My Grandads
I'm named after both my mum and dad's dads (first and middle names, respectively), and they both passed away in my teens. The details of all these stories are a little fuzzy, I heard most of them second-hand, several years ago, and generally in a situation where I was more interested in amusing anecdotes than factual accuracy.

My dad's dad served, in Burma I believe, and had dozens of classic war stories, most of which he probably never even told. The 2 I remember best are:

- Finding a boa constrictor in the toilet. As he put it, "luckily my trousers were down anyway". Some of his fellows insisted on eating it, on the basis they'd never get another chance to see what it tasted like.
- A damaged bomber coming in to land, the ground crew seeing that the undercarriage was damaged, the landing gear wasn't fully extended, and there was a highly explosive payload dangling loose. They scattered, much to the confusion of the pilot, and it was my grandpa who pulled the short straw and had to run back and help the pilot out of the plane.

My mum's dad was a country man all his life. Bought a nice big house, brought his kids up right, stayed active for a ridiculously long time. The day he had his stroke he'd been up a ladder painting the second storey windows (at 89 iirc). My mum has plenty of tales of 'life on the farm'; carrying a sheep under each arm into the barn on a stormy night and then hunting down a missing lamb for hours.

My personal favourite is the story of his honeymoon. Him and my Nanna decided to go to London for a week (from Fife, back when such a thing was a Big Deal). Because he was quite a stingey get, and more than a little in love with his MG, he drove. When my mum first told me this, I thought the idea of driving to London for your honeymoon was funny enough, but I guess that's just how things have changed. Anyway, they had to fill up at a petrol station somewhere around Nottingham, and my Grandad was absolutely mortified to discover his cheque book was completely empty. He apologised profusely, explaining that he could probably arrange a new cheque book in London, but that he wouldn't be anywhere near Nottingham for a week. The cashier took pity on him, seeing that he was clearly distraught at this breach of etiquette, and seemed like an honest guy, so said he would accept payment in a week. My Grandad refused to just walk away though, and insisted on giving the cashier his (and my Nanna's) wedding rings as collateral (she was understandably miffed). He came back on the return journey with a full chequebook and some whisky for the cashier's generosity.

Length; Nearly 180 years between them.

Edit - I just remembered my Granny's magic ring (minds out the gutter please).

None of my family's superstitious - we're all fairly rational, down-to-earth scientists, and we'll happily dismiss all forms of quackery and mystic garbage as utter nonsense. But we do have a sacred family heirloom; a magic ring that controls the traffic. I don't know how we first discovered it works, but it does. You know when you're driving along a narrow road and that tractor/camper-van/solar windmill pulls out in front of you? And you're stuck cursing at them for hours and hours on a journey that should have taken 20 minutes? Well with this ring, you only have to curse once, and they'll turn off your route as soon as possible.
Usually this is at the next junction, although on more than one occasion the ring's power has caused vehicles to veer straight into a field for no apparent reason. We're not sure if it works by psychic suggestion - convincing the driver they want to take the scenic route and stop bothering other motorists - or by actually taking control of the car - wrenching the wheel from the grasp of some poor sod who just wanted a leisurely drive.
When my Granny kicked the bucket the ring was passed to my mum. She's wary of overusing or depleting its power, but we wouldn't dream of going on a long drive without it.
(Blaah Blaah, Sat 4 Jun 2011, 1:49, Reply)