The Storytellers Vol. 4

The Storytellers Vol. 4

Every Monday we ask our audience to share their stories with us on instagram. We would love for you to join us and share what each photo says to you.


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Photo Credit: Meredith Winn

Story Credit: Tommy Wallace 


Times had been hard in the little family shop on 9th street in South Philly. No one seemed to appreciate the deep resonating tones of the tubas his brother refurbished anymore. That meant the family was cutting corners any way they could. So on an unusually hot night in September the decision had been made. Roberto, as the oldest, knew he would be the one to take the old renovated bus behind the shop, load it with all the big horns it could hold and travel from town to town, peddling his instruments. Taking I-95 all the way to Miami he had stopped here and there in big cities and small towns and was now on the way back home. He had learned some things while out on the road: eat more than you can at cheap buffets, be careful who you trust, you can take free showers at public health centers, and you should never take family for granted. Now it was almost Christmas and he had one tuba left. It would be a hard one for him to sell. He was only about 200 miles from home and in Fredericksburg, Va. Open for business for only an hour, it began to snow. He was glad and began to smile, because he took it as a sign to keep the last tuba. This horn was the one he had played growing up as a boy and as a most precious gift, it would now be handed down to his son, Roberto, Jr.

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Photo Credit: Joe Montoya 

Story Credit: Kelly Rogers 

After many years of being a slave to the masses, Santa packs it in and moves to SoCal. After many failed attempts at trying to make friends with the local surfers he decides to pack up his pet crab and head north.


Photo credit: Francesco

Story credit: Susan Peck

Franco’s back was hurting worse than usual today. Stress, for certain, but today his back was complaining even before Franco climbed the 4 flights of stairs to the room that had been his office, his place of work for the past 4 decades. The empty box in his hand already felt weighted by the books, papers and assorted detritus he was about to fill it with. His boss, a man young enough to be Franco’s son’s son, had just told him to clear it all out – today. A grown man’s entire career, reduced to a jumble of piles of files. Jumbled like Franco’s feelings, his thoughts, and in ruins like his life. “How did I get here?” he asked himself, as he reached the bottom of the stairway that had a path worn down by 40 years of his own footfalls.

03March4 Photo credit: Igor C.

Story credit: @grandreopening

When Ellsworth drifted off mid sentence, Bill and the fellas didn’t really notice, Ellsworth had a habit of it. Sometimes he’d stop gnawing on his customary bologna and mustard sandwich part way through a bite, the crust left to bob on his lip like a limp, over-chewed stoogie. Bill knew one day a seagull would swoop down and steal the damn crust before Ell ever got back to chomping. Goddamn, Bill yearned for the day. He was half tempted to bait the sidewalk just to get those birds worked up before Ol’ Ellsworth even opened his lunch pail. Today it wasn’t a slipping of well-worn mental gears that commanded the pause, Ellsworth was grinning like a goddamn Cheshire cat, eyes twinkling like daytime fireworks. Bill followed his gaze, soon the other fellas did too. Across the street in front of Maelene’s Hairport Mrs. Cheryl Tompkins stood at the curb, head tipped back shaking out her freshly blessed curls, her back arched back as it was, her majestic chest was displayed boldly up to heaven itself. It was common knowledge in at least a three county radius that Mrs. Cheryl Tomkins hadn’t worn a bra since 1971. It was equally well understood that were she to live to 127 her otherworldly large, firm breasts would likely never need one.


Photo credit: Veronica Hassell

Story credit: Ariana Trinneer


She paused for a second thinking of all she would leave behind … Knowing that the minute she stepped out the door, everything would change ….




Momdom. That’s where I live, where I hang out in yoga pants and a ya’ll sweatshirt. I am the queen of the kitchen, the laundry wench, the seamstress, and the schoolmarm. I am the queen of my own castle, but man, most days it looks more like a hoarder’s house with toys in every corner and mail strewn across the floor. Most moms can understand the multiple roles I play because they also have many more roles than any human should. When asked to write about what my day looks like, I decided, instead of boring you with my days, I would entice you with my nights. Sounds exotic, no? Keep your pants on. It isn’t. My nights look like getting up every three hours with my youngest son and literally wrestling my older child into bed each night. I am simultaneously the comforter and the disciplinarian.


I read a lot of self-help books. It is actually slightly addicting to invite these strangers into your head and life to dissect you with their words and charts. From early on with my youngest, I read to be in-tune to his needs, because he had a touchy personality, among other variances.  I doubt you have met a 6 month old that can make grown ups mad, but Liam could. He refused to smile at strangers, or coo, or really do anything other than deadpan stare at them. It was actually pretty funny. Though, I was usually the only one laughing. Following the advice from a few different books over the last three years has led me to the belief that unless you have that perfect child all the authors list first in their charts, you are just screwed. I was screwed. My kid didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, wasn’t friendly, and could scale refrigerator shelves at 9 months.  Oh, the shame of it all. Fast forward two and a half years: he is at least friendly now. He still doesn’t eat or sleep well but, hey, I will take one out of three. The odds are at least looking up and I don’t think he is an old dog yet. I still remember driving to my in-laws and listening to a pediatric doctor on the radio. She spoke directly into my heart when she said that some parents would just be happy they got their children in bed without stitches each night. She also said if you were one of those parents, good job. I sat there savoring the affirmation that my job, my only job, was to get my kid through the day in one piece. Her advice has stayed burrowed in my heart for almost two years.


Recently, he has started having night terrors. Night terrors are baby nightmares which, you, as the parent, can do nothing about until they wake themselves up. It is the most heartbreaking thing to endure. Imagine, you are sitting beside your wailing child and they literally do not register your presence. They are panicked and crying and you can just sit there. You are totally helpless. The one thing you have always had, if nothing else, was the calming presence of just being momma. What do you do when that doesn’t help?


The funny part is — and really it isn’t funny  I feel totally helpless most of the time with my kids. Both are at different ages and stages and I find myself more and more helpless to deal with what they bring to the table. I guess as a parent we feel that way so much of the time. It is all a balancing act. How hard do I push? Am I supportive enough? I find myself saying more and more, ‘I just don’t know’. That razor’s edge I feel poised on for different reason with the boys is exhausting. It is a different kind of exhaustion than the sleepless nights. I am almost used to those, and have found I am a high-functioning zombie most days.

I have decided that raising children is a lot like a series of night terrors. You have 10 hours with them a day (until they go to school) to be loving and compassionate. Then darkness  falls, and the terrors come, and all the hugs and kisses and encouragement don’t matter for those few minutes. I view sending my kids into the world as a sort of protracted night terror. I can only wait until they wake up from their selfishness or rebellion to comfort them. I can pour myself into both of them but there are times they are just on their own. I can’t be there to push or encourage, that’s not my role. I have to trust that they will wake up and turn to me. It is funny how comforting it is to me to equate my older son’s bumps and wrinkles to night terrors. I can put a name to it. It is no longer floating anxiety. It has a name and a function and my role is clearly spelled out. I am to wait patiently until they wake up. I am to sit quietly in the dark, with my heart hurting, until they turn their eyes to me for help.

I can do that.

I can wait.


Captain and the Kid

Captain and the Kid

Captain and the Kid written by Cally and Grandreopening














Photo credit: Sheldon Serkin

Story credit:

Cally Lence  & @grandreopening

Honest Moments by Caleb Stumpfl

Honest Moments by Caleb Stumpfl

Nina 6

A word from Caleb:






How did you start taking photographs?








Find Nina //  IG  // website //

Find Caleb //  IG  // Website  //


I met a man on Sunday morning

I met a man on Sunday morning

Written by Anna Cox  Photos by Sam Smotherman

I met a man on Sunday morning. He wasn’t particularly handsome or interesting but my time with him continues to niggle in the back of my head. He told me about being a veteran, about agent orange, and shared that his mother had a terrible accident involving missing lung lining, a brick wall and a terrific sneeze.  He spun story on top of story, one bleeding into and borrowing on the last. He was hard to follow and it seemed as though whiskey permeated every ounce of air around him. He cried crocodile tears into his coffee cup while spinning his stories and fell out of his chair while he was eating. He was diabetic and very conscious of what he ate. He spoke with an eastern Kentucky accent, fidgeting with his hands that shook the entire time. He seemed almost child-like when he spoke of his momma and how she would kill him if she saw him looking unkept. He told me about getting lost looking for the bus and how the benches were the best place to bed down at night  He was a dirty, dirty liar but I liked him anyway. My friend bought him breakfast and patiently helped him pick food out while the wait staff fluttered about them. He made them incredibly nervous, and although I understood why, I felt sad for him anyway.

I cannot pretend to understand homelessness or being hungry. I won’t even begin to try to decipher why he ended up on the streets or what was truth out of everything he told me because it doesn’t really matter. What bothered me the most was that he had been conditioned to lie to gain sympathy to ultimately get what he wanted. In this instance, he wanted breakfast and a large cup of coffee. When he said the phrase, “I am not telling you this so you will feel bad…” but that, in fact, was exactly what he was hoping we would feel. Don’t misunderstand me, I am not here to debate homelessness or to negotiate sticky social topics. I am here to point out that he and I are not all that different. I have been taught to be sneakier with my lies, whereas he tells his boldly because that is exactly what is expected of him. He is homeless, therefore he is drunk or will drink before the day is out and everything out of his mouth is a lie crafted to gain sympathy. Don’t shake your head at my words, you know, deep down, you believe the sentence I just typed. I know your type, because I am like you. I skeptically look at the young woman on the side of the road and wonder if she actually has the five kids she claims to have waiting on her back home. I ask myself as I drive past and read her sign why she couldn’t get a job down the road at the restaurant I just left. Don’t pretend you don’t think these things also because most of us do, even if we are generous people.  Most of us would feed someone hungry. Most of us wouldn’t ignore a bald plea to ease a physical ache. Most of us are good humans, but most of us are also good liars.

The only difference between the man on Sunday and me is that he turned right at hardship where I turned left. He is only one step removed from me, and in effect, you.  He is dressed down and wearing his physical needs on the outside. I have learned to hide mine in plain sight.  That morning, once his belly was full, he wanted to talk. He wanted to be heard by a captive audience. He wanted to impart a small piece of himself to us even if it wasn’t the truth. We can all understand that. We understand wanting to belong to something, even if that something is a Sunday brunch with two strangers. My friend and I pretended to not be uncomfortable while he talked with us, but we were. Both of us wanted to meet his needs if we could, but we also understood that he was telling lie after lie. It is hard to find the line between between sympathy and naivety. Even though my friend and I were basically strangers, we have a similar world view. Simply stated, to give without strings and to give without the hope of reciprocation. But even as I type that it feels hollow. The small, dark part of my heart says that I am generous because it makes me feel good. If I lead with that thought, my giving is ultimately selfish and motive driven.

What if we strip the generosity down to its base instinct?  A base instinct that most people have built in to their psyche. The instinct to care about what happens to those we care about the most. If I look at that man like he is one of my own, then my caring and meeting needs isn’t one of selfishness, it is a pure act of love. He is me and he is you.

My resolution this year is simple. It is that my heart and head will come together to understand that there can be love even if there are lies between strangers. My motivation is one of caring for my circle. I am calling for an overhaul in my own life and heart. I am calling for a community chest born of pure love. I am calling for a giving that will strip down our wants and needs to perfect unrequited giving. We need to give ourselves to the idea that there is no us and them. That there is just us, and in that all encompassing circle there is a freeness of love that gives, not until it hurts, but because someone else is hurting and you, simply stated, are in the position to change that fact.