I'm in good company, it would seem.

When Kenny broke his hand the last day of summer vacation, it was somewhat amusing how the story grew into something severe, practically life-threatening.

In no time, mothers approached me at school to confirm the ridiculous tales: "Kenny broke his arms and legs while downhill skiing in the Swiss Alps and had to be rescued during a blizzard by a St. Bernard?!"

Stuff like that.

OK, now I'm exaggerating. But this happens, you know it does.

So, should I be surprised 'bout the things going 'round school on Ella's birth?

I am, all the same. Not only by the stories but by who's swapping them. Former classmates who now attend St. Rose in Freehold are passing them along!

A classmate's mother said to me yesterday, as she admired Ella, "So, she was born in the garage?"

What?!

"Oh, oh, you know how kids talk," she recovered.

How to get more earthy than a home delivery by the baby's father with a still-sleepy two-year-old looking on and meekly asking if he can watch "Thomas"?

Apparently by placing the birth ... in a garage.

Why not a lowly manger?

All right, all right, I see it happens to the best of 'em.