Category: Family Stories

One More Ride

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Stroking Beau’s head, I whispered to my best friend, “The day is all ours.” I inhaled his warm, musky scent, which blended with earth and hay, and finally relaxed, hoping moments like this could last forever. My responsibilities suddenly found their way to the back burner. This morning, I would enjoy a ride with my incredible beauty.

Beau, a breathtaking combination of Arabian and Quarter horse, glistened in the morning sun. He was all black, including his long mane and tail, except for the white blaze on his nose and his four white socks. He pawed the ground, and I laughed. He was ready to hit the country roads and backtrails, too. It was a short ride to Brush Hollow, and we had the whole day to ourselves.

I gathered the reins and quickly placed one foot in the stirrup and swung myself into the saddle, my body moving without hesitation, without pain, without thought. Beau knew where we were heading and turned out of the yard and onto the road. His strength and calm always gave me the right amount of confidence.  Life always felt right when moving along in the saddle with my favorite companion. Even on those days I worked in the garden, Beau would snicker, letting me know he wanted out of his corral.  He followed me around like a puppy, enjoying our closeness as much as I did. I never worried about him running off; he always stayed close, even when I happened to fall off and needed him to wait. We had an unspoken trust. Beau was more than just a horse; he was my anchor, my friend, and my sense of freedom.

As the asphalt turned into dirt roads, we began to canter towards the lake. The spring day offered a cloudless blue sky, and the smell of pinyon and juniper trees and sun-warmed earth filled the air. Cows grazed in green pastures, and occasional moo drifted near us. Spring calves jumped and ran, and made me smile at their antics.

Once we passed the cows, I nudged Beau into a run, wanting to get to Brush Hollow as quickly as possible. The wind whipped my hair, his mane, and tail. It felt like we were flying along that dusty road.

Time slowed and stretched before us, almost standing still as we galloped towards the lake. Dust kicked up behind us while Beau ran as if he could not arrive at our trails soon enough. All thoughts of work and bills dissolved; no future, no past, just this one perfect moment with Beau, a moment I didn’t yet know I would return to again and again. It was quiet understanding, knowing that this day was precious, and I was full of gratitude.

Once we arrived at our familiar path, Beau naturally slowed to a walk, the rhythm of his hooves softening along the trail. The leaves of the cottonwood trees rustled in the wind. A stillness and peace settled in as we began our trek along the path. This rider felt whole, unbroken, and untouched by time. Silence ended when we disturbed a flock of Pinyon Jays. Their cries warned others of our arrival, as if the land itself needed to speak before everything changed. The peace felt too complete, too perfect, the kind that only exists when memory takes over.

And then it happened. The weight of this body refused to move as it once did. Pain returned, along with the heartache and realization that Beau was gone. Opening my eyes, I blinked.  My cane rested next to my nightstand. Slowly, I realized I dreamed of him again.  Sitting up in bed, I winced as pain spread through my back. Grief rested for a moment, as a single tear moved down my cheek. For one lone moment, I allowed the emotional ache of knowing what was lost and could never be again. But I quickly pushed it away, only allowing the pain to last for an instant. For I had lived those perfect moments with Beau, and for that, I would always be grateful.

Prompt: For the first prompt of the 2025 challenge (drum roll, please!): Write a story based on the idea “if you could have just one more.”

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

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment
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

The House That Felt Like Home

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Some houses welcome you before the door even opens.

That is how it always felt at Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger’s. Before I ever walked inside, before the door shut behind me, before I heard a single word, I could feel it, that clear warmth resting just beyond the threshold. Their home held a kind of ease that came over me the moment I walked through the threshold. It was as comforting and familiar as a favorite sweater pulled over my shoulders on a chilly day. It was rich in the things that matter most: laughter, conversation, affection, and the simple warmth of people who knew how to make others feel at home.

Inside, the house was humming with sound. Laughter came easily as it drifted from room to room. It combined with the clinking of coffee cups set down at tables. The television hummed in the background, likely tuned to the news if Uncle Roger had his way, or to a football game if one of his favorite teams was playing. There was always the sense that life was happening there in a full and happy way. Their home breathed with a life and a personality of its own.

Aunt Jan was at the center of much of that energy. She was funny in a way that could not be taught, sharp, quick, and perfectly timed. Her eyes beamed when she narrated a story, and she had a gift for delivering a remark so dry and so precise that laughter commonly came a beat later, after the brilliance of it had fully landed. She was a little ornery, too, though in the most endearing way. She liked to tease, liked to stir the pot just enough to keep things spirited, and she was never afraid to say exactly what she thought.

Still beneath all that humor was a tenderness that ran deep. Aunt Jan always understood her surroundings and watched. She knew when others fell silent, and their world had become unsettled. And she instantly knew how to respond with a knowing smile, an extra hug, or a gentle touch on the shoulder.  Sometimes it was a question asked so simply and sincerely that it opened the door for me to say what I had not realized I needed to say. Her love commonly arrived in those soft moments, so natural and unforced that they might almost have gone unnoticed, except that they made all the difference.

Uncle Roger matched her in his own way. Where Aunt Jan’s wit flashed bright and quick, Roger carried an unshakable sort of alliance filled with warmth and mischievousness all at once. He had a fun-loving spirit and a look that implied he might, at any moment, be on the verge of some innocent trouble. There was something unnerving about that grin, something that made you trust him immediately and suspect him just a little, too. His quick laugh held reassurance and comfort, and as he chuckled, it came from deep down, booming and contagious. It was impossible not to laugh with him.

His kindness equaled Aunt Jan’s, his gentle spirit filled his home like a warm summer breeze. He was the sort of man who made people feel comfortable without ever seeming to try. He showed up. He included you. He made room. His everyday actions showed his love for those around him. His servant’s heart revealed goodness in his speech and ordinary moments.  His warmth lived in action more than words.

Together, they were a pair in the truest sense of the word. Their teasing had its own music, a back-and-forth rhythm defined by years of affection, teasing, and common history. Watching them together was its own kind of lesson. They did not need to be polished or perfect to be deeply connected. Their love was lively, genuine, and strong enough to hold humor, difference, and tenderness all at once. They balanced one another beautifully, Aunt Jan’s sparkle and Roger’s steadiness, her lively wit and his easy warmth, her lively orneriness and his bold spirit.

There was a comfort in being around them that was hard to describe unless you have known it yourself. Visits were never hurried. No one seemed to be counting the minutes or rushing the conversation along. Time loosened its grip in their home. People sat a little longer at the table. Stories grew a little fuller. Laughter lasted a little longer than expected. Even silence came across as companionable there, not awkward or empty, but full in its own way—the sort of silence shared only among people who are at ease with one another.

That is one of the things I remember most: how full even the stillness felt.

Their home was more than a place I visited. It was a feeling I came into. A feeling of belonging. A place where I wasn’t merely received, but welcomed. Not simply noticed, but known.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I do not first think of specific moments or exact conversations, though some surely remain tucked away in memory. What rises to the surface most strongly is how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Safe in the easy joy of being with them. Their humor, kindness, and delight in life created a lasting influence on me, one that has remained long after the visits themselves slipped into memory.

They taught me things without ever sitting me down to explain them. They made me realize that laughter can be one of the purest forms of love. That kindness often comes wrapped in fun loving moments. Joy is often something we create for one another during ordinary days and sunny afternoons while sipping coffee on a quiet patio. They reminded me that the homes we remember best are often the ones where we were most fully ourselves, living life’s sweetest moments.

I have carried those visits with me all my life. They do not feel distant, not really. They remain warm and living in me, like embers that never quite go out. And when I think of all that made a childhood rich, connection, comfort, and affection. I often think of their house, the laughter, the television softly murmuring in the background, the coffee cups, the teasing, the welcome.

And I realize that what they gave me was never merely hospitality.

It was the unmistakable feeling of being at home in someone else’s love.

Whispers of the Redwoods

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment
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.

Love That Stayed

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What relationships have a positive impact on you?
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Some lives touch yours so tenderly and without fanfare that you only recognize their power years later.

There is no trumpet sound, no grand announcement, no single dramatic moment that marks their arrival as an important event. They simply begin by showing up, week after week, year after year, with such steadiness, kindness, and grace that one day you look back and realize they helped shape the landscape of your life. That was how it was with Jan and Keith Lacy.

I was nine years old when I first met them in Alameda, California, in the early 1970s. They were our youth ministers then, young and full of faith, but what I remember most is not simply what they taught. It was who they were. Even as a child, I could sense the difference between people who talked about love and people who lived it. Jan and Keith lived it.

I can still picture those early years: church services, Keith singing hymns, church basements, youth gatherings, dinners, Christmas caroling, the way they moved among us, always loving, always present. They carried themselves with a warmth that invited trust. Their faith was not stiff or showy; it was sincere as it revealed itself in love and patience in the way they showed up for others and in the way they loved. They loved through kindness, provided sincerity in their attention, and provided comfort whenever they were near. As a child, I felt loved, safe, and valued. They touched my heart in so many ways. Their presence was a shelter and a comfort. They treated me as if I belonged, and I felt like I was part of their family.

So many meaningful acts of love and kindness accumulated into faithful ones; they prayed for family and me. They listened. They encouraged. Their love endured and remained for a lifetime. Even when life changed, and miles stretched between us, even after they moved to Colorado, they remained a constant source of support and encouragement.

That kind of love and stability is a rare and loving gift.

So much of life changes. People move away. Seasons shift. Churches change. Families go through trials. Children grow up. But some relationships do not disappear with distance. Instead, they deepen into something quieter and stronger, something less dependent on proximity and more rooted in love. That is what Jan and Keith became for me, a steady presence, even from afar.

Because of them, I became a better person. They helped strengthen my faith by living lives that showed me truth, hope, and a trust in Him. They simply lived a life and practiced what they believed.

During difficult times, it comforted me to know I had someone praying for me, people who believed in me, people who held me in their hearts even when they were not physically near. There is a peaceful understanding and contentment in knowing that you are loved simply for who you are. And because of them, I never feel alone, ever.

In this life, I have found the most powerful influences are the gentle ones. The people who do not try to control your story but help you steady it as you live it. The people whose goodness leaves an imprint on the soul. The people who model compassion so naturally that it changes the way you move through the world yourself.

Jan and Keith are those kinds of people.

Their impact and encouragement did not end with childhood. Their example still speaks to me; their love still matters. Their presence, encompassing decades, has remained a constant, steady blessing in my life.

When I think of them, I understand the gift of being encouraged. I wonder about God’s mystery of places and people and paths crossed at the right moments. And I am grateful for the love they shared with me over a lifetime.

Some people pass through our lives. And some, by the grace of God, become living proof of how He holds us steady through the love of others.