The distant ringing of the phone brought her out of her slumber. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and slowly sat up in her bed. Yawning, she looked at the bedside clock. It was almost time to get up anyway. She reached over, picked up the alarm clock, and switched it off. It was probably someone calling for the donut shop again. The two phone numbers were so annoyingly similar, and she received calls from the shop more times than she could count. She made her way to the kitchen to start her coffee. Just as the coffee began to perk, the phone rang again. She grabbed her notepad and pen. She said hello, and the guy on the other end asked, “Is this the donut shop Continue reading “Number, Please”→
I have a strange fascination for cemeteries and tombstones. I know. I know. It’s sounds morbid, but as a history buff and an amateur genealogist, it’s not as bizarre as it sounds. If you look closely, each stone tells a story. Recently, I’ve been checking out some funny, strange, and unusual headstones, and I wanted to take a peek at some of my ancestors’ grave sites to see what I could “dig up.” Continue reading “Family Tombstones”→
As a child, I was blessed to have my maternal grandparents live on the same little island in California. Their sweet presence made a positive impact on my life, and I enjoyed spending time with them, especially when I could spend the night.
Early mornings I would wake up and hear my grandparents talking while preparing breakfast. The front door was usually open, and the sounds of birds chirping could often be heard along with the clinking of cups as spoons stirred the mixture of milk and sugar into their morning coffee.
Although they always had all the fixins, I usually only had coffee and toast. When I was younger, I wasn’t big on breakfast. We would visit as we ate, and afterward, I would gather the plates, take them to the pantry and wash the dishes. Grandma’s cottage kitchen had the sink tucked into the pantry. Grandma would clean the kitchen while I did the dishes. Grandpa would leave the cottage, walk down the long driveway, past the larger Victorian home that sat on the front of the property and sit on the rock ledge in the front yard, smoke a cigarette and watch the cars drive along the road.
Sometimes I would help grandma with her garden. On one side of her home, she grew rhubarb. In front on either side of her front porch, strawberries, Johnny Jump Ups, and pansies filled her pint-sized yard. We would visit and share stories, while I pulled weeds. She would often share family stories, and from her, I discovered my love for storytelling. Like her, I wanted my grandchildren to know where their stories began.
My enthusiasm for gardening also came from her. Although I did not have her gardening skills, I have tried my hand at landscaping. My desert garden has witnessed better days. After a gopher invasion, it has forlornly resembled something out of a barren western, and I often have battled tumbleweeds as I try to wrangle my yard back into looking respectful once again. From now on, rock gardens and flower pots filled with pansies and Johnny Jump Ups will only be viewed from my plot of land! No more free meals for rodent freeloaders!
When I chatted with my grandpa, we always talked about horses and life on the ranch. I loved the adventurous romance of it all. We shared that common bond, the desire to live in the country, and a love for horses. I often pleaded with my parents to return to Colorado, but my mama used to tell me that ranch life was tough, and a lot of hard work. She would often smile at my childish pleas and recite the following poem:
I’m not an Eastern beauty.
I’m not a Southern rose.
I’m just a little cowgirl
With freckles on my nose.
Eventually, I made my way back home to Colorado. Today, this cowgirl has happily resided in her favorite Rocky Mountain state. On my own little patch of land, I still live alongside freeloading gophers, but now I have two pups that have chased them from at least the backyard. Still, we share stunning mountain views and spectacular sunsets, and at night the distant city lights and endless stars fill the skies with a magical sparkle. And at the end of the day, it doesn’t get much sweeter than that!
At the age of four, my family moved to Alameda, California. This little island tucked away in the San Francisco Bay showcased many Victorian homes. These beauties included everything from quaint cottages to astounding mansions and varying sizes in between. While living on the island, children that lived in these houses, often told wild tales about secret rooms or spoke of hidden treasure. My brothers and I would often search for hidden rooms and fortune too. When I was five or six, I did find a prize, an antique teapot from Holland. Continue reading “My Island Home”→
I slipped downstairs with a small shovel and started digging under the stairwell.
When I was a child, my childhood home was a three-story Victorian beauty nestled on an island in the San Francisco Bay. It was the perfect place for a child with an active imagination. The first level of the home housed two garages, a bar, a laundry room, a pottery room, and an extra room that we used as a playroom. Continue reading “Buried Treasure”→
When I was thirteen, I had my first real crush. His name was—well, let’s spare us both the embarrassment and call him Ben. Ben Williams. I first met him when I was about eleven or twelve, and I have to admit, it wasn’t love at first sight. We were just friends back then. I was a Girl Scout, and he was a Boy Scout, and our troops often went on joint camping and backpacking trips.
My dad, who was a Boy Scout leader for a Webelos group, got involved with Ben’s troop. Their Scout leader, Mr. Lewis, would sometimes invite my dad’s group to participate in activities with the older scouts. One weekend, my dad’s Webelos and Mr. Lewis’ troop planned a joint camping trip, and my dad insisted I tag along.
We camped at Lake Chabot in Castro Valley, California. The area was stunning—rolling hills, shimmering water, and the perfect backdrop for an adventure. Some of the older scouts had even built homemade kayaks and paddled along the lake to the campsite. The rest of us, including my dad, his Webelos, and me, hiked in with our gear.
When we finally arrived, the boys on the kayaks were already there, lounging and ready to jump into the lake. As soon as we arrived, my dad gave clear instructions: set up camp first, then swim. Everyone got to work, scouting out spots for their bedrolls and supplies. I was busy setting up my area when Ben and one of his friends sauntered over.
“Since you’re the only girl, you should set up our stuff,” Ben declared with a grin, dropping their sleeping bags and packs at my feet before heading off to the lake with his friend, laughing.
I smiled sweetly. “Sure,” I replied, my tone dripping with mock innocence.
My dad raised an eyebrow but said nothing, busy helping the younger scouts get settled. Little did Ben know, I had a plan. Earlier, while scouting for a camping spot, we’d come across a giant anthill. Perfect.
I carefully began “my womanly duties” and set up their sleeping area right on top of it. First, I laid down the tarp, concealing the anthill completely. Then I unrolled their sleeping bags on top and propped their packs against a nearby pine tree. Their setup looked so cozy, that no one would suspect a thing—except my dad, of course. He knew me too well to believe I’d simply obey their demands without a little twist.
After we’d all cooled off in the lake, the peace was broken by my dad’s booming voice. “Ann Marie!” he roared, his tone half-scolding, half-amused.
I rushed over, stifling my laughter, only to find Ben and his friend frantically trying to shake the legions of ants out of their sleeping bags and packs. Mr. Lewis and the other scouts were doubled over laughing as the two boys struggled with their unexpected roommates. The two Nentherthals began the daunting task of removing the legion of ants that had found their way into the bedrolls and packs left next to the tree.
My dad gave me a look that said, I knew it, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. He told me to help the boys clean up the mess, but they wanted no part of my “help.” Even Mr. Lewis chimed in, “They had it coming.”
The boys spent what felt like hours trying to evict every last ant from their gear, but they didn’t get them all. That night, their shouts and curses echoed through the campsite every time an ant found a soft spot to nibble. My dad and I tried to keep our laughter quiet, but I couldn’t help giggling every time I heard a yelp.
Somewhere along the way, Ben and I started to grow sweet on each other. It was the summer before my freshman year of high school, right before I turned fourteen. Ben would come over to see me, and we’d ride our bikes around the island, hang out at the beach, or just sit on my front stoop talking for hours. It was easy, carefree—until the day it wasn’t.
One afternoon, Ben showed up with his best friend, and we joined the boys from my neighborhood, who were hanging out in my yard. We were laughing and chatting when, out of nowhere, Ben leaned against my dad’s car, pulled me close, and kissed me.
The laughter and teasing from the other boys started instantly. I froze, my cheeks burning. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t do something. So, I did the only thing I could think of: I punched Ben square in the jaw.
It wasn’t a hard punch—just enough to save my reputation. Ben laughed, rubbing his jaw. “I’ll see you later,” he said before hopping on his bike and riding off with his friend.
And just like that, my summer romance ended as quickly as it had begun. In that moment, I realized something: being a girl wasn’t going to be easy, especially when it came to the unpredictable and puzzling antics of boys.
After the death of her parents, my 9x great-grandmother left her French homeland behind and traveled across rough waters to make a new life in Canada. While researching this adventurous grandmother, I often wondered if she had any inkling about her new life. Although this woman knew that she was to marry once she reached her destination, did she worry about her future mate? Did she wonder about the life they would share? Did she fear the unknown frontier? Continue reading “Jeanne Fressel: A King’s Daughter in New France”→
One of my favorite old-time photos shows my great, great grandfather, William Strassburg, crossing a river on a wagon with a pair of horses. No name or date appears on the back. However, I know my grandfather lived in Gunnison, Colorado for many years, and the scenery does resemble the Western Slope of Colorado. The boys in the wagon are a mystery, and no one in the family knew who the children were. Continue reading “Crossing the River”→
In the summer of 1956, in the quiet farming town of Delta, Colorado, a young woman named Dotty Allen stood at the bus stop, her heart heavy with emotion. She blinked back tears, reluctant to leave the warmth of her parents’ embrace and return to her life in California. Her vacation had ended too soon, and she longed for just a little more time at home.
A small crowd gathered at the station, waiting for the bus that would carry them westward. Dotty’s parents stood close, offering reassuring smiles, though they, too, felt the weight of the impending farewell. She braced herself for the long journey back to Oakland, where she worked as a telephone operator, connecting voices across the miles while feeling increasingly disconnected from the family she loved.
As the bus rumbled up to the curb, hissing to a stop, her mother nudged her gently and pointed. A group of young soldiers in crisp dress greens lined up to board, their pressed uniforms and polished boots a stark contrast to the dusty station platform.
“Oh, I would sit by that one,” her mother said, nodding toward a tall soldier with dark hair and warm brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled.
Dotty wrinkled her nose, shaking her head. “Umm… no, not that one. I think I’ll sit by that one,” she replied, motioning toward another young man standing nearby.
Her father chuckled, exchanging a knowing glance with his wife. “Your mother’s right. I believe you should sit by that fella.”
Passengers began to shuffle forward, handing their tickets to the driver. Dotty lingered, reluctant to take that final step onto the bus. She clung to these last moments with her parents, memorizing the way her mother’s eyes crinkled when she smiled, the scent of her father’s worn flannel shirt as he hugged her one last time.
With a deep breath, she turned and climbed aboard.
The door shut behind her with a finality that made her throat tighten. As the bus lurched forward, she quickly scanned the aisle for an empty seat, her vision blurred by unshed tears. She barely noticed when a soldier stood and reached for her suitcase, lifting it effortlessly into the overhead bin.
“You can have the window seat,” he offered, his voice warm and gentle.
Still dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, Dotty slid into the seat he had offered. It wasn’t until she glanced up that she realized—with a mixture of amusement and surprise—that she had unknowingly taken the very seat her mother had suggested. The handsome soldier with the kind eyes smiled at her, seemingly unaware of the small twist of fate that had placed them side by side.
Her father smiled from the platform. Her mother chuckled. Dotty had unwittingly chosen the man they had both nudged her toward.
As the bus pulled away, Dotty gave a final wave, clutching the soldier’s handkerchief in her hands. At first, she remained quiet, lost in thought. But the soldier was patient, making gentle attempts at conversation. Eventually, she responded, and they began to talk. His name was Harold Reeder, and he was also heading to California, returning to his military base.
By the time they arrived, something unspoken had passed between them—a spark, a connection. In the weeks and months that followed, letters crossed between them, their friendship deepening with every exchange.
A year later, Harold found the courage to propose. He didn’t have money for a traditional ring, but that didn’t stop him. Instead, he presented Dotty with something even more meaningful: a simple copper charm, once a penny, flattened and smoothed into an oval. Stamped onto its surface was the Lord’s Prayer—a testament to his love, resourcefulness, and devotion.
He gave it to her before he was stationed in Anchorage, Alaska.
While Harold was away, Dotty continued working at the telephone company, her fingers deftly connecting calls while her heart remained tethered to the young soldier miles away. She wore the copper charm close, a tangible reminder of the promise he had made.
Four years after their meeting, on May 27, 1960, Dotty and Harold were married in Alameda, California. True to his word, Harold later bought her a beautiful engagement ring and a matching diamond band. But no matter how lovely the rings were, nothing could replace the sentimental value of that small copper charm.
Their life together took them to various places—first Alameda, then Fort Lewis in Seattle, Washington, Colorado, and then back to Alameda. They built a home filled with laughter, love, and the stories that would one day be passed down to their children.
Among the many treasured keepsakes in our family, two stand out: the copper charm and Harold’s dog tags. Time has darkened the metal, but the significance remains untarnished. These small tokens, once a promise between two young hearts, are now heirlooms—a testament to a love story that began with a simple bus ride and a mother’s gentle nudge.
The photos captures a moment in time: my parents, Dotty Allen Reeder and Harold Reeder, standing with me on Roger’s Mesa at my grandparents’ ranch. Two months after I was born, we moved to Hotchkiss, Colorado, when my dad was stationed at Fort Carson.
And still, among my most cherished treasures, are that copper charm and those dog tags—symbols of the love that brought our family into being.
Earlier this week, I read a blog from a cherished fellow blogger, Jeanne Bryan Insalaco. On her site, Everyone Has a Story, she included a year end review of her writing experiences for 2017. She included the information from another genealogist that invited readers to write about their discoveries. Once I read the two blogs, I wanted to share my adventures too. I have provided the original link from Jill Ball.
“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children: One is roots, the other is wings.” Teaching children values and giving them the opportunity to excel is essential to good parenting. However, I feel I must also provide my children (and myself) insight into the ones who came before us: our ancestors whose lives and stories have shaped us into who we are. This is my journey; these are their stories…
Sometimes I would help grandma with her garden. On one side of her home, she grew rhubarb. In front on either side of her front porch, strawberries, Johnny Jump Ups, and pansies filled her pint-sized yard. We would visit and share stories, while I pulled weeds. She would often share family stories, and from her, I discovered my love for storytelling. Like her, I wanted my grandchildren to know where their stories began.
When I chatted with my grandpa, we always talked about horses and life on the ranch. I loved the adventurous romance of it all. We shared that common bond, the desire to live in the country, and a love for horses. I often pleaded with my parents to return to Colorado, but my mama used to tell me that ranch life was tough, and a lot of hard work. She would often smile at my childish pleas and recite the following poem:
Tales of a Family 