Timeless carousels

 I remember the wind in my face as I sped by my folks on a carousel ride. It was my first time alone on the black stallion I had carefully chosen. A slight jerk, and the ride began to go around, slowly picking up speed to the delight of the riders. The hand-carved figures of not just horses but the likes of ostriches, swans, giraffes, and a few seats disguised as tea cups for weary parents were on their way. The music box played on as the familiar tune repeated over and over until it was burned into my memory, where it remains today.

What does a lad of six feel as he rides the mighty steed, a dark knight, you say, or maybe a bad guy galloping away from the sheriff as I let go of the pole and with one hand and a finger as a gun, I shoot all the bad guys, blowing smoke from the barrel as I pass my folks. Round and around we went for a longer time, if I recall, as the older man in greasy coveralls who sat on a chair in the pit woke, startled, for a minute, then pushed down on the throttle to slow the ride. I got off my fearless horse and ran to my mom's open arms as dad snapped another picture for the family picture album.
I loved the magic of the carousel as a boy, and I still marvel at the magnificence of the figures. The ornate carvings and bright colors, and the slits on the floor where pennies falling out of pockets ended up. These days, when everything is computer-operated, the older man has been replaced by a circuit board and an operator who controls everything. The music still sounds like old organ music, but it's lost its old-school feel, replaced by a continuous loop of programmed music. I suppose everything changes with time, like the figures once hand-carved by true craftsmen are now made of plastic, but to a kid, it's still a carousel ride where they chase bad guys on a mighty steed or go on safari seated on a giraffe. Tired parents still sit on benches disguised as teacups, and the magic of a carousel lives on.

Mike  2026                                                           

Saturday morning noise

 A lawnmower a couple of doors down distracts my writing, I mean, who cuts grass at seven in the morning? Probably a kid doing chores he forgot to do yesterday. I guess I'll have another cup of coffee and glance through the morning paper to see who's killing who and other tidbits of news that go in one ear then out the other. I set it down and looked out of my kitchen window at the kid barely tall enough to get a grip on the lawn mower, cussing under his breath, leaving me to wonder what he did to deserve this so damn early on a Saturday morning. Then I saw his dad on the porch with a glass of something, he handed to his kid, who drank it down in a couple of gulps and handed the glass back to his dad, who I thought was going to relieve him of the lawn cutting, but he walked back inside, and the kid kept mowing.

As I sat looking at him, my writer's mind went to work, trying to figure out what led to this early-morning chore. Maybe he hit his younger brother or stole some change from Mom's cookie jar. Maybe he skipped school and got caught or found behind the house smoking a cigarette he stole from his dad's pack. I don't suppose I'll ever know the reason, but at last the noise sputtered out, meaning he ran out of gas. I said a quick prayer; he didn't have any gas left in the can and would have to make a trip to the gas station to fill it up. But no such luck, as he retrieved the can from the garage and filled the damn thing up.
I'd have to say the kid kept going until every blade of grass was cut, and he shut down the Saturday morning monster that invaded my ears and my brain. Truth be told, the silence that eluded me seemed eerie as I kept waiting for some other distraction to prevent me from writing. But nothing did. I tried to be creative, but my paper was blank, along with the imagination that usually didn't disappoint me. Then, without warning, the sound of a couple of my neighbors cutting their lawns, and, as if in harmony with each other, the dueling machines roared to life, invading my ears again. Well, there was just one thing to do, so I got dressed and went to my garage where my 1947 Harley-Davidson sat covered with a tarp. It was illegal as hell with straight pipes that could wake the dead when throttled up. I backed it out onto my driveway and, with a sinister plan, started it up. Almost instantly, kids started screaming as windows rattled and birds flew away to safety. People stood on their porches screaming over the noise, telling me to stop or they'd call the cops, who I knew would take a good twenty minutes to show up. which they did and told me to shut it off or take a ride to the station. I wholeheartedly agreed to go with them. Once in a cell by myself, with the only noise being my own breathing, I continued to write the next best seller that came with coffee and silence.

Mike  2026                                                           

One wild ride

 

Windchimes hanging from a rusty hook chime a song born of wind and pending storms.  Old spoons of silver plate dangle and collide, growing louder as they test the hook, and you remember days of a chime or two on a quiet Sunday morning.
The sky is shades of gray, and a black line on the horizon speeds towards you with no mercy. You're no stranger to storms, and each one becomes a memory filled with fear. The chimes now break the hook, and spoons blow across the porch, scattered here and there, forever forgotten as their melodies go silent.
You face the fear inside as you grab hold of the arms of your chair, your beard blowing backward, and your ball cap ripped off your head, joining other airborne debris in a race to get far from home.  You know you should escape and seek shelter somewhere safe, but you're glued to your chair by the fury of its strength, and you realize this is how it ends.
You know what a jet pilot must feel like as he ejects from his aircraft, as a violent blast propels him up and out of his seat. Your chair is shaking violently, but you somehow manage to stay seated as a deadly gust of wind pulls you and the chair into a swirling mass of destruction. You should be dead by now, but you and your chair are as one as you brace yourself for the worst that's surely going to come.
Some may call it a miracle, and others just dumb luck that the chair came to rest on a bale of hay upright and unscathed. As for you, you sat there for a minute before your hands came unglued from the arms of the chair, and you could walk away in search of your home. It was one hell of a ride, you told yourself with a grin on your face. I think I'd like to go again, he said out loud, but not today.

Mike  2026

Maple leaf cycle

 A maple leaf floated to the ground from which it was born. Rich soil untouched by man or machine, alone in birth and alone in death. What purpose did a leaf serve as it grew into maturity, clinging to its union with the tree? It wasn't alone, as hundreds of others like itself grew and died with who knows how much time in between. I wonder what they felt as they changed from green to crimson and gold, and in that split second when their lifeline snapped, sending them down to lie together at the foot of the mighty tree. In time, their colors would fade into the ground and be forgotten until the snow gave way to a new generation of baby buds that held on tightly when the winds blew, and the rains pelted them; some were knocked down, while the strong survived to grow another day.

A maple tree fell in the forest today, a victim of God's light show, as lightning slammed into its trunk and fire burned into its very core. Some of the leaves were spared as they unhinged themselves on the way down, floating away from the destruction, while most went up in flames that would eventually become dust from which, in time, new growth would climb upward as a young sapling struggled to take the place of its ancestor. It took hundreds of years to become just another tree, surrounded by elders who had survived what nature threw their way for unknown years. They provided shade for the saplings and wrapped their limbs around them to protect them from the wind. Slowly, and with no one watching, the little maple became a strong, beautiful adult tree. Filled with countless leaves that would honor it with a parade of colors floating downward, some touching in a final goodbye as one by one they detached and floated back to the ground from which they came. And the cycle continued.

Mike  2026                                                       

Remembering Dad

 You've been gone a while now, Dad, but I still have countless memories of us together. I recall the crazy little things, like trying to roll up a cigarette pack in my t-shirt sleeve or opening a bottle with my jackknife—the important things you taught me.

I remember you teaching me how to shave with a kids' shaving kit, which included a shaving mug, a bar of soap, and a wooden-handled brush you used to lather your face. I'd stand next to you at the sink, watching what you were doing so I could do the same. When we were finished, you would pat my face with a few drops of aftershave so I smelled good for the ladies, he'd say in just a whisper.
I remember going to church on Sunday and dressing up. I guess God liked well-dressed women, men, and even kids. You tried to teach me how to tie a tie, but after many failed attempts, you bought me a new invention called a clip-on tie, pure genius. Shined shoes were a must at our house. Mom was in charge of my sisters' patent-leather shoes, wiping them off with a damp rag, but yours and mine had to pass inspection. It seemed your military life taught you to make your shoes shine with two fingers wrapped in a soft cloth, usually an old T-shirt cut into small pieces. On Saturday evenings, you'd get the wooden box filled with several tins in different colors: black, brown, cordovan, and natural. Different colors for different colored shoes. There were several sizes of brushes with wooden handles that you'd dip into a tin, slowly work around the shoe, and then set aside to dry. While one shoe was drying, the other shoe went through the same thing. Then came the big brush, made of horsehair. You would show me how to get your rhythm, like the sound of a locomotive, as you brushed and brushed until the shoe began to shine like glass. Next came the toes. Using the pieces of cloth you'd wrap around two fingers, dip them into the polish, then into the tin filled with a little water. Slowly, you got your rhythm as you went around the toe over and over until it began to shine, but it had to outshine the rest of the shoe, which took a long time to accomplish. When my shoes were done, I put them next to yours at the door. Let me tell you, I had the shiniest shoes in school.
I could go on and on about our times together, but anymore and I'd have to write a book. You were a great dad, and I still love and miss you every day. Happy Father's Day in the sky, Dad. You are missed.

Mike  2026                                                                                                                

Whats a Dad?

 This is just one man's opinion of what it means to be a dad. My childhood was memorable to me in many ways. My dad was mostly around, except when he traveled for his job, but he never forgot to bring my sisters and me a little gift he'd buy at the airport store. A coloring book or puzzle, and always a Whitman sampler box of chocolates. And he never once forgot to get my mom some perfume.

My dad was someone I could always depend on to be seated at a band concert or school play, and sometimes showed up breathing hard as mom took his hand and squeezed it with a smile on her face. I can remember seeing him, still in a suit and tie, leaving his office, trying not to be too late.
My dad spoke quietly most of the time, especially when he was trying to get a point across to us. To me, that was worse than yelling, but he didn't believe in yelling unless we did something really bad, like kicking out the streetlights and getting caught by the town policeman, who was larger than life and very scary. He yelled about that, and if you think a five-foot-seven man couldn't instill the wrath of God, you'd be mistaken.
My dad listened to my questions and always gave it a minute or two to answer. I suppose he was just searching for the right words, not just making up a response. He could be firm and didn't shy away from giving me a good whooping with his belt, but I believed he went easy on me out of love that always trumped violence.
My dad was a fair man, a loyal man, and a man I aspired to be and follow in his footsteps the best way I could. I'm older than dirt now, and my dad's been gone for a long time, but his face is always on my mind as I play back all the moments, we shared, and I'm always thankful for the time we had together. What inspired me to write this was an empty Whitman's chocolate sampler I found in my treasure box of memories. I'll admit I wiped a tear away but did so with a smile. Happy Father's Day, in heaven, Dad. I love you every day.                                         

Mike 2026

The old desk

 The old desk bore the scars of kids with pocket knives. It had been handed down for generations and, per his request, finally reached his house because he'd actually use it for what it was meant for: writing. It would need some TLC as the years had taken their toll, but nothing some elbow grease and sandpaper couldn't fix. He decided to leave the top as it was, with all those little hearts and initials carved by mischievous boys throughout the years. There were four small drawers that he used to store paper and folders, hard copies of his writing, and ink cartridges for the printer. The fourth drawer held finished stories he had written over the months and years, a resting place for characters he had given life to but who now stayed silent in the darkness of the closed drawer.

He had cleared out his soon-to-be writing room, where the finished desk would sit, allowing him to see out the window. He was often inspired by the weather or the quiet, interrupted by a flock of birds or by his dog barking for him to let him inside when he lost track of time and the words begged to be written. He believed in keeping things simple and distraction-free, where he wrote. A two-tiered shelf held a model motorcycle and a large snow globe beside a framed picture of his grandmother, who was the first person to tell him he had a gift for words. A desk lamp sat at the edge of the desk, its beautiful green globe filling the small area with soft light, and a candle on the shelf, with dancing flames that dared him to write.
His first story with the old desk was everything he had hoped for. Its history fired up his imagination, and he sometimes stopped for a minute to trace a heart with his finger and wonder where that boy was today. Did he go on to become a famous artist after school gave him all he needed, or maybe a woodworker who built wooden boats? He traced another heart that read "Billy loves Susan," and he wondered whether they were just high school sweethearts who had parted ways, or had gotten married and raised a family.
Many years flew past as he continued to write at the old desk, filled with youthful inspiration by the tips of pocket knives gouging out slivers of old wood meant to last forever, just like the desk.

Mike   2026