You Cant Make this stuff up

Tag: Funny Family Stories

  • My Sheep Dog Screwed up Christmas

    Christmas, Elton, and the Reindeer

    Mom was a Christmas freak.

    I mean all in — hundreds of lights inside and out, two Christmas trees, stockings on the mantel, nonstop holiday music, and relatives telling the same old stories year after year.

    Bobo, our loyal ¾ Collie, ¼ German Shepherd, would roam the house proudly with mistletoe hanging from his collar.

    Back then, nobody told us chocolate was like poison to dogs. Guess it didn’t matter to Bobo. He probably scarfed down a thousand chocolate Santas, Easter eggs, and Halloween candies over the years — and lived to be over 100 in dog years.

    Mom was also a genius when it came to solving the holiday tug-of-war between kids and in-laws. You know the drill: “This year we’re going to my house. Next year is your house.”

    Her solution? She hosted full Christmas celebrations on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Same food, same drinks, same music and gifts.

    If the in-laws claimed Christmas Eve, no problem — you just came to our place Christmas Day. And if they didn’t want either day? Might be time to fold them back into the community.

    Now, any kind of formality was rare in our family — except for Christmas dinners.

    That’s when we dressed to impress: gray slacks, sport coats, winter sweaters, holiday dresses. We’d sip cocktails and nibble hors d’oeuvres in the living room by the roaring fireplace, usually accompanied by a niece or nephew playing carols on the piano after eight years of forced lessons.

    Then we’d move into the dining room for Mom’s traditional beef stroganoff.

    This tradition ran like clockwork — uneventful for 40 straight years — until Elton came along.

    Elton John Rocket Man was my Bouvier des Flandres — a big, shaggy Belgian sheepdog who looked like a cuddly bear.

    The grandkids loved him. They begged, “Can you bring Elton to Christmas dinner?”

    My wife (at the time) shot that idea down fast.

    “Absolutely not. He will screw something up, and it will be my fault.”

    I promised I would keep him downstairs with the kids. No risk, no chaos. She growled, “Fine,” and off we went.

    Things went fine at first. Elton was in the basement, the relatives rolled in, and even Mrs. C — a 98-year-old great-aunt twice removed — made it to her cozy chair next to the fireplace.

    That chair was surrounded by stockings, a nativity scene, and a decorated Styrofoam reindeer that had seen better years.

    Then… it happened. Elton slithered out of the basement like a Christmas ninja, tiptoed down the hall, and peeked into the living room. His eyes locked onto the reindeer. And in a flash, it was game on.

    He bolted behind the sofa, slid behind Mrs. C, and mounted the reindeer like he’d been saving up all year for this moment.

    Mrs. C tapped her cane and muttered, “I think we have a problem over here.”

    It took two of us to drag Elton off that poor reindeer.

    My wife? She practically shot herself through the thermal-pane windows. “We’re going home. Now.”

    I pleaded, “Just let’s get through dinner.”

    I stashed Elton back in the basement and tossed the reindeer into the coat closet. The crisis seemed contained.

    Dinner came and went, and folks were bundling up to leave. Elton was in the foyer as we said our goodbyes. Mrs. C, walker in hand, made her way toward the coat closet.

    And that’s when disaster struck again. Someone opened the closet.

    Elton spotted the reindeer. In a blur, he charged — bowling over poor Mrs. C like a linebacker on a mission. The reindeer didn’t stand a chance. Neither did Mrs. C once again.

    Again it took a team effort to separate the dog from decor.

    My family howled with laughter.

    My wife? Not so much.

    On the way home, I got the speech. You know the one.

    Eventually — like all challenging in-laws — she was folded back into the community.

  • My Sheep Dog Screwed up Christmas

    Christmas, Elton, and the Reindeer

    Mom was a Christmas freak.

    I mean all in — hundreds of lights inside and out, two Christmas trees, stockings on the mantel, nonstop holiday music, and relatives telling the same old stories year after year.

    Bobo, our loyal ¾ Collie, ¼ German Shepherd, would roam the house proudly with mistletoe hanging from his collar.

    Back then, nobody told us chocolate was like poison to dogs. Guess it didn’t matter to Bobo. He probably scarfed down a thousand chocolate Santas, Easter eggs, and Halloween candies over the years — and lived to be over 100 in dog years.

    Mom was also a genius when it came to solving the holiday tug-of-war between kids and in-laws. You know the drill: “This year we’re going to my house. Next year is your house.”

    Her solution? She hosted full Christmas celebrations on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Same food, same drinks, same music and gifts.

    If the in-laws claimed Christmas Eve, no problem — you just came to our place Christmas Day. And if they didn’t want either day? Might be time to fold them back into the community.

    Now, any kind of formality was rare in our family — except for Christmas dinners.

    That’s when we dressed to impress: gray slacks, sport coats, winter sweaters, holiday dresses. We’d sip cocktails and nibble hors d’oeuvres in the living room by the roaring fireplace, usually accompanied by a niece or nephew playing carols on the piano after eight years of forced lessons.

    Then we’d move into the dining room for Mom’s traditional beef stroganoff.

    This tradition ran like clockwork — uneventful for 40 straight years — until Elton came along.

    Elton John Rocket Man was my Bouvier des Flandres — a big, shaggy Belgian sheepdog who looked like a cuddly bear.

    The grandkids loved him. They begged, “Can you bring Elton to Christmas dinner?”

    My wife (at the time) shot that idea down fast.

    “Absolutely not. He will screw something up, and it will be my fault.”

    I promised I would keep him downstairs with the kids. No risk, no chaos. She growled, “Fine,” and off we went.

    Things went fine at first. Elton was in the basement, the relatives rolled in, and even Mrs. C — a 98-year-old great-aunt twice removed — made it to her cozy chair next to the fireplace.

    That chair was surrounded by stockings, a nativity scene, and a decorated Styrofoam reindeer that had seen better years.

    Then… it happened. Elton slithered out of the basement like a Christmas ninja, tiptoed down the hall, and peeked into the living room. His eyes locked onto the reindeer. And in a flash, it was game on.

    He bolted behind the sofa, slid behind Mrs. C, and mounted the reindeer like he’d been saving up all year for this moment.

    Mrs. C tapped her cane and muttered, “I think we have a problem over here.”

    It took two of us to drag Elton off that poor reindeer.

    My wife? She practically shot herself through the thermal-pane windows. “We’re going home. Now.”

    I pleaded, “Just let’s get through dinner.”

    I stashed Elton back in the basement and tossed the reindeer into the coat closet. The crisis seemed contained.

    Dinner came and went, and folks were bundling up to leave. Elton was in the foyer as we said our goodbyes. Mrs. C, walker in hand, made her way toward the coat closet.

    And that’s when disaster struck again. Someone opened the closet.

    Elton spotted the reindeer. In a blur, he charged — bowling over poor Mrs. C like a linebacker on a mission. The reindeer didn’t stand a chance. Neither did Mrs. C once again.

    Again it took a team effort to separate the dog from decor.

    My family howled with laughter.

    My wife? Not so much.

    On the way home, I got the speech. You know the one.

    Eventually — like all challenging in-laws — she was folded back into the community.

  • There is a goat on my Corvette!

    A white goat standing atop an orange sports car, with visible wheels and windows.

    The Goat, the Corvette, and the Dumpster Surprise

    Sister Sally’s pride and joy was Cotton Tail, a white rabbit with deep red eyes.

    One Christmas, Brother Bill got a bow and an arrow. He was eager to try it out. He launched an arrow into the sky. It arched over the trees and came down directly into Cotton Tail.

    As you can imagine, this puts a serious damper on the holiday spirit. Sally was devastated for months.

    Mom wanted to ease the pain.
    During a country drive, she found a creative solution: a roadside sign that read “Baby Goats for Sale.”

    Easter was just around the corner. Sally’s basket that year included a real, live baby goat. It was nestled in green plastic grass.

    She named him Sticks.

    We did not know at the time that Sticks would grow into an 85-pound, four-foot-tall wrecking ball. He ate Mom’s petunias. He also had a nasty habit of butting anyone who bent over.

    Fast-forward to a big family party after a college football game.

    I had just bought a brand-new orange Corvette, and we were celebrating hard.

    One of the guests had a few too many scotches and stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. On his way, he looked out the window and froze.

    “Martha… you’re not going to believe this, but there’s a goat standing on an orange Corvette.”

    She followed him to the window. Of course, by the time she looked, Sticks had hopped off.

    “I don’t see a goat,” she said. “Harry, we’re going home.”

    Sadly, a few months later, a pack of dogs killed Sticks.

    Dad spotted him in the yard and called out:

    “Michael, before school, you need to bury that goat.”

    Mike did not want to. But Dad insisted.

    So, Mike found a shortcut.

    He dragged the goat to our old wood-paneled station wagon, tied a rope around its neck, pulled it to the end of the driveway, and hoisted it into the family dumpster.

    “Did you bury the goat?”

    “Yeah, yeah,” Mike said, ready to head to school.

    But just as he was about to leave, the Waste Management guy showed up. He opened the dumpster to toss in some boxes — and froze.

    Inside were four hooves sticking straight up.

    He marched to the door and banged hard. Dad answered.

    “Sir, I have picked up a lot of trash in 20 years. But never a dead goat.”

    Michael! Get that goat out of the dumpster

  • The Rhythm Method

    Of course, it all started with our parents. They met on a blind date.

    Bill was always quiet and passive. Ginny was the life of the party—a little crazy, a great storyteller.

    After their third date, Ginny started calling him “Wallet.” This went on for weeks. Bill couldn’t figure it out. Did she think he had money? That he came from money? He was completely confused. Finally, he got up the courage to ask:

    “Why do you keep calling me Wallet?”

    Ginny thought, What’s with this guy? How dense can he be?

    She finally blurted it out:

    “How could a family with the last name Fold name their son Bill?”

    (It’s actually Voll.) All his cards were signed “Wallet” for 60+ years.

    The Drake Hotel

    A vintage scene outside The Drake Hotel, featuring a middle-aged couple standing together, smiling at the camera, each hol...

    They didn’t waste any time with the Catholic rhythm method.

    Nancy was conceived on the honeymoon, and the rest of us came one after another.

    We once sat down with Mom and asked, “OK, how did this whole thing unfold?”

    She said:

    “Well, Nancy was born, and after three months of no sleep, baby food, and changing diapers, I just needed a break.

    Dad and I would go to the Drake Hotel in Chicago for the weekend.

    And every time I came back from the Drake—I was pregnant.”

    So yes, we were all conceived at the Drake Hotel.

    A few years ago, we even made a trip up to the Drake bar for a “conception celebration.”

    And every Father’s Day, we’d tell Dad:

    “Thank God you didn’t take piano lessons… or we wouldn’t be here.”

    Nancy, The Trailblazer

    Nancy, the oldest, always led by example.

    At just seven years old, she taught us how to take empty bleach bottles, fill them almost to the top with water, shove in some dry ice, cap them, run, and watch them blow up.  At the next parent / teacher meeting, the nun said “ Nancy is a great student, well behaved but has the wildest imagination.  When asked about exciting things she did over the summer, her reply:  I taught my brothers and sisters how to blow up bleach bottles”

    she also was a great witness of her Catholic teachings—by example.

    She believed Catholicism was the only ticket to Heaven, so she felt sorry for the Altman, our Jewish neighbors. She took them cookies because, as she put it, “they weren’t going to make the bus.”

    Nancy’s biggest moment of faith came one Good Friday.

    She had us build a wooden cross, dig a hole in the backyard, and plant it upright. 

    Then she convinced our 7-year-old Protestant neighbor, Kim Lehman, to strip to his shorts, tied him to the cross, and put ketchup on his stomach. This was the view from the Jews who got the cookies. 

    She also conducted dozens of animal funerals with the rest of us as mourners. 

    Dogs, cats, chipmunks, birds, turtles, goldfish, guinea pigs—even an alligator. She would gather every shoebox she could find for caskets. 
    Every one had a full procession, prayer, and burial.  And of course she conducted funeral masses with a vestment sheet, wine glass chalice with grape juice. She would chug the “wine” and administer Wonder Bread hosts. 

    The entire backyard had to be resodded because of multiple graves before the home would sell. 

    That’s the beginning of our story. There’s a lot more to come. 

    Stay tuned.

  • “You just can’t make this stuff up…”

    One family, Eleven kids, Infinite stories

    A family of eight, including two adults, sits inside a yellow van with a variety of animals in their laps, including a dog...

    I’m #3 in a Catholic family of 11 plus parents. Over the last 70+ years, we’ve created a ridiculous number of unforgettable stories: from explosive science experiments to backyard crucifixions (yes really), to a family-wide conception celebration at the Drake Hotel in Chicago. You can’t make this stuff up

    I just started this blog after years of hearing, you need to write a book. A book takes too long (and most of us have severe ADHD), so a blog seemed like the next best thing. Here I’ll be sharing two to three stories a week.

    Whether you’re from a big family, married into one, or just need a laugh-welcome to our circus.

    We’re glad you’re here.