Springtime splendour

 The laundry blew in the wind on the backyard clothesline. The smell of springtime fills the senses with a treat almost forgotten during the harshness of winter.

High atop the mountains, the warmth of the sun begins to thaw the land, and raging streams come alive with a thunderous song.

Frozen ponds and country streams thaw as new life is born everywhere you look. The winter forests turn green, and animals of all types rejoice as nature's table returns once again.

The sounds of tractors plowing the fields and the smell of the soil embrace you with promises of a good crop. The rains bring a smile, as they are the one saving grace to nourish the seeds.

Windows are opened, letting the fragrances of Spring replace the stale winter air. Children shed their winter wear and replace them with knee-high rubber boots. A must on a springtime farm.

Picnic tables are pulled from the barn, getting ready for family and friends to gather on Sunday after church. The ladies would all bring a dish with barely enough room on the table for the last two.

The conversation among the men centered on the forecasts and rain totals, and the price of hay and feed costs were always a concern. The smell of the smoker filled the air as hungry children gathered close to the table, hoping to snag a deviled egg or biscuit but usually got a slap on the hand from a smiling Mom.

With a full belly and a happy heart, the late afternoon picnic ended with a slice of apple pie and chocolate cream, if you dared. Dad said he wouldn't be able to fit on the tractor seat if he ate one more bite of anything.

With the guests gone, Mom and Dad took a slow walk down the country lane, holding hands just as they had when they were kids, grateful for every little thing, especially the kids who got to wash the dishes.

Mike 2025                                           

Grandads farm

 His kids would be coming by today with little ones in tow. They loved the farm and told him he must be the farmer in the book their Mom read to them before bedtime. But they asked why Grandad's name wasn't McDonald's?

He was ready for them with ice cream churned this morning and chocolate chip cookies still in the oven. But the real fun began with a tour of the barn and a carrot for Danny, the miniature donkey, some feed for the chickens, and most fun of all, jumping out of the hayloft into a wagon below stacked with hay.

Lunch was simple, consisting of ham sandwiches and ice-cold lemonade that he had made with real lemons. Afterward, it was time for driving lessons on the old tractor, the same one he had taught his kids to drive, and for the older boys, a turn at the combine they had been waiting for, what seemed like forever, to arrive.

He and his kids sat on the porch, watching as their children chased the chickens, played fetch with the dogs, and made short work of the plate of cookies. As the day went on and the kids grew tired, it was time for a bowl of ice cream, which was eaten on the porch in silence as every last scrap of the bowl was consumed. And now it was time to say good night.

Goodbyes were said, and hugs were given, with a reminder from Mom to thank Grandad for everything. He stood on the porch as the last little face pressed against the car window disappeared into the distance, then began the task of washing dishes that his daughter had offered to do, but he was pretty direct when telling her he'd do them.

As night arrived, he sat in his favorite chair, remembering the day and the happiness on the children's faces. He remembered the talks he had with his daughter and son, telling them he was considering selling the farm. But his daughter said he'd been saying that for ten years. He fell asleep with a half-eaten bowl of ice cream on his lap and a picture his granddaughter drew for him, featuring Danny the donkey and a title that read "Old McGrandad's Farm."

Mike 2025                                                   

The front porch swing

 He often finds himself slowly swinging on the wooden swing he made for her decades ago. It was a place where laughter and tears came together, a sanctuary from the rain, a spot for savoring iced tea in summer and steaming coffee to watch the winter sunrise.

The swing had secrets, and rightfully so, as it was the one place where emotions coupled with unspoken words seemed to soothe and relax to the sound of the squeaking swing.

Apologies were made, love professed, and holding hands in silence, the warmest feeling in the world.

She would sit there, slowly cutting off the ends of snap peas, looking out at the place she called home. The sights and smells of the farm, along with the rocking in the chair, brought her great comfort as she laughed a little, watching him kick the tractor that obviously wouldn't start.

Her entire world could be seen from the swing he made for her so long ago.

Now alone, he had no words to express how much he missed her and their times swinging together. A simple thing that told their life stories one chapter at a time. There are moments when he leans against the railing, looking at the empty swing, stopping for a minute to picture her there smiling and cutting snap peas, professing her love for him as he lets the tears flow and whispers I love you too.

Mike 2025                                                     

                              

Unforgetable moments

 The young man skipped rocks across the pond he had grown up by that seemed so small now. The trees he once climbed have lost their branches to age, and a frayed piece of rope, once a tire swing he would swing on, dropping into the cool waters of the pond, was now just a memory of his childhood.

He walked into the woods past the old bridge, where he had kissed his first girlfriend, who ran away afterward, he guessed, to tell her friends. He couldn't walk on it anymore as time had given it back to nature, but that couldn't stop the memories.

He scanned the tree line, looking for his old tree house, and finally spotted it a far cry from its beginnings, with a couple of boards still hanging by a thread as the rest had fallen to the ground, taking it with it the summer nights with his friends reading comic books with flashlights and scary stories that remained with them for quite a while.

His mind raced as he remembered the first fish he caught and a broken arm he got from falling out of that tree house. He remembered the smells of the woods and the night sounds that sent chills down his spine. He remembered Mom's apple pie and Dad's Captain Black pipe tobacco, which he could close his eyes and smell for a passing moment.

Fresh-cut wildflowers and fireflies in mason jars. Homemade kites and freshly churned ice cream on a hot summer night.

He emerged from the woods as the sun began to set, and the man in the moon lit his way home. I never thought a visit back home would bring back lost times so vividly, but they did, and I made a promise to myself to take the memories with me, no matter where my journey leads.

Mike 2025                                                

A writers life

 Growing older and writing can sometimes be a challenging combination. It's like a race to see who retains the most memory before the story comes to an end.

That never-ending search for the oftentimes elusive word or sentence screaming to get out and me screaming when it does.

Writing as a younger man had few distractions; a clear mind came easily, and the words followed.

How do I describe in detail what I want to say if I keep being interrupted by words begging me not to be left behind?

How do I pull back memories buried so deep inside of me that they stay locked up as if they never happened?

Writing is like many other crafts that flourish at the beginning but lose their brilliance over time. But we keep on trying, as quitting isn't who we are. We dig deeper and try to relive our past, grateful that we could and hopeful we still can.

This world we live in is a million stories waiting to be told. AI will write some, and those with average intelligence, like my own, will continue to reach into our hearts, minds, and souls to bring words to life in ways an algorithm cannot.

The life of a writer can be described as someone who sees with their eyes and their heart, writes with their emotions, and touches their readers with memories they had all but forgotten. I don't believe any computer can replace someone who can pluck a word from the depth of a soul and craft a story.

Mike 2025                                                

First kiss

 Everyone remembers their first love and their first kiss, which you can still taste if you close your eyes and remember.

Mine was at a Friday night football game. We were both fifteen and on our first date. After being scared to near death when meeting her Dad, we held hands and walked to the school stadium. I had never held a girl's hand, and I can honestly say it sent shivers up my spine. We found seats high in the bleachers and sat so close to each other that we barely needed two seats.

I didn't know what was happening with the game as all my attention was on her and her gloved hand holding mine. She said she was cold, so I wrapped my jacket around her, and in doing so, I just reacted and kissed her. She didn't pull away but returned my kiss, her warm lips and the taste of cherries pressed firmly against mine.

That first kiss was one of hundreds as our teenage love blossomed into a love like I've never known since. Today, decades later, I often think of her and our first kiss on those cold bleachers. Her hand in mine and the taste of cherry forever on my lips.

Mike 2025                                                     

Milk can stories

 Raindrops fell into an old milk can with something growing in it. I don't know what. I liked how it looked in the milk can, so I just let it do its thing. It reached a point where people who saw it commented on how unusual and pretty it was. When asked what it was, I told them it was a story plant. They would say, 'Very nice.

I spent many hours of my adult life writing stories about various things, and I usually wrote on the front porch, as it was a soothing place with views of the hills and endless forests, all of which were topics for the stories I loved to write.

I decided my porch needed more milk cans, so I found some at a farm that was no longer in operation and offered the farmer five dollars apiece, which he agreed was fair. I set them on the porch with the original can I've had for many years, giving them time to grow into something, and I didn't care what it was. It didn't take long, and sprouts began to show, trying to turn into something no one could put a name to. Some say they were weeds that sustained themselves on the dried milk inside the cans.

Others said they were air plants that didn't need soil to grow; that was interesting. In time, each milk can had blooms of all shapes and colors, and people kept coming to my porch to see these strange and beautiful plants.

Each plant told me a story about someone or something  I found interesting, and I ended up including them as a character in my writing. One after another, characters were born sitting on my porch, and stories were written. The milk can stories began with one milk can and dozens of people from all walks of life freely sharing their stories with me for reasons unknown. 

Maybe it was the way they just were, or perhaps the milk cans reminded them of something on their granddad's farm. I don't know. I do, however, know I was inspired to write more stories and buy more milk cans.

Mike 2025