Dads dream boat

 I was about twelve when my dad brought home a big boat on a trailer, towed by a tow truck. It was quite the show as neighbors watched it slowly make its way through turns and park in the driveway. From the look on my mom's face, this was one of those times when Dad preferred to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. The boat was in fair condition but would need some work to make it seaworthy. As luck would have it, one of the neighbors was a well-known carpenter with years of experience reconditioning boats. I later learned that the carpenter and my dad had met up at the marina on several occasions to plan something that wouldn't break the bank.

Dad grew up living a stone's throw from the Niagara River, which, like most young boys, was a place to learn to swim and help with small chores at the marina. He fell in love with boats and had a few over the years, telling me he was working his way up from smaller boats to a cabin cruiser he had yet to find.  I'll never forget the day he got a call from the harbor master at the marina, telling Dad that a 28-foot Trogen cabin cruiser went up for sale at a very good price. We quickly took the short drive to the marina, where the harbor master showed us to the metal hut where boats were placed on cradles and covered with tarps to protect them from the bad weather.
There she blows, the harbor master said, pointing to a boat covered with blue tarps, which he pulled off, revealing what Dad said was a dream come true. All I saw was a hull and a ton of work to be done before she ever hit the water. On his first visit, the carpenter told my dad it would take about $4,000 to restore it to its original beauty. Plus, the engine would have to be overhauled and all electrical components brought up to current codes. Mind you, my dad wasn't much of a get-your-hands-dirty kind of guy, but he could negotiate with the best of them, eventually getting everything done for 3,500 dollars, which was no small amount in 1963.
The boat took shape in our driveway for a year and a half, and the finished product was one of beauty and grace. Everybody in our family did their part, with Mom making curtains down below in the living area, and my sisters lending a hand. The boat had a cooking stove, a small fridge, a stand-up shower, and a commode. It had a forward berth with a good-sized bed and a table that folded down to form a sleeping area. I'll never forget the smell of new wood and knew why the carpenter was in demand.
We launched the boat on July fourth. Dad and I had already given her a test run, with the mechanic getting out the bugs and giving his stamp of approval. We passed inspection by the Coast Guard, who put a red sticker on the bottom of the windshield dated 1965 through 1966. So with food and drinks stowed away below and sunscreen applied, we headed out of the harbor onto the mighty Niagara River. That was just the first of many voyages we took on that boat as time swam past; Dad couldn't operate the boat anymore due to his failing health. But it didn't stop him from becoming first mate, passing down the captain's hat he wore for many years to me.
Long after my parents left this world, I kept the boat for years, taking my kids on weekend cruises, showing them the places my dad showed us, always with a tear shed. But eventually the upkeep became a burden, and we decided to sell her. I learned that a young couple bought her and treated her with the respect she deserved. As for me, well, I found another boat under a tarp in the marina and called the carpenter straight away.

Mike  2026

Waiting for your next nap.

 It took him a little longer to get to his chair these days, plopping down hard enough that he thought he'd blow out the stuffing. It wasn't always like that he remembered. There were times he could have jumped over the darn thing. These days it's the little things he remembers, like getting his first tattoo and the dozens that followed. Now just a faded ink highway no one would notice.

He smiles as he looks at a picture of himself in his navy uniform, wondering if he really was that age and where the time went. He spends hours looking at old photographs, each a story of his life; he never grows tired of remembering and knowing the day will come when the stories will grow fewer and fade away altogether.
He naps every afternoon, not by choice; mind you, it's just a way of saying he can no longer control sleep as it finds him whenever it pleases. He has one of those new-to-him cell phones his daughter gave to him so she could keep tabs on him. After all, Dad, she would say, you can't be alone all the time without letting me know you're okay. He didn't argue with her, as he knew he couldn't win unless you call turning the damn thing off a win.
As he sat in his chair, he'd put himself into a kind of trance, reliving precious memories of his life, seeing clearly the faces he loved and the laughter of so many, each unique in their own way. Everything was crystal clear, like the time he kicked a can down a country road, hearing crickets and the buzzing of bees hovering over a patch of flowers. Or the time he bought his first car from the junkyard, a 1957 Chevrolet for seventy bucks, and drove it home.
The doorbell rang, and he ignored it, knowing it was just another somebody wanting to mow his grass or shovel his driveway when the snow came. They'd go away, slipping a pamphlet under the door, which he used for kindling in the fireplace. After all, he wasn't glued to his chair and still maintained his house; it just took a while longer to finish, and he hoped he wouldn't fall asleep halfway through.
He used to shrug off people calling him old, but somewhere along the line he accepted the fact that he was. But old doesn't always mean old; it just means slowing down and waiting for a nap.

Mike  2026

too hot to handle

 The heat was worse than she remembered as she sat on the porch fanning her face with a plastic fan she picked up at the market some time ago. It was baby blue with pink flowers and a tiny gold label reading made in China. It helped, she supposed, but sometimes she felt like it was just blowing hot air at her. A glass of iced tea sat beside her, but it hadn't taken much time before the ice cubes just melted, leaving a bit more watered-down tea.

She wasn't expecting any visitors today, so she rolled her stockings down and unbuttoned her blouse just enough to fan her neck as droplets of sweat rolled down her already soaked chest. She wasn't one to complain or question God, but today she found herself looking to the heavens and whispering Why?
There was no air conditioning in the old farmhouse, just open windows and a prayer for any kind of breeze at all. But she'd have to wait for nightfall when the scorching sun gave way to the moon and stars as collective souls gave thanks.
Too hot to cook, so crackers and peanut butter were on the menu tonight, and a cupcake treat with melted frosting for dessert. The darkness was upon her as she sat on the porch again, closing her eyes and letting the warm summer breeze lull her to sleep.
Crickets sang, and tree frogs let their presence be known as the creatures of the night ventured out from daytime hiding places to embrace the cooling night. She woke, remembering her dream of a large bowl of ice cream with two cherries on top, only to realize it was just a dream, and now craving ice cream.
The old fridge gave its all but was no match for the heat, and the bowl of her dream had turned to a melted and lukewarm drink. Waste not, she said out loud as she got a straw and sipped her drink down to the gurgling sounds she made as a kid with her first milkshake.
Tomorrow will bring on the heat again, as it has for several days. Fans made in China will fan faces, kids will play in the sprinklers, and dogs will find a place under the house lying on cool dirt. Will this day be the day the sky opens up and rain comes crashing on the old tin roof? Will the almost dead plants and grass find relief as droplets of god's nectar splash the cracked earth? One can only dream and hope that the old fridge comes alive again with ice cream, no straw needed.
Mike  2026

Unfaded squares

 Unfaded squares on a wall where pictures once hung. A family's memories gone to where I don't know. A dusty shelf on a left-behind dresser holds a pair of bronzed baby shoes, somehow forgotten in a rushed move.

A backyard swing set eaten with rust sits idle with the occasional creaking as a breeze passes by, and you swear you hear the voices of children at play.
A makeshift doghouse, decayed and crumbling, once a shelter for a loyal friend.Remains of a chewed-up stuffed animal, half buried and lost forever.
A dilapidated shed with a rusted metal roof draws you inside as sunlight turns to darkness, the last few rays letting you see the forgotten tools of a trade someone used to earn a living. The walls, once filled with hanging tools, are empty except for a pair of pruning shears and a lantern, probably to give light to projects done at night.
A well-disguised old tractor, covered with vines and tall grass, catches your eye as you climb onto the metal seat and imagine you're a farmer who used the machine like his father did until the day it stopped working and was left where it sat from then on.
A chicken coop without chickens, a barn with no hay, an old tire hung with a rope to make a swing. A dried-up pond, once a place for kids to swim or catch a first fish, now just another unpainted square of a family's memories.
Mike  2026

I could write about whatever

 Even when the page is blank and my fingers hover over the keys, I remind myself there is always something to write about. I could write about the beautiful sunrise this morning or the star-filled night sky. I could write about my next-door neighbor, most likely sleep-deprived, pacing back and forth on the porch as she tries to lull her baby to sleep, as she keeps singing to her child in a soft mother's voice.

I could write about my grandson's visit the other day, dumbfounded by how tall he has grown and his plan for his future. We would look through pictures from when he was just a wee bit of a thing, as I looked at his expressions of remembrance and happiness.
I could write about the loss of a good friend recently, but my tears are dried now, I think. I did write something the day I learned of her death, but that's tucked away in a special collection I've written over time and don't share.
I could write about all the love I've had and all I've given, subtle reminders of my life and its blessings. I could write about all the places I've traveled and endless roads I've thundered down, the sound of my Harley music to my ears. Sunday rides going from one bar to another, always a brotherhood of bikers there to greet me with a cold one.
I could write about my youth, my adulthood, and now old age, each part of me as was the plan from the beginning. I can indeed write about anything, with plenty of topics all boiled into a pot of words waiting for me to tap a key.
Mike  2026

Memories of a sailor

 He was alone with his memories as the ship sliced through calm seas on its way to another port of call. Midnight watch on the signal bridge far above the main deck, with nothing to see but blackness and an occasional pod of porpoises illuminated by phosphorescence as they sped past us on their own mission, he supposed. He liked the midnight watch and looking at the stars so close you try to touch one, believing you can but only making a fool of yourself in front of nobody. Hours pass with nothing to do except stargaze and the occasional footsteps of a sailor stopping to say hello and offer a hit or two from a joint. He leaves after a while, and his footprints fade into the quiet of the night as you play connect the stars in living colors until your high wears off.

Darkness slowly replaced with light as your eyes adjust, and the endless black is burned away by the rising sun, and an ocean of bluish green greets you. In the distance, much further away than it looks, you see a landmass somewhere off the coast of Spain growing in size as the ship makes way for the port of Barcelona. 0800 hours, and you're relieved of your watch as you head for breakfast and then to your rack and sleep. You wake to the sounds of the ship and work parties unloading crates at the docks, filled with items like electrical components and plumbing parts, just some of the items given to Spain as gifts from the US. Sailors are granted liberty with two things on their minds: women and booze, usually spending their entire paycheck the first day with 30 more days of being broke.
I loved being a sailor and all the stories told by the old salts—tales of mermaids and Davy Jones' locker. King Neptune and lost cities at the bottom of the oceans. I felt proud wearing my uniform, the old-school 13 buttons on your pants and bell bottoms. Taking hours to shine your dress shoes and a Dixie cup hat you positioned perfectly on your head. That uniform was the cause of many a woman's knees going weak. Going home on leave was another thing I liked. Especially after graduation from boot camp, where you gained ten pounds of muscle, had a nice haircut, and stood tall and proud of the uniform. People greeted you on the streets back then, telling you how good you looked, which also made you proud. Mom made a big fuss, inviting the entire neighborhood over for a barbecue with banners welcoming me home. Things were different back then.
Now all that remains of my time in the Navy. A golden shellback certificate framed on a wall, a belt buckle with the ship's name I served on, and a bunch of photographs, mostly faded but still visible. A couple of cruise books with pictures of all the ports we visited throughout the world. But the most important thing I brought home was my memories of fellow shipmates and the brotherhood we shared out in that bluish-green vastness of the sea.

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

The Colonel

 His last apartment before the stroke was unkempt to the naked eye, but to him, it meant home. Back in the day, people bought old houses and converted them into small apartments, usually a total of four, and all barely big enough for you to get around in. It had a tiny kitchen with a stove, small fridge, and four cabinets to keep everything you might need. There was a small bathroom, so small that if you were over six feet, you'd have to cut a hole in the door to put your legs through. The first of two small bedrooms had a single-size bed and a stand-up closet to hang clothes, with a shelf for underwear and socks. The second bedroom was his collection/writting room where he spent a good portion of his time. Back in his day, he was a writer, mostly for the big newspapers, and achieved some fame with his column titled "Thinking it over."In his later years, when the words wouldn't come easily, he just sat at the typewriter and wrote whatever came into his mind. I always thought it was the sound of the keys that gave him hope he'd write again.

He drank too much, and too often, as evidenced by weekly garbage pickup consisting of dozens of bottles clanging as one when tossed into the garbage truck. He smoked like a furnace and found it less expensive to roll his own cigarettes, which he did by buying cans of tobacco, then spending hours rolling enough to fill a plastic holder he kept in his pocket, along with a few airplane-size bottles he put in his coat pocket when he ventured outside his apartment. The walls of that room were stacked to the ceiling with empty tobacco cans; only he knew the answer to that. Looking back, I recall him walking down the street, clanging as the bottles moved around. He taught himself to talk again after the stroke, and he never gave up after 13 years of trying. He was born in the same town where he lived for 80-some years, and he knew almost everybody and mourned the loss of too many to count.
He would take walks no matter the season, always ending up at one of his watering holes where he'd drink with old veterans like himself, reliving the war and toasting to those who never made it home. When he came upon a bar or restaurant he'd never gone to, he had index cards written out, each telling things like how he wanted his drinks made or how to cook his steaks. The local police knew him and often offered him a ride home after a night of heavy drinking, sometimes having to wake him up from a park bench, sometimes covered with snow, amazed at his stamina and his I don't give a crap attitude.
When it became apparent he couldn't live like that any longer, his daughter found him a place to live out his days at a Veterans facility. He balked at first but eventually made friends with other vets, all sharing war stories and hand salutes to the Colonel, who was the highest-ranking officer in the entire place. He wore his ball cap with eagles on the brim so there would be no mistaking him for a lower-ranking soldier. I think he enjoyed his time there right up to his last days. He received a full honors funeral and was buried alongside family members who passed before him. I was gifted the American flag, which to this day is displayed on a shelf along with his medals and two Purple Hearts.
He was a good man when sober and a handful when not, but he was my dad, and I have chosen to remember him as a strong man who served his country with honor and lived his life with hidden monsters living in his head for so long. Whenever I visit home, I'll stop at his grave in the veterans' plots and talk to him. I always leave a cigarette on his headstone and toast him with an airplane-sized bottle of booze and tell myself he'd smile at that small gesture of my love and respect.
Mike  2026