The Road

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant4 Comments

My dear friend Katie, from A Virginia Writer’s Diary, has graciously given me permission to share her story, “The Roads.”

Katie is such a gifted writer, and this piece is truly worth your time. Please take a moment to read her beautiful story and let her words carry you down the roads of memory, reflection, and home.

The Road

“The ridge or the glade?”

I am eight, and it’s my birthday. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my mother’s gold Toyota Tercel, holding a cake box in my lap.

She looks at me, stretches a hand out to tweak my nose, and asks, “The ridge or the glade, Betsy-bug?”

I am sixteen, learning to drive myself, on a hot day in the middle of a mountain summer, behind the wheel of my grandfather’s enormous red and white Ford truck. He’s forced me into this, like it’s all a big joke, and as I struggle, sputter, and sit white-knuckled behind the steering wheel, he laughs.

He reaches over and steadies my trembling hand, and asks, “The ridge or the glade?”

I am twenty-two, heading south on I-81 from college for Christmas with the boyfriend I once thought I’d marry. We sing along to whatever plays on the radio, and rest our interlocked hands on the center console of a silver Nissan Altima.

“You have two choices,” I tell him, “once we get close to the house. The ridge or the glade.”

“The what now?”

“Those are the two roads we can take, once we get into town,” I explain. “Would you rather take the ridge or the glade?”

“I literally don’t know what those things are,” he says.

I glance over at my city boy. I can’t help but smirk. He’ll learn soon enough, but for now, I explain again.

“There are two ways we could get to my parents’ house. One takes us through a clearing. Do you get carsick?”

“I don’t think so,” he answers.

“Okay, good to know. The other takes us up over the mountain. Which one do you want to see?”

“The glade, I guess,” he says.

Turns out, he does get carsick. The tight curves, the dips and the little inclines of the glade road are too much for his nervous stomach.

“You could have warned me,” he says, once we’re safely parked in the driveway and unloading bags filled with laundry and textbooks.

“I did,” I say. “We’ll take the ridge next time.”

For the first half of my life, two roads brought me home, one high and one low, both so clear in my memory that I could drive them blindfolded even now.

Tonight, my mother’s voice wakes me.

“The ridge or the glade,” she whispers, close to my ear.

Outside, it snows, and the wind howls, and the dying embers of the wood fire beside my recliner glow bright and alive in the midst of a winter storm that the Weather Channel calls one for the century.

I almost answer her. “The ridge,” I almost say. I’ve always loved the ridge best, and it’s right on the tip of my tongue. But as I come out of sleep, and the drowsy haze lifts from my mind, I stop.

I stop because I am alone in my living room, tucked under a blanket my granddaughter knitted for my seventieth birthday. My mother’s been gone for nearly twelve years, and it’s been almost as long since I’ve seen the ridge or the glade.

I am sixty-one, sitting at a table in a sterile, white and gray office space. A real estate agent, an ancient friend of my long-dead uncle’s, sits beside me. Across from us, an attractive young couple beams and radiates excitement and energy. They’ve told me my mother’s home is their dream home, where they’ll raise their family, where they’ll build their life together. I sign the papers and the home belongs to them.

I am sixty-one and three quarters. I drive through the ridge one last time, intending to say a final goodbye, now that my mother’s affairs are settled. I round the curve and look to my right. My mother’s house, my home, has disappeared. In its place, the beginnings of a new structure rise from the landscape, a beast unlike anything the little valley has seen in all its many eons. I take the glade back out into town, and though I want to, though I want to change everything, I don’t look back.

I rise, pushing myself up against the thick, round arms of my oversized La-Z-Boy. There was a time that I would have been embarrassed to own it, but I practically never leave it these days. The blanket falls to the floor and I don’t pick it up. My back feels stiff and my joints ache. It’s the cold air, I think.

I make my way through the dark, to the kitchen sink where I pour a glass of tap water and drink it down in one gulp. I stand still for a moment and look out the window at the snow falling fierce and heavy in the halo of a bright orange streetlight. I haven’t thought of the roads home in years. I used to dream about them. I’d dream of driving in the dark, of rounding curves too fast or of creeping along beside the meadow flowers and the cow paths. But tonight, now in this moment, I can’t get them out of my mind.

I pour another glass and carry it with me back to the side table by the recliner. I settle in, under the blanket by the fire, and I feel myself again drifting off into sleep. I wonder if I’ll dream.

“The ridge or the glade?”

This time, it’s my voice, my question. My mother sits beside me in my white BMW, and warm sunlight shines in through the windshield. I remember this car. It’s the first one I ever bought for myself.

I look over. My mother is young again, and so am I. Her chestnut hair matches mine, and together we smile the crooked smile that was passed down to us.

“The ridge,” she says. “You like the ridge best.”

“I do,” I answer, “but I know you love the glade.”

“I love them both,” she says. “Mostly for where they take me.”

“Me, too,” I say.

We take the glade home.

Photo Credit: Katie

Aspen Fire Update: Holding Our Communities Close

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

The Aspen Acres Fire has now grown to almost 92,000 acres, with firefighters reporting 12% containment as of Monday morning. This is the first bit of encouraging news we have had in days, but the fire is still large, active, and dangerous. More than 1,300 personnel are now working this fire, and evacuation orders remain in place across several Southern Colorado communities.

Last night brought more heartbreak and worry as mandatory evacuations expanded into Fremont County, including Williamsburg, Coal Creek, Rockvale, Newlin Ridge Road, Los Pinos Subdivision, Lock Mountain Estates, and nearby areas along Highway 67 north of the Custer County line. Evacuees were directed to Pathfinder Park near Florence, where both people and animals can go for help.

This fire feels even more personal today. Florence was the first place I lived when I moved to Colorado, so hearing that communities south of Florence were evacuated last night hit close to home. My cousin was among those forced to leave, and I have friends and people I care about throughout that area. These are not just towns on an evacuation map to me. They are places filled with memories, family, neighbors, and hardworking people who love their homes and land. Tonight, my prayers are with Florence, Williamsburg, Coal Creek, Rockvale, Beulah, Rye, Wetmore, and every community facing fear, smoke, and uncertainty.

My heart is heavy for our Colorado communities and every family watching the smoke and waiting for news. These are not just names on a map. They are homes, pastures, favorite roads, mountain views, family memories, and places people love deeply.

Officials have reported major losses, including 157 structures lost in Pueblo County and 55 homes lost in Custer County. The numbers are hard to take in, but behind every number is someone’s life, their photographs, their porches, their barns, their trees, and their sense of safety.

Still, even in the middle of so much loss, Southern Colorado keeps showing its heart. Neighbors are helping neighbors. People are opening trailers, pastures, homes, and donation sites. Firefighters and first responders are working long, exhausting hours to protect communities, livestock, wildlife, and homes.

Today I am praying for calmer winds, gentle rain, clear direction for fire crews, safety for every evacuee, and comfort for everyone who has lost so much.

May Beulah and all our mountain communities be held close.
May the firefighters be protected.
May the animals find shelter.
May the smoke lift.
May hope rise from the ashes.
And may Southern Colorado continue to stand together, strong and kind.

Colorado strong ❤️

Conversations With Teddy #5

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The Road Home

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant3 Comments

The Road Home

Some roads stay with us long after we have traveled them. They may be country roads lined with fence posts, gravel driveways leading to a childhood home, mountain trails that carried us into quiet places, or familiar streets we could still walk in our memory. This week, write about a road, driveway, street, trail, or journey that reminds you of home. Where did it lead? Who traveled it with you? What feelings come back when you remember it?

Please share your stories and link them here.

The Road Home

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Here is a blog post I wrote years ago about the road home. It is one of those pieces that still tugs at my heart, because home is more than a place. It is the people, the memories, the roads we traveled, and the stories we carry with us.

I would love for you to share links to your own stories here, too, so I can share them with my readers. Family memories make the very best stories, and sometimes, one person’s memory helps another person find their way back home.

Finding My Way Home

Beulah Update: Praying for Our Mountain Home

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

My heart is still with Beulah today.

The Aspen Acres Fire has continued to grow through the Wet Mountains and down to the valleys and open prairies, burning more than 86,000 acres across Pueblo, Custer, Huerfano, and Fremont counties. Officials report the fire is still at zero containment, and evacuation orders remain in place for many communities, including Beulah, Rye, San Isabel Colorado City, Wetmore, and surrounding areas. Thousands of people have been displaced, and more than 180 structures have been lost.

It is hard to find the right words for a place that has always felt like peace. Beulah is not just a dot on a map. It is a sweet mountain town filled with kind people, quiet roads, wildlife, trees, memories, and that feeling you get when your soul can finally breathe. For many of us, Beulah is our happy place. Today, that makes this loss feel deeply personal.

Fire crews continue to work in difficult conditions. Over 600 firefighters are now assigned to the fire, and crews have been building containment lines, protecting homes, and using water drops from Pueblo Reservoir to slow the flames. Weather remains a concern, with dry conditions, possible thunderstorms, and wind gusts that could cause more fire growth.

On this Fourth of July, as so many people would normally be celebrating, I hope we remember the families who are waiting for news, the evacuees who are far from home, the firefighters standing between flames and neighborhoods, and the animals and wildlife caught in the middle of it all.

Please continue to pray for Beulah, Rye, San Isabel, Colorado City, Wetmore, Bishop’s Castle and every surrounding community touched by this fire. Pray for the people who have lost homes, land, memories, and a sense of safety. Pray for the firefighters, deputies, emergency workers, pilots, volunteers, and everyone working long hours to help.

May the winds calm.
May the smoke lift.
May the rain come gently.
May every person and animal find shelter.
May those who have lost so much feel surrounded by love.
And may our beautiful Beulah rise again, held by the strength of the mountains and the hearts of the people who love her.

Colorado strong ❤️

Note: This photo was shared in a post by Robert Bradford, whose home was spared in the Aspen Acres Fire here in Colorado. The picture itself was taken at his neighbor’s property, where a dry tree stump topped with a carved wooden eagle somehow survived the flames. Sadly, his neighbor’s home was lost in the fire.

To me, this image speaks boldly. It is both heartbreaking and powerful, a symbol of loss, survival, and hope rising from the ashes. I wanted to share it because it tells such a bittersweet story.

Photo credit: Robert Bradford.

Monetary Donations: Can be sent to the United Way Southern Colorado.

Born on the Fourth of July

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

The end of June 1961 came without so much as one labor pain, and the expectant mother sighed, anxious to meet the stubborn child who refused to make her entrance.

In a small Seattle apartment, my mother sat at a kitchen table. The due date had come and gone. Glancing out the open window, she felt the morning breeze graze her face; it carried the damp, earthy scent of the Pacific Northwest, part rain, part salty sea breeze, and part conifers. Resting her hands on her growing belly, she listened as her mother and her husband carried on a lively conversation about the upcoming birth.

“The baby’s comfortable,” my father teased, glancing at the calendar on the wall. “Maybe the little one is waiting for July 8th. A good day to be born.”

My father was not shy about staking his claim; he decided the baby should be born on his birthday as if I were a pre-ordered gift he had personally ordered and was simply waiting to unwrap.

My grandma, on the other hand, was not to be outdone and decided her birthday would be the perfect day for her grandchild to make an entrance. Sitting next to my mother, she smiled, lifted an eyebrow, and declared, “Oh no. If that baby is born in July, it should be born on July 10th. Everybody knows that’s the best birthday in the family.”

And without warning, my arrival became a family feud in the making as my grandmother and my dad turned it into a lighthearted debate.

My Momma shook her head as her mother and husband laughed and continued their playful banter.

My poor mother, hot, tired, long overdue, and carrying the human prize in this birthday tug of war, pushed herself up from the kitchen table. The exhausted mother-to-be simply told the pair, “If you two are going to argue about it, I will just have my baby on the Fourth of July.” Her delivery was firm and matter-of-fact.

They laughed.

But four days later, that is exactly what she did. Her prediction would become a family legend, repeated for years as the family sat around kitchen tables. But at that moment, it was the exasperated promise of a woman who was tired of being pregnant.

On a busy afternoon, I was born on July 4, 1961, at Fort Lewis’s Madigan General Hospital, bustling with holiday babies. More than twenty babies were born that day, my mother said, as if even the maternity ward had surrendered to the patriotic spirit of the date.

“Must have been a cold October or the men were heading downrange,” one nurse muttered with a knowing smile. 

Honestly, the nurse was probably not wrong.

Outside the post would have been alive with Independence Day celebrations. Flags would have lifted in the breeze. Firecrackers would have snapped in the distance, and a marching band may have been warming up for a parade. Inside the hospital, the mood would have been quieter, with mothers cradling their babies as they celebrated the arrival of their precious cargo.

Inside the maternity ward, the army hospital still ran with military precision: polished floors, the smell of antiseptic, nurses moving briskly through the halls, and starched sheets tucked with perfectly squared corners.

My mother liked to tell the tale with a combination of pride and wonderment.

“You cost $7.50,” she liked to say.

As a child, I was offended and thought it was outrageous. “That’s all I was worth?”

She would laugh and correct me. “That was for my meals. I had to pay for my food.”

I guess I came cheap,  but lunch was extra.

Afterward came the detail that fascinated me most. “Every morning,” she lowered her voice as if she were whispering something scandalous, “I had to make my own bed.”

“In the hospital?” I asked.

“In the hospital,” she stated. “Army corners and all,” she said. “And then the women had to stand next to their beds as the head nurse came through to see if it passed inspection.”

That was one detail that remained with me as vividly as if I had witnessed it myself.  My mother, exhausted and sore after delivering her first child, was pulling stiff white sheets across a hospital bed and tucking each corner with care. The Army life did not loosen its grip for labor pains or newborn cries. Even motherhood in that world came with precise rules. Discipline lived alongside tenderness; duty held at the bedside.

I was an Army brat from the beginning, and my father’s service affected the family as a whole. I was born into that rhythm. Born on Independence Day, surrounded by uniforms and regulation corners.

At family gatherings, Dad would chuckle and say, “Well, she almost had the good sense to be born on her dad’s birthday.”

And Grandma would counter, “Or her grandmothers.”

And my Momma would simply say, “She chose her own day.”

And maybe I did claim my own day; I kept them waiting, ignored the family vote, except my mama’s, of course, and showed up when I was good and ready.

Outside, fireworks split the darkened sky with flashes of gold and red, their brilliance blooming and fading against the darkness. And somewhere between the sizzle of sparklers in little hands, I realized the Fourth of July suited this independent and stubborn gal, and I’ve been doing things on my own ever since that day.