I recently had the pleasure of reading Billy Crystal's 700 Sundays -- his account of the brilliantly kooky family from which he came. Sometimes side-splittingly funny, sometimes gut-wrenchingly poignant, it reminds me that all families have their stories, and that, as I learned from minoring in psych, "sane" is just a relative term. (Pun not intended.) My family of origin is no different in that respect. My parents each came from family trees that bore more than a few nuts, and I loved each and every one. Most are gone now: Kind, warm people with ready hugs, open smiles, and quirkiness that makes me laugh out loud to this day. I miss them, and reading Crystal's book makes me want to set down their stories -- so I don't forget, and so that my kids also can know the joy of relatives that make you go "hmm." After all, my little cluster of leaves on the tree is hopelessly normal. At least, that's what I think. That's probably what those other branches of the family tree thought of themselves, too. So I think I'll add another category here for my own recollections of growing up in the classically dysfunctional Italian-American family of the 1960s and '70s. Stay tuned. Truth is stranger, and often funnier, than fiction. In the meantime, do read Crystal's book.