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.
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.
As an inspiring writer, I find great joy in discovering wisdom from published authors. My latest read, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, has been a truly sensational experience. I love how she intertwines her life experiences with insights about writing. Her sense of humor and creative teaching style have given me the freedom to let go of perfectionism.
Having grown up in a household that often demanded 110 percent, it’s been challenging to write without the looming pressure of getting everything “just right”—a mindset that often kills inspiration. Thanks to Lamott’s guidance, I’ve learned to simply type to the end, no matter how imperfect the words may be. Later, I return to my work, carefully revising and perfecting those phrases that once frustrated me. This shift in my approach has been transformative.
Years ago, a college professor recommended Bird by Bird, but I’m only now getting around to reading it. It’s been lighthearted, encouraging, and deeply impactful. One of Lamott’s quotes resonates with me: “Don’t look at your feet to see if you are doing it right. Just dance.”
I’m finally learning to dance without looking at my feet—a liberating and joyful experience.
From an early age, reading and writing were essential to me. My mom taught me to read when I was four because I loved books. Writing quickly became just as natural. I kept journals, wrote poetry, and found joy in crafting words. But the real magic began when I started college. Professors encouraged my writing, I earned scholarships, and poems and articles were published. That period marked a turning point in my life.
After college, however, life took unexpected turns, and my writing was set aside. It wasn’t until one summer, when an old back injury forced me onto bed rest for weeks, that I rediscovered my passion. With only so much Netflix to watch, I turned to researching my family tree. I uncovered fascinating stories about my ancestors and decided to put it all into writing.
Shortly after, I started a family blog. I wanted a safe place to preserve my stories and memories—and honestly, I knew it would be the best way to keep my writing organized (something I’m not always great at). Since my daughter was homeschooling, I often wove the stories of our ancestors into her lessons. It was exciting to add our ancestors to her history lessons.
Over time, my blog grew beyond what I’d ever imagined. I found myself enjoying writing again. I joined writing challenges and began experimenting with poetry, flash fiction, and short stories. Today, I have over 1,500 subscribers.
Last year, my daughter gifted me a subscription to Storyworth, prompting me to share even more family history and personal stories. Soon, I’ll have a family book filled with these memories—an experience that gave me the push I needed to keep writing.
Alongside blogging, I began working on a novel, though progress has been slow. Frustration crept in, and I found myself hitting pause. During this time of reflection, I decided to pursue another master’s degree. This summer, at the age of sixty-three, this grandmother will return to school to earn a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. It’s a dream I’ve had for years.
Last year, a new language arts teacher joined our school, and we quickly became friends. She shared her excitement about her MFA program in creative writing, and her passion was contagious. Inspired by her enthusiasm, I decided to take the leap and finally pursue my long-held dream.
So, this summer, I will follow my heart’s desire once again and return to the classroom—not just as a teacher, but as a student of creative writing.
A southern glance to a blue silhouette Delivers a heartfelt message: Return home to the Ponderosa pines, to scents of vanilla. Settle into the mountain valley, Hike the winding trails, Sit a spell, Breathe in the earth’s aromas, Listen to the mountain’s music— Wind rustling through pine boughs, Birdsong fills the air. Watch shadows dance as the sun peeks through, And wait for the forest folk to appear.
Deer grazing in a mountain meadow, Chipmunks darting about, And then, she emerges— Walking with her cubs. She hesitates, sensing your presence, Time slows, eyes meet, Hearts race. She takes a step, Then pauses, Calling softly to her family.
Climbing to a southern exposure, She rests while her cubs play, Content, she purrs. Time slips by, Unnoticed.
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.
If I could build the perfect space for reading and writing, I would design a room with large windows that let in soft, filtered light from the nearby pines. The trees would sway gently outside, casting a peaceful, natural glow throughout the space. On one wall, a fire blazes in the hearth, providing warmth and an inviting ambiance. In the corner, a plush, overstuffed recliner would beckon, its cushions soft and cozy. I’d settle into it, pulling a warm comforter over my legs, ready to start the day. Balancing my laptop on my knees, the soothing crackle of the fire would be my backdrop as I begin my writing, the words flowing as the world outside quietly fades away.
Next to the chair, a small side table would hold my morning coffee, the rich aroma of the brew sparking creativity. It would sit within arm’s reach, a comforting ritual to help me ease into the day’s work. With the fire’s warmth, the calming view, and my trusty coffee by my side, I’d be perfectly equipped for whatever thoughts or stories might emerge, ready to write the day away.
The last thing I did for fun was have an evening out with the girls. I’m lucky to be part of an amazing friend group from work. This crew is hilarious, kind-hearted, and always generous with their time. They make even the busiest days at work feel memorable and full of laughter.
Tonight is our Christmas party, and I can’t wait! I know we’ll have an incredible time together. This little group feels like family, and I truly consider myself blessed to be surrounded by such wonderful people.
Any time I can spend in the mountains, I’m filled with joy. One of my favorite spots is a charming hamlet I love visiting year-round. It’s a hidden gem with plenty of outdoor areas perfect for walking my Muttley Crew and for capturing nature in all its glory through my lens. The Beulah Valley, tucked away in Colorado, is especially magical—its four seasons put on an ever-changing, spectacular show.
Wildlife thrives here—mule deer graze peacefully, foxes dart through the underbrush, squirrels chase each other through the trees, and birds flit through the air. Though visitors might not always catch a glimpse, there are often other critters nearby: bears, mountain lions, raccoons, and more. The land is alive, even when it feels quiet.
The fresh mountain air, mixed with the earthy scent of ponderosa pine, creates a sense of calm and serenity. The soft sunlight filtering through the branches feels almost therapeutic. It’s a reminder of how important it is to step away from the busy pace of life and find a quiet place to rest, relax, and recharge. The mountains have a way of helping you reconnect with yourself, and I can’t imagine anything more rejuvenating than that.
As a teen, I enjoyed secluded evenings in my bedroom when I could escape daily activities and noisy little brothers and find quiet moments to reflect and create. On those nights, I shied away from the opulent crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of my room and opted for the small lamp on my nightstand, a gift from my mother, enjoying its warmth and soft glow. I wrote poetry and music or shared secrets with my journal in the stillness. I enjoyed sitting on the floor near the large bay window. I pulled a soft comforter from the daybed along one wall and grabbed a pillow from my bed. As I settled into the corner of my room, I listened to the evening sounds of the island; as it settled into quietness, it comforted me. The Pacific thoroughfare, one street behind my own, slowed to a restful hum and often soothed, reminding me of a hushed lullaby. From a distance, the Mormon castle from the Oakland Hills softly lit the darkened skies, another nightly comfort as I rested my hands on the window sill and peered into the night. And on more than one occasion, gentle salty breezes stroked my hair until I fell asleep wrapped in my favorite throw.
Calibas. Oakland Mormon Temple. 28 Nov. 2007. 4770 Lincoln Ave, Oakland, CA 94602.
“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…
Tales of a Family 