We had our adult children home over Carnival, which is always a good time for them to reconnect with their former classmates. Our son finished parade night by playing darts with old friends. The next morning, he observed that “none of us are where we thought we’d be six years after high school.” I stayed silent and nodded; aware he wasn’t looking for my commentary. He’s 23; he hasn’t yet learned how many of life’s plans are altered by fate, chance or dumb luck. At 58, I’m not where I thought I’d be, either. And that’s okay.

First off, I’m not known as Ursula Moonbeam. I am grateful that my high school whim lacked the motivation to legally change my name.

During college, I flirted with a few career paths: chiropractor, vampire bat research scientist and math teacher. The final change came when I decided I would rather spend my time sharing stories than teaching equations. Although I planned on it as a temporary gig on my way to a more interesting life, my time teaching secondary English spanned three decades.

In addition to my good fortune to spend my career immersed in literature, in retirement, I’ve had the opportunity to share some tales through this column. My favorite part is when readers reach out to share their common experiences. Whether it’s the family whose son hid a dead raccoon in the closet, the gentleman who shared his father’s Harlequin cover art with me, or the quick email about another imaginary Saratoga sibling, these commonalities connect us, even when we are strangers. By hearing other people’s experiences, we reflect on our own.

The author Philip Pullman once said, “After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.” And I agree, which led my husband Bill and I to Fact or Fiction, an Adirondack Center for Writing event. The entertainment consisted of seven storytellers sharing true or seemingly true tales and the audience trying to discern reality from falsehood. (Trust me, it was more entertaining than applying those same skills to modern media).

The stories varied from an unfortunate wedding day euthanasia to a humiliating job firing to awkward post-break-up interactions. The kernel of the stories were all events that didn’t go as planned. In other words, life. The ages of the audience ranged at least 50 years. Granola types, prominent citizens, everyday Joes — everyone was there to share in the narratives. Laughter, empathetic groans and hands held over their mouths — minute by minute, the listeners experienced the stories as they unfolded. Ironically, we were united by different memories of similar ordeals.

This is part of the magic that ACW, under the direction of Nathalie Thill, brings to our region. You don’t need to be a writer or even a reader to benefit from this organization. You just need to appreciate a good tale.

Tonight, the next storytelling series begins in conjunction with NCPR, The Howl Story Slams. These are “true stories told locally” throughout the North Country. The first is at Olive Ridley’s in Plattsburgh. In May, there are two local ones: at Smoke Signals in Lake Placid and then at the Upper Jay Art Center. Details and the whole schedule can be found on the ACW website.

At the Howl, you can sign up to tell your story or listen to others. The tales need to be under five minutes and address the theme. If you are judged as the evening’s winner, you are invited to The Grand Slam finale. This season’s theme is “Kitchen Confidential.” In other words: culinary mishaps, restaurant kitchen ordeals, special meals or “anything else cooking and kitchen related.”

While I know of other people’s good turkey stories — one involving Lemon Pledge and another a slippery parking lot — I don’t have any culinary tales of my own.

“Sure, you do,” my husband disagreed. “I even have your first line.”

“Which is?” I questioned.

Bill grinned as he answered.

“It would go something like this … ‘I told my husband that I wanted a nice quiet dinner at home … so he disconnected the fire alarm.'”