined a community choral group which performed concerts throughout the year, doing seasonal and holiday music.

At the time, mid- to late-1960s, fire departments in the small towns in that end of Connecticut used sirens on top of the stations to call off-duty and volunteer fire fighters, should the need arise.

Christmas time one year, the choral group was doing their annual holiday concert. The hall where they were performing was packed with people in their dressed-up finery. As everyone entered the hall, they were handed a program with the list of songs the choir was scheduled to sing.

Everything went off without a hitch. However, half-way through the program, the choir had just finished one song and was pausing before starting the next one when suddenly sirens could be heard from atop Putnam's fire station. The sirens kept sounding...and sounding...and sounding. A number of men from the audience began leaving the audience, whispering "Sorry, I'll try to make it back" to their families.

Then, in the distance, neighboring towns' fire sirens began their mournful answers. By the time the local fire stations finished calling their ranks, nearly a third of the men had left the audience. Turned out an entire city block in downtown Putnam was engulfed in flames.

The only irony was when the choir director finally raised his baton--and an eyebrow--to begin the next song on the program. The rousing tune began with the line, "Torches, torches, run with the torches..."

You can't make this stuff up.

Now for the suprise-ending type of family story:

Recently, my mother called. Part of our family mythology entails my mother's childhood friend, Nancy Cowles.

When Mom and Nancy were growing up, it was a well-established fact that if one saw either girl, the other one was obviously nearby. As adults, both Mom and Nancy were each other's Maid of Honor. Mom was already pregnant with me when Nancy announced her pregnancy. Unfortunately, Nancy died while giving birth to Jennifer. Mom saw Jennifer twice since Nancy died. The first time was when Jennifer and I were babies. Nancy's mom brought her granddaughter to my grandmother's house. Mom and I were there, and Mom got to ooh and ahh over her lost friend's little girl.

The second time was maybe eight or nine years ago. Mom had moved to Murray, Kentucky with my step-father. While in Murray, Mom had a weekly spot on the publicly funded radio station where she would read short essays she'd written about her life, a life filled with quirky relatives, neighbors and animals. Later, she published the group of essays in a book titled The Color Chartreuse.

Mom did several book readings in Connecticut and New York. One of the readings was in Dobbs Ferry, NY, where she'd grown up, along with Nancy. After the reading, a lady my age came forward and introduced herself. It was Jennifer, Nancy's daughter.

By this time, my step-father, Bill, had passed away. A few years later, while still in Murray, my mother met a lovely man named Jim. The two hit it off immediately. They've now been married for five years and live in Allentown, Pennsylvania.

One day, Mom received a phone call from Jim's daughter. Seems she'd been talking with her best friend about books they had read. "Oh, my step-mom's a writer," Jim's daughter stated. "She wrote a book called The Color Chartreuse." Her best friend, who'd been her Maid of Honor, who Jim had watched grow up from childhood, was none other than--you guessed it--Jennifer Cowles.

And now you know...