Category: Family Stories

I Hated Ants!

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

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.

The Christmas Doll

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant4 Comments
Daily writing prompt
Describe an item you were incredibly attached to as a youth. What became of it?
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One afternoon, while I was playing with a neighbor, she proudly showed me a gift she had received, a Madame Alexander Pussy Cat doll. To my eight-year-old eyes, she was the most beautiful baby doll I had ever seen. She looked almost real. Her cheeks were chubby and rosy, her little arms and legs were soft and round, and tiny dimples marked her knees. Her eyes opened and closed, and when you tipped her just right, she said mama. She was perfect. I gushed over her, telling my friend Kim how beautiful she was and how I couldn’t wait to go home and tell my mom about her.

That excitement didn’t last long. Kim’s mother overheard our conversation and explained that the doll was very expensive and that my family could not afford such a luxury. I remember the sting of disappointment, but even at that young age, I understood something important. Family mattered more than material things. My mom always found ways to make our childhood feel special and magical, even without expensive gifts. What she gave us, love, attention, and imagination, was worth far more than any doll.

But moms have a way of creating their own quiet magic.

I’m not sure how my mother found out that I wanted that doll, but somehow she did. Without a word to me, she asked my dad to take her to a nearby toy store that carried Madame Alexander dolls. There, she put my doll, who would later be named Amy, on layaway. Month after month, she faithfully made payments until the doll was paid for in full. It was a labor of love I never noticed at the time.

On Christmas morning, I tore open my gift and froze. There she was, my very own Pussy Cat doll. I remember holding her close, hardly able to believe she was really mine. In that moment, I felt only the magic, not the sacrifice, planning, or quiet determination that had worked behind the scenes. Amy became an instant treasure, one that stayed with me through the years.

As an adult, I now understand what that gift truly represented. My mother wanted her only daughter to have something special that Christmas, and she was willing to sacrifice to make it happen. My Momma was, and always will be, a miracle worker in my eyes.

I still have my little Amy doll to this day, a reminder that she was never just a toy, but a symbol of my mother’s deep devotion. That little doll represents the kind of Christmas magic only a mother’s love can create.

My College Years

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Daily writing prompt
What colleges have you attended?
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Over the years, I have attended three colleges: Pueblo Community College, the University of Southern Colorado, and Adams State University. Each institution provided me with a valuable learning experience and opened doors to new opportunities.

Here is a brief tale of my college experiences.

A Lifetime of Learning

Echoes of Laughter

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I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment I arrived, there was a feeling, something warm and unmistakable, that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of the TV as Uncle Roger watched his favorite news channel. 

Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too, playfully so, never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra hug, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.

Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.

Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other through humor layered with heart and adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.

Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full, comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did; I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.

Loving visits with Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger became memories I carry with me still, not as distant recollections, but as living reminders of what matters most. Their home taught me that laughter can be a form of love, that kindness often arrives wrapped in humor, and that joy is something we create for one another. Long after the visits ended, the feeling of being with them remained, steady and warm, a quiet inheritance I continue to hold close.

I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment we arrived, there was a feeling—something warm and unmistakable—that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of conversation already in motion. You never had to knock long. The door opened quickly, usually mid-laugh, as if joy itself had been waiting for us.

Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too—playfully so—never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra cookie placed on a plate, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.

Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. He loved telling stories—stories that wandered, grew larger, and became funnier with every retelling. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.

Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other—humor layered with heart, adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.

Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full—comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did—I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.

Loving visits with them became memories I carry with me still—treasures from a life rich with connection, warmth, and joy.

Whispers of the Redwoods

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Daily writing prompt
Do you play in your daily life? What says “playtime” to you?
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The first time I entered a forest of towering redwoods, it felt like stepping into another world, where time moved slowly and the trees whispered ancient secrets. My first camping experience occurred in fourth grade with my Girl Scout troop. Our leader, Mrs. Gardner, took me and three friends—Kim Regan (Murphy), Rene Gardner, and Krissie Earl—to Big Basin in the Santa Cruz Mountains for a tent camping adventure. The first night was chilly and rainy, but the weather did not dampen my spirits. It was my first encounter with the redwoods, and I found the place magical. The fresh scent of pine and damp earth greeted us upon arrival, and the towering trees stretched endlessly toward the sky.

Big Basin Redwoods State Park, established in 1902, is California’s oldest state park. The ancient redwoods there are thousands of years old, some predating the pyramids. Walking among them made me feel both tiny and awed by nature’s power and patience.

I shared a tent with Kim, and we were literally washed out that first night when a small stream ran through the middle of our tent. Soaked and shivering, we sought refuge in Mrs. Gardner’s tent for the rest of the night, listening to the rain patter on the canvas and the wind rustle the massive trees outside. Despite the soggy start, the forest quickly captured my heart.

The trees were incredible. On the second day, we visited the ranger’s headquarters and nature center, where rangers taught us about the local wildlife and the trees. We learned about various plants, the foxes and raccoons that inhabited the forest, and how the redwoods had survived for thousands of years. We even saw a tree ring from a redwood that had lived before Christ was born—a humbling reminder of nature’s grandeur and the passage of time.

Once, the Grizzly Bear roamed the forest, but the ranger explained that they were wiped out during the settlers’ earlier arrival. If a bear attacked livestock or people, hunters would kill at least five bears in the area to ensure they had eliminated the attacking bear.

Later, we hiked the Trail of Giants, marveling at the towering trees and the quiet majesty of the forest. I ran my hands along the rough, reddish bark, looked up at branches disappearing into the clouds, and felt the soft crunch of needles under my boots. The experience left a lasting impression on me. In the morning, fog enveloped the area, dew settled on spiderwebs, and tiny streams reflected sunlight like ribbons of silver, making the forest appear magical and otherworldly. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I couldn’t wait to return.

Although I have visited many places since then, Big Basin is one destination I would return to repeatedly. The damp ground smelled earthy, and the air was so fresh and clean it felt like drinking pure water. The tall canopy of trees shaded the forest, allowing slivers of sunlight to peek through the branches, casting a soft, golden glow. Gentle winds rocked the trees, creating a soothing lullaby at night that helped tired campers fall asleep quickly, while the occasional owl hoot or distant rustle of wildlife reminded us we were guests in a living, breathing world.

Even now, years later, whenever I think of Big Basin, I feel a deep pull to return. It is more than a forest; it is a timeless sanctuary that leaves a mark on your heart, one towering tree, one soft breeze, and one magical morning at a time.

My Childhood Secret Retreats

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

Somewhere between the rustle of avocado leaves and the creak of a hidden stair, I learned that the best places in childhood were the ones where no one could find you unless you wanted to be found.

Favorite Hiding Places as a Child

Growing up in a large family definitely had its benefits. I always had a playmate and a buddy close by. But there were times when this only girl longed for space and quiet moments of privacy away from the constant buzz of siblings. Early on, I discovered two special places that offered the perfect cover to hide from the world and escape the prying eyes of nosy little brothers. One place was outdoors, tucked beneath branches and leaves, and the other was hidden inside our home, a place few ever ventured. Both became sanctuaries where I could daydream, read, and slip away from the noise.

The Avocado Tree

When we moved to our home on Lincoln Avenue, we had a neighbor named Mr. Pippen who loved children and animals. He and his wife never had children of their own, so he often lingered nearby while we played outside, always smiling and ready to visit. He even took the time to teach our Cocker Spaniel, Lady, a few tricks, which delighted us just as much as it did him.

In his backyard stood the most delightful avocado tree. Although it rarely produced edible fruit, it offered something far more valuable to me, an irresistible escape from the neighborhood. Its wide branches formed a generous canopy that shielded me from the rest of the world. When I leaned my back against its sturdy trunk, completely hidden beneath its leaves, no one would ever know I was there.

It was the perfect place to read or simply let my thoughts wander. Along the back fence sat a small, unused chicken coop, weathered and quiet. I often wondered what it must have been like when chickens once roosted there and families tended vegetable gardens nearby.

On warm summer afternoons, I loved slipping away beneath the tree’s branches. The shade offered cool relief from the heat, while sunlight flickered and danced through the fluttering leaves above me. A sea breeze from the bay stirred the branches, sending dust and tiny seeds sparkling in the air. Children’s laughter drifted through the yard, creating a comforting soundtrack as the rough bark pressed through my shirt while I rested against the trunk.

As I grew older, I began climbing my hideaway. The sturdy lower branches gave me the confidence to explore higher and higher. From there, I could see across our backyard and catch glimpses of the surrounding neighborhood. Nestled against the trunk, I often stretched across one branch, resting my chin on another, watching clouds drift overhead. I searched their shapes for animals, dolphins, horses, playful pups, while listening to the familiar sounds below. Sometimes I had to stifle a laugh when little brothers or neighbors called out my name, puzzled about where I had disappeared.

That tree felt magical. Knowing no one else shared my secret gave me a sense of independence and quiet power. It became a place of escape whenever I needed solitude or time to think. I climbed that tree often, even into my teenage years, whenever I wanted to feel invisible for a while. It brought me comfort knowing my special place was just yards from home, waiting whenever I needed it.

The Stairwell

My second hiding place was tucked away on the ground floor of our Victorian home. Reaching it required perfect timing, when everyone was distracted and no one was paying attention to a chubby little girl with brown hair. I would linger in the large foyer, waiting until I was certain no eyes were watching.

Beneath the grand staircase, hidden at the very back of the room, was a tiny, dark door stained to match the rich wood of the stairs above. Holding my breath, I would slowly turn the knob and duck into the narrow space beyond. Inside was a steep, narrow stairwell leading down to the first-floor barroom. My favorite spot was a step beside a small window that let in just enough light for reading.

It was cool and quiet, the perfect hiding place on rainy days. No one ventured down those stairs very often, so no one ever thought to look for me there. Once settled with my book, I could hear the muffled sounds of life above me; my mother’s voice drifting through the floor as she talked on the phone, or the television playing while my little brothers watched afternoon cartoons in the living room.

Reflection

Both of my hiding places offered the same quiet comfort of not being seen. I felt clever and safe as I observed the world around me without being part of it. Each place gave me an escape into books, an activity that has always shaped who I am. Though one was open to the sky and the other tucked deep within our home, both offered solitude, imagination, and peace. They remain among my favorite memories of childhood, gentle reminders of a girl who learned early how to find her own quiet corners in a noisy world.

Even now, I can still feel the cool stair beneath my legs and the rough bark pressed against my back. I can hear the hum of distant voices, the rustle of leaves overhead, and the quiet turning of pages in my hands. Those hiding places no longer exist in the same way, but the girl who sought them out still does. She lives in every book I open and every quiet moment I claim for myself, still knowing that sometimes the best way to be found is to first be unseen.

A Relationship That Has Had a Positive Impact on Me

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What relationships have a positive impact on you?
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One of the most positive and meaningful relationships in my life has been with Jan and Keith Lacy. They were my youth ministers, beginning their work in the early 1970s, and I have known them since I was nine years old. From a very young age, they played an important role in shaping who I am today, and their influence has remained with me throughout my life.

I first met Jan and Keith Lacy in Alameda, California, where they immediately stood out as people who genuinely lived out their beliefs. Their strong faith was not something they merely spoke about; it was reflected in their actions through kindness, patience, and sincere care for others. Being around them made me feel supported and valued. Even as life changed and distance separated us—especially after their move to Colorado—they continued to be a steady and encouraging presence in my life.

What made my relationship with Jan and Keith so meaningful was their constant compassion and encouragement. They were always praying for me and my family, always willing to listen, and always ready to help in any way they could. Their kindness never felt forced or conditional; it was consistent and heartfelt. They treated me as someone who truly mattered, which had a lasting impact on my confidence and sense of self as I grew older.

Because of Jan and Keith, I became a better person. They helped strengthen my faith and guided me toward making positive choices, even during challenging times. Their example taught me the importance of caring for others, staying grounded, and living with integrity. During difficult moments in my life, it brought me comfort to know that I had people who believed in me and were always supporting me from afar.

The impact of Jan and Keith Lacy has lasted far beyond my childhood. Their guidance and love continue to shape how I see the world and how I treat others today. I am deeply grateful for their presence in my life and for the faith, kindness, and support they shared with me. They are a lasting reminder that one caring relationship can truly make a lifelong difference.

Witnessing the Miracle of Birth: My First Grandchild’s Arrival

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant1 Comment
Daily writing prompt
Tell us about your first day at something — school, work, as a parent, etc.
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When the moment came to take my daughter up the winding road to Fort Carson—the Mountain Post—so she could finally deliver her baby, my heart lodged firmly in my throat. It was dark and bitterly cold that December night. Though worry shadowed every mile because she had endured a difficult pregnancy, my excitement grew with each turn of the road. I was about to become a grandmother, and I knew the birth of my first grandchild would be unlike anything I had ever experienced.

The miles rushed by as we pulled into the hospital parking area, searching for the closest space near the emergency room. Her pains were intense and coming fast.
“Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

Through clenched teeth, she answered in a clipped, pain-filled tone, “No.”

But after only a few steps, she leaned her aching body against the wall and nodded. Her strength wavered, and so did mine. I hurried inside, asked for a wheelchair, and returned with the help of a nurse. Together, we eased her into the chair and rushed her through the doors.

Before long, she was settled in the maternity ward, enduring hours of exhausting labor. I sat beside her, helpless, fighting back tears as each contraction took its toll. My heart ached not only for her pain but for her fear—fear for her baby boy. With her husband deployed in Korea, I knew I had to be her anchor, even as I felt myself unraveling inside.

When it was time for the spinal block, I stepped out of the room, painfully aware of my role and my limits. I paced the hallway, listening to her voice as she spoke with the nurse, hearing the strain and discomfort she tried so hard to hide. Watching your child give birth is both a blessing and a curse. You are close enough to feel every moment, yet powerless to ease a single ounce of the pain.

After the block, she was finally able to rest and drifted into sleep. I watched the baby monitor, my eyes glued to the flickering lines, knowing something wasn’t right. Mathew was in distress. I have never prayed so hard or felt so utterly helpless in my life.

When it was time for Mathew’s birth, everything happened at once. The room filled with urgency—pushing, commands, hurried footsteps—and then crying. Not the cry I had hoped for. Fear followed swiftly behind. After cutting the cord and holding him for the briefest moment, the doctors rushed Leslie and Mathew from the room. Both were in distress. I stood there, desperate to be strong, yet feeling as fragile as glass. The waiting that followed was unbearable. Both of my babies were in danger, and love and fear intertwined in their rawest form.

I paced the waiting room until the moment finally came when I learned they were both safe. Relief crashed over me in waves, leaving me weak with gratitude. I will never forget when Mathew’s nurse approached me and asked if I would feed him. They wanted Leslie to rest—she had lost a significant amount of blood during delivery.

As I held my grandson for the second time and fed him, warmth spread through me. His tiny body was cocooned in a soft blanket, a red-and-white Santa hat perched on his head. His eyes remained closed as he latched onto the bottle and drank. My heart swelled with wonder. From that moment on, my little man had me completely wrapped around his tiny finger.

Later, while Mathew rested in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and Leslie slept soundly, I slipped outside to the car. I turned on the engine, letting the heat warm my frozen hands, and the radio came to life. In that quiet space, my emotions finally collapsed. The crisis had passed—mostly—but we were not yet out of the woods. Gratitude tangled with lingering fear, and the weight of the past year came crashing down. It had been a long, hard road.

When my tears were spent, I lifted my eyes to the darkened sky and whispered another prayer of thanks—for my babies, my world. As I exhaled, Bryan White’s song “God Gave Me You” played on the radio. I had never heard it before, yet the lyrics felt as though they were written just for that moment. Comfort washed over me, and for the first time all night, I felt peace.

In that moment, I truly understood the depth of love and the fragile beauty of life. Time seemed to stand still as fear and faith collided, and grace carried me through what my heart could barely hold. That day changed me forever. I became a grandmother not only through joy, but through fear, faith, and grace—forever marked by the miracle and the weight of that night.

“God Gave Me You” – Bryan White