Fingertips on fire

 Some will say that your life flashes in front of you when you're about to pass. I believe my life's history has been broken into a million pieces that appear in memories I can either call on or that just appear at the ends of my fingers, tapping away and becoming another story. Whatever the reason, I feel blessed to have been given this amazing gift of memory that takes me back in time to places I've been and people I've met along my journey. Using my keyboard, I travel back to summer days and family gatherings where my grandma sits beside me, telling stories of long ago. The keys on fire as I do my best to keep up, but sometimes I can't write fast enough, and that memory fades away.

I sometimes wondered if all the drugs I took in my younger years somehow opened my mind and my heart a little more than those who never partook in those mind-altering moments. They're called flashbacks when something so real comes to me with vivid colors and conversations never spoken, in my case, but written with my keyboard and lightning-fast fingertips.
I can choose what I want to remember, sometimes in just a quick and passing thought that becomes 600 words or more. Sometimes I hear a song from eras long before I was born, and the words are clear, leaving me wondering where they came from. And how did I know them? How can I know the streets of Paris or the artwork in a cathedral I have never visited? How is it that I can clearly remember being three years old and watching jaws drop as I spoke the words of a dream I had?
As I grew, my memories became easier to express, and they grew with me through the countless writings I composed with an open mind and a heart searching for love. Somewhere along the way, I began to write snippets or very short stories that were easy to read and shorter than the average short story. To date, I have over one thousand very short stories that cover over one thousand different topics, all coming from a mind that has to stop one day, but not this day, as another memory seeps into my mind and my fingertips spew flames. 

Mike 2026                                                              

The meatball

 Back in the 70s, I worked for a General Motors radiator plant in upstate New York. I'd made a few friends, one of whom was Anthony Dacrupa. His love for Italian food was well known and usually all he talked about. He said he had tried a dozen Italian restaurants since moving here from Chicago, where there were so many restaurants it would take a lifetime to try them all. One night after second shift, I asked him to come with me to experience what I believed was the very best in Italian cuisine. He was leery of anything I suggested, no matter the topic, but he eventually agreed, and that night we rode down a back-county road and saw what looked like a run-down farmhouse. Set back off the road, mostly a place that time had forgotten. But inside, everything changed. Opening into what was once a large living room with velvet curtains and wine racks in each corner. The walls were papered with paintings of Italy, and the flags from both countries proudly displayed. Red table cloths and napkins on every table, and in the background, the sound of someone singing at the top of his lungs, old songs from the old country. I told Anthony that Geno was the owner and that he would soon come to our table to tell us about that night's menu. What he can't afford, menus we read ourselves, Anthony asked. Just then, a waiter, the only waiter, came to our table with two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. He poured us a glass and disappeared back into the kitchen. Where some angry Italian voices were coming from the kitchen and a broken glass or two, Geno put on his best smile and came to our table. His English was very broken, but we managed to ask what was on the menu, and he replied, meatball. Anthony looked puzzled, as did I, as he went on to tell us that his meatball had won many prizes back home and that he should come to America and open a restaurant where countless people could experience it for themselves. And with a bow, he backed up, then turned to the kitchen, barking out in Italian, Two meatballs.

Good thing there's a 24-hour diner not that far from here. Anthony said, "I don't think one meatball is going to fill me up. We looked around the room at every table and noticed there were no appetizers or bread baskets in front of the people eating. Just a bottle of Chianti and enough glasses. Then, with a bit of fanfare, Geno and his sole waiter pushed carts out of the kitchen and served every guest a plate with the biggest meatball they had ever seen. When I say it was big, I meant huge, the size of a softball, maybe even bigger.

Geno began by saying, " Don't let the look surprise you. Take your fork and gently pull back some of the ball, where you'll find four layers of the finest cheeses anywhere. Let your fork dig deeper as it passes through two layers of fresh tomatoes I grow in the back yard. Have a taste of the sauce mixed with some cheese as I continue. Using a knife and fork, cut further into the ball, where you'll find a layer of veal and a layer of lightly seasoned homemade sausage. Now use your knife and fork to cut the ball into three sections, then use the ladle provided to mix the ingredients in the bowl with a combination of fresh vegetables that have simmered to perfection. Lastly, use the ladle to pour the tomato sauce from the bowl provided all over the best meatball you've ever tasted. Anthony and I became regulars at Genos, along with many friends who had to see firsthand why one meatball was the only thing on the menu.

Mike 2026                                                     

                                                       

My inner kid

 Popsicle sticks bombs, baseball cards in bicycle spokes. Eggs and rotten tomato wars were just a few of the childhood memories of the kid who still resides inside of me. Every so often, I'll embarrass my grandkids by dancing the way we used to when the twist or the limbo were in style. They would beg me to stop, but that just fueled me even more, doing the Watusi and the frog.

I loved fooling around with them, like when I told them I'd take them for ice cream and come out of my room in basketball shorts, white knee-high socks, and sandals. They said they wouldn't go anywhere with me dressed like that. Oh, good times.
I treasure the inner kid in me because there are a thousand memories I can look back on that bring joy to my heart and put a big smile on my face. I still like Saturday morning cartoons and reading cereal box labels. I laugh at the funny pages in the newspaper, and even after all these years, you can still buy a plastic egg of silly puddy that I flatten out and press onto a comic character.
I still make paper boats that I keep handy for when it rains, and my rubber wader boots stand tall waiting for me to put on and wade through the flooding waters in the street and in my backyard. I never grew tired of waving to the engineer and the conductor as a train roared past me just yards from my boyhood house, where I still reside.
My daughter once told me how much the grandkids liked visiting me because there was always something crazy to do that beat playing video games. That had always been my goal: to show them how to make paper boats and popcycle bombs, and our favorite was putting baseball cards in the spokes of our bicycles, then roaring through the neighborhood like a pack of wild bikers.
Water balloons, snowball fights, games of hide-and-seek, and my attempt at Twister that almost sent me to the emergency room.Swinging on a rope and letting go to splash down in the creek. and finding night crawlers in the darkness of night with a flashlight put in a can, saved for first light, when we fished for hours.
Penny candies like fireballs and peach pits, Long pieces of white paper with colored candies somehow glued on them, root beer hard candies, and wax bottles filled with different flavors. Double bubble gum and licorice in red or black. Gooden plenty and milk duds, tootsie rolls and taffy suckers, all those and more at the corner general store sitting in glass canisters waiting to fill our paper bags for a penny each.
I could go on, and on reliving my memories and bringing them back to life, but at some point, I have to return to reality, even if I don't want to. I suppose one day I'll have to be content to watch my grandkids do all the things I taught them to do as I sit on my porch waiting for the ten o'clock train so I can wave to the engineer and the conductor, who smile and wave back.

Mike 2026                                                              

Good bones

 I remember, as a boy, walking through a vacant house on the outskirts of the city. It sat empty at that time, but not always by any means. During construction in the early 1890s, it was dubbed the elegant lady as no expense or extravagance was spared. I recall how it smelled like varnish and wax that kept the woodwork looking new, and I imagined the countless hands that gripped the banister as they descended the stairs, making a grand entrance.

Every wall, ceiling, and floor was crafted by the best woodworkers whose reputations were put to the test with every room an expression of their talents. As I walked down the long, narrow hallways, I ran my finger along the artistic carvings that ran the length of the walls, only pausing at a door, of which there were many. Most bedrooms were large enough to accommodate furnishings, giving the appearance of a sitting room with a sofa, dressing tables, full-length mirrors, and four-poster beds. I imagined the lady of the house serving tea to a family member who came to her room for needed conversation.
Downstairs, a crystal chandelier hung in the foyer that led to the living room, where, upon entering, you were awe-stricken by a fieldstone fireplace, each stone carefully chosen by a mason who worked his magic to create a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. As I continued my walk, my eyes were drawn to the stained-glass windows, each pane bursting with color as sunlight pierced them, splashing the room with light.
I entered the large kitchen, where I imagined the kitchen staff preparing everyday meals as well as holiday feasts and birthday meals. Marble countertops, wooden cutting boards, and empty ceiling hooks where pots and pans once hung. An ice box sat in a corner, requiring a worker to go to the icehouse in town and bring back large blocks of ice to keep food fresh. The stove was made of cast iron with several heating surfaces, once fueled by wood and later replaced by electricity. There was also a space for workers to eat. A long table with benches, I assumed.
Every room had a story to tell as I looked around, picturing a huge Christmas tree in the living room, a roaring fire in the fieldstone fireplace, and family and friends gathered around the piano, singing holiday favorites. I saw men sitting in leather chairs, smoking pipes and talking about the day's events. In my mind, I watched as history brought changes to the house, but the house itself stayed true to itself in ways that mattered. She had good bones, people would say, and as I walked away, I think I heard her whisper, " Don't be a stranger.

Mike 2026                                                              

Crazy days of summer

 As the late great Nat King Cole sang, break out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. I remember all too well the last bell before vacation and trading in my school clothes for a pair of shorts and sneakers. We kept a T-shirt in our saddlebags strapped to our bicycles in case we had to go into a store or the soda fountain, which we did a lot. I close my eyes and open my memory bank to withdraw moments in time that seemed to stand still so I could revisit them.

I remember long, hot days and muggy nights, praying for a breeze to enter my bedroom through the window, with a fan that made more noise than it blew air. With my eyes closed, I can go back in time, listening to the neighbors up late, gathered with friends on the porch, and ladies fanning themselves with a folded magazine. The clanking of empty bottles as another ice-cold beer was opened, and would eventually be disgarded with the others already stacking pretty high on the porch.

I recall the first day the public swimming pool opened for the summer as dozens of kids waited in line with their towels and goggles, talking among themselves to see who would be the first one to brave the giant slide that emptied into the deep end. The lifeguards were mostly high school seniors making a couple of dollars as summer jobs, and there was always a group of giggling girls around them. Some were going to extremes, faking they were in trouble, so a lifeguard had to jump in and get them back to the deck, where they miraculously made a full recovery.

Summer meant baseball, and every kid old enough to hold a bat and throw a ball joined the city leagues. We received uniforms donated by various companies and businesses, and we got to pick our team names. Our uniforms could only be worn for games, but our hats stayed glued to our heads the entire summer. We would practice almost every day in a field that, over time, had been trampled down and looked just like the city field except for the absence of chalk lines and sand-filled bags as bases. For those, we used flat rocks.

With my eyes still closed, I wandered back in time once again to camping out in the woods, where we pitched our tents, handed down by older brothers who pretty much wore them out. My dad was in the army reserves, and one day he surprised my friends and me with almost-new tents he claimed were only slightly damaged. We left it at that. Camping meant eating too many snacks and reading comic books with a flashlight that some of us won by answering questions on the back of a cereal box. We would usually go exploring in the darkness of night on the hunt for trools and other scary things that went boo in the night

In the morning, we'd go to the lake and wash off the sticky mess that s'mores left on our hands and mouths, then it was time to mount our steeds and head out exploring parts unknown, but always an adventure. We came across an old field that had once grown corn but now lay in waste, with four rusted tractors just sitting there. We played on those until the thrill wore off, then headed into town, where we put on our t-shirts and stepped inside the soda shop for a burger and fries smothered in brown gravy.

My times as a kid will be with me forever, as will the faces of my friends who scattered across the country seeking their callings, just as I did, ending up thousands of miles away with a wife and three kids. We've made our own memory book, and sometimes I'll pull out my photo albums, mostly in black and white, that once had my daughter asking me why we didn't have colored clothes and cars.

I feel so lucky to remember those lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer spent with some lifelong friends, and to have a memory like a steel trap.

Mike 2026                                                                         

Closepin memories

 The sheets are drying on a backyard clothesline. A gentle breeze and golden sunlight, a mixture of clean and fresh late into the day. Tomorrow, the colored clothes will take the place of linens, trying harder to catch the breeze, and some will need extra clothespins. The bag they are kept in is just a simple bag Mom put together from old sewing materials and hangs on the line for easy access. There were two different kinds of clothespins, the basic wooden ones and the ones with a spring that, as a kid, would pinch your fingers sometimes by accident as you handed one to mom, and other times when nobody was around, and you tried to be a brave little soldier and pinch one on your nose.

On windy days, you'd run through the clothes, smelling the freshness as mom watched from the kitchen window, remembering doing the same thing as a young girl. It's funny how we recall childhood memories that are somehow passed down from one generation to another with little change. Your great-grandmother used wooden clothespins that her husband made by carving sturdy sticks into equal lengths, then slicing them down the middle so they fit snugly on the line.

Your grandma used those until seeing a bag of clothespins in the hardware store, all pre-cut and sanded, ready to use. It even had a handle on top to hang on the line, ready when needed. Your mom used store-bought ones like her mom, but one day, while window shopping, she saw the latest in clothespin design, made of plastic and available in a multitude of colors. Truly a great invention, not just for hanging clothes but also for toy soldiers: some in colorful uniforms and others in no color at all, engaged in battle until mom needed one or two, and we had to choose which fallen soldier would give its life.

My generation doesn't hang clothes outside when they have a gas or electric dryer to do the job, unlike most people. But call me old school because my wife and I still hang clothes to dry in the fresh air and golden sunlight. Our kids make toys from clothespins, mostly wooden, by the way, with a bag of colored ones, so they can play soldiers just as I did. I would imagine that my kids' kids will be left wondering just what in the world those odd-looking wooden and plastic things they found in a box in the garage were used for. I'll search my memory bank and tell them we used wooden pins to attach baseball cards to the spokes of our bikes so we'd sound like a bunch of wannabe bikers. Good times, good times. I'll let their mom and grandma tell them the other side of the coin in their stories.

Mike  2026                                                       

Childhood memories of Aunt Elda and uncle joe

 As a boy, when my dad went off to the army reserves in the summer, my mom and I, along with my two sisters, went to Michigan to visit my mom's aunt, Elda, and uncle, Joe. They lived quite a ways back from a country road in a modest but very nice house. They had a few acres that bordered a corn farmer, who let us run through the rows and rows of corn so sweet we ate it until our bellies ached. Uncle Joe had a small tractor that he used to cut the large yard with, and he would hoist me up and sit me on his lap as we mowed and mowed until Aunt Elda called us in for lunch. Any meal Aunt Elda served was a three-course meal. Breakfast consisted of fresh eggs from her chicken coup, toast made with her homemade bread, and her homemade jellies. Fresh orange juice or tomato, if you prefer. And Uncle Joe's favorite: a thick slab of Canadian bacon. Aunt Elda knew my mom's favorite was a nice, hot bowl of grits with a dab of real butter, prepared just for her.

Lunch meant a huge bowl of fresh-cut fruit, a selection of lunch meats and cheeses from the butcher shop, as pre-packaged meats never saw their table. Each of us kids got a tall, chilled glass of whole milk with a spoonful or two of chocolate syrup to wash everything down.

Dinner was a work of art, featuring an entire turkey or a glazed ham that Uncle Joe had hand-carved, along with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a dinner salad, and fresh corn from the neighbor. Homemade dinner rolls and fresh-squeezed lemonade. The desert was a cake Aunt Elda baked with whipped cream frosting, topped with an assortment of her famous chocolate chip and butter cookies, another of Mom's favorites.

Uncle Joe was a successful businessman who owned a large plumbing business, which afforded them a comfortable life. He was a hunter and owned a trailer in a private hunting club that we went to for the weekend. Nestled deep into the woods, the trailer had everything Aunt Elda needed to prepare the same wonderful meals the same way she did at home. All of us wore bright orange vests so we could be seen by other hunters, even though his plot of land was over five acres and posted with a no-hunting sign. If I remember, I heard Aunt Elda tell my mom Joe didn't plan on killing a deer when we were there, he just didn't want us kids to believe he shot Bamby.

I loved our visits to Michigan, the sights and sounds of country living, and the sound of crickets and star-filled nights. Waking up with the sound of a rooster and bellowing cows waiting to be milked. Our time there went by too fast as we talked about next summer and how it couldn't come fast enough. With bags full of sweet corn and a variety of foods, Aunt Elda made sure we ate well on the ride home. As for Uncle Joe, he handed each of us kids a twenty-dollar bill, more money than any of us had ever had. He slipped mom a small wad of cash, pressing it into her hand, knowing she could use it.

The ride home was long, giving us the time we needed to recall all the great things we did and the food, oh my lord, the food. Some years later, we stopped going to Michigan. I suppose time caught up with us, and hanging out with friends was more important. But they came to visit us once a year, and our time together was as wonderful as always. Aunt Elda took over Mom's kitchen, and Dad took Uncle Joe to the firing range to shoot paper targets. He still gave us each a twenty-dollar bill and pressed a wad of cash into Mom's hand. Memories are a beautiful thing, especially when you have an aunt, Elda, and an uncle, Joe.

Mike 2026