Painted faces

 He stood in a field that is barren now, remembering days long passed when the crowd cheered him as he played the part of a circus clown. He closed his eyes and pictured all the colorful costumes, the stage makeup, and brightly painted wagons he called home. He could hear the barkers and vendors selling their goods just outside of the big top as people lined up for the evening performance.

He saw himself so much younger when he first signed on as a laborer with a wish to become a clown. Time passed, and he held onto his dream, watching and learning from some of the greats, and from one particular clown named Emmitt Kelly. Truly a legend whose inner clown was expressed so quietly that the world could only look in awe at his performance.

More time passed as he worked his way into the clown quarters and was allowed to practice his own makeup and a routine he could call his own. He practiced every day, slowly improving, until the day finally arrived when his name was added to the list of full-time clowns. He wore a happy face and flowered clothes, floppy red shoes, and a purple wig. He wore a horn on a string around his neck that he'd blow at unsuspecting guests who would jump up out of their seats laughing and spilling popcorn to the delight of everyone close by. And they called him Mr. Floppy.

As he stood in the field, memories washed over him, and he saw the faces of the other clowns, without makeup or costumes, just ordinary men trying to express a part of themselves hidden beneath the surface of sometimes-damaged souls. But when the costumes were put on and the makeup painted on their faces, the clowns of the circus came alive. Dancing and jumping around the tent, getting both applause and cries from little ones whose parents might find it hard to get them to sleep that night.

He stood in that field, wondering where everyone could be now. Some had passed while others resided in circus housing, a place where help was given and afternoon performances were put on, with shaking hands, putting on makeup, and wigs, ready one more time to entertain. The beep of the van's horn signalled it was time to leave, as he took one more look at where the once majestic big top once stood. He breathed in the smells of peanuts and cotton candy and saw the human cannonball fly away into the clouds he had always pursued.

Come on, Mr. Floppy, the driver yelled. We have a show to put on. hed almost forgotten that every other Thursday, the remaining clowns of the greatest show on earth would visit a children's home where, in full costumes, they would make balloon animals, toot their horns, and throw candy into waiting hands. It meant the world to the children, but also gave the tired old clowns one more chance to paint on a happy face.

Mike 2026

                                                            

Butter yellow home

 Springtime finally arrived in all its colors, splashed against a backdrop of green, as children once again rode their bicycles. The ringing of handlebar horns—pink and blue—filled the air. Some showed off Christmas bikes, while others found the nearest mud holes to christen their mighty steeds.

Springtime meant mom opening every window in the house and shaking the winter's dust outside, where it belonged, as Dad took inventory in his shed, preparing to paint the house a butter-yellow that mom insisted was the best choice.

Snow shovels were put away, replaced with hoes, rakes, and sprinklers, with great expectations of a bountiful harvest. Mom let us reach into her apron pockets, and each of us removed a packet of seeds to plant and nurture throughout the coming months.

Snow tires were replaced with good-weather tires, and dad changed the oil in the car they'd had as long as anybody could remember. It was grandpa's car at one time, but he bought it second-hand and handed it down to dad when his eyesight was almost gone. As it turned out, it was fifty-some years old, but you'd never know it. It's a classic, Dad would say, and someday it will be a collector's dream car.

April brought showers and summer sweltering heat that made tending the garden a chore, but also the promise of keeping it alive and thriving. Late spring brought baseball games at the town park, where families brought picnic lunches, spread out on a blanket of red-and-white checkers, some watching the game while others read books or played with the young children whose energy knew no bounds.

Spring gave way to summer, then to autumn, with a freshly painted house and a garden ready for harvest. Baskets overflowed with vegetables, each of us proud of ourselves for the promises fulfilled. But one thing we didn't plan for was the biggest pumpkin anyone had ever seen. We thought it would stop growing, but week after week it doubled in size and became a contender at the county fair, where it took first place in the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound giant category.

Winter made itself known in the wee hours of a December day, covering the land around them in a blanket of white, where bicycles were buried and some not found for weeks. Snow tires were put on, and shovels replaced the hoes. Colored lights of Christmas were strung again, and snowmen popped up all over the place as Mom kept asking where all the carrots had disappeared to.

Life is a circle that always comes around, filled with memories of family and friends and everyday acts of love and kindness. Its promises made and promises kept, its wonder and joy, and watching as everything and anything grows before your eyes, and that's how I see it all from the porch of my butter-yellow home.

Mike 2026                                                     

The elusive trading card

 The ice-cold bottle of Coke crashed down the chute and came to rest at his fingertips. He pried off the cap, lifted the bottle, and drank, bubbles sliding down his throat. Three quick slugs emptied it. He placed it with the other empties in the wooden case. Though he could have drunk another, he saved his last change for baseball cards.

It was a short walk to the comic store where the cards were also sold and hed been keeping an eye out for the next delivery that was due in today. He was greeted by a few of his friends, all gathered in front of the store, their change jingling in their pockets, anticipating finding a rare, very collectible card. And even though their chances weren't good, their spirits ran high; maybe one of them would.

Finally, the mail truck pulled up. The driver, holding a box no bigger than a breadbox, walked past them and set it on the counter, where the shopkeeper opened it and took out the stack of wrapped cards. Once good buddies, now like ravens fighting over roadkill, they pushed and shoved to be first in line.

What seemed like an eternity a minute ago became mere seconds as wrappers were dropped to the floor and each card looked at with great hopes of finding that one card, but only finding a small flat piece of bubblegum and players they already had. Sorry, boys, the shopkeeper said as the boys shuffled out of the store toward the park bench, where they traded cards for ones they didn't have.

Each of the boys had a couple of coins, not enough to buy one more pack, but if they pooled their change, they had just enough for one more pack. It was a race back to the store, where, along the way, they swore a blood oath that if that one special card was in the pack, they'd take turns holding on to it forever.

They plopped their change on the counter, and the shopkeeper set the last of the new cards on the counter where the boys just stared at it, knowing and believing this was the pack they sought. They decided on rock, paper, scissors to see who would be the lucky one to open the pack. It was Bobby who won the honor as he slowly opened the pack, as all eyes were on the pictures of familiar players, but once again, not the card they sought. Bobby split the flat piece of bubblegum among them as they left the store, popping bubbles and racing to the ball park, hoping to see the mid-day game with players still climbing the ladder to the big leagues, and who knows, maybe their own cards someday.

That one card was never found, and the boys grew up with sons of their own who, on any given Saturday, could be found opening trading-card packages and fighting over the flat piece of bubblegum. I suppose some things are just too good to let go of.

Mike 2026                                                 

The power of written words

 I find writing more effective than speaking for sharing my feelings. Writing lets me express myself in a form I can keep and revisit. Spoken words fade, but written words remain, providing a lasting reminder that's always there when summoned.

When I think about life, my words come naturally, and writing lets every thought and feeling be preserved, ready to revisit.

I am inspired to write rather than speak my emotions about everyday occurrences, leaving a lasting impression that touches me in one way or another, and remains in limbo until called upon to put it into meaningful written words.

For many years, I spoke the words to audiences of eager young adults who craved the next sentence I spoke like eager beavers hanging on every word they would retain to be used in their professions. Then, like a light switch, I stopped speaking and began writing.

I realized I had so much more to say when I let the pen do the talking, and all I had to do was supply the concept, and the words flowed. Now, three books and 1000 blogs later, I continue to write about anything and everything my mind and heart want me to write.

I'm still in awe at the volumes of stories I've penned, and I never lose sight of the gift given to me. In reality, written words come to be through my imagination and heartfelt memories, which only come to life through my pen and a blank sheet of paper.

Mike 2026                                                        

The racer in me

 It was 1969, and I was 15 years old when my dad purchased a 1969 Ford Mustang convertible—burgundy with a black interior. With its three-speed floor shifter and 289 HP engine, the car cost $2,800.00 off the showroom floor.

I learned to drive in that car, sometimes switching off to my mom's 1966 Chevy Impala, but my driving scared her too much to continue, so the Mustang it was. I got my license in the dead of winter, and anyone who experienced a driver's test on icy roads and snow blindness knows all too well how difficult that was for the instructor and me.

Little did I know that just a year and a half later, I'd be trading in the asphalt for a destroyer in the United States Navy. Just 17 years old with an option to either join up or be carted in front of a judge for possession of a bag of pot my dad found in the glovebox of his Mustang, a stupid thing to do  on my part, to say the least.

I spent four years on that tin can and was finally discharged in South Carolina, where I purchased my first Harley-Davidson motorcycle from a guy heading out to sea and had no further use for it. It was a 1959 Road King that needed some TLC, but it was doable. I rode that bike all the way to upstate New York, taking my time to see the sights and enjoy life on the road, where I met many people living their dream of communing, while others like myself chose the open road and the adventures it brought.

At 22, I bought a 1963 Chevy Impala Super Sport. With the money earmarked for college, but that was not in my plans. The Impala had a 327 cubic inch engine with a four-speed on the floor and some hidden items that would prove useful when I street raced it on Friday nights under the lights. I recall my first time racing it up against a 1955 Chevy with a blower, and god knows what else, but it was a beast to say the least.

The flag was lowered, and all I can remember is my Impala front wheels coming off the ground as I did my best to keep it in my lane. The fireblowing Chevy was inches behind me and sure to win until I mashed the nitro button, and with a trail of fire, I crossed the finish line to applause from my friends in the stands.

I continued racing and building cars, and the track became my second home. I taught both my son and my daughter to drive, each with the same passion for speed I had. We were on the road a lot, going from one race to another, and doing well enough until a major sponsor approached me, and just like that, we were in the big league.

Time raced past me, and after a wreck that left me with a broken neck, I retired from racing but never far away from it as I became my kids' manager. They went on to become well-known in the racing world, earning a comfortable life and fulfilling their need for speed.

Me, you ask. Well, I found a 1932 Willys, a car I'd dreamed about when I was a kid. It was in the fields along a long, winding country road, rotting away, until I towed it home and began the task of putting it back to its original glory. It took me three years to complete, with the goal of one day racing it against any fire-breathing monster who dared to race me.

Rolling up to the starting line, both my kids were assisting me and cheering me on as the tree lit up green and my willys jumped off the ground and disappeared down the strip all alone with no other car in sight. I deployed the chute and coasted to the end of the field, where I was pushed back to the staging area, and screaming fans who had just witnessed the fastest time ever on that track.

I never raced that car anymore, but I sat in it more times than I can remember. reliving that first and last race that forced me into retirement, to the joy of my wife, who, although scared every time I buckled in, waiting for the green light, sat in the stands, hands clenched, silently cheering me on.

Mike  2026                               

A dance token

 People saw him as just another old man staring into space, when in reality, he was reliving memories. Now, standing on a busy street corner, he remembered what it looked like decades ago—when youth and love were blossoming, the war had ended, and the dream of a bright future was within their grasp. As the crowd brushed past him, he saw her in his mind, young and beautiful, a smile on her face and love in her heart as they walked to the courthouse to be married.

Sixty years later, he looked up at a rooftop restaurant where they once dined. The building looked the same, although others had surrendered to the wrecking ball. The city had grown, and changes occurred before his eyes as he stepped off the curb with the crowd heading to one last stop.

The windows were boarded up, and the doors padlocked as he approached the old dance hall where they danced the nights away when each song played by the band found a place in their hearts to be called upon when memories were all he had left to remind him of her.

He could be seen on any given day roaming around the city, just another old man in an outdated coat and dancing shoes. Looking into windows, hoping for a reminder of her, like the old drugstore with a display of her favorite perfume in the window. The clerk seemed disturbed as he counted out the change from his pocket, coming up fifty cents short. He reached into another pocket and set a silver dance token on the counter, claiming it was worth so much more.

The night air was cold as he headed back to his modest home, where they lived for decades, although he admitted she kept a much neater home. He took the perfume from the bag and sat down. Very slowly, he let the mist hang in the air long enough to picture her there beside him, spraying the mist everywhere she said she wanted to be kissed.

Old age has no expiration date, no less feelings of wanting to be loved and remembered, just bits and pieces of dancing the night away with that special person, and a favorite perfume purchased with a dance token, and the need to remember.

Mike 2026                                             

Fresh paint

 He spotted the rusted remains of his son's scooter covered with spider webs and a hundred stories waiting to be told. He remembered the day he brought it home for his 7th birthday, all shiny and new, with a blue bow and colorful streamers, as he stood, frozen in the moment, alongside his wife, who had saved the pennies to buy it.

In another part of the cluttered garage, he spotted his daughter's bicycle, much in the same condition as the scooter. She had to have a pink bicycle, and he remembered how difficult that was, since every pink bicycle in town was sold out for Christmas. But that didn't stop him as he drove a hundred miles in all directions, stopping at every toy store and bicycle shop he could find, and each one telling him they were sold out. With all options gone, he had an idea.

He bought a blue bike, which there were plenty of for some reason, and four cans of pink spray paint, which he used to turn blue into pink. He didn't skip a single spec of blue as he carefully disassembled the bike down to the frame and prepped it for the paint job. He had painted his own bikes when he was younger, and it came right back to him with the final result being a world-class paint job. The years passed, and young girls grew up, as did young boys. Their interests weren't pink bicycles and scooters anymore, and that's how they ended up tucked away in the garage, where one day his grandchildren would be surprised when a freshly painted scooter and pink bicycle rolled out of the garage, ready for the joys of being a kid, just one more thing to smile about.

Mike 2026