extended family
All about how to stay connected, strengthen ties and talk politics with your big, happy extended family.
The Parcel
One downside to living in such a rural location was that their nearest neighbors were a good couple miles away, much farther than a malnourished twelve year old can run in the rain before even the slowest of motor vehicles would catch up with him. Layken Page Walker didn’t much meat left on his bones and Uncle Harvey’s car was by no means the slowest in the area. Laytken didn’t make it all that far from home before Uncle Harvey came after him. Uncle Harvey stopped the car, lumbered out, and launched himself at Layken. They both went down in the mud with a gooey splat.
By Lindsey Soliday5 years ago in Families
Brown Paper Packages Tied Up With String.....
Nine year old Etta's full name was Henrietta, and she wasn't particularly fond of it. It was much too long and had a boys name at the start of it. That was their first conversation a couple of years ago when the family moved in next door. "My name has the same thing at the beginning...a boys name. My name is Harriet," I told her. She had never met anyone with a name like hers and we decided to be very good friends in spite of our almost 60 year age difference . Besides, I was still young at heart and she was a very old soul.
By PK Brannon5 years ago in Families
A Mother's Legacy
To My Mother-In-Law in Heaven, Yes, we have been introduced. We have been introduced through your son’s stories and daily reflections of your memory. I can not tell you what I would give to have the honor of meeting you face to face, just to thank you. I wish I could thank you for raising the man of my dreams. I am notoriously not a hugger, but I would hug you. I find it so funny how I’ve never known someone I have never met as well as I feel I know you. Your artistry, your eloquence, your free spirit, and your no-nonsense way of getting your opinion across all tell me how much I would have adored you. Everything I hear, I can see vividly, and it is all on my same quirky wavelength. With each memory, story, or photo shared with me, I wipe a little fog from the mirror.
By Erica Machen5 years ago in Families
Color Bleach of Life
The color Bleach of life. There was a box on the counter. The thin canes made a box, beautiful, pleasing to the eye, at the behest of an artist. The box is surrounded by delicate threads of red Sunil's cloth wrapped around it. The small size of the jewelry box is as if it has expanded its existence as needed. I thought this is an invitation to happiness—a modern example of a basket of sweet Laddus types of chocolates. The handle was wrapped around silver-plated wrist scissors.
By kuljit mann5 years ago in Families
The Boy
Rainy days were chocolate cake days. That was why it was important to always have a box of cake mix in the pantry. He used to stand on his toes to watch his mother bake, waiting for the all-important moment when she needed him to lick the bowl clean. Thirty minutes in the oven, and--hey, presto!--warm decadent chocolate cake was being sliced and plated.
By Lindsey Soliday5 years ago in Families
Storm Cover
“Arrgh! No signal!” The storm in her mind is more severe than the rain pummeling my rooftop. I’ve endured many storms over the century. Up until twenty years ago the Coles took care of any damage Mother Nature inflicted upon me. Now I stand alone, weathered by time but still able to shelter any life that ventures within, as is my purpose.
By L J Purves5 years ago in Families
Heidi and the Barn
The snow lay thick on the ground as Papa’s old Fiat struggled up the hill towards the farm. Heidi and her sisters were beside themselves with excitement. As they rounded the corner, the familiar buildings came into view. The house where Onkel Rolf and Tante Ingeborg lived with their family. The cottage was the home of their grandparents, Mormor and Morfar. During the summer, the flower boxes in the window held a profusion of brightly coloured flowers. And Heidi’s favourite building, the barn.
By margie dahl5 years ago in Families
The summer farm
The Summer Farm I stood, leaning against the still warm hood of my car looking at the barn and surrounding farm where Uncle Henry and Aunt Ruth had taught me so many life lessons that I still carry with me. Looking across the yard at the red wood barn I notice that it is not quite as tall against the sky as I remembered. The tobacco advertisement on the side had faded in the summers that had passed in the twenty years since I stood in this same spot.
By The Invisible Writer5 years ago in Families
Another Old Barn Story
As a pre-teen boy in the 1950’s, escaping the confines of 361 Spring Street in West Bridgewater, Massachusetts, was exhilarating; even if it meant I had to take my younger brother, Chris, with me. It was freeing, knowing parents weren’t looking over our shoulders and we could do what kids do. What that was, was never sure, but it started with walking out of the back door (“don’t slam the door”) and out of our driveway, which, at the time, was made of small sharp stones. Kicking a rock down the street, and crossing over North Elm Street, Chris and I were headed toward the opening on the odd side of Spring, just before reaching the Spring Street School further down on the right side.
By David X. Sheehan5 years ago in Families
