Journey at sea

 Sailing on the endless sea, my legs must learn to walk again. Leaning like the tower of Pisa, each movement with the water soon becomes normal. No more sunscreen for this weathered face, as each wrinkle was a testament to my days at the helm, not to be forgotten.

As gulls pass by on their journey and the dolphins entertain me, I am content.

As nightfall creeps upon me, I'll find a secret cove where I'll anchor and stretch my sea legs with a walk on white sand sparkling with the sun's last beams of light. I'll build a small fire to cook the fish I caught trolling a line behind me, savoring the gift given by the sea.

I'll fall to sleep listening to the trees blowing softly and the mermaid's call, waiting for my return.

The morning sun warms my face as I awaken to blue skies and calm seas. My boat bobbing up and down, moored in the distance, awaiting my return, anxious to keep going toward my final journey. I swing my pack across my shoulders and wade into the cool water, walking softly so I won't scare up a skate.

Reaching my boat, I climb on board and make a cup of coffee, gently rocking, careful not to sip when a wave comes in. I attend to the rigging and pull anchor, slowly motoring further out into the channel, my roadway of water going where I tell her to go.

Weekenders pass me by on jet skis and power boats, pulling daredevils who jump the wake of larger vessels. A temporary distraction until  I reached the inlet and hoisted the sails, taking me out to sea in a vision of white cloth filled with salt air heading out once again on a journey that's eluded me until I realized my happiness was stronger and with more meaning when all I ever needed was a salted weathered face and winds in my sails.

Today, I test my skill as a sailor as I venture further out than I've ever been. The waves grew higher, and the gusts were enough to force me to hold on tightly, but there was no fear, no turning back, only the ride of a lifetime as sails tore and flew like a sideways flag off to battle.

My eyes stung, and breathing became difficult as Mother Nature threw me everything she had to offer.

The sun came out, and gray skies were replaced with a beautiful blue. The winds lay down, and the sea turned to glass and gentle sailing. I traveled further out, where most have never gone on a small boat, but something beckoned me, and I listened.

A pod of whales broke the silence, their young beside them, seeming not to care I was among them as they forged for food. A giant man of wars got close enough to touch as huge turtles bumped the boat. Seeing how I reacted, then swam away, realizing  I was no danger, just another sea creature traveling the open waters of a world not fully known.

Stories are told about the sailor who found true happiness on his small boat, which he sometimes moored and swam ashore to meet the people of the villages, some of whom had never had visitors until he arrived.

Some years later, a group of marine biologists came across a tattered sailing boat washed up on shore and broken. There were no hull numbers to identify the vessel, so they left it where it laid a refuge for birds when the sun bore down.

As for me, I walk the deserted shorelines each step closer to returning to sea, and the mermaids that never gave up Id someday return.

Mike 2025                                                 

The hat

 He proudly wore a now-tattered ball cap a young man returning home from the war had given him. He remembers the day well: sitting at the bar of the VFW, attending a Memorial Day gathering with others like himself who were lucky enough to march home, and remembering those who didn't. A young soldier pulled up a stool and glanced his way with a painted-on smile and hollow eyes. The soldier removed his ball cap and set it on the bar, staring at it deep in thought. This was my brother's hat. He said he wore it every day over there. The old veteran looked at the hat with its frayed edges and stains of war, wanting to say something, but words wouldn't come. I want you to have it he said, handing the hat to him and getting up to leave. Why me, he asked. The soldier stopped and turned to the old Vet. I've honored my brother every day just as we honor all who gave their life for our country on this day. I'm sure you lost brothers as well and think about them every day. Please honor them by wearing his hat, and when you see another vet who lost someone, no matter when or where, pass it along as a reminder that we will never forget them. The old Vet wore that hat proudly for several years, telling the story of how he got it and the day he gave it to another young soldier with a painted-on smile and hollow eyes.

Remembering all who paid the ultimate price of freedom on this Memorial Day and every day a soldier doesn't march home.

Mike 2025                                                        

Memorial Day 2025

 His beard was long, and his hair was silver. He wore a baseball hat that read, "Bring them all home," even though he knew that wouldn't happen.

As he prepared for the wall's arrival, he shined his boots this morning. He put on the same jacket he wore over there. It was old like him but a memory of all those years ago.

He sipped a cup of coffee, remembering his lost brothers, and proudly shed a tear. Today, he would lower the flag to half-staff as taps were played, and hundreds of veterans would begin the quest to find the names of loved ones, friends, and the thousands and thousands of brothers who never made it home.

When the wall came to town every year, it was a special day for him. He always ran into a couple of buddies he served with as they welcomed each other home, swapping stories of shattered hearts.

Those who found the names they searched for left hundreds of items on the ground. Flowers, coins, pictures, medals, poems, and more were put into a box and traveled with the wall to the next stop along the way. He wondered what happened to all of those things but never really found out.

The wall was a reminder of how many soldiers, airmen, sailors, and marines closed their eyes forever, giving their lives for their country and a nation that took decades to honor them. Now we are old, but we never forget. The music of those times filled the air, and lost friends were found among the sea of tattered and too-small uniforms. The sounds of helicopters from that era fly overhead, and another sound of war to try and forget again.

He was one of the last to leave as the wall was packed up and moved to the next town, where more boots were shined, and memories were laid on the ground—a simple gesture that meant so much.

But what about the one hundred thousand plus who have never been found, who leave behind friends and loved ones to wonder? He believes some stayed behind by choice and are scattered throughout the jungles, only wanting to be left alone with their demons. We honor them as brothers to the end.

Some gave some, and some gave all, but everyone gave a piece of themselves that will never be forgotten.

Welcome Home.

Memorial day 2025

Mike                                                     

Acceptance

 There are no more questions, just acceptance and patience as the hourglass nears the end of its sand. A trillion galaxies will have a beginning and an end, with questions being answered that have eluded us for a lifetime.

As the darkness gives way to brilliant light, our soul proclaims victory, having survived the journey of a trillion stars, each a small piece of eternity, a guiding light force, a pathway to happiness we earned through suffering, pain, and even doubt.

Instantly, you realize the meaning of your time on earth was leading to your final journey, leaving behind all of your lives, each another chance to live up to the expectations of eternity. There is no death until it's proclaimed, and trumpets sound the start of your run to the finish line.

Words will never be enough to explain heaven, nor will it ever allow you to understand it in all its glory.

You become one more soul in an endless place of beauty, joy, and not a pinch of doubt, which you now leave behind with your final breath. I'll see you there one day, all the souls who left me in this and every life I lived. I will embrace you and remember you as I become one more star to be gazed upon by my children's children and more.

Mike 2025                                                         

Hard times

 Little dust tornadoes popped up as drought claimed the crops again this year. Farming was all we knew on land; my great-grandpa settled long ago. Daddy did everything he knew how to do, and seeing him feel so low made me want to cry. There were four mouths to feed, and Momma did her best with what we had, mostly potatoes and small game if Daddy or Junior got lucky and shot something.

We sold off everything we could, usually at the market in town, which every first Saturday became an auction. I knew it bothered Daddy to part ways with his Daddy's tools, but he said they were just objects, and selling them meant more food on the table. Momma parted with a quilt she made, with my sister Mary's help, and she cried, wrapping it in old newspapers, hoping it would go to a good family.

I had nothing to give besides who would want a pair of worn-out shoes or a toy gun Grampa carved for me on my tenth birthday. I helped Daddy load up the old truck, pouring in the last of the petrol he had saved for a rainy day, and today was that day. Momma had made four potato pies, and Daddy's final donation was four beautiful wooden chairs he had made with his Daddy that lay under a tarp in the workshop, only to be sold when all else failed.

The market was packed with trucks lined up and goods displayed as the better-off folks walked around, occasionally finding something they liked and insulting the seller with a ridiculous offer. Momma's pies always sold quickly, fetching two dollars apiece, but the beautiful quilt went unsold as it was worth ten times the offers she was getting.

Daddy saw a well-dressed couple standing by the four chairs, and he went to them, explaining that all the beautiful details were like something they'd never seen anywhere else. They offered forty dollars for the chairs, and Daddy had no choice but to accept.

We had forty-eight dollars, enough for food and seeds he would plant in the spring. I would get a newer pair of shoes, which Momma found for three dollars, but I hated getting them. I told Momma I'd rather go barefoot, but she bought them anyway.

Daddy walked down the street to the petrol station, filling the can with enough gas to get us home and a little leftover for the tractor. As he was headed back, he saw Momma running towards him with a smile on her face. She told him she had sold the quilt for forty-five dollars. We had made a small fortune that day, and Daddy took us to the bakery, telling us to pick out one thing. My choice was a jelly-filled donut, and Mary chose a cream-filled one. We savored every bite as Momma and Daddy went without knowing every dollar was needed.

We sang songs on the way back home, each of us happy but sad. Family heirlooms had gone to other homes, but I'd always feel great pride knowing my parents' sacrifices gave us a better life. "You can't eat a chair, can you?" Dad asked. And you can't use a quilt for kindling, Mom chimed in.

The following year, the crops flourished, and Daddy sold almost ninety percent of his crop to the mill for more money than ever before. The bad times were gone, replaced with plenty of food and full pantries. Daddy and I painted the house and the barn, and he taught me to make chairs like his Dad taught him. Momma continued teaching Mary how to quilt, and I put a tarp over the four chairs, never knowing when I might have to sell them. But not today and not tomorrow, because to me, they are a constant reminder of the sacrifices my parents endured to give us the best possible life they could provide.

Mike 2025                                                        

When the pen runs dry

 There will come a time when my pen will run dry, with no tears shed. The thousands of words that found their way into my mind and heart will live on somewhere in a cloud, only to be retrieved by curious minds. 

Will my work be known as mediocre, or will it stand out from others, as I planned it to? Did my stories touch those who read them in a special way, my way? Did my readers become a part of my words, even momentarily, when everything came alive as they found themselves deep into the story's meaning?

If I had to choose one reason I write stories, it would be because I can. It is truly a gift from God that I don't take for granted. When people comment on my words, they tell me it takes them back to their youth, when life was simple, and everything that mattered was treasured. Some thank me, while others say the emotions they felt when reading brought a smile, a tear, and a peaceful feeling they longed for in today's hectic world.

If I made one person happy with a story, then I've accomplished my goal. I'll keep writing until the pen runs dry and my mind and heart bid farewell, giving way to a new generation of writers who use AI and Google to find the words needed to create something cold with little emotion that didn't come from the heart or the streets. Just an edited splash of words that could never compare to stories told and stories kept.

Mike 2025                                                    

Four friends forever

 It was 1963, and to us, fun was everywhere we could find it. Four of us were aged from the youngest at ten, and two at eleven, with our leader at twelve. I suppose we were like sheep following him to places our parents told us to stay away from, like the steep river banks and the rocky quarry where we'd wait until everyone was gone home, and we'd walk our bikes up to the top of a giant hill and speed downward, screaming at the top of our lungs. Usually, our leader made it down the hill while the rest of us faced plant and picked out chunks of gravel from torn-up knees.

I won't say life was boring without video games or countless movies. We didn't know any better, but someday, not so far away, we would wonder how we lived without all that technology. But way back when, we devised our adventures, like making the entire block go dark by landing the perfect kick on the light pole to cause it to go out for a few minutes before coming back on. Sometimes, we all connected at once, and the entire block went dark. It was all just fun and games until we saw the lights of a police car coming our way.

Life was full of adventures, and we weren't too shy to try any of them. Like seeing who could walk out the farthest on a frozen pond. Little did we know that at least one of us who went first would fall through while he laughed and laughed as we hurried home to thaw out.

1963 became 1967, and our bikes were left in the garage as we rejoiced at our new friend, our leader, who got his driver's license and a hunk of a junk car that always seemed to run out of gas. We'd pool our change, ending up with enough to put another dollar in the tank and another few hours of cruising down the boulevard, looking for girls who looked away and giggled.

The four of us grew up and went our separate ways. A couple off to college, another off to war, and I tell stories about my youth and four special friends who kept me laughing.

Mike 2025