Tag: Life

Echoes of Laughter

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment I arrived, there was a feeling, something warm and unmistakable, that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of the TV as Uncle Roger watched his favorite news channel. 

Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too, playfully so, never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra hug, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.

Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.

Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other through humor layered with heart and adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.

Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full, comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did; I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.

Loving visits with Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger became memories I carry with me still, not as distant recollections, but as living reminders of what matters most. Their home taught me that laughter can be a form of love, that kindness often arrives wrapped in humor, and that joy is something we create for one another. Long after the visits ended, the feeling of being with them remained, steady and warm, a quiet inheritance I continue to hold close.

I always loved visiting Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger. The moment we arrived, there was a feeling—something warm and unmistakable—that settled over me like a favorite sweater. Their home buzzed with laughter, the kind that spilled from room to room, mixed with the clink of coffee cups or the hum of conversation already in motion. You never had to knock long. The door opened quickly, usually mid-laugh, as if joy itself had been waiting for us.

Aunt Jan was funny in a sharp, delightful way. Her eyes sparkled when she told a story, and she had a talent for delivering a perfectly timed comment that made everyone laugh, sometimes even before they realized why. She was a little ornery, too—playfully so—never afraid to tease or speak her mind. Yet beneath that humor was a deep kindness. She noticed things. If you were quiet, she knew. If you were hurting, she softened. Her love showed up in small, thoughtful ways: an extra cookie placed on a plate, a hand resting gently on your shoulder, a question asked just when you needed to be heard.

Uncle Roger matched her energy in his own way. He had an adventurous spirit and a mischievous grin that hinted he was always just a step away from some harmless trouble. He loved telling stories—stories that wandered, grew larger, and became funnier with every retelling. His voice carried confidence and warmth, and when he laughed, it was full and contagious. There was kindness in him, too, the quiet kind that didn’t need recognition. He showed it through action, through showing up, through making people feel welcome just by being himself.

Together, Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger were a perfect pair. Their playful banter filled the room, a rhythm of teasing and affection that made everyone feel at ease. They balanced each other—humor layered with heart, adventure grounded in love. Watching them interact taught me that relationships didn’t have to be perfect to be strong; they just had to be genuine.

Visits with them were never rushed. Time seemed to slow down in their presence. Conversations lingered at the table. Laughter echoed down hallways. Even the quiet moments felt full—comfortable silences that didn’t need filling. Their home wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling of belonging.

Now, when I think of Aunt Jan and Uncle Roger, I don’t just remember what they said or did—I remember how they made me feel. Loved. Seen. Happy. Their humor, kindness, and adventurous spirits left a lasting imprint on my heart. They taught me that life is meant to be enjoyed, that laughter matters, and that love is often found in the simplest moments.

Loving visits with them became memories I carry with me still—treasures from a life rich with connection, warmth, and joy.

My Childhood Secret Retreats

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

Somewhere between the rustle of avocado leaves and the creak of a hidden stair, I learned that the best places in childhood were the ones where no one could find you unless you wanted to be found.

Favorite Hiding Places as a Child

Growing up in a large family definitely had its benefits. I always had a playmate and a buddy close by. But there were times when this only girl longed for space and quiet moments of privacy away from the constant buzz of siblings. Early on, I discovered two special places that offered the perfect cover to hide from the world and escape the prying eyes of nosy little brothers. One place was outdoors, tucked beneath branches and leaves, and the other was hidden inside our home, a place few ever ventured. Both became sanctuaries where I could daydream, read, and slip away from the noise.

The Avocado Tree

When we moved to our home on Lincoln Avenue, we had a neighbor named Mr. Pippen who loved children and animals. He and his wife never had children of their own, so he often lingered nearby while we played outside, always smiling and ready to visit. He even took the time to teach our Cocker Spaniel, Lady, a few tricks, which delighted us just as much as it did him.

In his backyard stood the most delightful avocado tree. Although it rarely produced edible fruit, it offered something far more valuable to me, an irresistible escape from the neighborhood. Its wide branches formed a generous canopy that shielded me from the rest of the world. When I leaned my back against its sturdy trunk, completely hidden beneath its leaves, no one would ever know I was there.

It was the perfect place to read or simply let my thoughts wander. Along the back fence sat a small, unused chicken coop, weathered and quiet. I often wondered what it must have been like when chickens once roosted there and families tended vegetable gardens nearby.

On warm summer afternoons, I loved slipping away beneath the tree’s branches. The shade offered cool relief from the heat, while sunlight flickered and danced through the fluttering leaves above me. A sea breeze from the bay stirred the branches, sending dust and tiny seeds sparkling in the air. Children’s laughter drifted through the yard, creating a comforting soundtrack as the rough bark pressed through my shirt while I rested against the trunk.

As I grew older, I began climbing my hideaway. The sturdy lower branches gave me the confidence to explore higher and higher. From there, I could see across our backyard and catch glimpses of the surrounding neighborhood. Nestled against the trunk, I often stretched across one branch, resting my chin on another, watching clouds drift overhead. I searched their shapes for animals, dolphins, horses, playful pups, while listening to the familiar sounds below. Sometimes I had to stifle a laugh when little brothers or neighbors called out my name, puzzled about where I had disappeared.

That tree felt magical. Knowing no one else shared my secret gave me a sense of independence and quiet power. It became a place of escape whenever I needed solitude or time to think. I climbed that tree often, even into my teenage years, whenever I wanted to feel invisible for a while. It brought me comfort knowing my special place was just yards from home, waiting whenever I needed it.

The Stairwell

My second hiding place was tucked away on the ground floor of our Victorian home. Reaching it required perfect timing, when everyone was distracted and no one was paying attention to a chubby little girl with brown hair. I would linger in the large foyer, waiting until I was certain no eyes were watching.

Beneath the grand staircase, hidden at the very back of the room, was a tiny, dark door stained to match the rich wood of the stairs above. Holding my breath, I would slowly turn the knob and duck into the narrow space beyond. Inside was a steep, narrow stairwell leading down to the first-floor barroom. My favorite spot was a step beside a small window that let in just enough light for reading.

It was cool and quiet, the perfect hiding place on rainy days. No one ventured down those stairs very often, so no one ever thought to look for me there. Once settled with my book, I could hear the muffled sounds of life above me; my mother’s voice drifting through the floor as she talked on the phone, or the television playing while my little brothers watched afternoon cartoons in the living room.

Reflection

Both of my hiding places offered the same quiet comfort of not being seen. I felt clever and safe as I observed the world around me without being part of it. Each place gave me an escape into books, an activity that has always shaped who I am. Though one was open to the sky and the other tucked deep within our home, both offered solitude, imagination, and peace. They remain among my favorite memories of childhood, gentle reminders of a girl who learned early how to find her own quiet corners in a noisy world.

Even now, I can still feel the cool stair beneath my legs and the rough bark pressed against my back. I can hear the hum of distant voices, the rustle of leaves overhead, and the quiet turning of pages in my hands. Those hiding places no longer exist in the same way, but the girl who sought them out still does. She lives in every book I open and every quiet moment I claim for myself, still knowing that sometimes the best way to be found is to first be unseen.

A Relationship That Has Had a Positive Impact on Me

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What relationships have a positive impact on you?
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One of the most positive and meaningful relationships in my life has been with Jan and Keith Lacy. They were my youth ministers, beginning their work in the early 1970s, and I have known them since I was nine years old. From a very young age, they played an important role in shaping who I am today, and their influence has remained with me throughout my life.

I first met Jan and Keith Lacy in Alameda, California, where they immediately stood out as people who genuinely lived out their beliefs. Their strong faith was not something they merely spoke about; it was reflected in their actions through kindness, patience, and sincere care for others. Being around them made me feel supported and valued. Even as life changed and distance separated us—especially after their move to Colorado—they continued to be a steady and encouraging presence in my life.

What made my relationship with Jan and Keith so meaningful was their constant compassion and encouragement. They were always praying for me and my family, always willing to listen, and always ready to help in any way they could. Their kindness never felt forced or conditional; it was consistent and heartfelt. They treated me as someone who truly mattered, which had a lasting impact on my confidence and sense of self as I grew older.

Because of Jan and Keith, I became a better person. They helped strengthen my faith and guided me toward making positive choices, even during challenging times. Their example taught me the importance of caring for others, staying grounded, and living with integrity. During difficult moments in my life, it brought me comfort to know that I had people who believed in me and were always supporting me from afar.

The impact of Jan and Keith Lacy has lasted far beyond my childhood. Their guidance and love continue to shape how I see the world and how I treat others today. I am deeply grateful for their presence in my life and for the faith, kindness, and support they shared with me. They are a lasting reminder that one caring relationship can truly make a lifelong difference.

Witnessing the Miracle of Birth: My First Grandchild’s Arrival

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant1 Comment
Daily writing prompt
Tell us about your first day at something — school, work, as a parent, etc.
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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.

“God Gave Me You” – Bryan White

Up, Up… and Right Back Down

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

Henry eyed his mom’s balloons—all 250 of them—as they bobbed against the kitchen ceiling like a pink-and-red cloud. He listened to her conversation with Aunt Elizabeth. “Steven won’t take no for an answer,” she laughed. “He doesn’t care if I have a kid. Yes, he really sent 250 balloons with 250 messages. No, I haven’t read them all, but each note gives a reason to date him. What do you mean I should wait to introduce him to Henry?” His mom bristled. “What’s wrong with Henry?”

Annoyed, Henry’s mom ended the call with her sister, but not before Henry heard Aunt Elizabeth laughing hysterically on the other end. Henry’s mom knew Henry could be a handful, but basically, he was a good kid.  He was just inquisitive and challenging, and needed watching every minute of the day to avert any disaster known to mankind.

Sighing, she returned to work on her design for a new client. Her latest customer would call shortly, so she reviewed the papers one more time. She knew her video conference would start in about five minutes, so she ensured Henry had plenty of activities to keep him occupied. Making a mental list, she whispered, “Snacks, check. Crayons and coloring book, check. Books, check. Cartoon channel, check.”

She seated Henry at the kitchen table and warned him to behave during her video call. He smiled and nodded, and she prayed to all that was holy that he would be quiet during her meeting. Surely, what could go wrong? She sighed. Who was she kidding? Her six-year-old son had a wild imagination, was curious about the world around him, and had zero brakes when it came to crazy ideas.

Slowly, the worried mom turned to her office, grateful that it was off the kitchen. Henry began coloring, but quickly grew bored. He ate all his grapes and chunks of cheese and downed his glass of milk. Still bored, he picked up his book and set it on the table. The cartoon was one he had watched many times before. He looked around the room, trying to find something to do. The yellow tabby, Precious, lounged on the windowsill, soaking in the morning sun. He eyed the balloons and then the cat. A science experiment! He sat up suddenly, bounced out of his seat, and ran to his mom’s office.

“Mom, Mom,” Henry shouted. “Can I play in the backyard?”

His mother glanced at the clock on her desk. It had barely been fifteen minutes. How was she to keep him occupied for at least another half hour? She whispered, “Yes, yes, go outside, but stay in the backyard.”

“Yes!” Henry shouted, fist in the air.

At once, the young scientist began to formulate his latest project. He recalled watching a cartoon involving hot air balloons. He eyed his mom’s balloons and then Precious. Unfortunately, the feline was too polite to run and hide.

He carried Precious to the back porch and set her on his mom’s reading chair under the awning. Next, he hurried to gather all the balloons. He knew he had to hurry; Mom would check on him soon. Coming up with a plan, Henry braided the many strings together. He had learned to weave yarn into keychains in art class at school, but this was taking longer than he thought. Finally, he gathered the strings and securely tied them to Precious’s harness. The cat gave one uncertain mewl as she floated to the ceiling. Jumping up and down with excitement, Henry pulled his creation from the porch. A breeze caught the kitty bouquet, and Precious rose three feet… five… then drifted over the garden fence like a smug feline zeppelin.

Still on her business call, Mom heard Henry’s delighted shriek through the window. Alarmed and wondering what her child had gotten himself into this time, she excused herself with a frozen smile and raced outside. In disbelief, she watched, horrified, as her tabby drifted toward the neighbor’s oak tree like a Valentine parade gone rogue. She sprinted to the garage, grabbed a rake, while Henry cheered like a crazed aerospace engineer. Dashing out of their yard and into her neighbor’s garden, she finally snagged the balloon strings before Precious made her precarious ascent to parts unknown and used one of her nine lives in this crazy, madcap scheme.

Sighing with relief, Mom tucked Precious into one arm, thankful that her tabby was only mildly offended. Grabbing the balloons with the other hand, she pulled them into the house, setting Precious on the floor, she then stowed the confiscated balloons in the master bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she returned to her meeting somewhat disheveled, offering the understatement: “Sorry, I got momentarily tangled in a tiny bit of mischief.”


Later that afternoon, Henry was gently schooled on aerodynamics and consent, and he promised never to use Precious in any more science experiments. For the rest of the afternoon, Precious moved from room to room with Mom, careful to avoid Henry like the plague.

As evening approached, Mom began to prepare Henry’s favorite spaghetti dinner. Precious returned to her spot on the windowsill, and Mom sighed, relieved that everything had turned out okay.

Turning her attention back to Henry, she walked over to the kitchen table to see what he was coloring. Her eyes widened. He was drawing a picture titled “Precious Goes to Space,” complete with thrusters, stars, and a very alarmed tabby in a helmet. 

That was all she needed to see.

Terrified at the thought of a sequel to the morning’s escapade, without a word, Mom pivoted toward the drawer, grabbed the grilling fork like a warrior choosing her weapon, and marched into her bedroom. Moments later, behind the closed door, came the rapid-fire pop-pop-pop-pop that sounded suspiciously like a small artillery battle. The baolloons had met their necessary but dramatic end.

When she finally returned—hair mussed, dignity slightly punctured—Henry stared up at her with wide eyes.

“Are the balloons… gone?” he asked.

““They’ve ascended,” she said solemnly. “To a better place.”

Henry frowned, thinking this over. “So… no more experiments with Precious?”

“No,” Mom said. “Not unless Precious submits a written consent form and signs it with a paw print.”

Mom let out a breath that came from somewhere deep in her soul. As the house settled into its evening quiet, Mom caught sight of a single, limp balloon ribbon hanging from the trash can. She shook her head, part exhausted, part amused.

Today, she’d learned a valuable truth: in a house with a six-year-old scientist, anything with helium, fur, or legs was officially at risk.

And Henry? He learned something too—every great inventor needs two things: big ideas… and a mom with very fast reflexes.

Note:

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Prompt:

Write a story about this image.



Cellphones and Dinosaurs

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant3 Comments

“I hate this stupid thing, and I’m sending it back!”

Sigh. My first “real” cell phone was a nightmare—I hated being stuck with that new contraption. In the past, I’d used inexpensive flip phones on vacation, paying only a modest monthly fee. They were simple, nothing fancy, and often I’d keep them just until I eventually forgot about them and stopped paying the bill.

And oh the horror! Once, some of my eighth graders joked that I must be a drug dealer because I carried a burner phone. I just shook my head, gave them the “look,” and remarked, “You watch too much TV.” Back then, I had no desire for a phone glued to my hip 24/7. I believed phones belonged on the kitchen wall—safe from loss and easy to ignore—and I never worried about leaving home without one.

Still, nearly two years ago, circumstances shifted. My sweet daughter insisted it was time for me to get a phone—or else she’d get me a life alert. I wasn’t thrilled; Still, I even imagined the fun I could have if firefighters showed up every time I pressed the alert button. But Leslie reminded me that, eventually, they’d send the sheriff. Total buzz kill. Reluctantly, I accepted that it was time for this dinosaur to step into the 21st century. I didn’t have to love it, though, and to add insult to injury, my new smartphone proved to be much smarter than I was.

My family and my students laughed at my early struggles, yet they also helped this Grammy navigate the strange device. Despite the initial hiccups, I eventually grew to like—and even love—my phone, just a little.

I mean who wouldn’t appreciate having a camera at the ready or the ability to listen to audiobooks on a whim? And forget about traditional alarm clocks—the one on my phone is far more convenient. I now navigate road trips with ease, and with a single tap, my favorite tunes are ready to accompany me on drives or workouts. Of course, I love receiving texts from my kids, and, dare I say it, my phone has become a trusted sidekick. After all, nobody puts Baby in the corner—or in this case, back on the kitchen wall!

Oh, and this picture? Captured on my iPhone.

Just Dance

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant1 Comment

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.

Clutter

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant5 Comments
Bloganuary writing prompt
Where can you reduce clutter in your life?
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Sigh. Where do I start?

But let me start from the beginning. I came from a long line of pack rats that kept things, ya know, for just “in case.” When I moved to my little house over 20 years ago, I downsized a lot. I had a garage sale and gave things away. But I still had boxes tucked away after my move. In over twenty years, I am ashamed to say I have never opened those boxes. I meant to, but my busy life kept me from the dark corners of my little basement.

Some of the items were from my daughter’s childhood, things she adamantly stated that “she did not want.” All these years later, she and her daughters are glad that I kept her childhood mementos. So the rest of her things will finally be cleared from my basement storage.

But I also have boxes full of memories that I could not squeeze into my smaller home. Long ago gifts from my childhood; favored toys, cherished items passed down from one mother to the next. Those are the items that tug at my heartstrings. I had planned to divide the items among my granddaughters and my niece, and one day I will.

But did I mention my garage? Oy! Old teaching materials, patio furniture that needs refinishing, an iron bedstand that needs painting, an old lawn mower that needs to be repaired, “new” tiles for my kitchen and bathroom floors, and the list goes on.

Did I mention my summertime plans? I believe it’s time to have another garage sale!

Photo by Şahin Sezer Dinçer on Unsplash