I suppose every family has its unproven stories, tales told from generation to generation, possibly embellished along the way.

But I enjoy believing that the following saga really did take place.

My dad’s parents, Lipman Knitzer and Pearl Harris (nee Nussbaum), were born in Russia and Poland, respectively, sometime in the late 1800's.

The family legend is that my grandfather and his brother, Harris Knitzer, were drafted into the Russian army in their early 20's, sometime in the early 1900's. They were a handsome pair, as proven by a family photo of the two of them in their uniforms. But they were Jews and, therefore, not treated well in the army.

They chose to desert instead of becoming canon fodder and took their families and began a 1,400-mile, months-long trek from Eastern Russia to France, passing through Poland, Germany and Belgium along the way. They survived by stopping at small villages and getting help from fellow Jews, trading work for food and a roof over their heads.

My grandfather and his first wife had a small child, my aunt Miriam (Mamie). The first wife, whose name I never knew, died along the way. They wound up in Le Havre, France, where my grandfather and his brother found work and earned enough for passage on a ship to the U.S., where they had cousins who would sponsor their entry.

Meanwhile, the women in the Jewish community of Le Havre thought it was terrible that my grandfather was raising a baby alone. Match-making was an honorable profession in those days and a new wife was found for my grandfather. She was a 16-year-old Polish girl named Pearl Nussbaum, who was also alone and wanted to go to the U.S.

My father was supposedly conceived during the ship’s passage to America.

Upon arriving at Ellis Island, the port of entry in New York City, my grandfather’s family got in one line and his brother in a second line. When it came time to answer the clerk’s questions, my grandfather said his name was Lipman Knitzer. They clerk said, ``Leon what?’’ Uncertain of what was being asked, my grandfather turned to the other line and asked, ``Harris, what’s he asking?’’ The clerk promptly said, ``Leon Harris, OK.’’ 

That’s how Lipman Knitzer became Leon Harris and how we became the Harris family.

Although we lost track of my grandfather's brother, who moved to Canada, we were told he also took the surname Harris at some point. So we do have Harris relatives in Canada and elsewhere.

Another family legend that I first heard when I was very young involved my mother's family.

My grandfather on that side was not exactly a family man. He was an over-the-road trucker who often showed up at home just long enough to make my grandmother, Nettie Krieger, pregnant again. After the sixth kid, he left and never came back, leaving Grandma Nettie to raise the family by herself.

But there was a story that, before he left for good, he would sometimes take the family on Sunday drives in one of those big old sedans from the 1920's or 30's.

He liked silence in the car and would flare up if one of the children started talking or made any noise, so the trips were usually done in peaceful silence, with everyone just taking in the eastern Ohio scenery.

One Sunday, the drive included the six kids, their mother and her mother, who sat in the back seat next to the passenger-side door. Great grandma fell asleep as they drove. My grandfather was apparently a careful driver and he took his turns very slowly.

As he made a turn at a quiet country intersection, great grandma's door popped open and she tumbled out onto the grassy berm without a sound.

One of my girls in the back, afraid to make a sound, reached out and quietly closed the door so as not to get Papa upset. But then she began quietly sobbing.

My grandma looked into the back seat to see what was wrong and the sobbing girl quietly said, "Bubbe fell out!"

Grandma screamed and grandpa hit the brakes. They went back and found great grandma unhurt and still sleeping soundly.

At least that was the story I heard.

In 1984, my mom was dying from colon cancer. She was on her deathbed in a hospital in Cincinnati, where she had lived for a number of years.

Judy and I drove in from Cleveland to be with her.

One afternoon, Judy and my Aunt Gail, mom's youngest sister, were sitting with her. Judy said, "Mom, Mike has told this story about you and your family over the years. I'm just wondering if it is true."

She then told mom and Aunt Gail the story. Mom said, "I have no idea what you're talking about." But Gail started to laugh.

It turns out that I had heard the story when I was a youngster, but it was about the family of one of Gail's friends.

That got all three of them laughing and Mom laughed so hard, tears began to stream down her face. So, here she was, three days before she died, having one of the best laughs of her life.

Another story that actually involved our family took place when I was a teenager.

Most years at spring break, dad would pack us all up in the car and head for Miami Beach or Biloxi, MS for some warmth and relaxation.

Like me, he loved to drive and never seemed to get tired. Often, he would drive through the night to get to our destination. I remember once driving through the Everglades on a moonless night, the two of us the only ones awake in the quiet car.

The trees were like a tall picket fence as we sped past, and it was so dark that little beyond the headlights was visible. It was eerie and cool at the same time. And dad and I kept each other entertained by talking sports. It is one of my favorite memories of my dad.

Another time, we took a different route than usual and drove through the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee.

As we neared one of the highest points on our route, dad ran over a large rock sitting in the middle of the road. It ripped out the oil pan and damaged the transmission on his big Packard Patrician.

He pulled to the side of the road and looked around, saying, "We'll have to find some help."

There was no traffic at that point and nobody to flag down. So dad said, "I'll walk ahead and see if I can find a telephone somewhere."

It was somewhat scary as mom and me and my brothers and sisters waited in the car, peering out at the vistas far below as dad walked ahead and disappeared around a big bend in the road.

But he was only gone a short time before he reappeared around that same bend with a big smile and a jaunty pace.

"There's a gas station and a small motel just up ahead," dad explained. "We can walk up there and the guy will come tow the car and see what repairs we need."

The repairs were extensive and the mechanic had to order parts from Gatlinburg, the nearest city. He said the parts would arrive the next day, so we checked into the motel, a very rustic place with the only telephone and TV in the lobby.

The place was run by an older couple, who made us feel right at home. There was no restaurant, but they fed us dinner and breakfast before the car was ready the next afternoon.

That whole experience could certainly have been a lot worse and it did make a great tale.