Some places never really leave us. They stay tucked inside our hearts, waiting for a memory, a scent, a photograph, or a quiet moment to bring them back. It may be a childhood home, a grandparent’s porch, a mountain town, a favorite beach, a country road, or a place where life once felt simple and full of wonder.
This week, write about a place that still calls to you even after many years. What made it special? Who was there with you? What do you remember most—the sounds, the smells, the view, the feeling? Tell the story of the place you long to return to, even if you can only visit it now through memory.
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.
The Aspen Acres Fire remains a heartbreaking and active situation for Beulah and the surrounding Southern Colorado communities. As of Thursday morning, the fire was mapped at 96,121 acres with 14% containment, and 1,831 personnel were assigned to the incident. Officials say the latest numbers come from the Aspen Acres Fire 2026 page managed by emergency teams.
There has been some hopeful news. Rain, humidity, and cooler temperatures gave firefighters a much-needed break from the intense fire activity, but officials made it clear that the moisture was not enough to put the fire out. Crews are still working hard, and they are also being cautious because mud and slide risks can make overnight work more dangerous.
Fire officials have also reminded people that contained does not mean out. Even if the fire reaches full containment in the coming weeks, smoke and heat may remain inside the burn area for months, and some remote places could continue to hold heat into winter. This will be a long road for Beulah, Rye, San Isabel, Wetmore, Colorado City, Florence-area communities, and all the families waiting to return home.
The damage is devastating. Officials have reported at least 275 homes lost in Pueblo and Custer counties, and the Beulah Fire Chief reported that 193 primary residences in Beulah alone were burned. Crews are also working to remove dangerous trees before residents can safely return.
There is some movement on evacuations. Rockvale, Coal Creek, and Williamsburg have been downgraded from evacuation orders to pre-evacuation status, but areas including Fremont County Roads 15, 100, and 103, Newlin Ridge Road, Los Pinos subdivision, and Lock Mountain Estates remain under evacuation orders. A mandatory curfew is still in place for impacted areas from 9 p.m. to 7 a.m.
Tonight, my heart is with every family waiting for news, every firefighter on the line, every animal displaced, and every neighbor grieving what has been lost. Beulah has always been a place of peace, beauty, and community. Now, more than ever, may that same strong mountain spirit carry her people through.
May the winds stay calm. May the rain come gently. May the firefighters be protected. May families be comforted. And may Beulah rise again, one act of kindness at a time.
Breaking News: One treat was broken in half today. Management claims this counts as two treats.
Max and Mitzi strongly disagree.
Representatives for the dachshund community have issued a formal complaint, stating that “half a treat is not a whole treat, no matter how confidently the human explains it.”
Negotiations are ongoing.
More at 6, unless someone opens the cheese drawer.
“Some places stay in our hearts, even when the landscape changes.”
This question used to feel pretty easy. If I could live anywhere in the world, the answer would be Beulah, Colorado, without any hesitation. But since the fire, writing those words feels so different. It is still the place my heart loves, but now my heart also carries grief, worry, and prayer.
It is hard to write about a dream place when that special location has been wounded, when families have lost homes, memories, and peace of mind. Still, through the sadness, I would choose Beulah every single time.
It is a charming little town, tucked away in a lovely mountain valley, filled with beautiful landscapes, peaceful days, and kind and generous people. This mountain community cares for one another; people visit, check in, and wave, and it is so inviting that even strangers feel welcome. Life moves at a slower pace and reminds each of us to breathe a little deeper, look around, and appreciate what is right in front of us.
Throughout the year, the people gather for community events, small-town traditions, friendly conversations, and neighbors helping neighbors. This place feels like home, where people belong.
And the landscapes are breathtaking, filled with green pastures that stretch across the valley. A forest of thick Ponderosa pines covers the hillsides. The mountain air feels clean and calm. Pueblo Mountain Park, with its hundreds of acres, trails, picnic areas, and gathering spaces, offers fun and remarkable days outdoors. The perfect place to create lasting memories.
Wildlife has always been a part of Beulah’s magic. Deer graze in pastures and front lawns. Turkeys meander across roads and roost in nearby pines. On occasion, elk, bear, and mountain lion would be spotted. Some of my favorite pictures include bear cubs crossing roads or peeking through tree branches after climbing trees for protection.
This valley is my happy place. Beauty is found in every corner and every bend in the road. I especially love the golden hour when the sunlight dances between the pines and touches the valley in a soft, warm glow. Deer and squirrels visit and make themselves at home in yards around the valley, reminding everyone that Beulah is a place where people and nature live side by side. For me, Beulah will always be my escape from a busy world, a place to slow down, enjoy the beauty of nature, breathe in fresh air, and enjoy the peace the valley so freely offers.
Beulah celebrates all four seasons. Spring brings fat honeybees and wildflowers. Summer offers gentle rains, warm days, and cool evenings. Autumn paints the valley in gold, amber, and yellow. Winter turns everything quiet and still, covering the valley in snow and turning it into a magical winter wonderland. Each season shares its own kind of beauty, and each season gives Beulah another reason to be loved.
But now, as the community rebuilds, the beauty is found in its people. Neighbors and friends gather together again, offering helping hands, open hearts, and shoulders to lean on. Their strength rises as they continue to care for one another. Since the fire, that special grace and kindness matter even more. Beulah is not just a pretty place; it’s also a community with heart.
The fire may have changed the landscape, but it has not changed the love the people have for this town. Some places will never look the same. Some families have lost their homes, and it is hard to write about wanting to live in a place when so many are grieving for what the fire took from them.
But the fire does not erase what Beulah truly means. If anything, it shows how deeply this special place is loved. I will always call Beulah my happy place, even when sadness may tug at my heart. I would still choose the peaceful living, the wildlife, the trails, the mountains, and most of all, its kind people. Home is sometimes loving a place through its hardest chapters.
Now, when I think of Beulah and the home of my dreams, I pray for healing. I imagine meadows turn green once again, birds singing from trees, wildlife returning to familiar places, and a loving community rebuilding with courage, faith, and love.
Beulah may be wounded right now, but she is still beautiful, still loved, and still the place my heart would choose.
So if I could choose anywhere in the world to live, I would still pick Beulah, not because it is untouched by hardship, but because it remains a place of beauty, kindness, strength, and the feeling of home.
Aspen Fire Update:
The Aspen Acres Fire has grown to approximately 93,600 acres, with containment improving to 15%. Firefighters continue to make progress, helped by higher humidity, though afternoon storms, lightning, and gusty winds remain a concern. Some evacuation areas have been downgraded from mandatory evacuation to pre-evacuation, but many communities, including areas near Beulah and across Pueblo, Custer, Fremont, and Huerfano counties, remain under evacuation orders. More than 1,300 personnel continue working to protect homes, strengthen containment lines, and support affected communities.
My dear friend Katie, from A Virginia Writer’s Diary, has graciously given me permission to share her story, “The Roads.”
Katie is such a gifted writer, and this piece is truly worth your time. Please take a moment to read her beautiful story and let her words carry you down the roads of memory, reflection, and home.
The Road
“The ridge or the glade?”
I am eight, and it’s my birthday. I’m sitting in the passenger seat of my mother’s gold Toyota Tercel, holding a cake box in my lap.
She looks at me, stretches a hand out to tweak my nose, and asks, “The ridge or the glade, Betsy-bug?”
I am sixteen, learning to drive myself, on a hot day in the middle of a mountain summer, behind the wheel of my grandfather’s enormous red and white Ford truck. He’s forced me into this, like it’s all a big joke, and as I struggle, sputter, and sit white-knuckled behind the steering wheel, he laughs.
He reaches over and steadies my trembling hand, and asks, “The ridge or the glade?”
I am twenty-two, heading south on I-81 from college for Christmas with the boyfriend I once thought I’d marry. We sing along to whatever plays on the radio, and rest our interlocked hands on the center console of a silver Nissan Altima.
“You have two choices,” I tell him, “once we get close to the house. The ridge or the glade.”
“The what now?”
“Those are the two roads we can take, once we get into town,” I explain. “Would you rather take the ridge or the glade?”
“I literally don’t know what those things are,” he says.
I glance over at my city boy. I can’t help but smirk. He’ll learn soon enough, but for now, I explain again.
“There are two ways we could get to my parents’ house. One takes us through a clearing. Do you get carsick?”
“I don’t think so,” he answers.
“Okay, good to know. The other takes us up over the mountain. Which one do you want to see?”
“The glade, I guess,” he says.
Turns out, he does get carsick. The tight curves, the dips and the little inclines of the glade road are too much for his nervous stomach.
“You could have warned me,” he says, once we’re safely parked in the driveway and unloading bags filled with laundry and textbooks.
“I did,” I say. “We’ll take the ridge next time.”
For the first half of my life, two roads brought me home, one high and one low, both so clear in my memory that I could drive them blindfolded even now.
Tonight, my mother’s voice wakes me.
“The ridge or the glade,” she whispers, close to my ear.
Outside, it snows, and the wind howls, and the dying embers of the wood fire beside my recliner glow bright and alive in the midst of a winter storm that the Weather Channel calls one for the century.
I almost answer her. “The ridge,” I almost say. I’ve always loved the ridge best, and it’s right on the tip of my tongue. But as I come out of sleep, and the drowsy haze lifts from my mind, I stop.
I stop because I am alone in my living room, tucked under a blanket my granddaughter knitted for my seventieth birthday. My mother’s been gone for nearly twelve years, and it’s been almost as long since I’ve seen the ridge or the glade.
I am sixty-one, sitting at a table in a sterile, white and gray office space. A real estate agent, an ancient friend of my long-dead uncle’s, sits beside me. Across from us, an attractive young couple beams and radiates excitement and energy. They’ve told me my mother’s home is their dream home, where they’ll raise their family, where they’ll build their life together. I sign the papers and the home belongs to them.
I am sixty-one and three quarters. I drive through the ridge one last time, intending to say a final goodbye, now that my mother’s affairs are settled. I round the curve and look to my right. My mother’s house, my home, has disappeared. In its place, the beginnings of a new structure rise from the landscape, a beast unlike anything the little valley has seen in all its many eons. I take the glade back out into town, and though I want to, though I want to change everything, I don’t look back.
I rise, pushing myself up against the thick, round arms of my oversized La-Z-Boy. There was a time that I would have been embarrassed to own it, but I practically never leave it these days. The blanket falls to the floor and I don’t pick it up. My back feels stiff and my joints ache. It’s the cold air, I think.
I make my way through the dark, to the kitchen sink where I pour a glass of tap water and drink it down in one gulp. I stand still for a moment and look out the window at the snow falling fierce and heavy in the halo of a bright orange streetlight. I haven’t thought of the roads home in years. I used to dream about them. I’d dream of driving in the dark, of rounding curves too fast or of creeping along beside the meadow flowers and the cow paths. But tonight, now in this moment, I can’t get them out of my mind.
I pour another glass and carry it with me back to the side table by the recliner. I settle in, under the blanket by the fire, and I feel myself again drifting off into sleep. I wonder if I’ll dream.
“The ridge or the glade?”
This time, it’s my voice, my question. My mother sits beside me in my white BMW, and warm sunlight shines in through the windshield. I remember this car. It’s the first one I ever bought for myself.
I look over. My mother is young again, and so am I. Her chestnut hair matches mine, and together we smile the crooked smile that was passed down to us.
“The ridge,” she says. “You like the ridge best.”
“I do,” I answer, “but I know you love the glade.”
“I love them both,” she says. “Mostly for where they take me.”
The Aspen Acres Fire has now grown to almost 92,000 acres, with firefighters reporting 12% containment as of Monday morning. This is the first bit of encouraging news we have had in days, but the fire is still large, active, and dangerous. More than 1,300 personnel are now working this fire, and evacuation orders remain in place across several Southern Colorado communities.
Last night brought more heartbreak and worry as mandatory evacuations expanded into Fremont County, including Williamsburg, Coal Creek, Rockvale, Newlin Ridge Road, Los Pinos Subdivision, Lock Mountain Estates, and nearby areas along Highway 67 north of the Custer County line. Evacuees were directed to Pathfinder Park near Florence, where both people and animals can go for help.
This fire feels even more personal today. Florence was the first place I lived when I moved to Colorado, so hearing that communities south of Florence were evacuated last night hit close to home. My cousin was among those forced to leave, and I have friends and people I care about throughout that area. These are not just towns on an evacuation map to me. They are places filled with memories, family, neighbors, and hardworking people who love their homes and land. Tonight, my prayers are with Florence, Williamsburg, Coal Creek, Rockvale, Beulah, Rye, Wetmore, and every community facing fear, smoke, and uncertainty.
My heart is heavy for our Colorado communities and every family watching the smoke and waiting for news. These are not just names on a map. They are homes, pastures, favorite roads, mountain views, family memories, and places people love deeply.
Officials have reported major losses, including 157 structures lost in Pueblo County and 55 homes lost in Custer County. The numbers are hard to take in, but behind every number is someone’s life, their photographs, their porches, their barns, their trees, and their sense of safety.
Still, even in the middle of so much loss, Southern Colorado keeps showing its heart. Neighbors are helping neighbors. People are opening trailers, pastures, homes, and donation sites. Firefighters and first responders are working long, exhausting hours to protect communities, livestock, wildlife, and homes.
Today I am praying for calmer winds, gentle rain, clear direction for fire crews, safety for every evacuee, and comfort for everyone who has lost so much.
May Beulah and all our mountain communities be held close. May the firefighters be protected. May the animals find shelter. May the smoke lift. May hope rise from the ashes. And may Southern Colorado continue to stand together, strong and kind.
