Category: Family Stories

July Themes

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant6 Comments

Where did June go? This summer has flown by all too quickly, and I never put up the June writing prompts. I apologize to my bloggers that share their stories on this site.

This time I am not placing dates or deadlines, just the writing prompts, so share when you can.

Since July is all about hot summer nights and friends, I decided to use these as suggestions for our stories. Have fun, and do not forget to share your tales.

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Family Names and the Stories They Carry

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant3 Comments

Family stories hold a special meaning. They offer invaluable insight into the lives of our ancestors—their journeys, their struggles, and sometimes their sense of humor. Yet not every tale is entirely reliable. Some stories wander a little off course over time, and those who hear them must sift through the details to decide whether they are listening to fact, fiction, or something comfortably settled somewhere in between.

While exploring my family tree, I discovered that one of my great-great-grandfathers had shared a few less-than-truthful tales with my mother about his experiences immigrating to America and about the life he claimed to have built once he arrived. When I later researched those stories, records and documents quietly refuted many of his claims. Still, I couldn’t help but chuckle when I imagined him spinning those tall tales for his granddaughter, perhaps with a twinkle in his eye and a storyteller’s flair.

And that brings me to family names.

Behind many names in a family tree are stories just as colorful as those old tales. Sometimes there is more than one version of how a name came to be, and occasionally the decision itself sparked debates, raised eyebrows, or left parents quietly stewing over what to name their precious newborn.

When I was pregnant with my daughter Leslie, I had a strong feeling the baby I carried was a girl. Her father, Dave, felt the same way, though we wisely kept a backup name ready just in case. If the baby had been a boy, we planned to name him Brandon Raymond. We both wanted to include family names, and Raymond was the middle name of both Dave and his father. We also liked the Irish meaning of Brandon—prince or brave.

Although we spent most of our time considering girls’ names, we could not agree on the perfect one. The middle name was already settled: Marie. That name carried a quiet family tradition. It had begun with my grandmother, Elva Marie, passed to my mother, Dorothy Marie, and then to me, Ann Marie. Passing it on to another generation felt important.

But the first name? That proved far more difficult.

Dave didn’t care for most of my suggestions, and I wasn’t fond of his choices either—especially the day he casually suggested the name Mary, which happened to be his ex-wife’s name.

I remember slowly turning toward him and giving him what could only be described as the look of death. Dave immediately realized what he had said and burst out laughing. Then he began stuttering, trying to backpedal his way out of trouble, insisting it had nothing to do with his ex-wife.

To this day, I still try to remember whether he slept on the couch that night. If he didn’t, he probably should have.

Eventually, after much discussion—and perhaps a little marital negotiation—we settled on the name Leslie Marie. When she finally arrived, pink-faced and perfect, the name suited her beautifully. Later, when I discovered the meaning of Leslie—a peaceful warrior—I felt even more certain we had chosen well. The Scottish name seemed just right for our baby girl.

Naming the children in my own family had its share of shenanigans as well.

My parents believed strongly in honoring family names, but that didn’t always mean they agreed on which names should be used. More often than not, my father had the final say—except once, when my mother decided she had waited long enough and took matters into her own hands.

I was the first child born and the only daughter. Both of my parents wanted to carry on family traditions, but they had very different ideas about what that should look like.

My mother wanted to name me Aimee Marie, inspired by a beloved cousin whose married last name was Aimee. She thought it sounded elegant and meaningful.

My father had another plan.

He believed I should be named after two of my maternal great-grandmothers: Anna Strassburg and Tamer Anna (Ann) Peyton. His solution was simple.

Ann Marie.

Years later, when I was a teenager, my mother discovered that my father had once had a fiancée in Georgia named—of all things—Ann Marie.

I decided it was best not to dig too deeply into that particular family mystery. Still, I suspect that discovery might have earned my father at least one night on the couch.

Two years later, my world expanded when my first brother arrived. According to my mother, when she told me she was pregnant again, I became quite determined about what the baby should be. I began carrying one of my dolls around the house, calling it Tommy, and confidently announcing that my baby brother would soon arrive.

As it turned out, my prediction wasn’t far off.

The new baby was named after his two grandfathers—Tom Allen and Wilson Reeder—so Tommy Wilson received his name.

Right on schedule, two years later another brother arrived: David. His name didn’t cause much debate. He was named after a kind uncle who had married my dad’s sister, Betty, and after a pioneering great-great-grandfather who had once moved his family from Ohio to Colorado in search of a new life. His middle name, LeRoy, came from my father’s own middle name.

The third son appeared a little later than planned, arriving about six months after my mother’s carefully spaced two-year timeline. Keith Allen carried on another family name, as Allen was my mother’s maiden name. My father chose the name Keith, though to this day I’m not entirely sure if it had any deeper family connection. It’s one of those small mysteries I wish I had asked about when I still had the chance.

The final child in our family produced the most memorable naming story of all.

My father had already decided the baby would be named William, after his older brother. He was so certain of it that he had begun calling the unborn baby Billy long before the delivery.

But this time, my mother quietly decided she would have the final say.

When the baby arrived, she calmly filled out the birth certificate herself. The name she wrote was Daniel Harold—Daniel after one of her cousins and Harold as a small nod to my father, whose own name was Harold.

For three days after the baby was born, my father proudly introduced his new son as Little Billy, completely unaware that the official paperwork said otherwise.

Finally, my mother broke the news on their drive home from the hospital.

My father simply laughed. Still, for years afterward, he occasionally slipped and called the boy Little Billy anyway.

Family names carry pride, tradition, and history within them. They connect generations across time, linking grandparents, parents, and children through a shared story.

And while I cherish the traditions behind those names, I have to admit that I still smile when I think about the debates, surprises, and small bits of mischief that helped shape them.

As generations come and go, I hope our family names—and the stories that travel alongside them—continue to grow and branch out, just like the family tree itself.

Family names carry pride, tradition, and history within them. They connect generations across time, linking grandparents, parents, and children through a shared story.

Yet behind every name lies something even more powerful—the people who chose it, the memories that shaped it, and the stories that refuse to be forgotten.

Because in the end, a name is never just a name.
It is a story waiting for the next generation to tell it again.


Spinning Yarns
And Baby Makes Five Part 2
The Land of Milk and Honey

Photo by Simon Matzinger on Pexels.com

The Red Racer

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant7 Comments

“Hold on,” her father blared, “Don’t let go!”

Curling up on the couch, Annie snuggled close to her mother. With a blanket draped around them to ward off the chill of the rainy day, Momma read a story to her only daughter.

When she finished the last page, the little girl didn’t want the stories to end. “Mama, tell me a story about when you were growing up on the ranch,” Annie asked.

“One time when I was a little girl,” Momma began. Annie nestled in closer, ready to hear another tale about her mother’s childhood. Sometimes she listened to the same stories repeatedly, but she didn’t mind. Her mother’s tales were always her favorite.

My Mom

On a summer afternoon, while riding along the dusty mesa, Dotty rode her horse Midge on her way home. Suddenly, the horse spooked and bolted for home. Looking around to see what had frightened her, Dotty noticed a red racer chasing them. She remembered her father’s warning about these snakes. This one wasn’t poisonous, but they were aggressive and could take a chunk of flesh if they bit. That was all the information she needed, so Dotty let her horse run home. The snake kept on their trail and wouldn’t give up. She was afraid to give Midge too much slack because of the rocks and loose gravel, so the snake stayed on her heels.

Once she reached the driveway to her home, she spurred her horse on while loosening her grip on the reins. When she came to the house, she started hollering for her dad. He and her mother rushed outside and witnessed their daughter’s predicament.

“Hold on,” her father shouted, “Don’t let go!”

Dotty and her horse raced around the place, and that determined snake would not give up! Her father kept yelling at her to hang on, so she kept riding, but the snake persisted and stayed right behind them.

Finally, Dotty became so frightened that she just wanted the safety of her dad. In that instant, she decided that as soon as she circled back close to him, she would let go of the reins. Before she loosened her grip, she slipped her boots from the stirrups and held her breath before letting go and falling to the side. Tumbling through the air, she hit the ground hard and rolled through the rocks and gravel. Sharp stones pierced her skin through her clothing as she landed on the rough terrain.

In all the commotion, the snake slithered away. Midge came to a stop and pawed the ground. Elva walked up to the horse, led her to the front porch, and tied her reins to a post before racing to her daughter’s side.

Her father immediately ran to her to make sure she was okay. “By God, girl, why didn’t you stay put?” he ranted as he checked her from head to toe. “Where do you hurt?” he yelled.

Her mother fussed nearby and told her husband, “Now is not the time to lecture our daughter!” Turning to Dotty, she asked, “Are you hurting?”

Not wanting to upset her parents any more than she already had, Dotty replied, “I think I’m okay.”

“Does your head hurt? Do you feel dizzy?” Grandpa inquired.

“No. I’m fine.”

Carefully, he helped her to her feet. “What about now? Any dizziness?”

“No.”

“Well, you have plenty of scrapes and scratches. Let’s get you inside so I can take care of you.”

Groaning from her aches and pains and knowing what was to come, Dotty hobbled to the house with her father’s help.

Once inside, the couple guided her to the bedroom. Her mother helped her change into her nightie while her father warmed water on the woodstove. Bringing in a bowl and a fresh rag, he handed them to his wife so she could clean Dotty’s wounds.

“No, not like that,” the gruff but concerned father admonished. “Let me do it.”

His daughter grimaced in pain as he examined and cleaned each wound that needed attention. “Easy girl, it will be over soon. Hang on. Try not to move. It will only hurt worse,” he softly crooned.

At that, the young girl smiled. Her brusque father always lowered his voice and spoke softly when he was spoiling children, breaking horses, or tending to people and animals alike.

“Elvie, you clean the places I can’t see while I grab the whiskey and iodine.”

“Doing a good job, honey,” her mother whispered. “Why did you let go of the reins?”

“I was afraid. Midge and I were both spooked, and that snake wouldn’t stop chasing us. I just wanted Daddy. I knew he would save me.”

Her mother smiled at her daughter. Her little girl had so much faith in her father’s love and knew he would always try to protect her. Tom listened outside the room, choked up by Dotty’s admission. He took a deep breath and asked, “Is it safe to come in?”

“Yes,” Elva answered.

Loaded with his medical supplies, he sat at the edge of his daughter’s bed. “Now you know this will sting, but we don’t want an infection to set in.”

Opening the whiskey bottle, Tom took a clean rag, held it to the mouth of the bottle, and tipped it until the whiskey dampened the cloth. First, he cleaned each wound, explaining each step so Elva could clean the rest of her cuts and scrapes.

Afterward, he dabbed each wound with iodine, which left reddish-pink stains on her skin. Grabbing a clean rag, Tom moistened another cloth with whiskey and handed it to Elva, sternly advising, “Make sure to clean out each cut carefully and then add the iodine. Remember, you can’t use too much whiskey.”

Tom went outside to tend to Midge. After removing the saddle, he checked the mare for any injuries. He stooped and ran his hand down each leg and hoof for gashes or abrasions. Once satisfied that Midge was in good shape, he led her to the trough for water. As she drank, he walked to the porch, grabbed the saddle, and placed it in the barn. Taking his tools, he walked out to the coral and began brushing his daughter’s horse.

The day’s events rushed through his mind. As he cared for Midge, his hand trembled at the thought of what could have happened to his youngest daughter. She had spirit, but when life threw her a curve, she often retreated or ran to him to alleviate her fears. His bashful girl worried him, but more than anything, he fretted that he would not always be able to protect her.

After putting Midge to pasture, the concerned father walked into the cabin. Elva placed a finger to her lips to signal that Dotty had fallen asleep. “I made her some whiskey and tea with honey. After her ordeal, she went to sleep right away,” she told her husband.

“Good. Good,” he replied. “Let her rest. I will do her evening chores and help you milk the cows.”

Dotty slept until supper, when she could smell her mother making her favorite fried chicken in the old cookstove. She knew that meant she would also have mashed potatoes with country gravy. Suddenly, her stomach began to growl, for she had not eaten anything since her ordeal, besides some crackers her mom had made her nibble on before her tea and nap.

“That smells good!” she told her parents as she slipped into the kitchen. Looking up, the couple smiled at their daughter.

“Feeling better?” her mom asked.

“Yep, but I’m starving,” she replied.

Her father chuckled and told her to pull up a seat at the table. Her mom dished up plates for everyone and served her family. In between bites, Dotty recounted her day leading up to her mishap. “Tommy and I rode almost into town, but his horse threw a shoe. It took forever to walk back to his house, and it was hot. I couldn’t wait to get home.”

The couple exchanged relieved smiles, glad to see she seemed back to normal. Dotty chattered away for the rest of the meal. After supper, her mother started heating water for the dishes while her father cleared the table and wiped it clean. Dotty knew what was coming next: the family would listen to the radio and play games late into the night. She loved her family, and playing games was one of their favorite pastimes.

As her dad turned on the radio, Texas Jim Lewis began to croon. Once Tom settled into his chair, his foot began tapping along to “Too Late to Worry, Too Blue to Cry.” Elva brought some coffee and a big bowl of buttered popcorn, and the family laughed together as they shared their evening.

Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash