Whenever there is a lull in the conversation, my mother feels the need to fill it in with a story, that generally has just enough truths in it for my brother and I to vaguely identify the cast. However, once the tale starts to unfold, we are as rapt as everyone else, because rarely do we recognize the plot line, even when we are the main characters.
For example, she started a story (about my wedding) directed at my daughters, "You know that your mother had more bridesmaids in her wedding that they had ever had in the Presbyterian Church. In fact the ladies of the church were so upset about it that they went to the Deacons, but they were told," then her voice drops to a whisper, "that since we were a prominent family and your grandfather was a member of 'the medical' profession, that they were going to permit it. Then when they saw we had colored flowers in the church, well . . ."
Not only had she crossed the line of the absurd, the madness had to stop. "Mama, that is not true. First of all, I wouldn't call our family 'prominent', my friend, Linda got married in the same church the week before with the same size wedding party, I never remember 'colored flowers' being an issue, and I don't ever want to hear about Dad's being in the 'Medical Profession' again."
"Well, Linda's father was a surgeon, so I'm sure that explains everything. The ladies of the church were most upset over the affair." My brother chimed in, "Mama, I don't think the bridesmaids, the flowers, or Daddy's profession had anything to with it. If anything, it was the dancing bears and the three ring circus that caused the uproar."