Top Stories
Stories in Families that you’ll love, handpicked by our team.
Using My Own "Pocahontas" Family Story to Search for Truth
As a child, I was fascinated by our family story of Native American heritage. One of my goals as a genealogist is to distinguish (to quote mixed-race author Darnella Davis) “who we are” from “who we think we are.” I was told we were descended from a woman who was part of the "Cornplanter" tribe in Pennsylvania. Although I am pale white, my late brother, Peter, had darker skin and higher cheekbones, and he turned olive-brown in the summer. We assumed that was due to the presumed Native DNA. No. I have done a DNA test and it shows 0.0% Indigenous North American DNA. My story is not unusual.
Andrew GaertnerPublished 2 years ago in FamiliesMosquito Road
Standing at my grandmother's grave with her son, side by side, surrounded by a swarm of hungry mosquitoes, we both gazed silently at her tombstone. It had been a decade since her passing and somehow I had been the one to inform my father that she didn't wake up that day. To say that we weren't close at that time, would be an underestimation of the years of fear and pain under his thumb. The silence between us was ripe with tension, regret, and yearning for some sort of solace.
Jack CascadePublished 2 years ago in FamiliesRocking Chairs and Sweet Tea
Walking in the front door I can almost hear the sizzle of the bacon frying in the cast iron skillet and smell grandma’s biscuits baking in the oven. It has been too long since I have been in this house and every step I make through it holds hundreds of memories. I didn’t live in this house growing up, but I did a lot of growing up in this house.
Halcyon Daze
The humble ham sandwich has never tasted as good as it did in the summer of ’86. Who knows what sorcery my Aunt Elaine employed, but somehow, in her hands, two ordinary slices of bread, a smear of margarine and the cheapest deli ham became something magical.
Allie MacBainPublished 2 years ago in FamiliesThe Summer spent on the Deck
Growing up, we didn't have a lot of money. Most days, the only time I ate was at school. I remember when I was about fourteen, I was worried that my Dad didn't have food at home to eat and I put my lunch sandwich in my sweatshirt pocket to bring home to him. During the summer I was able to escape my house to my grandparent's house.
- Runner-Up in Dads Are No Joke Challenge
Dad and the Spectrum
“Mrs. Stogner, is there any history in your family of behavioral disorders or anything else that you might want to include?” The doctor looked up at me and waited.
Rachel DeePublished 2 years ago in Families Toasted, Buttered Donuts
There’s a tradition at our family cottage in Maine that no one ever forgets and everyone is always ready for. It usually happens on those rare cool summer mornings, when even though it may reach over eighty degrees by noon, the mornings keep us wrapped in blankets or with hoodies pulled over sleep-tousled heads. As I possess the most parenting roles (Mom and Gramma) the responsibility falls to me to perpetuate the tradition; gather the supplies, prepare the space, initiate the activity. On those chilly summer mornings no matter who is there or how old they are, I make toasted buttered doughnuts. It’s a modest tradition, really, but oh, so important to our family.
Cindy EastmanPublished 2 years ago in FamiliesBlack dads, ice-cream, and inflation
Part of baby fever is wondering which of my parents’ stories I will tell. Children are like blank palette souls waiting to be colored by their experiences, and parents are like spirit guides who give frame of reference to every new color, shape, and texture. Thinking about which narratives I will perpetuate feels like curating my future children’s library. When my son notices that his hair is short and his sister’s is long, will I tell him the story of Genesis? Shall I give him a brief introduction to gender roles? Or maybe I will immerse him in popular culture by showing him pictures in magazines that inspired his look? Will I encourage my daughter’s anthropological curiosity by delving into the history, and even the utility of long hair? Will I explain to her that vitality and fertility is signaled by long hair? Or will I let my children’s hair both grow long and free, and wait until my son comes to ask my why he is different, and then should I choose that moment to reinforce to him that he is special? I think of the many ways my dad made me feel special.
Vineece VerdunPublished 2 years ago in FamiliesThe Game of My Life
I dug my cleat into the dirt on the mound and looked at my catcher for the sign. There were two outs and the tying run was on second in the tenth inning. The tenth inning of a high school game. We’d already played an extra half game of this district playoff on a hot, muggy summer night in Memphis. My team had no business being in this game, let alone being ahead with a chance to win. It was the end of a tumultuous senior year. Our team had struggled, practices and games ended up in us getting mercilessly berated by our head coach, and morale was generally low.
John MoorePublished 2 years ago in FamiliesA Rabbit’s Dream of Saffron
As a myopic, bookish child, much of my time was spent mired in fantasy. When not absorbed in volumes of myths and ghost stories, I investigated what of the world I could, searching for evidence that the wonders I read about were not merely entertaining fictions, but rather messages from the past alluding to the mysterious true workings of the Universe. Now, nearing my 45th birthday, I see, for many people, that “growing up” means turning away from such endeavors, as it is seen as unbecoming to dream too much as an adult. I was never in danger of such a fate.
J. Otis HaasPublished 2 years ago in FamiliesYup, that's my dad.
In honour of father's day, I decided that for the 'dads are no joke challenge', I'd do something a little different. I decided that instead of one long story about my dad being my dad, I'd tell you ten mini stories of times when my dad was... well... in classic dad mode.
Billie WhytePublished 2 years ago in FamiliesHarvest
The sun had not even begun to crest the horizon when I heard the clang of pans in the kitchen, followed by the crack and sizzle of eggs frying. Grandma Nellie did not even try to be quiet. She wasn’t too used to having others in the house. Besides, it wouldn’t be long before MaNet, her daughter and my grandmother, would creep into the bedroom to gently rouse my brother and me. The smell of bread toasting to a near black wafted like lit charcoal across the bed linens and was quickly replaced by the sweet, salty scent of bologna hitting the cast iron.
Andrew Forrest BakerPublished 2 years ago in Families