Gifts come in all forms, yet if I were to receive the perfect gift, it would be acceptance. To be accepted without judgment would truly feel heaven-sent. Acceptance is the quiet reassurance that you are enough just as you are, without needing to prove, hide, or explain yourself.
Acceptance offers the receiver the ability to breathe freely and feel comfortable among others, without the fear of criticism or reproof. It is an understanding that none of us are perfect, and that those who care for us act with good intentions, hoping for the best in our lives. When someone accepts you fully, they acknowledge your strengths, your flaws, your history, and your hopes, and they choose to stand beside you anyway.
Acceptance means knowing you belong, imperfections and all. It offers hope, peace, and unconditional love. It frees you from the weight of jealousy, comparison, or the irrational worries that others may misunderstand you. The people who offer this gift truly understand you. They know your heart is good, and they recognize that you genuinely want the best for them as well.
Acceptance strengthens family ties and deepens friendships. It brings security, trust, and emotional safety into relationships. When you know you are accepted, you can show up as yourself, without masks, without fear, because you are valued simply for being who you are.
This gift bonds people together and creates joy in every interaction. It fosters patience, kindness, and compassion. Acceptance is thoughtful, grounding, and profoundly meaningful. It is, without question, the perfect present for anyone who wishes to live a life rooted in peace, love, and understanding.
Over the years, I have attended three colleges: Pueblo Community College, the University of Southern Colorado, and Adams State University. Each institution provided me with a valuable learning experience and opened doors to new opportunities.
The first time I entered a forest of towering redwoods, it felt like stepping into another world, where time moved slowly and the trees whispered ancient secrets. My first camping experience occurred in fourth grade with my Girl Scout troop. Our leader, Mrs. Gardner, took me and three friends—Kim Regan (Murphy), Rene Gardner, and Krissie Earl—to Big Basin in the Santa Cruz Mountains for a tent camping adventure. The first night was chilly and rainy, but the weather did not dampen my spirits. It was my first encounter with the redwoods, and I found the place magical. The fresh scent of pine and damp earth greeted us upon arrival, and the towering trees stretched endlessly toward the sky.
Big Basin Redwoods State Park, established in 1902, is California’s oldest state park. The ancient redwoods there are thousands of years old, some predating the pyramids. Walking among them made me feel both tiny and awed by nature’s power and patience.
I shared a tent with Kim, and we were literally washed out that first night when a small stream ran through the middle of our tent. Soaked and shivering, we sought refuge in Mrs. Gardner’s tent for the rest of the night, listening to the rain patter on the canvas and the wind rustle the massive trees outside. Despite the soggy start, the forest quickly captured my heart.
The trees were incredible. On the second day, we visited the ranger’s headquarters and nature center, where rangers taught us about the local wildlife and the trees. We learned about various plants, the foxes and raccoons that inhabited the forest, and how the redwoods had survived for thousands of years. We even saw a tree ring from a redwood that had lived before Christ was born—a humbling reminder of nature’s grandeur and the passage of time.
Once, the Grizzly Bear roamed the forest, but the ranger explained that they were wiped out during the settlers’ earlier arrival. If a bear attacked livestock or people, hunters would kill at least five bears in the area to ensure they had eliminated the attacking bear.
Later, we hiked the Trail of Giants, marveling at the towering trees and the quiet majesty of the forest. I ran my hands along the rough, reddish bark, looked up at branches disappearing into the clouds, and felt the soft crunch of needles under my boots. The experience left a lasting impression on me. In the morning, fog enveloped the area, dew settled on spiderwebs, and tiny streams reflected sunlight like ribbons of silver, making the forest appear magical and otherworldly. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, and I couldn’t wait to return.
Although I have visited many places since then, Big Basin is one destination I would return to repeatedly. The damp ground smelled earthy, and the air was so fresh and clean it felt like drinking pure water. The tall canopy of trees shaded the forest, allowing slivers of sunlight to peek through the branches, casting a soft, golden glow. Gentle winds rocked the trees, creating a soothing lullaby at night that helped tired campers fall asleep quickly, while the occasional owl hoot or distant rustle of wildlife reminded us we were guests in a living, breathing world.
Even now, years later, whenever I think of Big Basin, I feel a deep pull to return. It is more than a forest; it is a timeless sanctuary that leaves a mark on your heart, one towering tree, one soft breeze, and one magical morning at a time.
To Kill a Mocking Bird by Harper Lee – One of my absolute favorite books
Popular TV Shows
Gunsmoke
Bonanza
Dennis The Mennace
Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color – a Sunday night family tradition
Popular Films
101 Dalmatians
The Parent Trap
Fashion:
Jacqueline Kennedy – The Jackie Look
bouffant hairdo, pillbox hats, and sleek, simple dresses
Politics and Society:
JFK’s Presidency
Peace Corps
Civil Right’s Movement
Freedom Riders
Toys:
Mattel introduced Ken
Pampers Disposable Diapers? I did not know that! They came in two sizes and the average cost was ten cents each. Most consumers believed the diapers were too expensive for everyday use.
Visiting Québec is more than a journey; it is a homecoming to the roots of our family’s North American story. Our earliest ancestors helped shape New France, tending the land, building homes, and gathering in the city’s first churches. As we wander the cobblestone lanes of Old Québec, step inside Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, and stand on the Plains of Abraham, named for our ancestor Abraham Martin, we walk in their footsteps and feel the weight of their hopes and hardships. Québec City breathes history, inviting us to experience not just a place but a living legacy of faith, family, and resilience that endures through the ages.
I hope people say that she loved hard, enjoyed life way too much, laughed loudly, and never ran out of sass. That she embraced every moment with an open heart, found joy in the little things, and wasn’t afraid to be herself, bold, spirited, and full of life.
When the moment came to take my daughter up the winding road to Fort Carson—the Mountain Post—so she could finally deliver her baby, my heart lodged firmly in my throat. It was dark and bitterly cold that December night. Though worry shadowed every mile because she had endured a difficult pregnancy, my excitement grew with each turn of the road. I was about to become a grandmother, and I knew the birth of my first grandchild would be unlike anything I had ever experienced.
The miles rushed by as we pulled into the hospital parking area, searching for the closest space near the emergency room. Her pains were intense and coming fast. “Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Through clenched teeth, she answered in a clipped, pain-filled tone, “No.”
But after only a few steps, she leaned her aching body against the wall and nodded. Her strength wavered, and so did mine. I hurried inside, asked for a wheelchair, and returned with the help of a nurse. Together, we eased her into the chair and rushed her through the doors.
Before long, she was settled in the maternity ward, enduring hours of exhausting labor. I sat beside her, helpless, fighting back tears as each contraction took its toll. My heart ached not only for her pain but for her fear—fear for her baby boy. With her husband deployed in Korea, I knew I had to be her anchor, even as I felt myself unraveling inside.
When it was time for the spinal block, I stepped out of the room, painfully aware of my role and my limits. I paced the hallway, listening to her voice as she spoke with the nurse, hearing the strain and discomfort she tried so hard to hide. Watching your child give birth is both a blessing and a curse. You are close enough to feel every moment, yet powerless to ease a single ounce of the pain.
After the block, she was finally able to rest and drifted into sleep. I watched the baby monitor, my eyes glued to the flickering lines, knowing something wasn’t right. Mathew was in distress. I have never prayed so hard or felt so utterly helpless in my life.
When it was time for Mathew’s birth, everything happened at once. The room filled with urgency—pushing, commands, hurried footsteps—and then crying. Not the cry I had hoped for. Fear followed swiftly behind. After cutting the cord and holding him for the briefest moment, the doctors rushed Leslie and Mathew from the room. Both were in distress. I stood there, desperate to be strong, yet feeling as fragile as glass. The waiting that followed was unbearable. Both of my babies were in danger, and love and fear intertwined in their rawest form.
I paced the waiting room until the moment finally came when I learned they were both safe. Relief crashed over me in waves, leaving me weak with gratitude. I will never forget when Mathew’s nurse approached me and asked if I would feed him. They wanted Leslie to rest—she had lost a significant amount of blood during delivery.
As I held my grandson for the second time and fed him, warmth spread through me. His tiny body was cocooned in a soft blanket, a red-and-white Santa hat perched on his head. His eyes remained closed as he latched onto the bottle and drank. My heart swelled with wonder. From that moment on, my little man had me completely wrapped around his tiny finger.
Later, while Mathew rested in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit and Leslie slept soundly, I slipped outside to the car. I turned on the engine, letting the heat warm my frozen hands, and the radio came to life. In that quiet space, my emotions finally collapsed. The crisis had passed—mostly—but we were not yet out of the woods. Gratitude tangled with lingering fear, and the weight of the past year came crashing down. It had been a long, hard road.
When my tears were spent, I lifted my eyes to the darkened sky and whispered another prayer of thanks—for my babies, my world. As I exhaled, Bryan White’s song “God Gave Me You” played on the radio. I had never heard it before, yet the lyrics felt as though they were written just for that moment. Comfort washed over me, and for the first time all night, I felt peace.
In that moment, I truly understood the depth of love and the fragile beauty of life. Time seemed to stand still as fear and faith collided, and grace carried me through what my heart could barely hold. That day changed me forever. I became a grandmother not only through joy, but through fear, faith, and grace—forever marked by the miracle and the weight of that night.
Lately, I have been feeling a little out of sorts, so I have started looking for the little things that make me smile. Today, this post on facebook touched my heart, and I thought I should share.
Nine years ago, I started my blog Tales of a Family as a way to preserve and share my genealogy research and family stories. Over time, it slowly evolved—what began as a space for family history became a creative outlet where I could also share short stories, flash fiction, and poetry.
While I’ll continue to post family memories and adventures, this blog has truly grown into a reflection of my love for storytelling in all its forms. With that in mind, I felt it was time to update the site to better reflect that journey. I hope to continue to grow as a writer and discover new avenues to explore.
To my faithful readers—thank you. Your support and encouragement over the years mean more than I can express. I never imagined that a little family blog would grow into such a meaningful place of connection, creativity, and shared stories.
“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 