Autumn by choice

 Winter's white gives way to springtime green, overtaken by the summer's heat and the colorful months of autumn, waiting to explode in all its splendor. I find beauty in every season, each flooding me with memories I keep locked up until I choose to remember them on a cold winter walk, a springtime rain, or a summer's night on a swing built for two. But it's autumn that has always held a special place in my heart, as cool air fills my lungs, gasping at the beauty of the leaves in autumn's finest colors. It's autumn, and I remember taking walks with my mom in a forest of amazement, where falling leaves floated to the ground, creating our own carpet of colors we slowly walked on as we talked about most anything, like moms and sons often do.

Autumn brings back memories of burning leaves and carving pumpkins. Raking piles of leaves only to jump into them as dad pretended to be angry. Trick or treat and warm pumpkin pie. Apple cider and picking apples in Mr. Jones ' orchard. Autumn meant sleeping with the windows open and covering yourself with a blanket grandma made years ago. I do find love in all the seasons, as each holds memories of its own embedded deep within my heart, but it's autumn that captured the most heartfelt memories that will lead me to the heavens as I gently walk on a carpet of colors, reaching for my mom's outstretched hand just ahead of me, where the light awaits and I never have to leave.

Mike 2026                                                      

suicide hill

 He wasn't scared, he told himself as his buddies cheered him on from the bottom of the hill. They looked so small down there, like small versions of themselves. This was the first time for him sledding down the giant hill, as he was younger than they were by a couple of years, and all of them had already taken the plunge several times. It was known as Suicide Hill, the drop to hell, and more names to describe this rite of passage every kid seven years and older had to bravely do or be labeled a chicken and worse.

He'd never been so high up before sledding down the much smaller hill for as long as he could remember. It was fun, unlike the pictures in his mind of him racing down a mountain so fast that the runners on his sled caught fire, ending with him crashing into a tree and passing out.
His friends continued cheering him on, telling him that if he didn't go right now, they would leave him and label him the chicken of the day. But he wasn't the only kid up there, he noticed. There were four of them, all getting the courage to jump on their sleds, and all being cheered on by the little versions of themselves at the bottom of the massive hill.
He spoke to the other kids, saying they should all go down together after all, there's strength in numbers, right? They all agreed and laid out their sleds next to each other, close enough to touch mitts and wish each other good luck. Within seconds of nosediving over the edge, they separated, one crashing at take off, another hitting a kid on a toboggan, and the other kid screaming his head off as he reached the bottom, where his buddies slapped him on the shoulders, congratulating him and welcoming him to the big boy hill.
As for him, well, he shot over the edge like a missile, using his arms to try to steer the runaway sled, but it had a mind of its own as his speed increased and his thoughts were all panic and the realization that he'd never see his family again. He heard himself screaming like a little girl as the ice from the sled's runners threw snow on his face, covering his goggles and leaving him blinded for the rest of the way down. His life passed before him as he waited for the worst to happen. But something was wrong. He quickly wiped the snow from his goggles just long enough to see he had crossed over the yellow tape warning of extreme speeds, possible injury, and even death.
Then, like a slow-motion movie, he felt the sled coming to a stop. His buddies were running to him, asking if he was all right. They couldn't believe he would sled the extreme hill that couldn't be used because so many people had been hurt racing down at breakneck speeds. He even heard that one older kid attempted the massive hill, and his runners separated from the sled, sending him screaming down the hill on a sled with no runners.
He became a sort of legend that day when a 7-year-old kid sled down Devil's Peak and lived to tell about it. He is in his thirties now and often brings his kids to the smaller hill, telling them, once upon a time, there was a massive hill that caused many injuries, and because of that, the county came in and leveled the hill and built a hill just for skiers.
Did you sled down that big hill, Dad? His kid asked him. Let's just say not only did I sled down, but I crossed over to the massive hill, at forty miles per hour and with snow-covered goggles, and did it with my eyes closed and my heart in my throat. Would you ever do that again his kid asked. Oh yeah, he said in a heartbeat.

Mike 2026                                                   

Age is more than a number

 At one point in my life, I never saw myself as being old. I'd see the older folks sitting on their front porch, visiting with a neighbor they've probably known for more years than I've been alive. I'd like to know what they talk about, and what their generation faced, like wars that took hundreds of thousands of lives, most just boys who left a heartbroken family behind. I often found myself trying to imagine all the changes they went through, but the numbers are too great.

The great depression, standing in bread lines and hording pennies to buy a treat for the children. Hand-made toys carved with a pocket knife, so there would be something under the tattered Christmas tree, a throw-away left behind, and hand-me-down clothes that rarely fit. Men standing on corners through every kind of weather, hoping to be picked for a day's work. But usually goes back home to his family empty-handed.
I look into the faces that time, weathered with tear ducts long ago dried up, no more to give. So many stars in the windows telling the neighborhood their boys had served, and the pride they feel can't be put into words.
I feel the emptiness they feel every day as I see them looking toward a place I guess only they can see and feel. Their own private slide show of carefree days of their youth, before time took over, catching them off guard as it did to me.
I can't tell you where the years went as they all blended into one life, my life. Aside from the white hair and skin that don't fit anymore, I feel like I did as a young man, out to conquer the world one day at a time, but a little bit slower. Soon, I imagine I'll have a place on the porch and wave to my neighbor as I've done for too many years to recall. I'll stare into space, where my memories seem scattered as I try to remember the good and the not-so-good.
Growing old isn't a curse; it's a blessing we've been given, a chance to look back to the spring dance where you met your soon-to-be wife. The birth of your children and that new house you had built, where you'd live for sixty-five years, making memories all along the way.
Mostly, as I look into the eyes of an elder, I believe they are seeing the faces of family and friends that have entered the light before them. I believe they see them as they remembered them when their hair was brown, and their skin was tight. When they could dance the night away and steal a kiss under the street light. Now I see myself as I once saw others, and it's all okay.

Mike 2026                                                 

 

Tears at the train station

 By the light of a silvery moon, he softly touched her face. The train would soon be leaving as countless tears fell to the ground and goodbyes were spoken with shaky voices.

Military uniforms as far as the eye could see, mixed with young brides and weeping mothers, waving until the train couldn't be seen or heard as it chugged along to the next stop and more waiting soldiers.
Months passed slowly, as did the mail, which usually arrived weeks or more after it was sent. Tear-stained, dirty envelopes didn't matter, as the envelope was ripped open, and his voice jumped off the pages and into her heart.
She read his words over and over until she had memorized every word that she repeated to herself during her waking hours until sleep came and her dreams were only of him. She dreamed of him looking so handsome in his uniform, his smile, and piercing blue eyes that saw their way straight into her lonely heart.
His last letter came saying he'd be home soon, and the postmark told her it would be in just two more days. Not enough time to prepare for his return, but she managed to look like his million-dollar baby, something he said often.
She dressed in a springtime outfit he had bought for her, with powder-blue shoes and a matching purse. A stylish hat and silk scarf around her neck, she made her way to the train station, joining at least fifty other wives and moms all filled with the anticipation of their loved ones finally coming home.
From the opposite end of the depot, a faint voice could be heard that the train was coming. Compacts were everywhere as the ladies powdered their faces and applied a bit more lipstick that would soon be kissed away.
As it pulled into the station, the faces of young men appeared through open windows as they scanned the crowd, looking for that special someone. The air was filled with the smell of perfumes that erased the smells of war and the fact that they really were home. She got lost in the crowd as she frantically searched for him, walking quickly through the sea of soldiers until she stopped and saw him looking at her just feet away.
She ran straight into his arms as he lifted her into the air, his strong arms holding her so tightly she almost couldn't breathe. Their lips met, and the first kiss was more like a thank you for bringing them back together. The second kiss was the one they both dreamed of in their dreams.
He hadn't told her in his last letter that he'd be going back for a second tour. He wanted her to feel nothing but happiness in the moment and every day they'd have together, to be what dreams are made of, until it was time for him to go again.
She joined the other wives and moms at the station, holding his hand, feeling his strength as he tried to control a single tear he hoped she wouldn't see. They didn't talk much as they both knew everything they wanted to say had been said. She kissed him, leaving the shape of her heart on his cheek, then a long, tender kiss on the lips that would help her remember his taste for the many months he'd be gone.
She was a military wife and knew what she had signed up for, but it wouldn't stop the loneliness or the endless waiting for a tear-stained envelope. She'd be waiting, as she always did, memorizing every word in his letters and repeating each one throughout her days until another letter arrived, weeks after he'd written it, saying he'd soon be home again.
She lived the life she had chosen and never let him see her deepest longing for him to be home for good. He was a soldier, and she was his wife, and they both had jobs to do. One day, he would retire, and on that day, she would kiss his cheek with ruby-red lipstick that would never wipe away.

Mike  2026                                                    

Treasured family moments in the forest

 The campfire crackled as pieces of fire raced towards the heavens, only to be snuffed out by opposing winds. Once large logs are reduced to glowing embers, the heat, once intense, becomes warmth.

Sticks that pierced marshmallows lay on the edge of the fire, igniting as their sticky remnants caught fire and were swallowed by flames.
Light from a lantern inside a tent eases the children's fear of the darkness as scary stories are told, and they hide under covers, while Mom and Dad share a glass of wine under the star-filled night.
It's getting cold as the fire is now just a pile of smoking ash, and the ground is the only thing that feels any heat. They get into their tent listening for laughs and giggles from the tent next to theirs, but the children are quiet and sleeping soundly, tired from a day of exploring.
Sharing a large sleeping bag, they cuddle together, their bodies providing warmth and other feelings that come to life in the quiet of the night. Sunrise says good morning as a fire is made and a coffee pot from an old thrift store percolates, transforming clear water into brown coffee, showing its colors as the glass top allows a look inside.
As Mom prepares breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and her famous biscuits slathered with honey, the smell awakens the children as they wipe the sleep from their eyes and join their parents around the fire. They'd be heading home today, but not before they took one last hike through the forest they all loved so much. And not before they took their dirty dishes, pots, and pans down to the stream and washed them clean.
This would be the final hours to gather what the forest gave, memories of their time there that would be the source of conversations for months and sometimes years. Six arrowheads, Dad claimed, were at least one hundred years old, along with several fossilized leaves, small creatures like lizards, and even a small footprint that only left them wondering. The best find, agreed upon by everyone, was a very old, rusted axe. Their minds were working in overdrive as they searched through the book of rare finds. And there it was, looking back at them from a page, the exact axe his daughter found as she tripped on a fallen log, and a patch of moss dislodged the ancient tool.
All packed up and heading home, there were a lot of mixed emotions, but more memories than anything else. Three days and nights together in the magic of the forests, the glow of a campfire for warmth, and the best cooking ever. Scary stories read under the covers and screaming when the flashlight's batteries wore down. Then, when pulling into their driveway, a collective sigh knowing it was over at least for a while.
Mike  2026                                                                 

Old man on the lake

 Small ripples lapped on the boat's side as the anchor line held firm. The gentle rocking made his eyes heavy, and he wanted to take a nap, but his days on the lake were running short, and every tug of the line was another possible trophy that he'd end up throwing back in the water to live another day.

He was brought up on this lake, as were his parents, in a place where nature reigned, and the city seemed a million miles away. When they passed just five months apart, he moved into the cottage some forty-something years ago. Math tells him he's lived there a total of seventy-five years and never changed a thing about it.
The hardwood floors were swollen in places as the lake's moisture took its toll. Kitchen cabinets didn't open or close as easily as they did when he was a kid, opening and closing a thousand times in search of a treat or a box of oat cereal. It showed character, he thought, like the pieces of driftwood hanging on the wall and the collections of small, smooth rocks his mom would find on her morning walks.
His line grew taut, and he jerked the pole up and hooked a monster of the lake, maybe the one legends are made of. It put up a fight as the old man grew tired and his arms felt like rubber. Then, without warning, the line snapped, and the would-be trophy dove deep and escaped. He sat there for a minute, cursing that no one would hear except maybe another fisherman around the point who saw what happened and held up his hands in a gesture of dismay.
He took his time securing his gear and pulling up anchor, then rowed the quarter mile back to the dock, also in need of repair. He thought about that and hoped it would hold up just a few more fishing trips, but he wouldn't bet on it. No fish for dinner tonight, he said to himself, but that was okay as he didn't really acquire a taste for it. Strange, isn't it? A kid who was brought up fishing almost daily for decades didn't like fish.
The daylight was sinking, and darkness would follow, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees, so he built a fire and took a hungry man's dinner from the freezer. Salsbury steak, mashed taters, green beans, and an apple crisp for dessert. Life was good, and no washing dishes either, just a two-point shot into the garbage can.
It didn't take long as the warmth from the fireplace filled the cottage with the smell of wood burning as he gave in to sleep sitting on his dad's favorite chair, something else he left as it was so long ago. He'd repaired that chair too many times to count with duct tape and pieces of cloth that ended up looking like a patchwork quilt. But he wouldn't change a thing.
The old man had three more fishing trips that all went well, except on his second trip, when the old dock finally collapsed, sending the small boat to the bottom of the lake and plunging him into the cold water. He was able to retrieve most of his gear, but some things were gone forever, and that was okay with him.
Now he sits in a chair at the foot of the lake tossing out his line. He saw the neighbor around the point, passing him by with his arms held up in dismay and a smile on his face. The old man gestured back with his middle finger held high, adding a few choice words from one fisherman to another.

Mike 2026                                                                    

The writing room

 He wrote in his home office, a small room with a window not much bigger than a large broom closet. The walls were covered with pictures he liked, some of family, others like a World War II fighter pilot, and several pin-ups from days gone by. Fishing rods in one corner and a broken printer that he intends to get rid of one day in another. His desk was saved from the jaws of a garbage truck, old school with years of use everywhere you looked. Initials with hearts and dates that meant something to someone. He'd sometimes catch himself rubbing a heart and wonder if the carver was still among us.

His chair was decades old, with one roller gone and replaced with cardboard and duct tape that did the job. The armrests were worn from years of use, much like the desk, and he often found himself wondering who the person was, assuming they were a writer of some kind. Maybe they wrote for a newspaper ages ago, wrote children's books, or wrote graphic novels.
Many nights when the urge to write overcame him, he'd light a couple of candles and turn on a vintage lamp with an amber bulb, just enough light to write. He never knew what he would write until a word turned into a sentence and sentences into paragraphs. Write, delete, write some more, delete, and try again until he was satisfied that a story was told.
He never thought of himself as a great writer; he just believed it was a gift of sorts that he didn't take lightly. Years passed, and countless stories were written in that small room with fighter pilots and pin-ups on the walls and a seldom-used fishing pole gathering dust in a corner. He had carved his own heart and the dates he wanted to remember on the top of the desk, and every so often, he rubbed his hand across it as memories flooded back and lost loves filled his mind.
He wrote his last story sitting at the desk saved from the jaws of the garbage truck, rolling his chair with the broken wheel to take a break and look out the window, he hoped would inspire him one more time, until the words no longer flowed and one last story was written.

Mike  2026