Tales of a Family

Daily writing prompt

What makes you feel nostalgic?

View all responses

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.