for the love of pedal cars

 He was seven years old when Santa brought him an orange pedal tractor. It was love at first sight, and very difficult to get him off. For hours, he'd go up and down the driveway, shifting the throttle that was just a piece of metal you could push and pull as his mom watched from the kitchen window. She later told him that thing was the best babysitter known to man. He kept it clean by using the same cloth his dad used to wash his car, who could have been upset if it wasn't so cute. Day after day, he rode his tractor until the day he went outside and found it gone. He let out a scream heard around the neighborhood as his Mom came running outside, thinking the worst, like he had been hurt. She found him running around the yard under the picnic table and behind the trash cans, all to no avail, as his beloved tractor was nowhere to be found. She tried to console him by saying they'd take a walk around the neighborhood and look for it, and when dad got home, they'd take the car and look some more. They went from door to door asking people if they'd seen an orange tractor, but no one had, so they went back home just as Dad was pulling in. And so began the search. It seemed like forever with no sightings until Mom yelled, THERE, THERE IT IS as she pointed to a house where an orange tractor was parked on the porch. Dad parked, and they walked up to the house wanting to be sure it was his, as Santa may have brought another little boy a tractor just like his, but he wasn't buying that because when he first got it, he ran into the barbecue and put a scratch on the right side, and the scratch was right there, he pointed to his dad. Just then, the front door opened, and a lady appeared, asking what she could do for us as He spoke loudly, asking why they stole his tractor. The lady, speaking in a low voice, told us her daughter was a special child who sometimes believes everything she likes belongs to her and has, in the past, brought home ice skates, bowling balls, a little red wagon, and more. She meant no harm, the lady said; she's just lonely, as none of the neighborhood kids wanted to play with her because she was different from them. Then a girl brushed past her mom and headed straight for the tractor, which she quickly got into and wouldn't get out of as she began to cry. Dad suggested he let her take one more ride to the corner and back, then we'd put it in the car and go home. He watched as she peddled and worked the throttle, smiling and waving to cars that sometimes honked and waved back. She sure likes it, doesn't she he asked his folks. It was difficult to get her to stop and bring the tractor back, and she cried when Dad started loading it into the car. He thought for a minute, then asked his folks if he could give it to her as a kind of late Christmas present. They agreed that if that's what he thought was the right thing to do, then Dad pulled it out of the car and set it down in front of her as she jumped in and began her trips up and down the street, happier than her mom had ever seen her. He was quiet on the ride home, but noticed they weren't going home as dad parked the car in front of the toy store. Let's go have a look and see if Santa might have left a couple more pedal cars for them to look at. Once inside, he saw a fire-red firetruck with a bell and a working siren. It had a working fire hose and a genuine firefighter's helmet. WOW, he said, "Would you look at that?" The other was a race car with stickers all over it and a set of racing tires. It had just a driver's seat, real harness belts, and a roll bar. So which one do you like dad asked, pointing to the firetruck. Back home, he put on the captain's helmet, filled the water tank, and turned on the siren as he rang the bell that never quit ringing. His folks said he'd done the right thing, and after a conversation with the girl's mom, they agreed to load his firetruck into the car and come over to play. Up and down the sidewalk they'd go, bells ringing, sirens blaring, and smiles as bright as the day itself. A few years passed, and he outgrew his pedal truck, but he made it a point to stop by and visit her, chasing after her cat or just being together as friends. His old tractor now sits on her porch, filled with toys and other treasures she just had to have.

Mike  2026                                                              

Paper boats and airplanes

 It took forever for him to make his paper boat the way his older brother had taught him. Just the right creases and folds to be perfectly level as it floated down the gutter after a good rain. When the rains came, and the street became a fast-moving river, or so it seemed to him, he set the boat carefully down and counted to three as he let it go speeding down the street not far from a sewer drain that he hoped wouldn't swallow it up. He ran beside it as it dodged small branches and debris like leaves and discarded pieces of trash like candy wrappers and empty cigarette packs. It was a fine boat that stayed upright for almost the entire length of the street. He almost lost it when a passing car made a wave that seemed like a tidal wave to him, but it remained upright, continuing its journey until it reached the end of the street, and he had to make a decision if he'd let it continue across the street where cars went by every few minutes, and the odds of it making it across were slim to none. Or picking it up and taking it safely home to sail another day. He made up his mind to go for it, set it down, and looked both ways for cars. He let it go, watching as it picked up speed and raced across the street, hopefully to the other side, where victory would be his. He was halfway across when he saw a neighbor's dog running towards him at breakneck speed, taking a giant leap into the gutter, grabbing the boat in its jaws, and setting it at his feet, its tail wagging, thinking it was a game of fetch. All in all, it was a fun time for him as he headed home into the garage, where at least ten paper boats waited on a shelf to be launched after the next rains came. And sitting next to the paper boats were another dozen paper airplanes his older brother had taught him to build for sunny days with just enough wind to make them soar around the backyard, sometimes doing loops and other maneuvers he longed to try. The perfect day arrived, with conditions as close to ideal as he could hope for. His brother took a plane and held it ready to let it go up into the sky, catching a thermal that kept it climbing, then nosediving straight down that would surely cause him to crash, but at the last moment, another breeze caught up to it, and it came to rest in an apple tree unscathed and ready to fly again. Then it was his turn as he went over in his mind the lessons he received, and without hesitation, he let it go straight at first, surely going to crash until a sudden gust took hold of it and sent it high in the sky, nearly being knocked out by a flock of passing birds. His paper plane was doing loops and dives until it crashed into a light pole too high to retrieve. He remembers looking up at his plane every day, hoping it would fall, and it did just that on a cold winter's day, when iced wings sent it crashing. Today, he and his brother sit in lawn chairs with a cold beer and fond memories, seeing their kids float boats and fly paper airplanes, a family tradition never to be forgotten.

Mike  2026                                                                       

Where have the comments gone?

 I don't often experience writer's block. It's just that sometimes I don't believe I have any more stories to tell. With well over one thousand already written, how many can there be? In my younger years, I'd get a thought and write it down on bar napkins, paper bags, or anything I could find before it left me. I was spitting out tales like a broken copy machine on the brink of a meltdown.

I've written about every emotion, every age, eternal love, and endless ideas that roll around in my head, just waiting to be chosen and brought to life through my characters. My mind and heart work together to form the words that led to a story that led me to write. It became easy for me to sit down and write two or more tales in one sitting as candles burned out and the sun rose, my fingers trying to keep up with words waiting to be written through my eyes, with no sense of time.
When I decided to write a blog, I imagined a book of very short stories one could read in mere minutes from beginning to end. But who could read just one and stop? Some of my readers told me they would read four or five stories and set the book down to return to later. Someone else told me he had read a few stories on a plane and planned to read that night when he was back at the hotel. It made me extremely happy that people from all walks of life were reading my work, but I couldn't understand why readers weren't commenting on the stories they'd read.
I'm not a computer-friendly person, but I'm just curious why this is happening. My settings are correct, I think, as I have received a few comments from the same few people, very few. I have about 1500 viewers on my blog, and you'd think at least a few would comment, good or bad. If anyone has an answer to my dilemma, reach out to me. I'd appreciate your help.

Mike 2026    mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com                                                                                                                             

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Mike  2026                                       mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com

Just one mug

 Just one mug of Decaf coffee this morning, the kind that comes in individual packets. No side effects, I just like the taste. I believe it brings me back when I'd drink a pot of go juice, which we called coffee in the Navy, when you could scrape me off the ceiling by the end of the pot, and eventually, my doctor telling me to switch to Decaf, but I didn't listen.

I remember how I woke up to coffee brewing, the smell growing stronger with every perk of the percolator, which had a glass top so you could watch as clear water turned brown, dark brown. That first cup was nectar from God; if you didn't drink it, the rest of your day would be incomplete, and not to mention you'd better steer clear of me, as I could be violent.

As a teenager who wanted to seem older, I'd have half a cup of coffee, the other half milk, and at least ten packets of sugar. It was a sweet cup of warm sugar with a hint of coffee. As I grew older, I weaned myself off the sugar drink and went straight to coffee with two creamers and two sugars, which seemed just right until it wasn't. I found my way back to my navy days when too much caffeine found me back on the ceiling.

Now, and more likely forever, you'll find me having one mug of decaf in the morning, believing I can smell it brewing in the microwave. I'll savor every last drop and lick the spoon of my warm cup of creamy sugar, calmly wishing I were back on the ceiling.

Mike 2026                                                               

Mike 2026

Remembering Grand dad

 I remember him in his faded overalls and a John Deere ball cap that he always wore, except at the dinner table or when he placed it over his heart as the American flag passed by him at the Fourth of July parade. He didn't smile very much, but a kid like me didn't mind asking him why. Hed reach down and ruffled my hair, saying one day I'd understand, but for now I should just think about things that made me smile.

I remember him taking me fishing out on the lake in a boat he and his dad built a very long time ago. It took in a bit of water, but that's what the old coffee can was for, and it was my job to bail us out every so often. He seemed at peace on the lake, and if I was quick enough to look his way, I might catch him with a very brief smile.
He loved to walk in the woods, where he said the quiet was nice and the air smelled of pine. We walked in silence as I reached for his hand, which felt like sandpaper, and he squeezed it gently, as if he never wanted to let go. I learned a lot from him, and I thought he was the smartest man on earth. He showed me how to appreciate what nature gave us and how fragile it was. He sat us down on a fallen tree to be still and listen to the trees speak to us through the breeze.
I remember asking a thousand questions, and he always found an answer in simple terms I could understand. We would spend entire days observing the sunrise, the sunsets, and every moment in between. We'd eat jelly-and-butter sandwiches, sitting by the lake or sometimes in the boat, not going anywhere. My mom later told me I was the only person who could turn his heart from stone to that of a happy man who cherished our times together, and that she once saw him quickly wipe away a tear as I left to go back home.
I think of him often and the times we shared, and I can never pass by the feed store without seeing a pair of overalls displayed in the window.

I wear my own John Deere ball cap these days, and I patched the hole in the boat I take my son fishing in. He asks me a thousand questions about my granddad, which I try to answer as best I can, as he asks why I smile so much.

Mike  2026                                                                                                    
                                                                 

Strait up

 The beautiful thing about memory is that it lets imagination fill in the blank spaces.

Mike

If you were to watch him sitting quietly in his favorite chair, looking out the window, you might think he's just old, and that's something old folks do, and you would be so wrong. It's 1942, and we are at war. He proudly wore the uniform of an army pilot, chasing death and saying prayers, lots of them. He flew a P-40, a single-prop fighter plane fast for its time, able to maneuver quickly but sometimes hit by enemy fire that punched holes in the skin. He observed that, back on the ground with thanks, it wasn't worse, and he lived once more to fly.
If you were to watch him, you'd see his closed eyes twitch a little, and his fingers occasionally tap the arm of his chair like he was at the controls of his plane, lining up his targets and firing fatal shots at enemy planes as they slammed into the ocean like a cigarette being snuffed out in a glass of water. You'd see his head tilt from side to side as he did a barrel roll, earning another painted star on the fuselage. You'd hear a slight sigh as he managed a smile, landing to the cheers of his fellow pilots and the knowledge that another mission was completed.
If you were to watch him in his recliner, which serves as his cockpit in his dreams, you'd see him high in the sky, where the cold was numbing, and his vision, scanning in all directions, was like an owl's. You'd see him touching the photo of his one true love waiting back home, smudged by his touch on every take off and landing and everything in between. If you were to watch him, you wouldn't see just an old man; you'd see a hero who dared to give up until every enemy plane crashed in balls of flame. Walk away now and leave him with his dreams and memories, and let him fly once more straight into the heavens.

Mike  2026                                                          

Mike  2026

Down in the valley

 His hair was long, his beard a shade of white, his feet were bare, and his flannel shirt faded. His cottage was small, nestled in a valley where fireflies danced all night, and stars fell from the sky. He didn't need to stay busy because he'd already done that decades ago. He smoked a pipe he had since his dad passed away, leaving him with a collection from around the world. His favorite is a clay pipe from Ireland. He let each new day decide what to smoke, sometimes a blend and other times a bud or two. He chopped and stacked wood daily, adding to the mountain that quickly went up in smoke, but that was cool with him, as it kept his guns hard. His tattoos were old and faded, yet he remembered when he got each one, mostly in his navy days when ink, booze, and youth were the soup of the day. He still had his Harley back in the shed, where it's been since he rolled it in, broken and silent, after he laid it down to avoid being hit by a logging truck. As years passed, he slowly got it running again, and when the roads were free of snow, he'd ride. To this day, his favorite sounds are birdsongs, a child's laughter, and the growl of his Harley. You have to understand, he didn't run away back then; he chose to leave the world he was forced to live in after fulfilling his obligations to his family, who finally understood why he had to go. In the valley, voices aren't heard, and nightmares don't occur; the only crime is burning the bisquets. Everything around and about him is old now, and that's okay with him. He doesn't mind that his cottage needs a coat of paint, which he will never get around to doing. He doesn't care if a hundred animals eat from his garden as long as he has enough to sustain himself. No more haircuts or beard trimming, no more traffic or the noises of the city he left behind. Just a white clay pipe, a rickety chair on his front porch, waiting for the evening show to begin down in the valley.

Mike  2026