Some teachers remain in our memories because of what they taught us. Others remain because of how they made us feel. Linda Stansbury, my high school business teacher, gave me both. gave me both.
Mrs. Stansbury had a sweet disposition and a gentle way of making each student feel as though we mattered. She was kind, caring, and always willing to help. Even on busy days, she never made us feel like an interruption. She listened and encouraged us. Most importantly, she saw possibilities in us that we might not have recognized in ourselves.
Her classroom was more than a place to learn business skills. She was preparing us for the world that waited beyond the school doors. She made us believe we belonged in that world and had something valuable to contribute.
Mrs. Stansbury didn’t merely tell me that I had potential; she acted on it. She helped me get a job at State Farm Insurance when I was still in high school. That opportunity meant a great deal to me as a young woman who was just beginning to imagine what my future might hold.
Walking into a professional interview can be intimidating when you are young and unsure of yourself. However, knowing that Mrs. Stansbury believed I was capable gave me courage. If she thought I was ready to walk through those, maybe I should believe too. That was one of her gifts; she made us feel a little more confident, a little more capable, and a little more prepared to meet the world.
Because she gave us so much, another student, Chris, and I decided to surprise her with a baby gift once we discovered she was expecting. We decided to organize a secret gift, but we had to keep everything a secret.
Quietly, we began asking other students to donate whatever they could. A little here, a little there quickly added up to the perfect amount. Whispered conversations and excited giggles before class soon gave way to the day we brought in our gift. We took our money and bought her a cute yellow-and-white high chair with baby animals on the cover.
I can’t remember every detail of the day we gave her the gift. But I know she was surprised and touched as she wiped away tears. Our gift touched her. It was more than a baby chair; it was our way of letting her know she was loved. She had a way of making us each feel special, and for one moment, we got to make her feel special in return.
Looking back, I realize Mrs. Stansbury had a rare gift as a teacher. She did not need grand gestures to influence her students. Her influence showed up in the quiet things: the way she encouraged, listened, and opened doors.
Now that I am a teacher, I understand her impact even more. Students eventually forget many assignments and the lessons we teach. They may not remember every direction, deadline, or grade, yet they often remember the teacher that noticed them, believed in them, and saw a future they had not yet imagined. Mrs. Stansbury was that teacher for me.
She taught me about business and helped me take my first steps into the business world. But the most important lesson she gave me had nothing to do with business. She showed me what it meant to have a generous heart, and how one caring teacher can make every student feel extraordinary.
Years have passed, but her kindness still lives on in the teacher I strive to be.
Max is the adventurous explorer. He wants to be on his leash, investigating everything and greeting everyone. He is also the mighty hunter of the family; he sometimes brings home very unwanted “treasures.”
Mitzi is the affectionate little diva. She is content riding quietly in a purse, loves cuddles, showers everyone with kisses, and throws a dramatic temper tantrum if her share of chicken arrives late.
Together, they are the Muttley Crew. They are 11-year-old cuddlebugs and troublemakers who dislike being separated, love mountain adventures, enjoy sleeping with Mom or beside the sunny patio door, and know exactly when the car is approaching Dairy Queen because pup cups are expected!
There are so many beautiful places I still dream of exploring. My travel wish list stretches from the castles and green countryside of Scotland and Ireland to the charming streets of Quebec, France, Seattle, and Savannah. I would love to experience Montana’s wide-open landscapes, Yosemite’s majestic mountains, Oregon’s rugged coastline, and the brilliant colors of New England in the fall. Each destination offers something different, but all promise beauty, history, adventure, and stories waiting to be discovered.
There is something special about the first day of school. Maybe you remember the outfit you wore, the backpack you carried, the lunchbox in your hand, or the person who walked beside you to the classroom door. Maybe you remember a favorite teacher whose kindness helped calm your nerves, or the feeling of stepping into something new with excitement, fear, or hope. This week, I invite you to write about your first school memory, a favorite teacher, or the feeling of beginning again. Please share your story through the link, and I would be honored to feature it on my blog as part of our growing collection of family memories and life stories.
My first day of kindergarten at Paden Elementary School in Alameda began beside the kitchen sink. My mother stood behind me, reaching into the cabinet for the hairspray she used to tame my wild locks. Back then, girls wore dresses to school; it was the rule, and my mother always made certain I had plenty of pretty ones to choose from before I dressed for the day. Deciding which one to wear was serious business.
Looking back, I realize Mama put so much thought and effort into those mornings. At five, however, I only noticed the dress, the cloud of hairspray, and the excitement building inside me. I was finally going to school.
I had been waiting for this day. I already loved learning, and my mom had taught me to read when I was four. By the time I entered kindergarten, I knew the alphabet, could write my name, and could even put together a few basic sentences. To me, school was never something to fear; it was a doorway to a whole new world, and I could hardly wait to discover what was on the other side.
The walk down Lincoln Avenue was only five blocks, but that morning felt like the beginning of a new journey. My heart beat a little faster with every step as I wondered what school would be like. Would I make new friends? Would my teacher be kind?
Victorian homes, cozy cottages, and bungalows lined the streets beneath an unusual mixture of tall pines and graceful palm trees. The morning air was crisp, and a cool breeze drifted in from the bay and swept through the streets of Alameda. Other children appeared along the way, some walking beside their mothers while others hurried along with their friends. The older students seemed to know exactly where they were going and excitedly talked about their first day of school. I held tightly to my mother’s hand, eager to discover what waited for me at the end of those five very important blocks.
As we reached Central Avenue, we joined the families gathered at the crosswalk and waited for the crossing lady to stop the heavy traffic. Once she signaled that it was safe, mothers and children hurried across together.
As we approached the kindergarten yard, we began to notice one another. Small, timid smiles passed between the children who were still strangers, each of us wondering whether one of those unfamiliar faces might soon become a friend. Our mothers guided us toward the waiting classroom, and suddenly, my first day of school was no longer something I was imagining. It had begun.
Waiting near the kindergarten door was Mrs. Quail, a kind, older woman whose gentle manner reminded me of everyone’s favorite grandmother. She greeted each child as if she had been waiting all morning just for us. Her tender presence quieted even the most nervous parents.
As I slowly released my mother’s hand, she leaned close and assured me she would return that afternoon.
But not everyone was convinced. One shy boy clung to his mother’s leg and refused to let go. While his mother tried to calm him, Mrs. Quail ushered the rest of us into the classroom. Eventually, the boy joined us, although he did so reluctantly.
I remember watching him with all of my five-year-old understanding and thinking that he was acting like a baby. I was not especially sympathetic. Looking back, however, I understand that we stood at the same classroom door and viewed two very different things. I saw the beginning of a new chapter, and he saw his mother walking away.
Once inside, we found our places at long, low tables made especially for small children. A cheerful name tag marked each seat, but to my surprise, there were two names at my seat. When I asked Mrs. Quail about it, she explained that another kindergarten class would arrive in the afternoon, and a different child would sit there. Until that moment, I had not realized that my little corner of the classroom belonged to someone else when I went home.
Mrs. Quail’s quiet strength made the room feel welcoming and safe. Colorful posters brightened the walls, including an alphabet chart showing us how to form every capital and lowercase letter. On the blackboard, she had carefully printed her name and the date in perfect teacher handwriting. The room carried the unmistakable scent of chalk dust, sticky paste from amber-colored bottles, and the sharp bite of disinfectant.
Through the classroom windows we could see the bay and the ships moving across the water. Closer to us was the playground where the older children played. A long chain-link fence divided it into upper and lower levels. From where I stood, those children seemed almost grown as they played tetherball and four square and ran around the yard with their friends.
Once we settled into our new classroom, Mrs. Quail sat at her piano, and she taught us our first song. I wish I could remember the words or the melody, but that particular song has slipped away with time. What remains is the memory of Mrsl Quail at the piano while we sat cross-legged on the floor, lifting our small voices together. It was the first of many songs she taught us that year.
After playing games, we spilled outside for recess and began the important work of learning one another’s names. Some children chased large rubber orange balls around the yard, while others played hopscotch. We drew our outline with borrowed chalk from our teacher and then took turns hopping through the numbered squares. It was one of my favorite childhood games.
When recess ended, we returned to our classroom for our daily snack of graham crackers and milk. Then came nap time, the one part of the morning that most of us would rather have skipped. Mrs. Quail closed the blinds, turned off the lights, and instructed us to choose a mat from the low shelves of a closet. We spread them across the floor and were expected to rest quietly. But how could anyone be expected to rest quietly on the first day of school? In the darkened room, we squirmed on our mats, whispered to new friends, and tried unsuccessfully to hold back our giggles.
The morning slipped away too quickly. Before I knew it, our mothers were gathering outside the classroom door. Mrs. Quail propped it open and dismissed us one table at a time, calling each child by name and telling us how much she looked forward to seeing us the next day.
I had loved every moment of my first day of school, and I was not quite ready for the day to end. As I slipped my hand into my mother’s, I glanced back one last time. Mrs. Quail stood framed in the doorway, smiling and waving as my mother and I started to walk home. I could not have known it then, but the warmth of her welcome would remain with me long after kindergarten ended. Years later, when I stood in the doorway of my own classroom, greeting nervous students on their first day, perhaps a little of Mrs. Quail stood there with me. The walk to Paden Elementary had been only five blocks, but it carried me farther than I could have imagined.
August always brings with it the feeling of new beginnings with fresh notebooks, sharpened pencils, school bells, nervous first days, and memories of the people who helped shape us along the way. This month’s writing prompts invite you to look back on your school days, the teachers and friends who left a mark on your heart, and the lessons that helped you grow. Whether your memories are sweet, funny, difficult, or bittersweet, they are part of your story. Please share your stories and link them here so I can help preserve and celebrate the memories that made us who we are.
Childhood magic first took root for me when my family brought my brothers and me to Crab Cove in my hometown of Alameda, California. This small beach rested along a quiet inlet, with the San Francisco skyline rising across the bay like a distant world waiting to be explored. Gentle breezes moved across the water, carrying the cries of seagulls and the unmistakable scent of salt and seaweed. The salty air seemed to linger everywhere in Alameda, becoming as familiar to me as the streets, homes, and shoreline of my island.
My first memories of this place date back to before I attended school. My feet sank in the wet sand and cold waters of the San Francisco Bay. Small minnows quickly darted in the salty waters, tiny crabs rushed sideways along the shore, and sailboats skimmed across the sea. Laughter filled the air as my family and I chased the retreating waves, then quickly scampered back when the tide rushed towards us. Most of the time, my dad would hold my hand and race with me, and our eyes would meet, and we would smile. Sometimes he would lift me in his arms, swing me around, and then gently set me on the sand. His laughter and love made me feel safe and loved, even as the waves rushed toward our feet.
My mom and little brothers sat on the beach on the warm, dry sand. The older boys, Tommy and David, dug with their buckets and scoops, building roads, lopsided castles, and deep holes that became a part of their imaginary world. Mom held baby Keith securly in her lap as he wriggled and reached for handfuls of sand. The sunlight rested softly on her face, and she glowed with quiet contentment as she watched her family enjoy the warm afternoon.
The first time I witnessed a stingray, I was in awe of its beauty. After accidentally stepping on the patch of sand where the ray had nestled, I watched in fascination as it wiggled free from its hiding spot and began gliding in the water. The slow movement of its fins and graceful glide made it appear as though it were flying, and I wanted to swim with this enchanting creature.
Across the bay, the San Francisco skyline stood proudly. The skyline always caught my eye, and to this day, whenever I see it, I am reminded of home and all my favorite memories. This scene has continually represented beauty, adventure, comfort, and an exciting world waiting beyond the familiar shore.
When I started school at Paden Elementary, our playground ended at the rocky island shore, and the skyline was visible from the yard and certain classroom windows, not ideal for a child who preferred watching the bay to watching the chalkboard. Too many times, I would daydream about sailboats gliding across the water, or wonder where the seals were resting whenever I heard their distant barking through the open windows.
After my father started working to help maintain the Bay Bridge, I would often glance toward the skyline. It gave me peace and a sense of pride to know my father was not too far away and that he was helping care for such an important landmark. He would repaint the bridge, from one end to the other, always trying to keep the rust at bay. Often, I would watch the fog roll in, wrapping the bridge in a dreamy, cloud-like blanket of soft white and gray. During those times, I wondered what my father’s view was like as he worked on foggy days. I wondered if he loved those days as much as I did.
This view followed me through my childhood years. Often, I could see it while playing with childhood friends, as we wrote messages in the sand along the shore. The skyline kept our secrets when we wrote the names of childhood crushes or shared our deepest thoughts under the lifeguard towers, hiding from the rain and stormy skies.
As I grew older, the skyline changed from a familiar backdrop into an invitation. By the time I reached high school, the view often called to me. I lost track of how many times I would skip school, alone, to find adventure waiting for me in the city. It may not have been the wisest decision, but the city awakened my independence and my curiosity. No one would dare go with me, so I went by myself. I would catch a bus to the Oakland BART station, and then ride the train to San Francisco. I loved the roar of the train as it sped through the underwater tunnels. Once I arrived, the city seemed to open before me, and I chose whatever familiar destination called to me that day.
I would travel to Golden Gate Park and visit the art museum or the Japanese Tea Gardens. I never grew tired of the art, and even then I was drawn to the Impressionists, though I did not know the artists’ names. In the garden, I loved the smell of the flowers and trees, the gracefully arched bridges that reflected and rippled in the pond, and the tiny birds chirping throughout the park.
Other times I wandered to Chinatown or the Cost Plus Imports near Fisherman’s Wharf. I loved riding the cable cars and listening to the bells ring, signaling their arrival to others. I loved eating the Chinese food, which was a new experience for me as a teenager; I still remember my first meal was Chow Mein, and I loved the crunchy noodles and the stir-fried vegetables.
I lost count of how many days I spent at Fisherman’s Wharf and Pier 39. The street vendors amused crowds with artwork and street shows. I spent hours looking through photographs and watercolor paintings of all the San Francisco sights, from curvy Lombard Street on Russian Hill to the seals resting on the piers near the wharf. The area buzzed with energy as visitors excitedly talked about their day. At the pier, I loved the feel of the wind tousling my hair and the sound of the seals barking at one another. Across from the pier, Alcatraz came into view, and I enjoyed watching the island, recalling childhood tours with my family and school field trips. Those adventures filled me with a thrilling sense of courage and daring. The skyline stirred my imagination, filling my mind with dreams of distant places, new adventures, and all the possibilities waiting beyond the bay.
The skyline represented so many memories as I grew up on my island home. During my early years, it reminded me of my home and my family when we walked along the winding shores or built castles in the sand. During elementary school, it often distracted me from my lessons as I watched the bay and wondered about life outside of my classroom. Once I arrived at high school, the skyline nudged me towards dreams and adventures in the city by the bay, and I often found myself wandering into the streets of San Francisco when I should have been sitting in an afternoon class.
After moving to Colorado, I returned to my island home several times, and each visit found me searching the distance for that familiar view. On quiet mornings, the San Francisco skyline drifted in and out of the mist as fog horns sounded across the bay. In the early evening, when the sun began its slow descent, golden sunlight shimmered across the water and traced the distant buildings, making the entire skyline softly glow. Each glimpse carried me back to childhood and reminded me that no matter how far I traveled, part of my heart would always remain along that Alameda shoreline.
And now, my heart and mind often wander back to those days when the skyline seemed to whisper that dreams and adventures were waiting just across the bay. Although I love my mountain state and all the beauty it offers, I sometimes long to spend one more day strolling along the shoreline near Crab Cove, feeling the cool breeze rustle through my hair and hearing the waves brush against the sand. Those childhood days were magical, and every visit to the beach felt like a gift. Even now, the sight of the skyline beneath a bright blue sky or softened by a morning fog can awaken a homesickness within me. In these moments, I remember the warmth of my father’s hand wrapped securely around mine as we raced the waves together. I remember the fog settling over the island like a soft blanket, the distant call of foghorns across the bay, and our footprints slowly disappearing beneath the returning tide.
The San Francisco skyline was far more than a childhood view; it was a constant presence woven through my memories of family, freedom, adventure, and home, an enduring part of the landscape of my heart.
This is the place I still long to return to, my grandmother’s sweet little cottage, her welcoming front porch, and the comfort of her loving hugs.
I wrote this poem many years ago, and even now, it still feels unfinished. Perhaps that is because grief never truly feels complete. The longing remains, and so does the love.
Still, these words come straight from my heart and speak of the woman I miss so very much, every single day.
As Katie and I bring this anniversary series to a close, we do so with full hearts and deep gratitude. Over the past few weeks, we reflected on why we started writing, how our blogs have grown and changed, and what this journey has taught us along the way.
For this final post, we wanted to reflect on what we treasured most after ten years of blogging: the readers who have encouraged us, the friendships formed along the way, the comments that have reminded us that our words reached someone’s heart, and the favorite memories that continued to inspire us.
This series has been a celebration of writing, friendship, family, growth, and the stories that shape who we are. Thank you for being a part of this journey.
I feel like I need to start there, before anything else.
(But I should probably also add some context.)
Here we are. This is Part Four of our collaboration, and honestly, it’s the one I’ve been least eager to write. Thinking about what I treasure most – the connections and the friendships, the growth, the creative community around me – that should be joyful and fun. And it is! It absolutely is. It is also overwhelming.
Ten years, y’all. I’ve been here plugging away at A Virginia Writer’s Diary for ten years. That’s a long time, and I feel like there’s just so much I could say. I could fill pages and pages, and I’m struggling trying to condense everything down.
(Seriously. This is currently my sixth attempt to even get started. If it sticks, I won’t delete this note, and everyone can laugh. Writing is hard sometimes, you guys.)
I thought I’d get very specific writing this. I don’t think I can. I think I need to come at this another way. So here it goes…
I remember when I started this blog. I felt hopeful and excited, but aimless. Then I remember when it came alive during 2020. I decided to be brave, and started posting poetry and short stories. The comments I got were all so nice, so encouraging, and they made me want to do better. So I kept posting, and I kept writing. I posted things I knew weren’t my best work, because to get anything out there at all felt better than to contribute nothing. I don’t strive for perfection anymore. I try to do better than I’ve done before, to take lessons away from lackluster dialogue and lines of poetry that don’t quite fit. I am part of this community, and I want to be there, to be present and to give something whenever I can.
It’s hard to mention specific readers and comments and followers, because while I certainly engage more prolifically with some blog friends than with others, I value everyone who stops by and leaves a like or a comment. And I enjoy reading your work, even on days when I don’t have the free time or the free hands to type a response of my own. I’m grateful to everyone out there who reads and writes and creates and inspires me to do the same.
We are a community. We’ve supported each other through the bad moments – 2020 and tough elections and tragedies and uncertainty – and through good moments, too – getting published, finding new jobs, starting at college, seeking help and therapy. I read your posts and feel like I’m not alone, and I want you to know you’re not alone, either. I see you. I read your work. I appreciate your art.
Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for being here and doing what you do. It’s been a journey, from 2016 until now, and I can’t wait to see where we go from here.
Closing: What Comes Next?
Well, first, I can’t truly conclude things without saying that I’ve loved every bit of this collaboration with Annie, and I hope we can do something similar again soon! Please go check out her blog, Tales of a Family. It’s wonderful and heartfelt, and I’m so glad she and I have been able to connect through this project. It just encapsulates everything I enjoy about being here on WordPress.
I love creating. I love cooking and making music. I love decorating my home and making it a space that feels full and happy. I love coloring with Lucy and building towers out of her Picasso Cubes. I love writing. I love connecting with other people. Most of the time, I love people.
It’s going to be an interesting next chapter for all of us creators, I think, as we move deeper into the age of AI. When I think of what comes next, I think of how beautiful and human and imperfect we are here, putting ourselves out there in all of our not-quite-right glory. Sharing stories that go on too long or end too soon, poems that don’t sync to the rhythm we had in our heads, artworks that don’t pop the way we wanted, essays that just can’t truly convey what we’re thinking.
We are perfect in our imperfections. That sense that what we’ve created isn’t done, that it could be better, that’s our spark of the divine. We are not stagnant, and we are never totally complete. We grow and change every day. Our creating does, too.
I don’t know quite what I want to do next here on A Virginia Writer’s Diary. I want to get back to posting more often, and to writing short stories. I miss writing short stories. I’d like to start something longer form – a novel, if you will, in parts that I post once a week or once a month. I think that would be amazing, and a really interesting challenge. I want to follow more of your blogs, and engage more with what you’re creating. I live in Virginia, but I want to make a space on my little corner of the Internet that’s bigger and more than just my world. I invite you to do it with me. We’ll have fun.
I want to grow. I want my writing to grow. I want my community to grow. I want us to create together and go to bed at night knowing that no one and no machine could ever do it quite the same way.
And I want to keep going, keep growing and keep creating, for as long as I can.
Annie’s Part Four: What Matters Most
After ten years of writing, remembering, and sharing stories, I discovered that the greatest treasures are not always the stories themselves, but the people they bring into our lives. When I first started Tales of a Family, I thought I was simply preserving memories. I wrote about my family, the past, and the people who shaped me. I gathered our stories and history before time carried them too far away. At the time, I did not understand how much this journey would grow beyond my family history.
Over the years, my blog has become more than a collection of memories; it has become a place of connection. Certainly, I treasure the readers who have taken the time to visit, read, comment, and share their own memories. Every kind word, thoughtful response, and personal reflection has meant more than I could ever possibly say. Sometimes a comment has reminded me that stories have a way of reaching hearts we may never meet in person.
Those comments have encouraged me to keep writing, even when I doubted myself. They reminded me that ordinary moments can stir something familiar in someone else. A story about a porch, a mountain road, a childhood memory, a dear pet, or a person long gone can help another person remember something precious from their own life. That has always been one of the beautiful things about storytelling. Our memories may have begun as our own, but once we shared them, they often became a bridge to someone else’s heart.
Through the years, I have treasured the friendships that have grown through this journey. Some friendships began through shared stories, kind messages, blog comments, or a mutual love for writing or family history. Others deepened because storytelling gave us a new way to connect.
This blog has helped me look at life differently. I started to view my life with more gratitude. I have begun to notice the small moments, the quiet blessings, and the people who make this life so meaningful. It has helped me understand that a treasured life cannot be built only on grand events, but on everyday love.
To every reader, friend, family member, and fellow storyteller who has been a part of this journey, thank you. Your encouragement has always been one of the greatest treasures of all.
The stories may have started with my family, but over time they have become part of something much larger: a shared place of memory, connection, friendship, and heart.
And that will be something I will always treasure.
