The percolator

 Long before the sun rose, she began brewing coffee in the percolator her mother had given her. It took about half an hour to brew; as each minute passed, the clear water turned black, and the aroma grew stronger. And then the sound grew quiet. And finally, the coffee was ready to drink.

She had visited the henhouse to gather half a dozen eggs, which she planned to scramble as soon as he came downstairs. She set out a tray of real butter, a jar of apple butter she had canned the previous autumn, and some strips of bacon, covered with a cloth to keep them warm.

Hearing the floorboards creaking, she greased the iron skillet and poured in the eggs, knowing he would walk into the kitchen any minute and kiss her cheek while saying good morning. His morning newspaper sat folded on the table, which he opened as she poured his coffee.

All of her hard work was consumed in just a few minutes, but that didn't bother her as she tended to the dirty dishes, already preparing dinner in her mind. After finishing his meal, he got up from the table, kissed her cheek, and said goodbye, before heading out the door.

Her day was full and well-planned, with only a little time to sit down and enjoy a cup of coffee from the old percolator her mother had given her. It didn't taste as good as his first cup, but she didn't mind. She glanced at the newspaper, opened to a half-page ad for new cars, and chuckled a little, wondering if he was planning to surprise her with one. However, he had been driving the same car for as long as she had known him, and he wasn't one for change very often.

Her life wasn't perfect, and she often wished for more than just a kiss on her cheek three times a day, but that was her reality, and she never complained—at least not to him. There was a whole world outside her house, but as her mother once told her, life is like a percolator and you have to be patient if you want to reap the rewards.

They grew old together, but little had changed over the years. She went through the motions so familiar by then she could do them while her mind was a million miles away. The eggs were scrambled, and the bacon was covered with a cloth. Her dinners were planned, and her cheek waited for the first kiss of three.

He passed away before she did, and she found herself no longer cooking breakfast. A slice of toast was all she wanted, and that first cup from the percolator her mother had given her so very long ago.

Mike 2025                                             

Reel-fun

 The small waves brushed against the boat anchored in the harbor. It was a great morning to relax with a fishing pole and a cup of coffee. Then, in a crackling voice, the radio warned of an approaching storm. A severe one was on the way, the forecasters said. He secured everything on deck and took a last look around before climbing into the dinghy to head for shore and the safety of shelter. But in a moment of disbelief, he noticed the small craft was halfway to the shore.

Rain had begun to fall, and the winds were picking up enough to rock his boat and get his sea legs working. The ship-to-shore radio broadcasted warnings to seek safe shelter and keep the lines open for boats in need of help. If ever there was a time to remember his days in the Navy, it was now.

He couldn’t risk washing ashore, so he pulled up the anchor and headed out to sea. He had faith in his boat, built to withstand bad weather, but he had never faced a storm with predicted swells of twenty feet. The name of his boat was Reel-Fun, and it usually lived up to its name, but today it would be put to the test.

In his gut, he welcomed the challenge, relying on his sailing skills and the blessing of King Neptune to guide him. Salt spray pelted his face as he headed into an oncoming wave, riding the crest and shooting straight down like a world-class surfer. As the waves grew and the sea became angry, he thought of the promise he once made to be buried at sea and wondered if that fate might be coming true.

Through the night, the storm raged with pounding waves and gale-force winds as he stood ready at the helm for whatever the sea had to offer. Suddenly, he froze in his tracks as he looked ahead at a wave towering over twenty feet high. There was no time to think; he had to act quickly and turn the boat into the wave, using all the power the boat could muster. It felt like an eternity as the boat began its descent, and when it did, the bow disappeared into the sea, popping back up time and again. For some reason, he found himself riding the massive wave back toward the shore. One might think that was a good thing, but he knew better. At the speed he was maintaining, he would hit the beach like a truck hitting a wall. The keel would break, and he would lose steering, eventually coming to a stop somewhere in the dunes, hopefully upright.

All he had now was faith in his boat and memories of his Navy days. He could see the shoreline clearly now as each swell decreased in size, and the boat gave all it had to stay afloat. She was more than seaworthy; she was a force to be reckoned with and a skipper that would never give up.

A little bit further, the seas began to calm. He guided his boat onto the beach, jumped off, and secured it with heavy lines to trees that could withstand nature’s fury. He examined the damage, knowing that Reel-Fun would need attention. The keel was damaged, as were the two props. The salt spray had stripped the paint off, leaving her looking more like an abstract painting than a boat. The outriggers had disappeared somewhere at the bottom of the sea.

A crowd gathered, looking at his boat and asking him how he managed to keep it from sinking. “It was Reel-Fun,” he answered as the crowd began to leave, some shaking their heads in disbelief at the crazy man with a lot of luck. 

- Mike 2025                                         

The old tree

 There’s an old tree in the forest that, for hundreds of years, has never seen a single human being. Alone, it has grown and learned what to fear and what to welcome as shelter deep within its branches. 

It never feels lonely, as birds perch upon its limbs, and small animals of the forest find safety to nest and raise their young. 

This old tree drops acorns to the ground, where they are gathered and stored for the cold winter months. It communicates with the other trees in a secret language of its own.

When darkness falls, the tree sleeps as crickets chirp, owls hoot, and mothers softly sing their babies to sleep, all protected by the old tree in the forest.

I wish I could visit that tree and sit on its ancient roots, my back against its bark, looking up at centuries of growth and knowledge. I would be still and wait for the life within its branches to sing, knowing I meant no harm. I would wrap my arms around the ancient tree and say goodbye as I left it to its kingdom deep in the forest, where solitude is a welcome feeling. 

— Mike, 2025                                            

Summer memories

 The smell of hot dogs cooking on the backyard grill and the sounds of the neighborhood on a sunny summer day are the things I remember most. I can still hear the endless opening and closing of the screen door as Mom brings out enough food to feed an army. The laughter of kids splashing in the pool we had just set up a few weeks ago echoes through my mind, even though the water hadn’t quite warmed up in the sun yet.

I recall the smell of varnish from the neighbor's boat as he prepares to launch it once it dries. There’s the sound of a street rod coming from the house across the street, where a teenage boy is showing off the work he did during the cold winter months. I remember the long phone cord that nearly reached from our house to the street, where my sister would talk privately with a boy from school.

I can picture friends and family dropping by for a swim in the new pool, while Dad shared how affordable it was with the other guys. As the sun began to set, the pool ladder would emerge, signaling the end of swimming for the day. We kids, all wrinkled like prunes, had to clean up the yard and put away the pool toys while Dad skimmed the pool to remove the leaves.

Afterward, we would take a bath to wash off the chlorine, enjoy some Jiffy Pop, and settle in for a movie, marking the end of a perfect summer day. Even if we sometimes fell asleep in front of the television before the movie was over, those memories will always stay with me. They were the best years of my life, and I can relive them whenever I catch the smell of hot dogs cooking on the backyard grill.

Mike, 2025                                              

Greatest show on earth

 Like most summers growing up, the anticipation of the circus coming to town consumed our thoughts. We knew it was imminent when the vibrant pre-arrival posters went up all over town. The colorful advertisements, featuring elephants leading the way and unique clowns, made every kid jump for joy. Some of the older boys would get paid fifty cents to help raise the big top by pulling on ropes, while the younger boys eagerly watched, waiting for their turn in the summers to come.

On the day of the circus's arrival, we positioned ourselves on our bicycles at the edge of town, waiting for the music that signaled it was getting close. Then it happened: we heard the music and the sound of elephants almost within our sight as we sped off to meet the greatest show on Earth. It was a fantastic sight to behold—the circus band, dressed in their colorful costumes, led the way as beautiful ladies twirled their batons, some throwing them so high we could barely see them drop back into waiting hands.

We followed the parade along the sidewalks, ringing our bicycle bells to warn people that we were coming and to encourage them to move aside. The local beat cops waved us off and occasionally gave chase with smiles, reminiscing about their youth doing the same thing. Then came the circus wagons, accompanied by the sounds of roaring lions and tigers that made everyone take a few steps back as the mighty cats passed by.

The parade ended at the fairgrounds, a name given to Farmer Brown's cornfield, which he leased to the circus every year for as long as we could remember. My dad said Farmer Brown made more money from the circus than he would from a corn crop, so it became known as the fairgrounds.

That night marked the first performance, with everyone in town eagerly awaiting the ring announcer's booming voice, welcoming each and every one to the greatest show on Earth. We watched in awe as horses with riders standing on their backs went round and round the ring, trying unsuccessfully to catch the peanuts we had bought for a nickel. We laughed until we cried as we watched the clowns clamber into a tiny car together, wondering how it was possible.

There were lion and tiger trainers cracking whips to direct the big cats over obstacles, braving danger with every snap. Not to be forgotten were the massive elephants, shaking the ground with every step as their trainer climbed onto their trunks and circled the ring, sitting atop their enormous heads to the delight of everyone.

The show ended with every performer circling the ring, waving to the audience, who truly got their dollar's worth. The circus stayed for three days, then marched out of town with the band playing and big cats roaring, as we rode our bicycles alongside them while the beat cops turned away. I managed to take down a pre-circus poster that I still proudly display in my house—a reminder of my youth and the greatest show on Earth. 

— Mike, 2025                                              

A gift

 I don't question why I can recall moments in time; I see it as a precious gift that was somehow bestowed upon me at a very early age. While most boys were busy playing baseball or football, I occasionally joined in, but my heart wasn't in it. Instead, I preferred to spend my time writing about everything around me. At the tender age of seven, I wrote a poem for my grandma, who tucked it away in her memory box. She told me I had a gift and encouraged me to listen to my heart, rather than the people who said I was strange. I took her advice and continued to write as often as I could, stashing my work in drawers and eventually in boxes, as the volume grew rapidly.

As I grew up, I often found myself writing on bar napkins, paper bags, envelopes, and just about anything I could find to quickly capture the thoughts racing through my mind, sometimes faster than I could write.

During my carefree days in the sixties and seventies, with the help of some mind-altering substances, I wrote pieces that, upon revisiting them, left me wondering if I was truly alone in the words I had put to paper. An English professor once read some of my work and remarked that he thought I was channeling a great writer named Kahlil Gibran. After reading some of his work, I was both shocked and pleased, as it seemed plausible; his spirit resonated in the deepest parts of my writing. I recognized this as an important event in my life, a call to action to delve deeper into my thoughts.

To clarify, I continued to write almost every day without relying on chemicals, weed, or anything else to inspire me. For decades, I've accepted that I must write something every day. As a result, I've penned three books and blogged over a thousand stories so far. To refer to this as my passion doesn't do it justice, nor does it help to think of myself as crazy, but sometimes that thought occasionally crosses my mind.

While some people need that first cup of coffee in the morning to get their wheels turning, I need to sit down and write something, no matter how short or long. As long as my fingers are tapping away on the keys, I'm in rhythm with my own drummer.

Mike 2025

People have asked me why I write and where the ideas come from. What you just read is as good an answer as I can think of.                              

I miss the times

 I miss the days when men held doors open for women and walked on the street side of the sidewalk. I miss Sunday dinners at Grandma's house, where I could hardly sleep the night before, dreaming of her homemade cherry pie. I miss the department store windows at Christmas, especially the little red wagon that stared back at me as I hoped it would be under the tree.

I miss driving through the countryside with no particular destination, stopping along the road to enjoy a picnic lunch. I miss the smell of new clothes on the first day of school and the haircuts I got the Saturday before. I miss long conversations with Granddad, who, in my eyes, was the smartest person I knew, and I still miss him.

I miss autumn nights and Friday night football games under the lights. I miss my mom's laughter, her kindness, and our walks on warm summer evenings. I miss the ice cream man whose bell meant he was nearby, prompting my mad dash to Mom for a quarter. I miss sledding down hills and skating on a frozen pond that Dad made for us.

I miss my first love, who taught me patience as we discovered each other in the warmth of affection. I miss my years in the Navy, the countries I visited, the friends I made, and the unique feeling of being out at sea as saltwater weathered my face. I miss my children when they were babies, gazing into my eyes and melting my heart.

I miss driving lessons with my dad, who patiently showed me how to use a clutch and reassured me that it was alright, even when I failed the first test. I miss so many things, but I am grateful that I can still remember countless moments from my life that hold great meaning.

Life moves quickly; children grow up, parents and loved ones pass on, and before you know it, you find yourself alone with your memories, wishing for just one more ride on the carousel of life.  

Mike 2025