Some objects carry more than their shape or purpose; they carry the people, places, and memories we never want to lose. A keepsake, heirloom, recipe card, letter, quilt, piece of jewelry, or everyday item can hold a whole story inside it. This week, I invite you to write about an object you would save and why it matters to you. Please share your story through the link, and I would be honored to feature it on my blog as part of our growing collection of family memories and life stories.
Old photographs have a way of whispering stories back to us. A faded face, a familiar porch, a handwritten date, or a place we almost remember can open the door to memories we thought were tucked away. This week’s prompt invites you to choose an old photo and look closely. What do you see? What do you remember? What do you wish you knew? Please share your story through the link, and I would be honored to feature it on my blog as part of our growing collection of family memories and life stories.
There is something special about the first day of school. Maybe you remember the outfit you wore, the backpack you carried, the lunchbox in your hand, or the person who walked beside you to the classroom door. Maybe you remember a favorite teacher whose kindness helped calm your nerves, or the feeling of stepping into something new with excitement, fear, or hope. This week, I invite you to write about your first school memory, a favorite teacher, or the feeling of beginning again. Please share your story through the link, and I would be honored to feature it on my blog as part of our growing collection of family memories and life stories.
Childhood magic first took root for me when my family brought my brothers and me to Crab Cove in my hometown of Alameda, California. This small beach rested along a quiet inlet, with the San Francisco skyline rising across the bay like a distant world waiting to be explored. Gentle breezes moved across the water, carrying the cries of seagulls and the unmistakable scent of salt and seaweed. The salty air seemed to linger everywhere in Alameda, becoming as familiar to me as the streets, homes, and shoreline of my island.
My first memories of this place date back to before I attended school. My feet sank in the wet sand and cold waters of the San Francisco Bay. Small minnows quickly darted in the salty waters, tiny crabs rushed sideways along the shore, and sailboats skimmed across the sea. Laughter filled the air as my family and I chased the retreating waves, then quickly scampered back when the tide rushed towards us. Most of the time, my dad would hold my hand and race with me, and our eyes would meet, and we would smile. Sometimes he would lift me in his arms, swing me around, and then gently set me on the sand. His laughter and love made me feel safe and loved, even as the waves rushed toward our feet.
My mom and little brothers sat on the beach on the warm, dry sand. The older boys, Tommy and David, dug with their buckets and scoops, building roads, lopsided castles, and deep holes that became a part of their imaginary world. Mom held baby Keith securly in her lap as he wriggled and reached for handfuls of sand. The sunlight rested softly on her face, and she glowed with quiet contentment as she watched her family enjoy the warm afternoon.
The first time I witnessed a stingray, I was in awe of its beauty. After accidentally stepping on the patch of sand where the ray had nestled, I watched in fascination as it wiggled free from its hiding spot and began gliding in the water. The slow movement of its fins and graceful glide made it appear as though it were flying, and I wanted to swim with this enchanting creature.
Across the bay, the San Francisco skyline stood proudly. The skyline always caught my eye, and to this day, whenever I see it, I am reminded of home and all my favorite memories. This scene has continually represented beauty, adventure, comfort, and an exciting world waiting beyond the familiar shore.
When I started school at Paden Elementary, our playground ended at the rocky island shore, and the skyline was visible from the yard and certain classroom windows, not ideal for a child who preferred watching the bay to watching the chalkboard. Too many times, I would daydream about sailboats gliding across the water, or wonder where the seals were resting whenever I heard their distant barking through the open windows.
After my father started working to help maintain the Bay Bridge, I would often glance toward the skyline. It gave me peace and a sense of pride to know my father was not too far away and that he was helping care for such an important landmark. He would repaint the bridge, from one end to the other, always trying to keep the rust at bay. Often, I would watch the fog roll in, wrapping the bridge in a dreamy, cloud-like blanket of soft white and gray. During those times, I wondered what my father’s view was like as he worked on foggy days. I wondered if he loved those days as much as I did.
This view followed me through my childhood years. Often, I could see it while playing with childhood friends, as we wrote messages in the sand along the shore. The skyline kept our secrets when we wrote the names of childhood crushes or shared our deepest thoughts under the lifeguard towers, hiding from the rain and stormy skies.
As I grew older, the skyline changed from a familiar backdrop into an invitation. By the time I reached high school, the view often called to me. I lost track of how many times I would skip school, alone, to find adventure waiting for me in the city. It may not have been the wisest decision, but the city awakened my independence and my curiosity. No one would dare go with me, so I went by myself. I would catch a bus to the Oakland BART station, and then ride the train to San Francisco. I loved the roar of the train as it sped through the underwater tunnels. Once I arrived, the city seemed to open before me, and I chose whatever familiar destination called to me that day.
I would travel to Golden Gate Park and visit the art museum or the Japanese Tea Gardens. I never grew tired of the art, and even then I was drawn to the Impressionists, though I did not know the artists’ names. In the garden, I loved the smell of the flowers and trees, the gracefully arched bridges that reflected and rippled in the pond, and the tiny birds chirping throughout the park.
Other times I wandered to Chinatown or the Cost Plus Imports near Fisherman’s Wharf. I loved riding the cable cars and listening to the bells ring, signaling their arrival to others. I loved eating the Chinese food, which was a new experience for me as a teenager; I still remember my first meal was Chow Mein, and I loved the crunchy noodles and the stir-fried vegetables.
I lost count of how many days I spent at Fisherman’s Wharf and Pier 39. The street vendors amused crowds with artwork and street shows. I spent hours looking through photographs and watercolor paintings of all the San Francisco sights, from curvy Lombard Street on Russian Hill to the seals resting on the piers near the wharf. The area buzzed with energy as visitors excitedly talked about their day. At the pier, I loved the feel of the wind tousling my hair and the sound of the seals barking at one another. Across from the pier, Alcatraz came into view, and I enjoyed watching the island, recalling childhood tours with my family and school field trips. Those adventures filled me with a thrilling sense of courage and daring. The skyline stirred my imagination, filling my mind with dreams of distant places, new adventures, and all the possibilities waiting beyond the bay.
The skyline represented so many memories as I grew up on my island home. During my early years, it reminded me of my home and my family when we walked along the winding shores or built castles in the sand. During elementary school, it often distracted me from my lessons as I watched the bay and wondered about life outside of my classroom. Once I arrived at high school, the skyline nudged me towards dreams and adventures in the city by the bay, and I often found myself wandering into the streets of San Francisco when I should have been sitting in an afternoon class.
After moving to Colorado, I returned to my island home several times, and each visit found me searching the distance for that familiar view. On quiet mornings, the San Francisco skyline drifted in and out of the mist as fog horns sounded across the bay. In the early evening, when the sun began its slow descent, golden sunlight shimmered across the water and traced the distant buildings, making the entire skyline softly glow. Each glimpse carried me back to childhood and reminded me that no matter how far I traveled, part of my heart would always remain along that Alameda shoreline.
And now, my heart and mind often wander back to those days when the skyline seemed to whisper that dreams and adventures were waiting just across the bay. Although I love my mountain state and all the beauty it offers, I sometimes long to spend one more day strolling along the shoreline near Crab Cove, feeling the cool breeze rustle through my hair and hearing the waves brush against the sand. Those childhood days were magical, and every visit to the beach felt like a gift. Even now, the sight of the skyline beneath a bright blue sky or softened by a morning fog can awaken a homesickness within me. In these moments, I remember the warmth of my father’s hand wrapped securely around mine as we raced the waves together. I remember the fog settling over the island like a soft blanket, the distant call of foghorns across the bay, and our footprints slowly disappearing beneath the returning tide.
The San Francisco skyline was far more than a childhood view; it was a constant presence woven through my memories of family, freedom, adventure, and home, an enduring part of the landscape of my heart.
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.
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.
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.
As a child, I loved hearing stories about my Momma’s childhood. Her exciting tales often made me laugh until my sides hurt. Others kept me wondering how she survived childhood at all. I imagined she must have had some wild angels watching over her, and I thought she must have possessed just a wee bit of Irish luck. Still, one story she told made me shudder whenever she told it.
At a young age, my Momma began helping with the chores on her parents’ ranch in Hotchkiss, Colorado. Ranch life on Rogers Mesa kept the family busy, and since her older sister, Barbara, had allergies, she helped with the outside work. One of her chores was to help her Mother, Elva, care for the cows. She would milk them in the morning, take them to the pasture to graze, then round them up again so she and my grandma could milk them in the evening.
This routine was something she did every day; it was part of the daily rhythm of ranch life. One evening, after milking the cows, my Momma and Grandmother started for the house, milk pails in hand. The skies darkened as a storm rolled into the valley. The fragrance of rain spread through the air. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared across the mesa.
As my Momma walked, lightning struck her milk pail. It knocked her unconscious, and she dropped to the ground.
Once she opened her eyes, she didn’t remember the incident. Her parents had to piece the story together for her, pointing to the burns on her hand. She also had dark circles under her eyes. After that day, she always had faint circles under her eyes, as if the storm had left a small shadow behind, tucked just under her skin.
What are the chances of being struck by lightning? About one in 960,000, or so I’ve heard.
And yet, somehow, lightning found its way to my Momma.
Still, I can’t help but believe that Someone was watching over that little girl on the ranch that day. Maybe it was a bit of luck, maybe a bit of grace, and maybe a handful of stubborn angels who refused to let go until the storm had passed.
And for that, I will always be thankful.
One of my favorite family tales happened right after Leslie and Aaron started their life together in Kremmling, Colorado. With six children from three to thirteen, their house was full in every sense of the word, full of laughter, full of shoes and socks that always seemed to miss a mate, and full of chore charts that always looked impressive, well, until real life stepped into the picture anyway.
To their credit, everyone had a job to complete around the house. Laundry was washed and dried, and eventually found its way to its proper owner. Rooms were vacuumed and dusted, Dishes were washed, and the kitchen was cleaned. So, naturally, Leslie was determined to stay ahead of the chaos and tackled her annual spring cleaning like a woman on a mission. Closets were purged, drawers were emptied, and donation bags multiplied faster than rabbits in springtime. All the children were recruited to help with this family project, and help they did.
A few days later, Leslie called to chat while she was running errands. Sometimes it was the only quiet time the busy mom could find. She mentioned she had stopped by her favorite thrift store, the one she had donated the clothes to after her spring cleaning. She was flipping through the rack when she stopped mid-sentence.
“Mom…you are not going to believe this.”
That tone, the one that makes every mother pause and think, Oh boy, here we go.
“What?” I asked.
“I just found my favorite denim jacket.”
“The one you couldn’t find?” I asked.
“Yes. The one I’ve been looking for all week.”
Pause.
“…It’s here. At the thrift store.”
Silence.
Then realization hit us both at the exact same time.
One of those sweet, helpful children had lovingly placed her favorite jacket into the donation pile.
And there it was, hanging neatly on a rack with a price tag.
I lost it.
I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Tears rolled down my face. I tried to speak, but all that came out were wheezes and snorts that were not even remotely helpful to the situation. Leslie kept talking, but I was gone, completely useless as a mother in her moment of need.
Finally, she said, “Well, I guess I have to buy my own jacket back,” and I really lost it then.
I laughed so hard she hung up on me.
Hung. Up. On. Me. Her mother.
Apparently, the clerk at the store witnessed the entire exchange, my daughter laughing, shaking her head, and then abruptly ending a call with her poor, breathless mother. The clerk, clearly a woman of wisdom and a proper upbringing, gave her a look and said, “Now you call your mama back. You don’t just hang up on your mama.”
Leslie explained the situation, the spring cleaning, the helpful children, the accidental donation, and the clerk just shook her head and said, Well then, you call her back and tell her this…”
And sure enough, my phone rang again.
I answered, still trying to recover.
And Leslie, with all the dignity she could muster, said, “Haha… I didn’t have to pay for it.”
Well.
That set me off all over again.
Because nothing says you’ve raised strong, independent thinkers quite like kids who confidently donate your belongings, without asking, without hesitation, and apparently without even a second thought…
and nothing makes you laugh harder than a thrift store owner that reunites you with your own belongings…like a dearly missed treasure…only now it comes with a price tag (or, if you’re lucky, a really good story and more than a little mercy at the cash register).
