Category: Family Stories

Cellphones and Dinosaurs

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant3 Comments

“I hate this stupid thing, and I’m sending it back!”

That pretty well summed up my feelings about my first “real” cell phone. From the beginning, that shiny little contraption felt more like a nuisance than a necessity. I hated the idea of being tethered to a device that buzzed, chimed, rang, and seemed to demand my attention at all hours.

Before that, I had managed just fine with inexpensive flip phones, the kind I used mostly for vacations or emergencies. I’d pay a modest monthly fee, keep the phone tucked away in my purse or glove compartment, and think very little about it. They were simple, practical, and wonderfully unintrusive. Eventually, I’d forget to refill the minutes, the service would expire, and that would be the end of that. Truthfully that arrangement suited me just fine.

And oh, the horror. At one point, some of my eighth graders discovered I carried what looked suspiciously like a burner phone. Naturally, they decided this was hilarious. One of them grinned and announced that I looked like a drug dealer. I just gave them the teacher look—the one that could stop nonsense in its tracks—and said, “You watch too much TV.” They laughed, and I did too, though I still had no intention of becoming one of those people with a phone permanently attached to their hand.

Back then, I liked life the old-fashioned way. Phones, in my opinion, belonged on the kitchen wall, right where they were easy to find, hard to lose, and simple to ignore when I didn’t feel like answering them. I never worried about leaving the house without one. In fact, I preferred it. There was something freeing about being unreachable.

But life has a way of changing our minds, whether we want it to or not. After a medical mishap that rattled all of us, my daughter decided enough was enough. She informed me that it was time for me to get a real phone. Otherwise, she threatened that she would simply buy me a Life Alert. I wasn’t exactly inspired by either option,

Still, I’ll admit, for a moment I found the idea of a Life Alert mildly entertaining. I imagined pressing the button and having a truckload of handsome firefighters come rushing to my rescue. But Leslie was quick to ruin that fantasy. She informed me that if I kept pushing it for no good reason, eventually they’d send the sheriff instead. That was a total buzz kill.

So, with all the enthusiasm of a child being marched into the principal’s office, I reluctantly accepted my fate. It was time for this dinosaur to step into the twenty-first century. I didn’t have to like it, though, and to make matters worse, my new smartphone immediately proved itself to be far smarter than I was.

In those early days, my family found my struggles highly amusing. So did my students. If I accidentally opened the wrong app, lost a text message, or couldn’t figure out why the screen had suddenly gone dark, there was always someone nearby ready to laugh first and help second. To be fair, they did help this Grammy learn her way around the mysterious little machine, even if they enjoyed the show along the way.

Little by little, I became less suspicious of the thing. What began as a forced relationship slowly softened into something like friendship. Against all odds, I grew to like my phone—and eventually, if I’m being honest, I grew to love it just a little.

After all, who wouldn’t appreciate having a camera always within reach, ready to capture a sweet moment, a mountain view, or a grandchild’s grin? I discovered the joy of listening to audiobooks whenever the mood struck. I abandoned my old alarm clock without a second thought, because the one on my phone was infinitely more convenient. On road trips, I no longer had to squint at paper maps or hope I had written directions down correctly. With a tap, I could find my way anywhere. My favorite music traveled with me too, turning an ordinary drive or workout into something a little more enjoyable.

And then there were the texts from my kids—those quick little messages that somehow made the miles between us feel smaller. Those may have been my favorite part of all.

So yes, much to my own surprise, that phone I once threatened to send back has become a trusted sidekick. It turns out this old dog could learn a few new tricks after all. And, I’ve decided that nobody puts Baby in the corner—or, in my case, back on the kitchen wall.

Oh, and this picture? Captured on my iPhone.

Sisters

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Running to the end of the pier, the two girls giggled with delight. The sun shimmered on the bay, casting a harsh glare, and Amy wished she had brought her sunglasses. Barb’s large straw hat shielded her face, but she still worried about new freckles appearing across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Seagulls squawked in protest and flapped away from the pier’s edge as the girls approached. With a shared grin, they kicked off their flip-flops, Barb dropped her hat, and the pair leaped into the cool, inviting water.

Axel’s sudden bark jolted the grandmother from her thoughts, and she laughed as she watched him chase a squirrel. But as she settled in her rocker, her mind drifted back to that island memory—when she and her little sister had played in the San Francisco Bay, a lifetime ago.

Today’s prompt is to write about a daydream.

The Garden

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It had to be here. Somewhere. It had been years since she visited. Decades. But she knew this place; it was etched in her memory and in her heart. Take the first county road after passing the Victorian cottage with the bay window and the rocking chair. Her heart beat faster as she passed the little yellow house and smiled when she noticed an orange tabby curled on the rocker’s cushion. She was close now.

Her rickety blue Ford pickup turned right onto the county road. Soft clouds rolled in, and the skies darkened. She knew a summer rain would break at any moment, so she hurried up the old logging road. As the high desert plains shifted into forest, she smiled at the sight of the aspen grove to her right. She remembered that a side road would be nearby, one that ambled toward the old log cabin, inhabited by a family over a hundred years ago.

She remembered the day she and her love had explored it, surprised by the remnants left behind. Old canning jars, a wooden kitchen table in the single room with a loft above the living space. Dusty red gingham curtains hung over a window near the water pump. An old wood cookstove sat by one wall, and the coal bin still had splintered kindling, as if waiting for its occupants to return and start the evening meal. Postcards decorated one side of the wall. One, in particular, had caught her eye—a little red fox looking up at blooming wildflowers, its eyes closed in a smile.

By one window sat a sewing rocker with a small table beside it. A bowl held tiny, round wooden buttons, each one carefully carved by hand. She patted her pocket and felt the small clasp she had taken with her—the only memento of that day, so long ago.

Once she spotted the side road, she turned and traveled a short distance until the old cabin appeared in sight. She slowed, her breath catching. The years had not been kind to the cabin. It looked as sad as she felt. She pulled off the road, turning off the truck’s ignition.

“Wish you were here,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She could still see his smile from that day when he took her hand as they walked to the cabin. She remembered showing him the postcard of the fox. He had smiled, too.

“I’ll plant you a flower garden one day, in the country. That way, we can have foxes visit our yard,” he had promised.

She brushed away her tears, wishing for the time of her first love.

“If only,” she whispered softly.

Inside the cabin, her heart sank. It had been ransacked. The old cookstove was gone, along with all its furnishings. She searched for the fox postcard but found only a torn corner clinging to the wall. She ran her fingers over the frayed edge, still able to envision the picture. A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips.

She wanted to visit the creek, to see if their tree was still there—the one where they had carved their initials inside a heart. She turned to leave, but something caught her eye. A dusty piece of paper had slipped under an old crate. Turning it over, her breath caught in her throat. It was the fox postcard.

She smiled through her tears, brushing the dust off with her jeans. This time, she would rescue this treasure. She rushed to her truck, tucking it safely away, then hurried toward the creek. She needed to find their tree.

The aspens stretched out before her in every direction. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. But she didn’t mind. The thought of seeing their tree, of finding something that tied her to him again, made her heart swell. After walking for some time, she realized she had gone too far. The skies reminded her that an afternoon rain could begin at any moment. Reluctantly, she turned back.

Though she hadn’t found the tree, she felt a sense of peace. She had found the old cabin, the postcard, and had revisited memories of a love long past. As she walked along the creek, she noticed wildflowers growing just off the path. Unable to resist, she ventured closer.

Columbine, lilies, and lupine blanketed the ground beneath the quaking aspens. She wished Jay were with her to see the vibrant garden spread out before her. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the colors, the beauty.

And then, she saw it. A darkened heart carved into the bark of one of the trees—her initials, and his.

Stunned, she sank to the ground among the flowers. His voice echoed in her mind, “I’ll plant you a garden…”

She started to cry, and the heavens wept with her, as the summer rains began to fall.

2025 February Flash Fiction Challenge: Day 1

Write a piece of flash fiction each day of February with the February Flash Fiction Challenge, led by Managing Editor Moriah Richard. Each day, receive a prompt, example story, and write your own. Today’s prompt is to write about a garden.

The Homecoming

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What makes you feel nostalgic?
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Driving along the country road, my anticipation grew. Soon, I would arrive at my mountain retreat – my sanctuary in the heart of the valley. Over the years, I spent countless days here, each visit offering a respite from the demands of daily life. In the past, my family and I would take weekend trips, hiking in the nearby mountain park or leisurely exploring the town and surrounding countryside. From my first visit, I recall the magic I felt as we turned onto Pine Drive, where towering trees created a natural tunnel, sunlight filtering through their branches in shimmering rays. The homes—old and new—peeked through the pines, and I often wondered about the lives of the settlers who had once built homesteads in this valley. 


In recent years, I’ve made a point to return whenever I can steal a moment from the bustle of life. Long weekends spent here bring a deep sense of rest and rejuvenation. Despite the many beautiful spots in Colorado, it’s this quiet place that calls me back. It offers solitude and peace that I can’t find anywhere else.


Lost in these thoughts, the road suddenly dipped, and my heart lifted at the familiar sight ahead. The two-lane highway split before me: to the left, it wound upward into a forest of pines, eventually climbing into the rugged Wet Mountains; to the right, the road veered into a lush valley dotted with farmhouses and barns. We took the path on the right, and for a fleeting moment, I felt a pang of longing to follow the familiar road that led to a cabin I had once visited often—until it was sold. I had spent many peaceful days there, immersed in the stillness of the mountains, enjoying the wildlife and the antics of my Muttley Crew—Max and Mitzi. It had been the perfect escape from the frenetic pace of my everyday life.


But today, the sight of the old farmhouse with its vivid red door drew me in. Nestled in the foothills, snow still blanketed the dormant alfalfa fields, and the weathered barns stood like quiet sentinels, storing the land’s offerings. In the distance, snow-covered peaks loomed, their soft blues and creamy whites blending into the cloudy sky. For a moment, time seemed to freeze as I gazed at the farmlands below, feeling as though I had stepped into an old postcard.


As I pulled into the gravel driveway, I spotted a lone buck standing still, his antlers silhouetted against the pale sky. I quickly snapped a photo of the regal creature, who seemed unfazed by my presence. But the moment passed as soon as I released Max and Mitzi from the car. The mini dachshunds bolted into the yard, barking loudly as they chased the deer, who bounded away at the sound of their shrill voices. I called the scoundrels back, apologizing to the startled buck.


Taking a deep breath, I inhaled the familiar scent of Ponderosa Pines, their rich pine and vanilla fragrance filling the air. I walked over to one of the trees, placing my hand on its rough bark, and closed my eyes, savoring the moment. It was a scent I’d come to associate with peace and solitude, with memories of quiet days spent here in this special place.

As I surveyed the house and surrounding fields, my gaze lingered on the faded green outhouse beside the barn. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought that this 150-year-old home had been updated with a modern bathroom. I imagined what life must have been like on the farm a century ago. Though I grew up in the city, my mother often shared stories of her childhood on a ranch. From her tales, I knew it had been hard work, but I also knew that she cherished those days spent with her family.


It was funny how distant my city life now felt. The asphalt streets and concrete sidewalks had been replaced by dirt roads and open prairies. The hum of city traffic had been replaced by the raucous calls of quail, signaling to their young. And the acrid stench of car exhaust and burning oil had given way to the sweet, earthy scent of sagebrush and hummingbird mint. I had always known I was a country girl at heart. 


Quickly, I unloaded the car, stowing the groceries inside and setting aside the rest of my things to unpack later. For now, all I wanted was to sit on the front porch and enjoy the sunset. As the pups explored the yard, I settled into the bench on the porch, pulling my gloves from my hoodie pocket to ward off the winter chill. The crisp air swirled around me, but the gloves warmed my hands as I gazed out over the valley.

The quiet was only broken by the occasional car winding down the road, and each time, the driver would wave. It warmed my heart that small towns still held on to such customs, offering a moment of connection even to strangers. As I relaxed on the bench, the distant sound of church bells rang through the valley, their chimes a reminder of the season. Breathing in the fresh, cold air, I smiled to myself. I had returned to the mountains, to the perfect place to spend my winter holiday.

Grandma Goes to Prison

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Unexpected Teaching Journey: From College Grad to Women’s Prison Instructor

Never in a million years, as a grandmother, did I ever believe I would begin my teaching career in a women’s prison. It was not my first choice, but fresh out of college and separated from my spouse, my limited options and looming debt reminded me that I could not be picky.  While I enjoyed living in a rural community, teaching opportunities did not come along often.  And my old truck was on its last legs.  Whenever I traveled outside the county, we rumbled along on a wing and a prayer. So, after subbing for three months, I jumped at the chance to work evenings at the women’s prison.  

Before I could begin teaching, I had to spend time at the training academy. Days were spent in class, listening to lectures on law. Others were spent in the old dormitories of the former boy’s school, searching for contraband. When the day came to begin self-defense classes, I was more than a little nervous.  The instructors paired the class with people of the same height, and my partner was a young kid half my age.  I told him, “Be gentle with me; I’m a grandma.” 

Nodding his head, he sweetly smiled and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before we began sparring. 

Listening to our instructor, we threw punches and kicks until I just wanted to find a secluded corner somewhere to hide and rest before I collapsed from exhaustion. Although I lifted weights and worked out, this granny was no match for the young man.  

To add to the commotion, the instructor began barking orders like a crazed drill sergeant. He marched right up to me and screamed in my face, “Hit him harder!”

Flabbergasted by his order and demeanor, I stepped back and replied, “I don’t want to hurt him.”

He loudly laughed, and the room grew quiet.  Everyone stopped to watch the trainer as he criticized and mocked. In true military fashion, he began to berate his student, me.  He cooed in a sickly, sweet little voice, “Oh, is that what you’re going to tell your little inmates? Huh? I don’t want to hurt you?”

Everyone laughed, and I fumed. I pushed all doubt from my mind, ready to prove my mettle. I ignored the aches and pains; at that moment, I was determined to show Ole Sarge that I was more than capable of defending myself.

The young man and I began exchanging jabs again as everyone watched. The trainer continued to shout instructions to block, jab, and kick.  Although I did my best, Ole Sarge didn’t think I was up to par.  With more conviction, he again started screaming in my face, “Hit him harder.”

At that moment, all I wanted to do was punch the instructor. He was relentless.  I was tired and hot and sweaty, but he continued to scream at me.  In frustration, I finally gave all I had and punched the kid square in the face.

To my absolute horror, he went down and didn’t move. And he did not respond to any commands. In shock, I realized I had knocked him out! Frozen, I stood motionless as people rushed to the young man’s side. Although he was not out for long, time had slowed to a crawl, and my heartbeat quickened, and I began to tremble when he finally responded, “I can’t see.”

At that moment, I wanted to disappear as all eyes turned to look at me.  Tears welled. What had I done?

Within seconds that seemed like an eternity, his sight returned, and the angry young man jumped to his feet.  He glared at me, and through clenched teeth, he growled, “A grandma, my ass!”  

Relief washed over me.  The young officer stormed off, refusing to work with me. The “drill sergeant” mumbled, “I should take a break.”

Before Ole Sarge could change his mind, I rushed from the auditorium, found a dark corner, and slumped to the floor. While I listened to echoes of grunts and Ole Sarge barking orders, I tried to relax as I again questioned my sanity. At least this round was over, and soon it would be forgotten, or so I thought until I showed up for my first day of teaching.  

Walking along a path to the school building, a smiling officer approached.  “Are you the new teacher?”

“I am,” I replied, returning his smile.

“Glad to have ya here, teach, or should I say Bruiser?”

He laughed as I groaned. 

A group of inmates overheard our conversation, and one of the ladies asked, “Why do you call her Bruiser?”

Laughing, he told the woman, “You don’t want to mess with her.  She knocked out a kid half her age…”

I sighed. Well, if nothing else, my teaching career was clearly not going to be dull. I had walked into the women’s prison as an uncertain, newly minted teacher, hoping simply to survive the job. Instead, I walked in as “Bruiser,” apparently capable of knocking out a man half my age before even taking attendance. Not exactly the reputation they cover in teacher prep courses. As I unlocked my classroom door that first day, I had to laugh because somewhere between student loans, a dying truck, and a wing-and-a-prayer attitude, I had managed to become the most unintentionally intimidating grammie in the building. And just like that, I knew one thing for certain: this was going to be one unforgettable ride.

1999

denim Coat

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment
Daily writing prompt
What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?
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Well, the oldest thing I will be wearing today is a denim coat that I have owned since the 80s! I love this jacket. It is long and drapes to almost my knees. It has beautiful jeweled tone trim, and after 40+ years, it still looks amazing! Today is Mother’s Day, and I am having brunch with my daughter and her mom-in-law. Since the weather is chilly, I will be wearing my jacket once again.