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Vintage content about families throughout history; all about ancient ancestors, heirlooms, royal families and beyond.
Henry's House
December 12th, 1945, Liverpool. - Whoever waits for me here must think me dead, with it being so many months past the war. And perhaps it is better off left as such. I don’t think I’m scared of the answers that are hidden here in England. But I don’t believe in choosing wishful thinking over the promise of a good life with a good woman.
By Lucy Perrin5 years ago in Families
Notes from a Spectre
Regina may have always been searching for something but never as often as in her new apartment. The first floor of a three story townhouse in Savannah was a big score for her. For the last year she’d been enjoying her job as an assistant and caretaker for a surprisingly self sufficient 93 year old. Her employer, Marie, was a widow and a renown antiques expert in French artifacts and pottery. Marie’s daughter, Pauline, had offered Regina the chance to rent this apartment in one of their family’s properties at a steal. She had been refered to Pauline from her manager at the nursing home that had been her first job. The whole family was very nice and Marie was as sharp as a tack even if her body wasn’t keeping up. She occasionally acted as a consultant for museums and antique dealers all over the world, she had even consulted for a popular antiques show.
By Allison Holub5 years ago in Families
The Gift
A childhood home should be a happy place. But as Margaret walked into hers, she could hear the silence haunting the walls and feel the air tense at her arrival. She would have preferred not to come back here, but it had been her mother’s last request — in her last days she had ranted endlessly about what a good man her father had been, and that he had taken care of them — which Margaret had taken to mean there was money in the house.
By Jenny Morris5 years ago in Families
Little Black Book
I was tucked in a corner of my attic, enjoying myself. I’d found a box of my mom’s, filled with notebooks of every shape, size and color. The one with flowers had recipes, like the one for my grandmother’s tamales. The yellow one, poems; the green one was one of six journals. Some had short stories, including my mom’s favorite genre; mysteries.
By Francesca Bozem5 years ago in Families
Lost and Found
I’m tired of mysteries, of feeling like I am all alone in this world. It’s cold in Pennsylvania. The wind blows, sending sleet across the dark blue sky. I desperately huddle by the fire to warm my bones. I hear my aunt plagued with consumption. My home and everything I know shall soon be lost. We can not afford a lot of food and our funds are diminishing. I fear I have become the greatest burden in her life. My schooling seemed wasted on me, the numbers all look strange upon the blackboard and I can not make any sense of them. The kindness she exhibits can not be repaid.
By Melody Golden5 years ago in Families
Mystery of 1944
Mystery of 1944 As I walked eerily down the dark streets of Manhattan with the rain gushing down, I stepped on something firm. Ordinarily I would just keep walking but for some unknown reason I bent down and picked up the mysterious item. It was a soaked little black book. To say I was intrigued is an understatement. I resumed my ten block walk home with the book clenched in my hand the whole time.
By Sadie Colucci5 years ago in Families
A 60's Tale
A 60’s Tale 1962, Friday, 2:15 pm. Barbara sits in her car, her long dark hair hangs limp in front of her face. She stares out the window at nothing as she replays that last forty five minutes in her heard. She walked into her estranged husband’s offices, as she walked through the beige, dim lit corridors towards his office she noticed the sympathetic looks from the secretaries, even other business men. How could they know? Did they really know who Stanley is? She reached his office. Time seemed to warped and grow foggy. The words “keep the damn house, do what you want with it, sell it. But don’t contact me again” ring and blast through her ears. A traffic warden taps on the hood of her car, bringing her back from her thoughts. She begins the slow drive home. In her rearview mirror she looks at her son and daughter’s clutter on the backseat, wrappers from rhubarb and custards litter the floor and sandy footprints line the interior. Barbara smiles to herself thinking the freedom they must feel, her smile fades when she thinks of them for too long.
By Charlotte Gould5 years ago in Families
A 60's Tale
A 60’s Tale 1962, Friday, 2:15 pm. Barbara sits in her car, her long dark hair hangs limp in front of her face. She stares out the window at nothing as she replays that last forty five minutes in her heard. She walked into her estranged husband’s offices, as she walked through the beige, dim lit corridors towards his office she noticed the sympathetic looks from the secretaries, even other business men. How could they know? Did they really know who Stanley is? She reached his office. Time seemed to warped and grow foggy. The words “keep the damn house, do what you want with it, sell it. But don’t contact me again” ring and blast through her ears. A traffic warden taps on the hood of her car, bringing her back from her thoughts. She begins the slow drive home. In her rearview mirror she looks at her son and daughter’s clutter on the backseat, wrappers from rhubarb and custards litter the floor and sandy footprints line the interior. Barbara smiles to herself thinking the freedom they must feel, her smile fades when she thinks of them for too long.
By Charlotte Gould5 years ago in Families
A 60's Tale
A 60’s Tale 1962, Friday, 2:15 pm. Barbara sits in her car, her long dark hair hangs limp in front of her face. She stares out the window at nothing as she replays that last forty five minutes in her heard. She walked into her estranged husband’s offices, as she walked through the beige, dim lit corridors towards his office she noticed the sympathetic looks from the secretaries, even other business men. How could they know? Did they really know who Stanley is? She reached his office. Time seemed to warped and grow foggy. The words “keep the damn house, do what you want with it, sell it. But don’t contact me again” ring and blast through her ears. A traffic warden taps on the hood of her car, bringing her back from her thoughts. She begins the slow drive home. In her rearview mirror she looks at her son and daughter’s clutter on the backseat, wrappers from rhubarb and custards litter the floor and sandy footprints line the interior. Barbara smiles to herself thinking the freedom they must feel, her smile fades when she thinks of them for too long.
By Charlotte Gould5 years ago in Families
