When my daughters were young, whenever my father came to visit they headed for the kitchen because they knew dad would soon have story hour.

The guy couldn’t help it. He was a natural storyteller.

That was especially true when my brother and my dad came home from hunting camp.

There were always stories, and Dad was a first-rate storyteller. While my girls would normally have no interest in hearing about hunting, they loved what they called “Papa’s stories.”

Sometimes, though, the stories told more than he wanted us to know.

He often told me he had a wonderful life. He insisted he was grateful for the life he had.

I knew it couldn’t have been all that wonderful because I learned he had to drop out of school in fifth grade to help his brothers in their coal mine.

Dad’s father died right before by dad was born, leaving five boys to scrape a living any way they could. Sometimes that meant picking up loose coal and bundling it to sell alongside the road.

My dad never told me about those bleak days.

He never told me about the time he and his brothers were working in their coal mine when the mine flooded. As the youngest one he was sent out of the mine to get another pump. While he was gone an explosion caused a fire in the mine. Dad never got over the horror of being helpless while his brother Chick burned to death.

He never talked about that part of his past. My mother told me.

I know that after my brother and I were born my dad did find joy in his everyday life. He loved the outdoors and got a kick out of taking me with him.

One time his best friend asked him why he always took me along with them. Dad said, “because she’s fun.”

It didn’t take much to make him happy.

Dad often told me stories about his past. But he never told me the gritty, sorrowful side of his life.

When my dad told the story about climbing the neighbor’s apple tree when he was a young boy he admitted he ate too many apples because he was hungry. He laughed when he said he didn’t realize the fruit he took were crabapples that gave him stomach pains when he tried to fill his stomach with them.

Dad thought he was telling a funny story about what kids do. I thought it was a sad story to think about a little kid who had nothing to eat except stolen fruit.

Sometimes our stories reveal more than we intended.

I found that through the years when I learned most about my family it often came from the stories we told.

I must confess that I, too, was always a storyteller.

My friend Dot is presently teaching a wonderful writing course about turning memories into stories. It’s something writers often do.

You can do it, too.

On our recent vacation to Maine we did manage to sightsee many of the great places along the coastal waterway. And of course I had my fill of fresh lobster.

No matter how many wonderful places we visited on vacation my favorite activity is always after dinner when our family gets together to talk. We often tell stories.

When I was there on my recent vacation something triggered my memory about the time a nurse gave me the wrong baby in the hospital. My daughter Maria was only 2 days old but I had memorized every bit of her.

When they handed me the little bundle they said was my baby, I knew it was not my firstborn. The nurse wouldn’t believe me.

I kept asking for my baby but the nurse said the tag on the crib said Maria Mihalik. I told her I didn’t care what the tag said. I knew it wasn’t my baby.

Maria was a tiny, delicate baby with a mop of dark hair. The baby they gave me had blond hair and was much bigger than Maria.

It was a small rural hospital in the middle of a snowstorm, and no one paid attention to me until the following day when they finally gave me the right baby.

When I walked to see the other mother she acted like I was trying to steal her baby.

That could never happen today because there are plenty of precautions, and mothers can keep their babies with them.

We still share plenty of family stories. Sometimes they are old family stories. Sometimes they are fresh stories.

It doesn’t matter because we like to be reminded of our past.

And we sure do enjoy family stories.

I hope you share your stories.

I have some friends here in Southport who are taking Dot’s class, learning to get their thoughts on paper.

It doesn’t have to be something formal. You don’t even have to write your story. You can share stories orally like they did long ago.

However you do it, though, take time to tell your stories.

Email Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net