As of late, I am a sixty-something grandmother who loves to write. Since I come from a long line of storytellers, I believe it's time to share those stories and preserve our family history. My hope is that my family will treasure these memories as much as I do!
“I hate this stupid thing, and I’m sending it back!”
Sigh. My first “real” cell phone was a nightmare—I hated being stuck with that new contraption. In the past, I’d used inexpensive flip phones on vacation, paying only a modest monthly fee. They were simple, nothing fancy, and often I’d keep them just until I eventually forgot about them and stopped paying the bill.
And oh the horror! Once, some of my eighth graders joked that I must be a drug dealer because I carried a burner phone. I just shook my head, gave them the “look,” and remarked, “You watch too much TV.” Back then, I had no desire for a phone glued to my hip 24/7. I believed phones belonged on the kitchen wall—safe from loss and easy to ignore—and I never worried about leaving home without one.
Still, nearly two years ago, circumstances shifted. My sweet daughter insisted it was time for me to get a phone—or else she’d get me a life alert. I wasn’t thrilled; Still, I even imagined the fun I could have if firefighters showed up every time I pressed the alert button. But Leslie reminded me that, eventually, they’d send the sheriff. Total buzz kill. Reluctantly, I accepted that it was time for this dinosaur to step into the 21st century. I didn’t have to love it, though, and to add insult to injury, my new smartphone proved to be much smarter than I was.
My family and my students laughed at my early struggles, yet they also helped this Grammy navigate the strange device. Despite the initial hiccups, I eventually grew to like—and even love—my phone, just a little.
I mean who wouldn’t appreciate having a camera at the ready or the ability to listen to audiobooks on a whim? And forget about traditional alarm clocks—the one on my phone is far more convenient. I now navigate road trips with ease, and with a single tap, my favorite tunes are ready to accompany me on drives or workouts. Of course, I love receiving texts from my kids, and, dare I say it, my phone has become a trusted sidekick. After all, nobody puts Baby in the corner—or in this case, back on the kitchen wall!
Running to the end of the pier, the two girls giggled with delight. The sun shimmered on the bay, casting a harsh glare, and Amy wished she had brought her sunglasses. Barb’s large straw hat shielded her face, but she still worried about new freckles appearing across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Seagulls squawked in protest and flapped away from the pier’s edge as the girls approached. With a shared grin, they kicked off their flip-flops, Barb dropped her hat, and the pair leaped into the cool, inviting water.
Axel’s sudden bark jolted the grandmother from her thoughts, and she laughed as she watched him chase a squirrel. But as she settled in her rocker, her mind drifted back to that island memory—when she and her little sister had played in the San Francisco Bay, a lifetime ago.
“If you truly forgave me, you’d let me come home. I miss my family.”
She sighed. His text unsettled her, putting her on edge. She had no desire to revisit his demands. Life without him was peaceful and relaxing—something she hadn’t realized until their split and his deceit. She hadn’t understood just how much effort went into meeting his outrageous expectations. Friends and family even commented on how much more relaxed and composed she seemed. Her soon-to-be ex was high maintenance, to say the least.
The ping of a new text interrupted her thoughts.
“Well, are you still there?”
Annoyed, she rolled her eyes but suddenly found herself laughing. Remembering the bumper sticker her mother had shown her just a few days ago, she began typing her reply:
“Never get jealous when you see your ex with someone else because our parents taught us to give our used toys to the less fortunate.”
After hitting send, she reminded herself she could take the high road another day. Laughing, she turned off her phone, telling herself she was a work in progress—and tomorrow was a new day.
For today’s prompt, write about a work in progress.
It had to be here. Somewhere. It had been years since she visited. Decades. But she knew this place; it was etched in her memory and in her heart. Take the first county road after passing the Victorian cottage with the bay window and the rocking chair. Her heart beat faster as she passed the little yellow house and smiled when she noticed an orange tabby curled on the rocker’s cushion. She was close now.
Her rickety blue Ford pickup turned right onto the county road. Soft clouds rolled in, and the skies darkened. She knew a summer rain would break at any moment, so she hurried up the old logging road. As the high desert plains shifted into forest, she smiled at the sight of the aspen grove to her right. She remembered that a side road would be nearby, one that ambled toward the old log cabin, inhabited by a family over a hundred years ago.
She remembered the day she and her love had explored it, surprised by the remnants left behind. Old canning jars, a wooden kitchen table in the single room with a loft above the living space. Dusty red gingham curtains hung over a window near the water pump. An old wood cookstove sat by one wall, and the coal bin still had splintered kindling, as if waiting for its occupants to return and start the evening meal. Postcards decorated one side of the wall. One, in particular, had caught her eye—a little red fox looking up at blooming wildflowers, its eyes closed in a smile.
By one window sat a sewing rocker with a small table beside it. A bowl held tiny, round wooden buttons, each one carefully carved by hand. She patted her pocket and felt the small clasp she had taken with her—the only memento of that day, so long ago.
Once she spotted the side road, she turned and traveled a short distance until the old cabin appeared in sight. She slowed, her breath catching. The years had not been kind to the cabin. It looked as sad as she felt. She pulled off the road, turning off the truck’s ignition.
“Wish you were here,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She could still see his smile from that day when he took her hand as they walked to the cabin. She remembered showing him the postcard of the fox. He had smiled, too.
“I’ll plant you a flower garden one day, in the country. That way, we can have foxes visit our yard,” he had promised.
She brushed away her tears, wishing for the time of her first love.
“If only,” she whispered softly.
Inside the cabin, her heart sank. It had been ransacked. The old cookstove was gone, along with all its furnishings. She searched for the fox postcard but found only a torn corner clinging to the wall. She ran her fingers over the frayed edge, still able to envision the picture. A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips.
She wanted to visit the creek, to see if their tree was still there—the one where they had carved their initials inside a heart. She turned to leave, but something caught her eye. A dusty piece of paper had slipped under an old crate. Turning it over, her breath caught in her throat. It was the fox postcard.
She smiled through her tears, brushing the dust off with her jeans. This time, she would rescue this treasure. She rushed to her truck, tucking it safely away, then hurried toward the creek. She needed to find their tree.
The aspens stretched out before her in every direction. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But she didn’t mind. The thought of seeing their tree, of finding something that tied her to him again, made her heart swell. After walking for some time, she realized she had gone too far. The skies reminded her that an afternoon rain could begin at any moment. Reluctantly, she turned back.
Though she hadn’t found the tree, she felt a sense of peace. She had found the old cabin, the postcard, and had revisited memories of a love long past. As she walked along the creek, she noticed wildflowers growing just off the path. Unable to resist, she ventured closer.
Columbine, lilies, and lupine blanketed the ground beneath the quaking aspens. She wished Jay were with her to see the vibrant garden spread out before her. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the colors, the beauty.
And then, she saw it. A darkened heart carved into the bark of one of the trees—her initials, and his.
Stunned, she sank to the ground among the flowers. His voice echoed in her mind, “I’ll plant you a garden…”
She started to cry, and the heavens wept with her, as the summer rains began to fall.
2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 1
Write a piece of flash fiction each day of February with the February Flash Fiction Challenge, led by Managing Editor Moriah Richard. Each day, receive a prompt, example story, and write your own. Today’s prompt is to write about a garden.
As an inspiring writer, I find great joy in discovering wisdom from published authors. My latest read, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, has been a truly sensational experience. I love how she intertwines her life experiences with insights about writing. Her sense of humor and creative teaching style have given me the freedom to let go of perfectionism.
Having grown up in a household that often demanded 110 percent, it’s been challenging to write without the looming pressure of getting everything “just right”—a mindset that often kills inspiration. Thanks to Lamott’s guidance, I’ve learned to simply type to the end, no matter how imperfect the words may be. Later, I return to my work, carefully revising and perfecting those phrases that once frustrated me. This shift in my approach has been transformative.
Years ago, a college professor recommended Bird by Bird, but I’m only now getting around to reading it. It’s been lighthearted, encouraging, and deeply impactful. One of Lamott’s quotes resonates with me: “Don’t look at your feet to see if you are doing it right. Just dance.”
I’m finally learning to dance without looking at my feet—a liberating and joyful experience.
From an early age, reading and writing were essential to me. My mom taught me to read when I was four because I loved books. Writing quickly became just as natural. I kept journals, wrote poetry, and found joy in crafting words. But the real magic began when I started college. Professors encouraged my writing, I earned scholarships, and poems and articles were published. That period marked a turning point in my life.
After college, however, life took unexpected turns, and my writing was set aside. It wasn’t until one summer, when an old back injury forced me onto bed rest for weeks, that I rediscovered my passion. With only so much Netflix to watch, I turned to researching my family tree. I uncovered fascinating stories about my ancestors and decided to put it all into writing.
Shortly after, I started a family blog. I wanted a safe place to preserve my stories and memories—and honestly, I knew it would be the best way to keep my writing organized (something I’m not always great at). Since my daughter was homeschooling, I often wove the stories of our ancestors into her lessons. It was exciting to add our ancestors to her history lessons.
Over time, my blog grew beyond what I’d ever imagined. I found myself enjoying writing again. I joined writing challenges and began experimenting with poetry, flash fiction, and short stories. Today, I have over 1,500 subscribers.
Last year, my daughter gifted me a subscription to Storyworth, prompting me to share even more family history and personal stories. Soon, I’ll have a family book filled with these memories—an experience that gave me the push I needed to keep writing.
Alongside blogging, I began working on a novel, though progress has been slow. Frustration crept in, and I found myself hitting pause. During this time of reflection, I decided to pursue another master’s degree. This summer, at the age of sixty-three, this grandmother will return to school to earn a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. It’s a dream I’ve had for years.
Last year, a new language arts teacher joined our school, and we quickly became friends. She shared her excitement about her MFA program in creative writing, and her passion was contagious. Inspired by her enthusiasm, I decided to take the leap and finally pursue my long-held dream.
So, this summer, I will follow my heart’s desire once again and return to the classroom—not just as a teacher, but as a student of creative writing.
“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 