Aging Gracefully…Well Almost

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant1 Comment

Wearing her new eyewear that conveniently turned dark in sunlight, Mandy briefly admired herself in the rear view mirror. “Not bad, ole gal,” she said, turning her head first to the left and then to the right. Smiling, she rolled down the windows and opened the moonroof. Before leaving the parking lot, Mandy turned on her playlist. Once she hit the open road, she began belting out the tunes, which currently featured one of her all-time favorites, Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.”

Like a heartbeat drives you mad

In the stillness of remembering what you had

And what you lost

And what you had

Ooh, what you lost..

Single by choice, the woman enjoyed her life. She had distinguished experience, or as she liked to say, she was “chronologically gifted.” She still felt youthful in all the ways that mattered. She still danced while vacuuming, believed stretchy pants were athletic wear, and could still keep up with the grandkids—well, on most days anyway. In her mind, she was about thirty-two on a good day and maybe thirty-five on a tired one. Still, she avoided mirrors strategically—not intentionally, just…well, selectively.

She was on her way home from picking up her new prescription glasses, which she purchased after noticing that restaurant menus were now printed in “ant font.” Reading had become a chore as she held books at arm’s length, although that didn’t help at all. Reading the daily news was next to impossible, and driving had also become a challenge when she couldn’t make out exit or street signs. She knew it was time to give up readers and invest in prescription eyewear. Her optometrist cheerfully announced that her new glasses would make everything clearer. Mandy felt optimistic and enlightened—and still thirty-two. On the way home, she stopped at her favorite café for lunch, thrilled she could actually read the menu. To celebrate her newfound eyesight, she also ordered a chocolate mousse, promising herself she would swim extra laps tomorrow.

Once she arrived home and pulled into the driveway, she rushed inside. Her newfound eyesight felt invigorating. She grabbed a book that she had shoved aside because it was too difficult to read. Settling into her favorite chair, she sighed happily as the words came into focus. Oh, how she had missed this luxury! The hours flew by, and she began to yawn. Laughing, she told herself she could read some more tomorrow as she scurried into her bedroom to change into her PJs for the night.

Walking into the bathroom, she took off her glasses to wash her face and begin her nighttime care routine. Once she lathered on the night cream, she put on her glasses, looked in the mirror, and froze. She leaned in closer, pulled back, and then leaned in again. Her thoughts racing, she blurted out, “Who is that woman? Why does she look tired? What happened to my neck? Those aren’t laugh lines. Those are full comedy specials!

Her concern shifted immediately to the glasses. Clearly, they were defective or, at the very least, evil. Sighing, she removed them, and instantly, she looked ten years younger. When she put them back on, she screamed, “Oh no, she’s back!”

She hurried from the bathroom with her hand held to the mirror. Sitting slowly on her bed, bathed in soft lamplight, she noticed her features looked less tragic in this light. Next, she pulled a lighter from the nightstand, lit a candle, and turned off the lamp. In candlelight, she even looked acceptable. “Great,” she muttered, “I will now live the life of a vampire, only leaving the house once the sun sets.”

Suddenly, she didn’t even feel like thirty-five; depressed, she felt more like fifty.

Stumbling into the kitchen, she pulled a bottle of peachcato from the fridge and her favorite wine glass from the cabinet, pouring herself a hefty drink. Walking to the living room, she turned on a lamp by her favorite chair, placed the glass on a coaster on the end table, and walked to the fireplace. Once she switched on the glowing fire, she stared at it sadly, wondering exactly where all the years had gone. It didn’t seem that long ago when her daughter was small. Sighing, she returned to her chair, reclined, and sipped her wine as her thoughts wandered.

When did life change? When did she start warming up to just go dancing? When was the last night she slept without risking injury? “Hmm. Those years didn’t just disappear; they accumulated quietly while you were busy living.” Her realization didn’t ease her frustrations. “So much for aging gracefully,” she whined.

Standing up from her chair, she rushed to her room, grabbed her hand mirror, and then settled back into her chair. She wanted to inspect the “old” woman again. Holding the mirror, she studied her face and decided to be easy on herself and find some good. She noticed she had kind eyes and a great smile. Those laugh lines proved she enjoyed her life. She lived and had great stories. “Well…she’s not so bad.”

Finally, reality settled in, and she found a compromise. She would wear those darn glasses but remove them when she unexpectedly passed a mirror. She would still sing in the car and dance while vacuuming. She decided she still felt like she was thirty-two on the inside. After she smiled at her reflection, she slowly replied, “You may have aged, old woman, but fortunately, I have not!”

Writing Prompt: Today’s prompt is to write about someone looking into a mirror.

Graduate School

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In 2004, I began teaching sixth-grade language arts, a major shift after teaching at the prison. The work was more demanding, with lesson plans to create, papers to grade for over 200 students, and the challenge of managing more than 30 rambunctious middle school students in each class. I won’t lie; some days I missed my comfortable teaching job at the prison, where I had smaller class sizes, paraprofessionals to assist with paperwork and grading, and adults who quietly and respectfully engaged with their assignments. While the prison system had its moments, nothing was quite as daunting as preteens filled with bottled-up energy, classroom hijinks, while mixing in attitude swings and sass.

In my early days, I struggled to manage large classrooms, spending late nights grading papers and tweaking lesson plans to make my writing and grammar lessons more appealing for my clamorous crew. I still chuckle at some of the sentences we created for our grammar lessons. Of course, the boys always had to feature something disgusting, but it worked; most of them remembered their subjects and verbs.

After two years of teaching at the middle school, our district received a grant to fund teachers’ attendance in the Adams State Culturally and Linguistically Diverse gradute program. Our nation faced a shortage of teachers trained to support English Language Learners (ELL), and our school district felt the impact. As an instructor, I had ELL students in my classroom, many of whom spoke Spanish, Korean, Chinese, or Polish as their first languages. These students often struggled as they were still acquiring language skills.

Fortunately, the prison allowed me to take some English as a Second Language (ESL) books that were being removed from circulation. These books became priceless resources for all my students, especially for struggling readers. However, I knew I needed to learn more strategies to assist my English Language Learners.

When the district offered a graduate program for its teachers, I wrestled over the idea of returning to school. I hadn’t forgotten the long hours and sleepless nights I endured while working on my English degree, all while only working part-time. How could I manage returning to school with such a demanding full-time job? Self-doubt entered; I was no spring chicken. What if I couldn’t juggle my job and graduate school?

Ultimately, a coworker, Louise, and I decided to pursue the program together and started in the summer of 2006. We would support each other along the way, united through our common desire to keep learning and find ways to help our students. Together, we signed up for the linguistics graduate degree through Adams State. It was convenient that most of our classes met in Pueblo County. Louise and I spent many hours together, both in and out of the classroom, working on projects and assignments, and we often stopped at Starbucks on our way to weekend classes. Our 18-month program was intense, and her support and friendship kept me motivated.

My days remained busy as I taught students, attended staff meetings, and participated in parent-teacher conferences. Yet, I had it easier than most. As a single woman with a married daughter, I didn’t have the additional responsibilities of cooking dinner or handling family obligations. When I was home, I could focus my energy on lesson plans and graduate school. My heart went out to classmates who juggled extra responsibilities, especially since I felt overloaded with work and worry.

The after-hours studying at the kitchen table, powered by coffee and endless articles, was exhausting. At times, this new challenge felt intense; I was tired, and self-doubt returned. I felt as if I were starting over after so many years away from school. However, I soon began making important discoveries and realized how overwhelmed my ELL students were in the classroom. They were not only trying to learn but also translating all day! It had to be exhausting! This realization humbled me.

Over time, I gradually witnessed a change in my classroom. Quiet students began participating and raising their hands. They asked questions and engaged in discussions. My students gained confidence and became more interested in their studies. This program changed my perspective, and the skills I acquired benefited all of my students.

In 2007, I earned my degree from Adams State with a 4.0 GPA. I was proud of my accomplishments and steadfastness. This degree represented validation, improved skills, and, most importantly, the ability to reach struggling students. Through my studies, I felt increasingly confident as both a teacher and a learner, and I realized that teaching is a lifelong journey of learning. This experience changed my teaching philosophy. I discerned that teaching is not exclusively about delivering information; it is about removing barriers. Every student can succeed when given the proper tools.

And most importantly, I didn’t just earn a degree; I learned to become the teacher my students needed. That year, I discovered teaching wasn’t just about lessons; it was about relationships. What I gained was more than a degree; it was the ability to open doors for students who once felt invisible.

Mothers and Daughters

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You should still be here, but silence lingers; your laughter is a distant memory, a mischievous sense of humor, contagious and warm. Your joy spread easily, laughing until you cried at the antics of one of your sons. Miss the advice, even the unwanted, to hear your voice one more time. The hugs…tender, with a wisp of dark roast and cream. Love’s simple lessons and family tales. I share them now so we will never forget you or your love. Truth be told, I see you every day in the clouds, among the crowds, and in a child’s laughing face. I hear you whisper in the gentle breeze when aspens tremble and buntings sing. You are not where you were, but you are everywhere I am. I find you in the hush amid heartbeats, inside the stillness before sunrise, and in the silent moments of my journey; I feel your presence.

One More Ride

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Stroking Beau’s head, I whispered to my best friend, “The day is all ours.” I inhaled his warm, musky scent, which blended with earth and hay, and finally relaxed, hoping moments like this could last forever. My responsibilities suddenly found their way to the back burner. This morning, I would enjoy a ride with my incredible beauty.

Beau, a breathtaking combination of Arabian and Quarter horse, glistened in the morning sun. He was all black, including his long mane and tail, except for the white blaze on his nose and his four white socks. He pawed the ground, and I laughed. He was ready to hit the country roads and backtrails, too. It was a short ride to Brush Hollow, and we had the whole day to ourselves.

I gathered the reins and quickly placed one foot in the stirrup and swung myself into the saddle, my body moving without hesitation, without pain, without thought. Beau knew where we were heading and turned out of the yard and onto the road. His strength and calm always gave me the right amount of confidence.  Life always felt right when moving along in the saddle with my favorite companion. Even on those days I worked in the garden, Beau would snicker, letting me know he wanted out of his corral.  He followed me around like a puppy, enjoying our closeness as much as I did. I never worried about him running off; he always stayed close, even when I happened to fall off and needed him to wait. We had an unspoken trust. Beau was more than just a horse; he was my anchor, my friend, and my sense of freedom.

As the asphalt turned into dirt roads, we began to canter towards the lake. The spring day offered a cloudless blue sky, and the smell of pinyon and juniper trees and sun-warmed earth filled the air. Cows grazed in green pastures, and occasional moo drifted near us. Spring calves jumped and ran, and made me smile at their antics.

Once we passed the cows, I nudged Beau into a run, wanting to get to Brush Hollow as quickly as possible. The wind whipped my hair, his mane, and tail. It felt like we were flying along that dusty road.

Time slowed and stretched before us, almost standing still as we galloped towards the lake. Dust kicked up behind us while Beau ran as if he could not arrive at our trails soon enough. All thoughts of work and bills dissolved; no future, no past, just this one perfect moment with Beau, a moment I didn’t yet know I would return to again and again. It was quiet understanding, knowing that this day was precious, and I was full of gratitude.

Once we arrived at our familiar path, Beau naturally slowed to a walk, the rhythm of his hooves softening along the trail. The leaves of the cottonwood trees rustled in the wind. A stillness and peace settled in as we began our trek along the path. This rider felt whole, unbroken, and untouched by time. Silence ended when we disturbed a flock of Pinyon Jays. Their cries warned others of our arrival, as if the land itself needed to speak before everything changed. The peace felt too complete, too perfect, the kind that only exists when memory takes over.

And then it happened. The weight of this body refused to move as it once did. Pain returned, along with the heartache and realization that Beau was gone. Opening my eyes, I blinked.  My cane rested next to my nightstand. Slowly, I realized I dreamed of him again.  Sitting up in bed, I winced as pain spread through my back. Grief rested for a moment, as a single tear moved down my cheek. For one lone moment, I allowed the emotional ache of knowing what was lost and could never be again. But I quickly pushed it away, only allowing the pain to last for an instant. For I had lived those perfect moments with Beau, and for that, I would always be grateful.

Prompt: For the first prompt of the 2025 challenge (drum roll, please!): Write a story based on the idea “if you could have just one more.”

I Hated Ants!

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When I was a toddler, I lived in Hotchkiss, Colorado, my Momma’s hometown. It was a close-knit little town where everyone knew each other, and neighbors weren’t strangers; they were part of daily life.

During that time, we lived on Bridge Street, one of the town’s main thoroughfares, next door to a mechanic. Most weekends, he and his friends could be found in his garage, working on cars, swapping stories, and filling the air with the sounds of engines and laughter. But it also had a dark side. Soon,that garage became the unlikely ground zero for some of my earliest toddler mischief.

For reasons no one could quite explain, his garage attracted ants; legions of them. It was probably due to spilled soda, leftover lunches, or some mysterious automotive potion that lured the insects inside. Each day, the ants formed a formidable marching line, streaming up the driveway and straight into the open garage like a tiny invading army. Every day, the mechanic and his friends could be seen stomping on the relentless invasion, swatting and muttering their exasperated war cry: “Damn ants.”

According to Momma, it didn’t take long for me to follow suit.

My parents and grandparents often witnessed their curly-haired girl out on the sidewalk, stomping and jumping with fierce determination, pointing at the pavement, and screaming at the top of her lungs, “Damn ants!” My conviction and my performance caught the attention of passing neighbors and the men in the garage. My audience laughed, amused by my antics. The passing admiration only fueled my enthusiasm. My daily performances grew louder, more dramatic, and more frequent. While slightly amused, my parents didn’t want their oldest child loudly cursing in front of all the neighbors, so they tried to make light of the situation. Hoping against hope, my loud hijinks and daily productions would quickly disappear. I can’t really blame them; my first curse words weren’t exactly a milestone they wanted to celebrate.

As if that weren’t enough, I soon developed another “dirty” habit: I liked to eat soil.

The moment Momma turned her back, I would find a corner of ground, dig in with my little hands, and satisfy my strange new craving. She would scoop me up, carry me inside, wash my face, and carefully clean my mouth with a wet washcloth, an experience I did not enjoy. Still, as moms everywhere do, she found a simple and brilliant solution. Calmly, she told me that ants lived in the dirt.

Her story worked.

Momma said my reaction was instantaneous and theatrical. My face, she said, showed shock and total revulsion. Once I knew that ants lived in the dirt, my hankering for all things earth and loam disappeared. My deep-rooted disgust for ants crushed my cravings and cured my strange fondness for soil, and just like that, the dirt-munching phase ended.

Time passed, and as Christmas approached, a package arrived from my mom’s sister, Barb. She had wrapped a gift for her niece and topped it with an adorable tag featuring a rosy-cheeked Santa.

But there was a problem. She signed it: Love Aunt Barb.

To a toddler who hated ants with an absolute passion, “aunt” and “ant” sounded like the same repulsive critter.

Momma said that when she told me the present was from my aunt, I made a disgusted face, hurled the package across the room, and shouted with full conviction, “Damn ants!” It took a great deal of convincing to get me to finally open my Christmas present, and even more effort to explain the difference between an aunt and an ant, a concept that took time to fully understand.

Now, remembering those stories still makes me smile. I always loved the tales Momma shared about my early years, especially the ones filled with humor and just the right amount of shenanigans. She even saved that little Santa gift tag, now safely tucked away in a box of Christmas treasures. It’s a sweet keepsake and a reminder of family stories, childhood misunderstandings, and how the smallest moments often become the most beloved memories.

The Christmas Doll

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant4 Comments
Daily writing prompt
Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?
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One afternoon, while I was playing with a neighbor, she proudly showed me a gift she had received, a Madame Alexander Pussy Cat doll. To my eight-year-old eyes, she was the most beautiful baby doll I had ever seen. She looked almost real. Her cheeks were chubby and rosy, her little arms and legs were soft and round, and tiny dimples marked her knees. Her eyes opened and closed, and when you tipped her just right, she said mama. She was perfect. I gushed over her, telling my friend Kim how beautiful she was and how I couldn’t wait to go home and tell my mom about her.

That excitement didn’t last long. Kim’s mother overheard our conversation and explained that the doll was very expensive and that my family could not afford such a luxury. I remember the sting of disappointment, but even at that young age, I understood something important. Family mattered more than material things. My mom always found ways to make our childhood feel special and magical, even without expensive gifts. What she gave us, love, attention, and imagination, was worth far more than any doll.

But moms have a way of creating their own quiet magic.

I’m not sure how my mother found out that I wanted that doll, but somehow she did. Without a word to me, she asked my dad to take her to a nearby toy store that carried Madame Alexander dolls. There, she put my doll, who would later be named Amy, on layaway. Month after month, she faithfully made payments until the doll was paid for in full. It was a labor of love I never noticed at the time.

On Christmas morning, I tore open my gift and froze. There she was, my very own Pussy Cat doll. I remember holding her close, hardly able to believe she was really mine. In that moment, I felt only the magic, not the sacrifice, planning, or quiet determination that had worked behind the scenes. Amy became an instant treasure, one that stayed with me through the years.

As an adult, I now understand what that gift truly represented. My mother wanted her only daughter to have something special that Christmas, and she was willing to sacrifice to make it happen. My Momma was, and always will be, a miracle worker in my eyes.

I still have my little Amy doll to this day, a reminder that she was never just a toy, but a symbol of my mother’s deep devotion. That little doll represents the kind of Christmas magic only a mother’s love can create.

Acceptance

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Daily writing prompt
What is the greatest gift someone could give you?
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Acceptance

Gifts come in all forms, yet if I were to receive the perfect gift, it would be acceptance. To be accepted without judgment would truly feel heaven-sent. Acceptance is the quiet reassurance that you are enough just as you are, without needing to prove, hide, or explain yourself.

Acceptance offers the receiver the ability to breathe freely and feel comfortable among others, without the fear of criticism or reproof. It is an understanding that none of us are perfect, and that those who care for us act with good intentions, hoping for the best in our lives. When someone accepts you fully, they acknowledge your strengths, your flaws, your history, and your hopes, and they choose to stand beside you anyway.

Acceptance means knowing you belong, imperfections and all. It offers hope, peace, and unconditional love. It frees you from the weight of jealousy, comparison, or the irrational worries that others may misunderstand you. The people who offer this gift truly understand you. They know your heart is good, and they recognize that you genuinely want the best for them as well.

Acceptance strengthens family ties and deepens friendships. It brings security, trust, and emotional safety into relationships. When you know you are accepted, you can show up as yourself, without masks, without fear, because you are valued simply for being who you are.

This gift bonds people together and creates joy in every interaction. It fosters patience, kindness, and compassion. Acceptance is thoughtful, grounding, and profoundly meaningful. It is, without question, the perfect present for anyone who wishes to live a life rooted in peace, love, and understanding.

My College Years

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Daily writing prompt
What colleges have you attended?
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Over the years, I have attended three colleges: Pueblo Community College, the University of Southern Colorado, and Adams State University. Each institution provided me with a valuable learning experience and opened doors to new opportunities.

Here is a brief tale of my college experiences.

A Lifetime of Learning