Tales of a Family

Before I ever understood that memory could become a place you return to, I knew my grandmother’s porch.

I can still see it now in the soft glow of recollection: the inviting porch of her little green cottage, the screen door creaking open and shut, flowerpots brimming with color, and the warm sense of welcome that seemed to rise from the house itself. Even before she appeared in the doorway, I knew what waited for me there, safety, tenderness, and the kind of love that asked for nothing except that I come in and stay a while.

My grandmother, Elva Bryant, lived in a tiny cottage that seemed to hold more comfort than houses twice its size. It sat there so modestly, wrapped in flowers and quiet, as if it understood its own purpose in the world. To others, it may have looked small and plain, but to me it was magical. It was a sanctuary of porch visits, garden chores, gentle stories, and the steady presence of a woman whose grace shaped my childhood more than I could have known at the time.

Grandma had a way of making each of us feel chosen. Her love was not loud or showy. It lived in her attentiveness, in the softness of her voice, in the way she turned toward you fully when you spoke, as though there were nowhere else in the world she needed to be. In her presence, I never felt overlooked. I felt treasured.

I loved going to see her. Sometimes I came simply because I wanted to be near her. Other times I arrived ready to help with whatever small tasks needed doing, grateful for any reason to linger. Dusting was one of my favorite chores, though it had nothing to do with a love of cleaning. What I loved were the treasures themselves; her shelves lined with figurines and keepsakes, each one carrying a story. Dusting her knickknacks was like moving slowly through a museum of memory. There were little porcelain figures, trinkets gathered over time, and objects whose value had little to do with money and everything to do with the life she had lived. Every piece invited a tale, and Grandma was always willing to tell it.

In the kitchen, a collection of ceramic chickens stood watch, cheerful and bright against the warm tones of the room. I remember how those little hens delighted me, and how they always seemed to lead Grandma back to stories of ranch life. She would laugh as she told me about bantam chickens, tiny creatures with oversized egos, strutting around the yard as if they were queens of the roost. In her telling, they came alive, full of importance and indignation. The kitchen would fill with the music of her laughter, and suddenly I could picture those birds as clearly as if they were pecking around just outside the door.

Her green Victorian-style sofa, soft with age and use, held a sheepskin draped across it, a small but telling sign of the life she had once lived and the animals she had loved. Mention lambs, and something in her face would soften. She talked about them with such tenderness, their woolly bodies, their trusting eyes, the way they bounded clumsily through the pasture.

Her love for animals reached far beyond fond remembrance. Even the cows were not simply livestock in her stories. They were companions with personalities as distinct as any person’s. Grandma especially loved telling me about her favorite cow, who seemed to know she ranked above the rest. Sometimes, just to tease her, Grandma would begin milking another cow first. But the cow would not tolerate such a breach of order. She would shove her way forward, move right in front of Grandma, and take up her rightful place, standing there in her familiar milking stance as if the matter had already been settled. There was no arguing with her. Grandma would laugh as she told it, amused by the cow’s audacity and determination. In that story, as in so many others, the animals were never just animals. They were part of the family rhythm, familiar and dear, with habits and personalities she remembered as fondly as if they were old friends.

Grandma’s kindness extended to every creature that crossed her path. When neighborhood cats had kittens, she fed them without hesitation, and before long the porch, the yard, and sometimes even the house itself filled with their quiet presence. Some stretched out in sunny patches by the steps. Others slipped boldly through the open door and made themselves comfortable inside. Grandma never scolded them. Instead, she seemed amused by their confidence. She would settle into her chair to watch her afternoon soaps or a variety show, and before long, one kitten or another would leap into her lap and curl there, purring. She would stroke its fur absently as she watched television or visited with whoever had stopped by that day, and the room would feel full of life, gentleness, and ease.

So many of my happiest memories with her happened outdoors. On warm afternoons, Grandma would sit on the porch while I weeded the strawberry patch or helped tend her garden. She loved flowers, especially pansies and Johnny Jump-Ups, those little blossoms with cheerful faces that seemed almost too bright and delicate for the ordinary world. She also loved hens-and-chicks too; those sturdy little succulents clustered in the soil like quiet miracles. As I worked in the dirt, listening to bees hum and the breeze stir the leaves, Grandma would talk.

And always, sooner or later, her stories turned toward Colorado.

Even as a child, I could hear the longing in her voice when she spoke of the place she had once called home. She missed the mesa, the mountains, the ranch, the wide open skies. Through her words, I began to love a landscape I had not yet fully known for myself. She spoke of it not only as a place, but as a part of herself, something rooted so deeply in her that distance could not erase it. I did not have the language for that kind of homesickness then, but I understood its feeling, especially now.

My favorite stories were the ones about life on Rogers Mesa. I listened with swelling pride, enchanted by the knowledge that my family had real cowboys and cowgirls among its branches, people who rode horseback, herded sheep, worked hard, and belonged to the land in a way that felt noble and enduring to me. Grandma talked about moving the sheep up to the mountains in the summer, about shearing time, about neighbors showing up to help, about the work, the weather, the meals, and the closeness of community. In her stories, the land and the family were inseparable. People helped one another because that was simply what was done. Everyone’s labor mattered. Everyone belonged.

Looking back, I understand that she was giving me much more than stories. Without announcing it, she was handing me my inheritance. Not money or land, but memory. Belonging. A sense of where I came from. She was showing me that family history is not something dry and distant. It lives in voices, in objects, in gardens, in recipes, in animals, in the way a person remembers a place long after leaving it. She was teaching me that love survives in stories.

Now more than forty years have passed since she left this world, and still I carry the warmth of her with me. Some loves do not diminish with time. They settle deeper. I can still feel the calm of her porch, still see the soft green of that cottage, still hear her voice drifting across the yard while I worked among the flowers. The years have taken her from my sight, but not from my life. She remains with me in the stories I tell, in the tenderness I recognize, in the way I understand that the smallest moments are often the most sacred.

I miss her, of course. I miss her with that quiet, steady ache reserved for those who loved us so well that their absence never stops being felt. But I like to think that one day I will sit beside her again. I can almost picture it: leaning close, listening to the sound of her voice, eager for one more story. Perhaps she will tell me about her heavenly homecoming, about all she has seen, and about the loved ones who greeted her there. And I will listen the way I always did, completely, gladly, wrapped once more in the grace of being near her.

I added to my fictional story today. My wings are clipped since my car is in the shop until tomorrow, but I enjoyed staying at home, curled up with the pups, and writing to my heart’s content.

Here’s a small portion of what I added…

Pine Creek

I exited the bus at Pine Creek Square and looked around the small mountain town. The large fountain graced the plaza’s center, just as I had remembered. Some children sat on the edge with their feet dangling into the cool water. I smiled as I remembered how Dallas, Jayden, and I would sit around the fountain. Sometimes we would throw in spare change and make a wish, and we always believed that, eventually, those wishes would come true.

It was just a few minutes past 4:00; I knew I would have to hurry to my grandmother’s flower shop before it closed for the day. It was nearby, for the town’s main street jutted to the west of the town’s square. I stayed in the back of the line as travelers waited for the driver to pull luggage from the undercarriage bin. People gave me sideway glances and sympathetic stares. My swollen eye looked painful, and the bruises even made me gasp when I first looked in a mirror. I tugged at my hoodie, trying to block the stares around me. I sighed since I just wanted to get home. Home, the thought made me smile. I could not wait to see Gram and move back to the little cottage that had brought me so much joy over the years.

As I lingered, I silently rehearsed what I would say to my grandmother. I hadn’t seen the woman since I was thirteen years old. It had been over four years, and I wondered how she would react when I showed up on her doorstep unannounced. 

Gram and Mama had a falling out the last summer we visited. Mama never told me what had transpired. I just knew Mama walked away and never looked back. Before we left, Gram hugged me close and whispered that she had slipped something into my bag. Later, I found a floral notecard and the locket her grandmother gave her when Gram was just a girl. She had placed five one hundred dollar bills inside the card and told me to save the money for an emergency. I pulled the note from my bag and unfolded the worn card. The ink had faded, but the love from my grandmother still made its mark. Tears welled in my eyes when I read; Your room will always be ready when you decide to find your way home.

Instinctively, I reached for the locket I had worn over the years. I ran my fingers over the worn antique pendant. I could feel the raised edges of the mother bird swooping in to sit on her nest of bird eggs. Inside the antique locket was a picture of my Gram and her grandmother, Anna. It made me smile. From the moment I opened it, I treasured this token from my grandmother. It was a constant reminder of her love.

Staring around Pine Creek’s plaza, I remembered all the times Gram and I ventured into the shops and cafes of this quaint mountain town. When I looked at the mountains, I recalled our hikes and picnics. I deeply breathed in the cool mountain air, catching a hint of pine. For the first time in a long time, I relaxed. Soon, I would once again return to the only real home I had ever known.

Photo by JC Bonassin on Unsplash

Every year after the heat of summer, I look forward to the cooler days of autumn. For me, it’s a magical time of the year when leaves turn gold, orange and red. I love to watch the spectacular display as trees showcase fall’s colorful brilliance. During this time, the warm scent of burning leaves or logs in the woodstove fills the air and provides a sense of coziness and well-being. At home, apple and pumpkin-scented candles remind us of the upcoming holidays. Extra layers of warm clothing and soft quilts provide warmth and the comfy sense that all is right in the world.  

The days become shorter and life less hurried. The hallmark of this season reminds rest and contentment offer the perfect time to reflect and honor the blessings in our lives. Family. Dear friends. Children. Furbabies.

During this time, sweet, creamy concoctions of pumpkin and spice provide the perfect seasonal treat for coffee lovers. I love to create my own healthy versions of this timely sweet treat. And I look forward to this fall tradition each year. (See my recipe below)

I always try to plan a mountain visit during this time, and after a relaxing getaway last fall, I will now make this an annual event. I enjoy basking in the outdoors at this time. I love to walk in the woods with my pups, listen to the crunch of leaves below my feet, and hear the wind gently rustle the aspen trees as they change to yellow and gold. I love to sit on the porch in the morning, wrapped in a blanket, drinking my fall coffee, and wait for the sun to shine through mountain pines. I love to watch my pups explore the mountain areas, always on the lookout for new scents or mountain wildlife. This time of the year delights my senses as I slow down and enjoy all life offers.

Homemade Pumpkin Spice Coffee (low carb)

• 8 oz. brewed coffee or even 1-2 shots of espresso. I personally love to use k cups (the recyclable single servings pods). I play with the different types of roasts, and I just discovered a Pumpkin Carmel version from Crazy Cups! I just ordered some! And yes I know summer has not yet officially arrived. I need to experiment, don’t I?
• About 1 1/2 tablespoons of heavy whipping cream – 76 calories; 0.6 carbs
• A dash of Jordan’s Skinny Girl Syrup (so many flavor options Pumpkin Spice, Pumpkin Caramel, Vanilla Bean Pumpkin, etc). – 0 Calories; 0 Carbs
• 2 tablespoons of Sugar free whipped cream – 20 calories; 0 carbs
• Jordan’s Sugar free Pumkin Spice Sauce or Jordan’s Sugar Free Salted Caramel Sauce p 0 Calories; 0 Carbs

Calories (about) 96

Carbs – 0.6

Options:

• Lowfat milk or almond milk

Photo by David Rupert on Unsplash

Depending on the Day…

Dream the impossible and write to your heart’s content!

Or

Watch it or you might end up in my next story!

Photo by Muhammad Daudy on Unsplash

Most of my time, I spend with my two mini dachshunds, Max and Mitzi. From the moment I wake up, the pair follow me around the house and stay close by my side. They even sleep in my bed! Who knew two pint-sized pups could occupy so much space in my bed and my heart?

On my days off, we take walks or run errands together. It’s funny when I show up in places without the dogs; the first thing folks want to know is where the babies are.

We have even gone on road trips together during my breaks and vacation times. They sure have been great company and a lot of fun. They keep me active and make my days more enjoyable.

After a weekend at home, they fuss about my return to work, and this mama feels guilty when I have to leave them behind. I love my pups to no end, and I think it’s true when my daughter says, “It’s official. You have become that crazy doxie mama.

If I were going to change my name, I would change it to Aimee Marie. My mom wanted to give me this name in honor of a dear cousin who married a man with the surname Aime. My mom adored her cousin Mildren Allen Aime. Mildred’s parents were Samuel L. Allen and Mabel Vernice Trickel Allen. I still have the baby blanket my Aunt Mabel crocheted for me. Mabel lived across the road from my grandparents, Tom and Elva Allen, and my grandmother always stated that Mabel was a dear friend.

For the history of my name, click on the link.

Ann