The Aspen Acres Fire near Beulah has now burned more than 28,000 acres and remains at zero containment. Homes and structures have been lost, families have been forced to evacuate, and smoke is filling the air near my home and across the state. People are being advised to stay indoors as the air quality worsens.
My heart is heavy for Beulah, one of my favorite places in Colorado, and for every person who has lost a home, a piece of land, a sense of safety, or everything they worked so hard to build. Please pray for the people, the livestock, the wildlife, the firefighters, and all the first responders working in dangerous conditions. Pray for protection, strength, comfort, and hope for everyone affected.
Fires are burning across Colorado, and the hot, dry conditions are making this fire season especially dangerous. On the Western Slope, three brave firefighters have been lost while battling fires near the Colorado-Utah border, and my heart breaks for their families, fellow firefighters, and communities.
Closer to home, Beulah, Colorado, my favorite place in Colorado, 1s under mandatory evacuation as fire threatens this sweet mountain hamlet. Ash is falling in my hometown, and so many people are waiting, worrying, and praying.
Please keep Beulah and all affected Colorado communities in your thoughts and prayers. Pray for the safety of the people, livestock, wildlife, homes, and the firefighters working in dangerous conditions to protect them all. May everyone stay safe, and may these fires be brought under control soon.
Photo: This is a picture I took while staying in Beulah.
With the temperatures soaring near 100 degrees, I am doing what any reasonable fall-loving person would do: I am creating a Fall Countdown. Don’t judge me. Some people meditate. Some people drink iced tea. I count the days until pumpkins, sweaters, soup, and the blessed return of weather that does not feel like the inside of an oven. We old folks do not enjoy melting, glowing, or “getting a little sun.” We prefer crisp mornings, cozy blankets, and the right to complain dramatically until autumn arrives.
You could tell a rancher’s story just by looking at his tools. The saddle, worn smooth by years of early mornings. The lariat, curled like a sleeping cat. Old pliers, a hammer with a handle that fit just right in his palm, and that pocketknife he never seemed to lose. Work gloves tossed on a fence post, a shovel resting in the dirt, a branding iron waiting by the barn wall. All of them quiet reminders that a rancher’s life was never really done.
These tools watched the sun rise and set, day after day. Each one had its own small purpose, patching a fence, searching for a stray calf, or cradling a lost lamb on the long walk back to its mother.
They remember strong hands and quiet pride, the kind that builds a life slowly…one chore, one season, one sunrise after another.
What tools do you remember from your own family stories? Maybe it was a rancher’s saddle, a grandfather’s pocketknife, a grandmother’s rolling pin, or a simple toolbox kept close at hand. I would love to hear about the tools, chores, and memories that shaped your family’s story. Share your memories in the comments and help keep these everyday pieces of history alive.
This week’s writing prompt invites us to remember the tools, objects, and everyday items that tell the story of the people who came before us. Maybe it was a hammer worn smooth from years of work, a sewing machine that stitched clothes and quilts, a recipe box filled with handwritten cards, a fishing pole, a tractor, a Bible, a camera, or a simple pocketknife carried with pride. These tools were more than objects; they were part of someone’s daily life, their work, their love, and the legacy they left behind.
Prompt:The Tools They Used Write about a tool, object, or keepsake connected to someone you loved. What did they use it for, and what does it help you remember?
Please join in the writing and share your stories in the comments or link them here. Your memory may help preserve a piece of family history that deserves to be remembered.
But seriously, I am. And I do have a hard time admitting it to myself, especially now that my free time is limited and I have to be deliberate with how I structure my days. I put things off until they become a problem, and then instead of just a task, I have a problem. And then I’m stressed because I have a problem, and then I put off solving the problem until the very last minute. (This also applies to writing. And laundry. And making dinner.)
You know what makes it harder to procrastinate? Having a routine, and that’s something A Virginia Writer’s Diary has given me. I post once a week these days – I used to try for three times a week – and no matter what else is happening, I get something up on the blog.
So, there’s something I’ve learned. Give yourself a task that has to get done every week, and commit to finishing it.
But that’s a small lesson, something most people learn in a similar way. Let’s dig deeper.
I’m a perfectionist. I think it’s part of why I’m a procrastinator, honestly, because I don’t like putting my work out there until it’s perfect. But perfection doesn’t exist in this world, and I’ll make myself crazy striving for something that isn’t attainable. For years, this drive to produce perfection kept me from even getting started on writing projects. I’d write a sentence or two, decide it was irredeemably terrible slop, and stop.
It became a maddening cycle, and I desperately wanted to break out of it.
So I started writing monthly short stories. Always around a yearly theme, always posted by the end of a month. I figured any story, regardless of how not-perfect, was better than no story at all. Just choosing to write was better than not writing. This routine changed my brain. I don’t write for perfection anymore. I write because I love it, and because I hope that even if a story isn’t perfect, someone else out there will love it, too. I always hope the story I write finds its way to the person who needs it. And once I post a story, it does and doesn’t belong to me anymore. It’s my work, but the way it makes people feel, the smiles and tears, the laughs, even the boredom – those belong to the readers.
I often wish I could do things better. I wish I were a better writer, faster and more adept at dialogue and more artful with my words and more lyrical with my sentences. I wish I were a better mother, and a better person. I try to be kind, to be present, to be patient, to be loving. I succeed more times than I don’t. I do the work. In all things, I do the work. And I think that’s my biggest lesson from blogging for ten years: DO. THE. WORK.
It’s as simple and as difficult as that. Show up. Try. If you fail, try again. Keep trying. Keep working.
If I do nothing else in a day, I always do the work.
Annie’s Section: The Lessons I Have Discovered
Some journeys start from the heart with excitement, expectations, and growing anticipation of where the trail might lead. For me, this writing adventure has grown and changed, helping me discover so much about my family, my dreams, and my hopes for the future. Sometimes the most meaningful journeys begin before we fully understand where they are taking us.
Ten years ago, I began this blog with a collection of memories and a desire to keep them from disappearing. I did not have a detailed plan or an understanding of where this journey might lead. I only knew that the people, places, and moments that influenced my life deserved to be remembered.
Over the years, Tales of a Family has grown and changed, and so have I. Looking back now, I realize that writing these stories has taught me almost as much about myself as it has about my family.
One of the first lessons I discovered was that ordinary lives give rise to extraordinary stories. Stories do not need to be dramatic or perfect to matter. Some of the best events unfold on an ordinary day, just another square on the calendar when nothing exciting was planned. But then life offers us a joyful glimpse of everyday love.
Those are the precious moments spent together while sitting on porches, enjoying coffee around a kitchen table, or watching the naughty antics of grandchildren or the playful antics of dachshund pups. Those ordinary moments of life often become the anecdotes we treasure most.
Memories become clearer when we write them down. It helps me remember the details I do not want to forget, the voices, expressions, traditions, and personalities of the people I cherish, as well as the places and experiences that molded my life.
Writing prompts about songs, photographs, special places, family conversations, and familiar trinkets open the door to an entirely new story. One memory often leads to another, revealing details that have been quietly waiting to be revealed. Writing simply does not record our histories; it helps us to return to them, understand them, and see them in a whole new light.
Stories connect the generations. Every story I preserve provides my family, friends, and readers with a glimpse of the people who lived amazing lives so long ago. Each tale preserves the voices that may otherwise be lost. When sharing my stories, I help future generations grasp where they came from. These stories become knit into the fabric of our everyday lives, bringing to mind the strength, courage, and love handed down to us as a precious gift.
Another lesson I found was that writing takes courage. While some stories are joyful, others involve grief, regret, loss, or difficult lessons. Writing honestly means that I must be vulnerable, and that was a difficult task. There are times when returning to a moment in time means returning to emotions that I thought I had stowed safely away. When we are willing to write from the heart, others recognize a piece of their own lives within our stories. And often, our most personal stories are the ones that deeply touch my readers.
Finding my voice has also been a piece of this journey. I wanted my writing to have a creative confidence and style that was all my own. Although it required practice and time, I believe my writing has become warmer, more confident, and more reflective. And while I believe I still have much to learn, I trust the ways I tell my tales. A writer’s voice develops through writing, and not waiting until it’s perfect.
I found that creativity can begin at any age. My blog has grown into more than a place to record memories. It has encouraged me to write fiction, poetry, short stories, and flash fiction. It inspired me to write short stories for a recent family book, with another in the works. It has also given me a new dream: writing a novel. There has never been an age limit on discovering a new dream or writing a new chapter.
Over time, I learned that readers want connection, not perfection. Not every sentence has to be flawless; my readers want stories that are genuine, familiar, and heartfelt. People remember how a story made them feel, and that connection is one of the greatest gifts a writer can offer.
Perhaps, most importantly, writing has helped me find my way home. Home represents my faith, my family, my friends, Colorado, the mountains, the treasured memories, and even the person I have become through all the seasons of life. Sometimes we begin writing to find our stories, but the stories help us discover ourselves.
After ten years, I understand that storytelling has become not just something I do; it has become a part of who I am. I have learned to value ordinary moments, trust my own voice, and write even when the words are imperfect.
Most of all, I learned that our stories matter. They connect us to the past, bring meaning to the present, and leave something behind for those who come after us.
I may not know where the next ten years will lead, but I know that there are memories lingering waiting to be revealed, characters waiting to come to life, and stories waiting to be told.
Starting this blog has brought me so much joy, especially through the wonderful people I have met along the way. I love discovering the creative writing, heartfelt stories, and clever play on words shared by fellow bloggers. Today, I am honored to share Katie’s beautiful poem about her grandfather. It is touching, sincere, and a loving tribute to his life and memory. Please visit and follow Katie at A Virginia Writer’s Diary. I know you will enjoy her creativity and unique perspective as much as I have.
Here is Katie’s post:
I think this might have been the first poem I ever posted on the blog. I didn’t have a lot of followers then, and I don’t know that it’s gotten a lot of attention. I’m happy to have an opportunity to share it again, thanks to Annie at Tales of a Family, who posted a writing prompt for this week “inviting us to remember the men who shaped our lives – not always through grand speeches or big moments, but through the quiet lessons they lived every day.”
I’ve talked about my grandfather, James, in the collaboration Annie and I have been working on, about how his death prompted me to start my creative journey. But his life inspired me, too. He worked hard, he fought in World War II and lost friends doing it, he loved and supported his family (his wife, my beautiful grandmother and his six children), and he enjoyed the small, quiet moments you can carve out in a busy, not always easy life. He loved fishing, sitting on the porch swing, making music. He taught me to love those moments, too.
So here’s a poem for him, a memory and an elegy, that I’m grateful to revisit, called “My Grandfather’s Guitar.”
My grandfather’s guitar sits in a corner of my study untouched, gathering dust. When I was young and he was already old, it could pull notes straight from the air through his fingers and into my ears. I can hear them, though he is gone and his instrument’s gone quiet. When I was young, not even ten, he’d pick it up and start to play and then I’d go still, stuck to one spot until he was done. My grandfather’s guitar in his hands made magic, but I was too young to understand that music is magic made real for a moment. A fret and a twang and he’d made something that didn’t exist before and wouldn’t again. I sometimes imagine myself back there, wearing muddy tennis shoes with tangled hair, just listening. I can hear it, but no song ever sounds the same twice.
Today, I discovered that “Everything I Own,” written by David Gates and recorded by Bread, was not originally written about a lost romantic love as I had always believed. Gates wrote the song in memory of his father, whose love, guidance, and example had shaped his life. Knowing the story behind the song gives its words an even deeper meaning and makes it a beautiful tribute to the fathers, grandfathers, mentors, and other special men who have loved and guided us.
What songs remind you of a special man in your life? Think about the music that brings back memories of your father, grandfather, brother, uncle, teacher, minister, or mentor. I would love to hear the song and the story behind why it is meaningful to you.
Not everyone has the opportunity to have a real-life hero in their midst, but I am one of the lucky ones. I met my hero when I was just nine years old, and to this day, he remains an important part of my life.
I always wanted an older brother, and in many ways, God answered that prayer through Keith Lacy. He has always been in my corner, praying for me, encouraging me, lifting me up, and reminding me of God’s faithfulness.
Keith became my youth minister when I was a child, but over the years, he and his wife, Jan, became so much more than friends. They became family. We first met in California over fifty years ago, and somehow, through all the seasons, miles, changes, joys, and hardships of life, our friendship has remained strong. Now that our lives are connected in Colorado, I am even more grateful for the gift of Keith and Jan, a friendship rooted in faith, love, laughter, music, prayer, and the kind of loyalty that lasts a lifetime.
