Summers as a carney

 He went back to a now-deserted carnival where, long ago, he spent his teenage years working and thinking he was the luckiest kid alive. He remembered the day before opening for the summer months; he'd be tasked with greasing the rides and making sure every ride was safe, as there were times when a bolt or nut would vibrate loose, which could spell disaster if not tended to quickly.

The carnies became like family to him, sharing meals in the dining tent together, telling him stories of their travels that took them North in the summer months and south for the winters. The carnival owner was a large man; everyone called him Boss, with a big heart and a profound love for the carney lifestyle. He took him under his wing, and in the few years he worked for him, he taught him all he needed to know.
Looking at the remnants of the once-lively carnival, he remembered the pull-behind trailers that were home to the performers and midway workers, now just shells filled with memories and the voices of those carnies long since passed. The once bustling midway where he learned the ways of the games, some, if not all, rigged to lose. The sights of the rifles were off just enough to cause a missed shot; the milk bottles had a magnet attached to the bottom, guaranteeing they couldn't fall with the others. Most folks just passed it off as bad luck and swore they'd win next time. He remembered a time when one teenage boy, trying to win a huge purple stuffed panda bear for his girlfriend, spent his whole allowance throwing rings at soda bottles he had to get over the neck completely. Ring after ring, he was off by less than a micro-inch, not knowing the bottles weren't exactly level but couldn't tell with the naked eye.
Not all games were rigged; some made a point of letting folks win a cheap toy or a couple of free tickets to the ice cream wagon. The sounds of victory filled the midway, enticing others to take a chance. His last season came to a close four years after his first day. He left for college up state. He wrote letters to his friends, and they wrote back, telling him where they were and where they'd be heading as they followed the weather. After a while, the letters stopped coming and going, and his years as a carney became a chest full of memories.
Decades later, he came across an article about abandoned carnivals and theme parks, and one picture stopped him in his tracks as he looked at the carnival he once called his second home. He jumped on a plane and flew to Kansas, and with the help of a taxi driver who knew every square inch of the county, he drove him to a deserted field littered with the remains of a once-thriving carnival. He couldn't stop the tears as the midway lights and the faded paint on the thrill rides stood as reminders of their days of glory and the joy they brought to kids of all ages. He continued his walk, bending down to retrieve what was left of a purple stuffed panda bear tortured by time and the elements, now just a few threads of purple material and one eye hanging by a string.
He was about to leave when he saw what had once been his trailer, now a rusted-out shell, all but invisible, buried in weeds and forgotten. He got on his knees and looked inside, bringing back so many memories of days long past but never forgotten. He spotted an old piece of paper yellowed with time and saw it was a flyer for the carnival, the very kind he pasted all over town on phone poles and storefronts. Finding it was his holy grail, and he took it home and framed it where it now joins other memorabilia: a milk bottle that couldn't fall, a rifle with a bad sight, and a complete set of colored rings and a soda bottle.
He may have been a seasonal carny, but those were the happiest times of his life, and they will stay with him until the lights and sounds of the carnival fade away and the carousel music stops.

                                                                         

Mike  2026

Life on the rails

 He had walked the railroad tracks for most of his adult life. A lone traveler, a hobo, a soul on life's journey of whistle stops and days on end in a boxcar, his worn boots hanging over the edge, dancing with no floor. He followed the seasons, staying cool in the mountains of the northern Pacific and warm on southern stretches of track.

He was a simple man who preferred his own company and never paid much attention to glaring eyes and whispers. His clothes were well worn, and he replaced them with throwaways found in dumpsters and donation boxes when needed. The tracks were his road map that he knew like a good friend, cold steel taking him places most will never see.
Homeless camps yards from the tracks, where some like him stayed out of sight until an open car filled with supplies was ambushed, as men risked life and limb throwing boxes of unknown contents out of the car to be picked up by hungry mouths. It was like Christmas morning as boxes were opened and they found things they could use, while others were left in the bushes because they had no value to them.
Life on the rails, where stories were written and told around campfires and hidden riverbanks, brought smiles and often a deep recognition of a chosen life and the sadness it brought. Broken veterans and Wall Street business people who took the gamble and lost everything, leaving them empty, with no future, unable to face the life they walked away from.
The sounds of passing trains and whistles, the smell of diesel fuel, a dragging wheel throwing off sparks, and the smell of an empty boxcar were all moments he grew to love on his endless journey as the caboose rounded a bend and rolled out of sight

Mike  2026

                                                                                

Mike  2026

Life defined

 Life is give and take, ask and answer. Life is good and evil, and trying to understand why bad things happen to good people. Life is happiness and sorrows rolled into one lifetime as we do our best, and best isn't always good enough. Life is a series of tests; some we pass and others we fail, but we keep trying because what else can we do?

Life is our opportunity to share our knowledge and experiences, hoping it will be accepted, respected, and remembered. Life is meant to be an abundance of happiness with occasional letdowns and times when you need to be with others and other times alone.
Life is respecting elders as you thirst for their knowledge and how they even survived the worst of times. You listen as they speak, sometimes with tears rolling down their face as some memories remain too painful to bring back up.
Life is what we make it to be, how we live it and why we did the things we did, all rolled up in a package well used and sometimes abused in the name of fun. Life is a gift we can either like or dislike; that's all up to you, but one thing is certain: we have only one chance to get it right.

Mike  2026                                                              

Ice cream man on a Harley Davidson

 I remember the ice cream man cruising our neighborhood in a postwar trike that the police also used. His was painted white with decals of treats on the ice box that made kids drool. There were ice cream cones and suckers, orange-flavored cream cycles, and fudge bars. But the best treat was the ice cream man himself. He was a large man who always had a smile and a kind word. He was born in Greece and came to America as a young man seeking his fortune, but like so many others, his fortune eluded him. After the war, in which he proudly served, he used his savings to buy a 1940 Harley-Davidson three-wheeler with a box on the side. He painted it white and insulated the box to keep things inside cold. He wore white coveralls, a white hat, and a smile for every kid. Every weekday, he'd fill the box with treats and head out to neighborhoods around six o'clock, ringing the bell he had installed on the handlebars to let everyone know he was nearby. When he stopped, kids would pour out of houses with nickels and dimes to buy a treat while parents waved and he waved back. The box didn't take long to empty, and he'd head back to his large freezer in the garage to restock it, then head back out until darkness came and the box was empty again. On Saturdays, he'd sometimes be called upon to attend children's birthday parties, where he'd park in front of a house and a dozen or so revelers wearing birthday hats ran out to choose a frozen treat that the parents of the birthday boy or girl paid for, along with a nice tip. When the last kid got a treat, he started up the trike and headed for another neighborhood where outdoor barbecues were being held, and families gathered for a backyard picnic. He'd ring the bell and sit still as kids begged parents for a quarter, some who dug into their pockets and came up with one while others had a hissy fit when told not today.

I can still visualize his trike and the sound of the bell. I can taste the creamcicles and ice cream sandwiches and hear his genuine laughter as he handed out treats until the box was empty, leaving behind the wooden sticks licked clean as chocolate faces smiled and waved goodbye until next time. I believe he continued to roam the neighborhoods well into his senior years, until one day the bell stopped ringing and kids quit waiting. Soon after, larger ice cream trucks came into the neighborhoods with music blasting one song on repeat, and someone inside handed out many different kinds of frozen treats that cost twice what they used to when a white Harley-Davidson with a box on the side rolled into your neighborhood.

                                   Mike 2026                                          

Mike 2026

Cycle of a leaf

 I'm sitting on the porch, sipping apple cider and watching autumn-colored leaves float to the ground in a kind of dance, with an encore performance repeated every year. I watch as they twirl and float with no particular rhyme or reason, just a leaf in flight ending with a soft landing on the ground from which its mother tree stands, letting go of her children as all mothers must do. Soon the tree, with bare branches, will go to sleep, knowing springtime will awaken them with tiny buds she must nourish until they too float away on their own as the cycle repeats itself, and I witness the performance from my porch, sipping apple cider.

Mike  2026                                                    

Monster hill

 A gentle snowfall blankets the ground as you sleep. As you wake up, your eyes are blinded as you look outside at a blank slate ready to entertain children of all ages. You pull on layers of clothing, skipping the buttons moms fasten right before sending you out into the crisp air and virgin snow. Garage doors open as sleds and saucers are pulled from months of disuse and hauled to the hills to be challenged again. You arrive as other kids join in the run to be first down the hill as the smaller kids give way to teenagers on a mission. It's an unwritten law that the smaller hill belongs to the little kids, and anyone older will be warned to stay away. For the little ones, the smaller hill is challenging enough: they make it to the top, sit on their sleds, and push off, gaining speed as they go. They jump for joy, yelling to the older siblings about their success, but the older kids have had only one thing on their minds: to be flying down the untouched snow.

The day wore on, and countless runs striped the hills as blades and runners rained on the once-snowy surface, now just a mix of dirt and snow. Soon the kids left the hills and pulled their sleds to the next hill their parents forbade them to go to, but they knew darn well they would anyway. It was known as the monster hill, and for good reason, as you could see it in the distance, reaching into the clouds, or so it seemed. The little kids could only watch; that was fine by them, as fear gripped them at the thought of sledding down at breakneck speeds. Up on top of the giant hill, a few teenagers sat on their sleds, looking down at the little kids who seemed no bigger than a swarm of ants. Then one by one they shoved off and began the death-defying plunge down the hill. The cold turned their eyebrows to ice, and their heartbeats were almost audible as they passed the little kids cheering them on. Then the unthinkable happened: one of the teens lost control and fell off his sled, tumbling down the hill at breakneck speed, and stopped when he rolled into the field, where bushes softened the landing. It became very quiet as everyone waited to see if he was dead, but he got up and waved, saying he was okay and ready to go again.
Years later, when I visited home, I prayed for a good snowfall, and my prayers were answered: on my first night home, a massive storm blew in, covering everything with the blanket needed to challenge the monster hill. My wife said I was crazy, and my kids begged to go but settled for the little hill. I got my old sled from the garage and began the long walk, each step a chance to turn back. I reached the top and sat on my sled as a couple of teens laughed at the older man who just signed his own death certificate. Then, with one little push, I was gaining speed until I felt my cheeks fluttering and my eyelids icing up to the point of blindness, but I wouldn't abort and kept going, speeding past the teens to the bottom where I was greeted by my wife and kids, happy to see me in one piece. The teens came up to me, all saying one word: respect. My kids thought of me as their hero, and my wife said she'd file for divorce if I ever did that again. I never did go down the hill again, but I watched as kids, including my own, faced the challenge of Monster Hill that only those who've experienced it could live to tell.

                                                                               

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

The smells of autumn

 I lay on the cool autumn grass looking up at the cloud animals that entertained me for a few brief moments. I watched two colorful maple leaves drift by, wondering whether they would land on my face; the autumn air smelled musty, like the old corn stalks lying in the harvested fields. I could also smell woodsmoke from piles of burning leaves, their smoke filling the neighborhood and rising into the sky, on its way to who knows where. Maybe a mom hanging her laundry caught a whiff as the passing smell moved on.

Autumn is like a tease, warning us that all that beauty is short-lived and preparing us for what waits down the road. But for now I'll look the fool as I smell everything autumn gives me: pumpkins and gourds, damp leaves, and tilled soil. I'll smell the trees and the last time the lawn is mowed.
I love the smells of a roadside stand where every scent blends to create a five-star dinner: fresh-baked pumpkin and pecan pies selling out quickly to a few lucky city folks who stopped in on a Sunday drive. As sunset draws near and the last of the harvest is gone, the smells grow faint, and soon the smells of winter will let themselves be known. In the meantime, I stand still, looking up at the last of the fallen leaves as one brushes my face on its way to the ground, and all is well.

Mike 2026