The tradition of the middle name Marie started with my grandmother, Elva Marie. Her name was passed down to the women who came after her. My mother, Dorothy Marie, carried the name with an inner strength that stayed with her throughout her days. When I was born, she gave me the same middle name, and I became Ann Marie. As a child, my mother shared the meaning and importance of my name, two words that held part of my family’s story.
Years later, when I carried my baby daughter, I understood the meaning of tradition. I knew if I had a daughter, her middle name would be Marie. My daughter, Leslie Marie, continued the tradition. It didn’t feel like a decision, but more like honoring something that belonged to us. The name moved from grandmother to mother to daughter, and now it was my daughter’s turn.
Today, the tradition lives on with my granddaughter, Sierra Marie. Her name echoes the names of the women before her. Five generations have shared the same middle name; each quietly linked to the others.
My own name bears even more family history. I was named after my two maternal great-grandmothers, Tamar Anna Peyton and Anna Strassburg. I never met them, but their names are part of mine. It’s a small way to honor the women who shaped our family.
Names can hold history and meaning. They carry memories, identity, and a sense of belonging. In our family, Marie is more than merely a tradition. It reminds us that we are members of something greater. We belong to a line of women whose lives span generations, each granting something for the next to remember.
Water has always been my refuge. From the time I was a child growing up in Alameda, California—an island nestled in the heart of the San Francisco Bay—I felt an undeniable connection to the sea. Most days, you could find me near the shore, my toes buried in the cool, wet sand, or at the local swimming pool, diving beneath the surface and imagining a world where I never had to come up for air.
My mother recognized this love early on, enrolling me in swimming lessons after catching me in a child’s pool, twirling through the water with a long skirt billowing around me. I wasn’t just playing—I was becoming a mermaid. Some of my fondest childhood memories revolve around the water, the rhythmic crashing of waves, and the beaches I still miss with all my heart.
The Currents Shift
Years later, I found myself in the water again, but for very different reasons. This time, it wasn’t for play but for healing. Life has a way of changing course in an instant—one wrong moment, one unexpected turn, and everything shifts. For me, it was a car that crossed my path at the worst possible time. And then, years later, lightning flashed, my horse reared, and I was thrown to the ground. At the time, I brushed off the incidents, not realizing the toll they had taken. The damage remained dormant for years until, one day, the pain became a constant companion—one I could no longer ignore.
Chronic pain is a thief. It sneaks in and steals the life you once knew, leaving you to navigate a new reality. The activities I once loved—hiking, biking, riding horses, camping—slowly became impossible. Even the simplest of tasks, like washing dishes or vacuuming, became battles I didn’t always have the strength to fight.
For years, I tried different pain medications, searching for relief. Some dulled the pain but left me in a fog, while others only created more problems. Eventually, I stepped away from them, choosing to face the pain head-on, though the exhaustion it brought was relentless.
Drifting Between Two Worlds
Before the pain, my life was spectacular. I was active, always moving, always pushing forward. Year-round, I lifted weights four days a week. Summers were spent swimming daily, my body strong and free. In the fall and spring, I rode my mountain bike, and in the winter, I trained on the treadmill. I thrived in the outdoors, finding adventure in every season.
After the pain, my world shrank. Gardening became difficult. Photography—one of my great passions—was now a struggle, as my body no longer allowed me to trek deep into nature for the perfect shot. My social life dwindled; after long days at work, I was too exhausted to go out, and weekends became a time for rest rather than adventure.
I had always been a social butterfly, fluttering from one event to the next, but pain forced me to slow down. At first, I resented it. But in time, I began to see the gift in the stillness.
A New Tide
Though my world looks different now, I have discovered something profound: the unwavering love of those who remain. Family and friends who see me beyond the pain. Those who offer kindness and understanding, who stand by my side through the hard days and celebrate the good ones. Their support is a lifeline, keeping me afloat even when the waves threaten to pull me under.
And despite it all, I still have more good days than bad.
I still find joy in the water.
My young grandson, Connor, once looked at me with wide, innocent eyes and declared, “You play good in the water.” His simple observation was a reminder that while pain has changed parts of my life, it has not taken everything. I may not be able to hike or ride like I once did, but in the water, I am free.
If only all activities could take place in the pool.
Some days are just meant for remembering, and today was one of those days.
It started as a typical Thursday at the end of the month. My eighth-grade homeroom class met in the gym for our monthly meetings. During this time, we make class announcements, give class reminders, name a student of the month, and give shout-outs to students, recognizing them for various accomplishments or acts of kindness.
This morning, as I walked into the gym, we had the usual chatter and laughter, along with the endless energy of middle school students. As the kids quieted, and a hush settled over the auditorium, one teacher reminded students that if their grades were not passing, they would not be able to walk in the eighth-grade graduation. Another teacher, in fun to lighten the mood, said, “Don’t disappoint all the MeeMaws.”
Since I stood in front of the bleachers and am known as the granny at the school, I smiled and pointed to myself. Right away, several of the boys laughed and shouted, “We got you, Ms. B!” Their words were playful, but I knew they meant it. That small gesture touched me. One sweet moment, just a few seconds in a normal school day, meant the world to me.
It reminded me how quickly this year has flown by and how much my students mean to me. Months ago, these students walked into eighth grade, unsure and wide-eyed, and now they are about to start high school, standing a little taller and a little more confident. Moments like these remind me of the importance and the joy of building relationships with these youngsters. While lessons, grades, and standards all matter, it’s the connections that truly last.
As the years fly by and retirement approaches, my heart and mind wrestle with this decision. Teaching has always been the most difficult job I have ever had. It takes patience, resilience, compassion, and lots of humor. But it’s also been the most rewarding job I have ever had.
When I look at all these faces, so full of personality and potential, I know I have been blessed to work with some incredible students. I love their hearts. I love their stubborn determination. I love how they support each other, even when they act like they don’t care. And I especially love their hopes and dreams for their futures. Hopes and dreams that will shape our future, too.
If mornings like this are any sign, our future is in good hands.
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.
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.
So this was fun. Chat GPT turning a picture into a caricature, pups, career and all. But what really surprised me was the detail in the necklace! My dear friend Barb M, my childhood chum sent me a necklace of two little girls sitting on a swing and it even captured that image! Wow!
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.
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.”
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.
“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: One is roots, the other is wings.” Teaching children values and giving them the opportunity to excel is essential to good parenting. However, I feel I must also provide my children (and myself) insight into the ones who came before us: our ancestors whose lives and stories have shaped us into who we are. This is my journey; these are their stories…
Tales of a Family 