Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Families.
They Lit Up the Night
I’ve been making the trip six days a week for over three years. Monday through Saturday, every day, at 2:30 PM, I walk around the corner to check the mail. Sometimes I have to go back at 3:00 PM because our mailman (mail-person) is not as reliable as that commitment from the Mailman’s Oath would make you think. Ours is deterred by “snow, rain, heat, gloom of night,” and a million other things. The walk is typically a non-event, no one’s home that time of day, there’s never much through traffic, it’s quick enough that weather is not a factor. The mailbox, or the contents do constitute an event for me, akin to opening gifts on Christmas morn when you were a kid. I call it junk mail, as most do, but in my mind, it’s entertainment, the sale papers, coupon books, political flyers, even the bills, the occasional birthday card, holiday greeting cards, a rare magazine—no letters, of course. It’s disappointing that no one mails letters these days—it’s a lost art—the way people used to write letters. Today we get texts with awful spelling and grammar, incomplete thoughts, crazy abbreviations. Anyway, I’m getting off-topic. Earlier this week I was on my way to the mailbox and where I cross the street, right in the middle of the street, there was this shiny black thing about the size of a business card. I couldn’t resist—I picked it up. It was a tiny black book, only about an eighth of an inch thick, maybe ten pages, each scribbled all over, but without a legible thought anywhere, not a single group of letters that made up any real word in any language I knew. There were more numbers than letters, but the numbers didn’t add up to anything cogent either. I decided to check with the neighbor nearest the spot in the road to see if the book was his, but, he said, “Nope, not mine.” So, I took it home with me—better than anything in the mailbox lately.
By Bracy Ratcliff5 years ago in Families
The List
It’s strange to think that someone’s whole life can fit in a few medium sized Home Depot boxes. Especially when that person is my wife. She cannot be categorised or defined. She cannot be described. Yet all of her now sits before me, neatly packed away.
By Damian Madden5 years ago in Families
Dime Shrine
Bidding closed. Sold to number 417. Lot 293. Lot 293 was a small red box. It contained 13 9x4 books bound in soft black leather. They were weathered - they looked to be at least 100 years old, with ruled pages and bearing the Moleskine brand. The details of this bid were strange. The lot was identified only by an image of the journals in the box. The starting price was $20,000. The seller was anonymous. And, perhaps the most interesting part, the money paid was to be donated to the buyer’s choice of charity or foundation. Bidder Number 417 was slender and petite, perched on a blue velvet chair at the auction house. She lowered her placard, smiled at the auctioneer, nodded at the other bidders, and gracefully rose to collect the red box.
By Joan Chapple5 years ago in Families
"I wish you luck"
Growing up, I could never keep a diary. I tried, of course – it was something young girls were supposed to do – but it never lasted. My hands would cramp from writing too much, everything spilling out like water over the edge of an overfilled tub. My hand couldn’t keep up with my brain, as one of my 4th grade teachers said when discussing my messy penmanship. Then there would be days, weeks, months where I would forget, the diary sitting forgotten, and I would feel guilty and resume. Then I would start writing again, trying to “fill in” the imaginary friend that was the little black book my mother bought me to “help me express myself”. But I would get tired of trying to relate everything that had happened in the interim, so I would always give up.
By Christie Sausa5 years ago in Families
In the Details
Anthea hated dusting. Truly, of all the mundane domestic tasks she had been charged with since her parents had begun their new business venture of buying and flipping abandoned houses; dusting was the absolute worst. The “deal” had been that if Anthea agreed to help her parents with cleaning up these houses for reselling, she could keep anything “cool” that was found inside them. Anthea had agreed; images of lost diamond rings behind radiators and forgotten stacks of cash beneath floorboards flooding her decision making. Unfortunately the most exciting things that had been unearthed after an entire summers worth of relentless toil on Anthea’s part were some fantastically boring old books, some random rusty pieces of silverware, and what Anthea thought was a Monopoly piece, but her mother had informed her was a thimble…whatever that was. The last several months’ worth of neglect to her social life and hard labor she had put into these musty old houses were, in Anthea’s opinion, a complete waste of time.
By Valerie Stumpf5 years ago in Families
Cole-Mine
It’s often too cold for me to sleep well. The blanket I was able to dig up, during one of the Colemans last episodes, is thin and quite stiff. It does not provide much heat or comfort. Their late night thrashing can be heard throughout the large Bronx brownstone, and makes it difficult to drift into any sound slumber. I’m not sure what they are doing, but the noises are frightening. It almost makes me happy to be locked in this tiny pantry.
By Catherine Zimmerman5 years ago in Families
Armed Golf
I have often thought while playing a round of golf about all the horror and hell that has been plotted, dealt, and then easily forgotten on the course. Rank businessmen and corrupt politicians carving up parts of the world, dealing in oil and rare minerals, then slicing one more drive and another fat chunker-- all the while bombs being dropped on some country most of us couldn’t identify if we were air dropped there ourselves. Presidents authorizing air raids and then atrociously ripping drives down into some swath of trees. This game has truly been the thoroughfare of blood and war. For me, it was just a nice way to compete with my older brother.
By Tim McDonough5 years ago in Families
The Way It Was
How It Used To Be By Pat McManus
By Patricia Mc Manus5 years ago in Families
The Key
Life has a way of throwing many curve balls. No one knows this better than I. Fifteen years ago, both my parents' life was swiftly and tragically snuffed out, leaving me the “text book” orphan at the tender age of three. I don’t remember much of them...only faint echoes of my mother's contagious laughter and my father’s hypnotic singing voice that would lull me to sleep. Mom was in the final stages of expecting the little brother I never knew. While in their haste to hurry to the hospital to deliver him, their truck was hit by a drunk driver, killing all involved. People all over town said this was the day that turned my beautiful Nan’s hair completely white from the excruciating shock and sadness she had endured that day. She said she kept it that way as a morose reminder of how frail and precious life always was. I was lucky to be left to the mercy of my beautiful Nan and her free spirit kid brother, Uncle Moe. If it truly wasn’t for these two, I surely would have had a cursed life. Uncle Moe was near my father’s age when he was forced to taking on the role of “Dad” to me, and was around for most of the important life stages - like teaching me to ride a bike (much to my Nan’s chagrin) and how to climb the old oak tree like a chimp in order to reach our ponds swing rope where I ultimately learned to master the biggest splash that could be heard from miles away. That's where my bravery ended, and stagnated once I set foot off our property line. As I got older, he started taking off on occasion to travel and dirt dig, not surprising...as it was always in our blood line. My family’s ancestry was filled with all sorts of professions involving numerous great adventures... archaeologists(like Uncle Moe), engineers, and many high-ranking brave military career members. Nonetheless, I was destined and most reluctant to follow in their foot steps.
By Jennifer Bowers5 years ago in Families
