Over dinner Sunday night, my parents were in the mood to tell stories. They repeated for us, with my children at the table, tales of their parents and their parents’ parents – stories I know I have heard before but which somehow sounded new.

For example, my dad repeated the story of his father’s father who was a peddler. He died at the hand of a stray bullet during a gang fight. I didn’t know my great-grandfather and I have only some distant memories of my grandfather since he died when I was young.

My mom repeated the story of her father, who I knew very well. He died when I was midway through law school. My mom’s dad (we knew him as papa) was a happy soul, looking forward mostly to time with his family, children and grandchildren. As my mom tells the story, Papa grew up in an orphanage. His mom had passed and his father wasn’t capable of taking care of the children so they all wound up in different orphan homes. But once my grandfather was able to extricate himself from his orphanage, he went and found his siblings one by one and then took custody and care of them.

They say our history helps to shape the people we are today. Anyone care to share a family story?