Tag: Tales of a Family

Cameron and The Kissing Bandit

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

One summer, I was on my way to visit my family. My daughter asked me to come up for a visit in her little mountain town. It was about a four-hour-long drive, and my dogs, Max and Mitzi,  loved road trips. It was fun to watch my Muttley Crew settle in my Chevy HHR and look out the window as the scenery unfolded from arid plains to mountain vistas.

Once we arrived in Fairplay, I decided to stretch my legs and then grab some lunch. After walking around the little town, we stopped at a local cafe.  I stuffed my tiny crew into a traveling bag that looked like a purse, stood in line, and ordered a chicken sandwich and an iced tea.

Now, Mitzi loved riding quietly in the purse, but Max never quite got used to the cramped quarters and began grumbling about his latest predicament. He wanted nothing more than to be on his leash so he could explore the area and greet people in the restaurant.  

As his restlessness grew, my unhappy dachshund betrayed my covert operations by squirming and whining, catching the attention of the customers and staff. Everyone wanted a peek, and when I unzipped a small opening, they laughed when two small dachshunds peeked out of the purse. From that moment on, I received the gold standard of service. 

Once I settled on the outside patio where dogs were welcome, the staff brought my lunch, a bowl of water, and some turkey breast for my babies. The little town was busy that day, and people kept wanting to pet my mini dachshunds. And my puppies soaked up the attention and offered endless kisses in return. 

After lunch, we headed back to the car, and I was more than ready to get up the mountain and see my family. Max and Mitzi seemed to know we were getting closer, too. They perked up in the back seat, little noses pointed toward the window, watching the world roll by.

We climbed steadily toward Hoosier Pass, where the pines thickened, the air turned crisp, and the mountains opened up in every direction. At the top, the view nearly took my breath away. Peaks rose in the distance, the valley stretched below, and between the trees, the Blue River flashed in the sunlight.

From there, the road wound down through the mountains toward Breckenridge, then on through Frisco and Silverthorne. The towns were busy, the traffic was slow, and I was impatient to be on my way. The pups watched every passing car, cyclist, stroller, and tourist as if they were personally responsible for greeting all of Colorado.

Once we left Silverthorne behind, the radio faded in and out, so I pushed an Eagles CD into the player and let the music fill the car. The landscape changed again, turning drier and more open, and even though I was only about forty miles away, that last stretch always felt the longest. Maybe it was because I missed the pines. Maybe it was because I could hardly wait to hold my grandbabies.

By the time we finally rolled into town, Max and Mitzi were wide awake and full of excitement. As soon as I turned off the main street and headed down the familiar back roads, they began whining and barking, just like they always did when they knew we were close.

I pulled into the driveway, and before I could even gather my bags, the kids came running out, happy to see us and even happier to welcome the dogs.

Once we have settled in, I sit on the couch, and Mitzi hops up on my lap.  

Cameron sits next to me, wanting to hold my little dog.  Mitzi is ecstatic, wiggling, bouncing, and giving kisses. Cameron laughed so hard and turned his face away. But Mitzii would have none of it and follows Cameron’s face. As Cameron continues to laugh, Mitzi’s tongue darts into his mouth. Everyone in the room freezes as they witness Cameron’s surprise. But in no time, he begins laughing, and without missing a beat, my grandson delivers the perfect one-liner, “ Great, my first French kiss was with Honey’s dog, Mitzi!”

The room explodes in laughter. My daughter, Leslie, shivers in disgust at the thought. And Mitzi, oblivious to what just took place, continues to wiggle and bounce from grandchild to grandchild, hoping to sneak in just one more kiss.

Now, Cameron may not have appreciated Mitzi’s enthusiastic little greeting that day, but his quick reaction made sure the moment would be retold at family gatherings for years to come. Sweet Mitzi always loved the grandkids, but on that particular day, she apparently decided Cameron needed the deluxe dachshund welcome package, no warning, no manners, and far too much love.

Fall Countdown

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments

With the temperatures soaring near 100 degrees, I am doing what any reasonable fall-loving person would do: I am creating a Fall Countdown. Don’t judge me. Some people meditate. Some people drink iced tea. I count the days until pumpkins, sweaters, soup, and the blessed return of weather that does not feel like the inside of an oven. We old folks do not enjoy melting, glowing, or “getting a little sun.” We prefer crisp mornings, cozy blankets, and the right to complain dramatically until autumn arrives.

Worn Tools, Strong Hands

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant4 Comments

You could tell a rancher’s story just by looking at his tools. The saddle, worn smooth by years of early mornings. The lariat, curled like a sleeping cat. Old pliers, a hammer with a handle that fit just right in his palm, and that pocketknife he never seemed to lose. Work gloves tossed on a fence post, a shovel resting in the dirt, a branding iron waiting by the barn wall. All of them quiet reminders that a rancher’s life was never really done.

These tools watched the sun rise and set, day after day. Each one had its own small purpose, patching a fence, searching for a stray calf, or cradling a lost lamb on the long walk back to its mother.

They remember strong hands and quiet pride, the kind that builds a life slowly…one chore, one season, one sunrise after another.

What tools do you remember from your own family stories? Maybe it was a rancher’s saddle, a grandfather’s pocketknife, a grandmother’s rolling pin, or a simple toolbox kept close at hand. I would love to hear about the tools, chores, and memories that shaped your family’s story. Share your memories in the comments and help keep these everyday pieces of history alive.

The Tools They Used

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

This week’s writing prompt invites us to remember the tools, objects, and everyday items that tell the story of the people who came before us. Maybe it was a hammer worn smooth from years of work, a sewing machine that stitched clothes and quilts, a recipe box filled with handwritten cards, a fishing pole, a tractor, a Bible, a camera, or a simple pocketknife carried with pride. These tools were more than objects; they were part of someone’s daily life, their work, their love, and the legacy they left behind.

Prompt: The Tools They Used
Write about a tool, object, or keepsake connected to someone you loved. What did they use it for, and what does it help you remember?

Please join in the writing and share your stories in the comments or link them here. Your memory may help preserve a piece of family history that deserves to be remembered.

A Decade of Writing, Remembering, and Growing

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant5 Comments

Katie’s Part Three: What We Learned

A Virginia Writer’s Diary

Part Three: What We Learned

My name is Katie, and I am a procrastinator.

That…was not as hard to admit as I thought.

But seriously, I am. And I do have a hard time admitting it to myself, especially now that my free time is limited and I have to be deliberate with how I structure my days. I put things off until they become a problem, and then instead of just a task, I have a problem. And then I’m stressed because I have a problem, and then I put off solving the problem until the very last minute. (This also applies to writing. And laundry. And making dinner.)

You know what makes it harder to procrastinate? Having a routine, and that’s something A Virginia Writer’s Diary has given me. I post once a week these days – I used to try for three times a week – and no matter what else is happening, I get something up on the blog.

So, there’s something I’ve learned. Give yourself a task that has to get done every week, and commit to finishing it.

But that’s a small lesson, something most people learn in a similar way. Let’s dig deeper.

I’m a perfectionist. I think it’s part of why I’m a procrastinator, honestly, because I don’t like putting my work out there until it’s perfect. But perfection doesn’t exist in this world, and I’ll make myself crazy striving for something that isn’t attainable. For years, this drive to produce perfection kept me from even getting started on writing projects. I’d write a sentence or two, decide it was irredeemably terrible slop, and stop.

It became a maddening cycle, and I desperately wanted to break out of it.

So I started writing monthly short stories. Always around a yearly theme, always posted by the end of a month. I figured any story, regardless of how not-perfect, was better than no story at all. Just choosing to write was better than not writing. This routine changed my brain. I don’t write for perfection anymore. I write because I love it, and because I hope that even if a story isn’t perfect, someone else out there will love it, too. I always hope the story I write finds its way to the person who needs it. And once I post a story, it does and doesn’t belong to me anymore. It’s my work, but the way it makes people feel, the smiles and tears, the laughs, even the boredom – those belong to the readers.

I often wish I could do things better. I wish I were a better writer, faster and more adept at dialogue and more artful with my words and more lyrical with my sentences. I wish I were a better mother, and a better person. I try to be kind, to be present, to be patient, to be loving. I succeed more times than I don’t. I do the work. In all things, I do the work. And I think that’s my biggest lesson from blogging for ten years: DO. THE. WORK.

It’s as simple and as difficult as that. Show up. Try. If you fail, try again. Keep trying. Keep working.

If I do nothing else in a day, I always do the work.

Annie’s Section: The Lessons I Have Discovered

Some journeys start from the heart with excitement, expectations, and growing anticipation of where the trail might lead. For me, this writing adventure has grown and changed, helping me discover so much about my family, my dreams, and my hopes for the future. Sometimes the most meaningful journeys begin before we fully understand where they are taking us.

Ten years ago, I began this blog with a collection of memories and a desire to keep them from disappearing. I did not have a detailed plan or an understanding of where this journey might lead. I only knew that the people, places, and moments that influenced my life deserved to be remembered.

Over the years, Tales of a Family has grown and changed, and so have I. Looking back now, I realize that writing these stories has taught me almost as much about myself as it has about my family.

One of the first lessons I discovered was that ordinary lives give rise to extraordinary stories. Stories do not need to be dramatic or perfect to matter. Some of the best events unfold on an ordinary day, just another square on the calendar when nothing exciting was planned. But then life offers us a joyful glimpse of everyday love.

Those are the precious moments spent together while sitting on porches, enjoying coffee around a kitchen table, or watching the naughty antics of grandchildren or the playful antics of dachshund pups. Those ordinary moments of life often become the anecdotes we treasure most.

Memories become clearer when we write them down. It helps me remember the details I do not want to forget, the voices, expressions, traditions, and personalities of the people I cherish, as well as the places and experiences that molded my life.

Writing prompts about songs, photographs, special places, family conversations, and familiar trinkets open the door to an entirely new story. One memory often leads to another, revealing details that have been quietly waiting to be revealed. Writing simply does not record our histories; it helps us to return to them, understand them, and see them in a whole new light.

Stories connect the generations. Every story I preserve provides my family, friends, and readers with a glimpse of the people who lived amazing lives so long ago. Each tale preserves the voices that may otherwise be lost. When sharing my stories, I help future generations grasp where they came from.  These stories become knit into the fabric of our everyday lives, bringing to mind the strength, courage, and love handed down to us as a precious gift.

Another lesson I found was that writing takes courage. While some stories are joyful, others involve grief, regret, loss, or difficult lessons. Writing honestly means that I must be vulnerable, and that was a difficult task. There are times when returning to a moment in time means returning to emotions that I thought I had stowed safely away. When we are willing to write from the heart, others recognize a piece of their own lives within our stories. And often, our most personal stories are the ones that deeply touch my readers.

Finding my voice has also been a piece of this journey. I wanted my writing to have a creative confidence and style that was all my own. Although it required practice and time, I believe my writing has become warmer, more confident, and more reflective. And while I believe I still have much to learn, I trust the ways I tell my tales. A writer’s voice develops through writing, and not waiting until it’s perfect.

I found that creativity can begin at any age. My blog has grown into more than a place to record memories. It has encouraged me to write fiction, poetry, short stories, and flash fiction. It inspired me to write short stories for a recent family book, with another in the works. It has also given me a new dream: writing a novel. There has never been an age limit on discovering a new dream or writing a new chapter.

Over time, I learned that readers want connection, not perfection. Not every sentence has to be flawless; my readers want stories that are genuine, familiar, and heartfelt. People remember how a story made them feel, and that connection is one of the greatest gifts a writer can offer.

Perhaps, most importantly, writing has helped me find my way home. Home represents my faith, my family, my friends, Colorado, the mountains, the treasured memories, and even the person I have become through all the seasons of life. Sometimes we begin writing to find our stories, but the stories help us discover ourselves.

After ten years, I understand that storytelling has become not just something I do; it has become a part of who I am. I have learned to value ordinary moments, trust my own voice, and write even when the words are imperfect.

Most of all, I learned that our stories matter. They connect us to the past, bring meaning to the present, and leave something behind for those who come after us.

I may not know where the next ten years will lead, but I know that there are memories lingering waiting to be revealed, characters waiting to come to life, and stories waiting to be told.

And I am not finished writing them.

The Story Behind “Everything I Own”

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Today, I discovered that “Everything I Own,” written by David Gates and recorded by Bread, was not originally written about a lost romantic love as I had always believed. Gates wrote the song in memory of his father, whose love, guidance, and example had shaped his life. Knowing the story behind the song gives its words an even deeper meaning and makes it a beautiful tribute to the fathers, grandfathers, mentors, and other special men who have loved and guided us.

What songs remind you of a special man in your life? Think about the music that brings back memories of your father, grandfather, brother, uncle, teacher, minister, or mentor. I would love to hear the song and the story behind why it is meaningful to you.

My Quiet Hero

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

Not everyone has the opportunity to have a real-life hero in their midst, but I am one of the lucky ones. I met my hero when I was just nine years old, and to this day, he remains an important part of my life.

I always wanted an older brother, and in many ways, God answered that prayer through Keith Lacy. He has always been in my corner, praying for me, encouraging me, lifting me up, and reminding me of God’s faithfulness.

Keith became my youth minister when I was a child, but over the years, he and his wife, Jan, became so much more than friends. They became family. We first met in California over fifty years ago, and somehow, through all the seasons, miles, changes, joys, and hardships of life, our friendship has remained strong. Now that our lives are connected in Colorado, I am even more grateful for the gift of Keith and Jan, a friendship rooted in faith, love, laughter, music, prayer, and the kind of loyalty that lasts a lifetime.

A Quiet Hero

Published on by Ann Marie BryantLeave a comment

This week’s writing prompt invites us to remember the quiet heroes in our lives—the people who may not have asked for attention, but whose love, strength, kindness, or steady example made a lasting difference. Sometimes a hero is not the loudest person in the room, but the one who shows up, works hard, loves faithfully, and leaves behind a legacy that continues to guide us. Think about someone in your family or community whose life deserves to be remembered.

Prompt: A Quiet Hero
Write about someone in your family who may not have received much attention but made a difference.

Please share your stories in the comments and link them here. Your memory may help honor a quiet hero whose story still deserves to be told.

Stay Young at Heart

Published on by Ann Marie Bryant2 Comments
Daily writing prompt
What’s the best advice you’d give to someone younger than you?
View all responses

The advice I would give to someone younger than me is to stay young at heart, have fun, and enjoy the journey. Life moves quickly, and it is easy to rush through the days without noticing the little moments that make everything meaningful. Laugh often, take chances, love deeply, and hold on to the memories that made your life feel magical. In the end, those special moments become the stories you carry with you.

And on that note…I was thinking about my horse Beau; I miss him more than words can fully explain. He was more than just a horse to me; he was a gentle presence, a beautiful memory, and a part of my heart. I still think about him often, remembering the bond we shared and the quiet comfort he brought into my life. Because I miss him so much, I asked AI to create a picture of us together in a magical fairytale setting. Seeing us side by side in an enchanted forest felt like a sweet way to honor him and imagine, just for a moment, that we were together again in a place filled with beauty, peace, and light. Sweet memories.

And PS. I am trying to have some fun while I am stuck in bed today. I was scrolling through Facebook when an ad popped up about mystical photos of you and a favorite animal. So of course I thought about my Beau from long ago, and I decided to ask AI to create a fairytale photo of the two of us…lol..I better be careful..I could get used to this being lazy and having fun kinda day!