Winters memories of fun

 My mom would get me dressed for a Nor'easter with layers of clothes and no skin showing except for my eyes. I looked like the Michelin Man. In those days, there were no video games or the internet. No television except for cartoons on Saturday mornings and family night to watch a black-and-white movie.

Our backyard was my playground with everything a kid needed to entertain himself. Winter had its challenges, especially if you were by yourself, but if a couple of friends showed up, well, that was a different thing altogether.

After an all-night snowfall, the back yard was an undisturbed blanket of white with everything buried with drifts of snow, some as high as the tip of the swing set, and the fun began. After freeing a swing from the grips of the snow, I'd swing higher and higher, then jump off into a drift, burying myself in the powder and laughing to myself.

Hours would pass as I found new things to do, like climbing a fruit tree with low-hanging branches and taking a minute to find a sturdy branch while wearing a space suit. Eventually, I reached my destination, looking all around me and over the fence, seeing nothing but snow-covered mountains. 

Lunchtime came around, and I headed inside, where Mom had a bowl of my favorite tomato soup waiting. She partially undressed me, taking my space suit off and setting it next to the heater to thaw out. My ice-coated mittens were replaced with a fresh pair, and new bread bags were put into my boots. I was fueled up and ready to go back outside when the doorbell rang, and my next-door neighbor greeted us, asking if I'd like to go sledding. He was several years older than me, but my folks liked and trusted him enough to put me in his care.

With our sleds in tow, we ventured out beyond the confines of my backyard to a huge pile of snow in the city park. It was the biggest pile of snow I'd ever seen as we slowly climbed to the top behind other kids, then sat on our sleds and raced towards the bottom at breakneck speed. Over and over again, we sled down that hill until our frozen selves were tired and cold.

As the daylight began to fade, we headed home, laughing at the times we wiped out, doing face plants that froze our eyelashes, and barely getting run over by older kids on toboggans. I thanked my neighbor for taking me along, then headed inside where Mom was waiting with dry clothes and a slice of freshly baked bread and butter.

Dad got home, and I told him about my day, especially the parts where we sled so fast our eyes froze shut, leaving us blind and flying by the seat of our pants. He laughed and told me how he remembered sledding down that very same hill when he was much younger. You know it's supposed to snow again tonight he said with a grin on his face. And its saturday, so no work. How about we tackle the hill together, he asked. I think my old sled is in the garage.

After mom's ritual of stuffing me into the space suit, my dad and I ventured out to the park, and seven more inches of snow fell during the night. To me, winter was my favorite time of the year, and my memories are vivid. Dad's laughter as he captured his inner kid and me smiling, knowing I'd always remember those times together. And do you know the best part of it was knowing that someday I'd race down that hill with my own kids, taking a deep breath and racing them to the bottom, praying not to be run over by a screaming bunch of kids on a toboggan.

Mike 2026                                             

Defying the odds

 He lived in a small apartment with poor heat and drafty windows. The carpet was stained beyond help, but he didn't seem to mind. His easy chair was threadbare and tilted to one side, but he didn't care. The small kitchen had a stove with just one working burner and a fridge that barely kept things cold, but he didn't care. A black iron skillet was where he cooked every meal, fried eggs and bacon for breakfast, and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Supper was either a cheap steak or a couple of pork chops cooked in the skillet with grease from previous meals, which he said gave them flavor.

There was just one bedroom that he did his best to keep in military fashion. Crisp and sharp corners on the sheets and a blanket folded at the foot of the bed in case he got cold in the night. A bedside stand next to where he slept was an alarm clock he bought at the drugstore years ago, a glass of water that held his dentures, and, of course, a pack of hand-rolled cigarettes that he would wake in the night to light up and watch the orange glow until snuffing it out and going back to sleep.

The tiny bathroom was just big enough to do his business and look in a cracked mirror when he shaved. It was only showers as a tub would never fit in such a small space, but he didn't care. He spent his days reading the newspaper from cover to cover, always interested in what was happening outside his weathered door. He owned two pairs of pants and two shirts, all of which he purchased at the Goodwill store just a short walk from home. His grown kids often tried to give him new clothes, but he always said no, so eventually they gave up and let him do as he pleased.

Decades had passed since his military life as a highly decorated officer that was cut short when he had a stroke, and doctors said he'd never speak again or be able to communicate easily. He worked every day on his speech and movements, writing his thoughts on endless sheets of paper and putting notes in his pockets that had his recipe for a perfect martini or how he wanted his steak.

He rarely had company, and that's how he liked it. But when one of his kids showed up to check on him, he seemed to have a glow that welcomed them. Against all odds, he eventually began to speak again and could walk with a cane, kissing the wheelchair goodbye. He loved to walk and could often be seen in the summer, winter, fall, and spring making his way to his favorite bar and grill, where he met other veterans and became good friends.

He left this world; he chose to live on his terms with a greasy skillet on the stove and hundreds of hand-rolled cigarettes stashed away in empty coffee cans. His son had kept his father's military dress uniform, and he was buried in that, along with full military honors. The flag was presented to his son and, to this day, is proudly displayed on the mantel of his fireplace.

He may have lived in a cold, drafty apartment with little to show for the bravery he displayed throughout his life, but he died a hero to us and an example of defying the odds, walking the path he had chosen even when it was said he'd never be the same man again.

Mike 2026                                               

Words are timeless treasures

 I've walked a million miles in my lifetime. I've sailed the ocean hundreds of miles from land. I rode my Harley on mountain roads and slept under the forest skys. I've told a thousand stories and listened to many more. I've loved and been loved in return and cried tears of joy and sorrow. I saw the miracle of life tenfold and the heartbreak of loss, too many to remember.

I've traveled the globe and seen the wonders of time unfold before my eyes, and I've walked on dusty country roads, seeing crumbling barns once filled with life now lying silent as birds make it their home.

I've accepted old age and give thanks I can remember my youth with clarity. I picture my mom and her gentle ways, and hear my Dad whistling his favorite song on the radio as we, as a family, took Sunday drives with the car windows open, the dust just a part of the drive.

I've tried to remember all that I can by putting words on paper seldom read by anyone but me, but that's okay, as my words are timeless, and one day, one of my great, great grandchildren will discover a box in the attic and spend hours under the light of a full moon discovering who I was.

I suppose if my beliefs are true and I'm able to look upon life in death, then I'll watch that child put pen to paper and begin her journey, following my footprints into her tomorrows, with me as her guide.

Mike 2026                                                 

A walk with pops

 He walked more slowly now, his footing carefully placed, stepping over exposed roots and other hidden obstacles. His grandson walked close to him, ready to catch him if need be. Can you smell the wildflowers he asked, and the rainbow of tulips on both sides of the path? Can you hear the running water from the same stream I swam in as a kid? I do, Pops, I see it all through your eyes.

They stopped by the stream, cupped their hands, drank the cool water, and rested for a minute before moving ahead. I made this walking stick, you know, I found it on a Sunday walk with your mom. True, it's just a stick, but I saw something more than that. I saw the face of an angel, nature-carved, and I had to have it. You can have it when I'm gone.

They were halfway home when they came upon the fire pit, the place where a fire was built, and bones were warmed. A thermos of hot chocolate and a PBJ tasting better than any fast food. I built this pit, he told his grandson. When you were just a gleam in your daddy's eyes. The night air was getting colder by the minute, so they put out the fire and headed home.

Here's the wandering man, Grama said as she helped take off his coat, replaced with a warm blanket she had set near the fireplace. Did you have many adventures she asked. But sleep caught up with him, and there was no answer. He said goodbye to his grama and bent to kiss his pops' forehead, whispering a thank-you for the wonderful day.

As he got into his car and began to drive away, he looked back and saw his pops waving goodbye from the window, probably wondering the same thing he was, as he returned the wave and kept on going.

Mike 2026                                                 

A man and his mountain ways

 Sitting by the fire, he traveled back in time when life was an open book of discovery. He strokes his long white beard and remembers throwing away his razor on his forty-fifth birthday. It was the same year he left the city behind, choosing a life of quiet solitude on a mountain, where wildlife became his friend and the seasons his clock and calendar.

In the quiet night, as the fire spat out tiny sparks of light, it reminded him of headlights down below, where the people of the city blew their horns and yelled at the traffic as if it would matter or make it possible to move a few inches forward.

As he sat in the cold of the night his face warm from the fire he remembered his first time smoking some weed with friends deep in the darkness of the forest where the sounds of nature and a lone guitar filled the air as that sweet smell of pot filled his lungs and opened his mind to the true meaning of what he wanted his life to be.

He could have followed the masses and become another sheep following the rituals of those around him, but his true self couldn't allow that, no matter how hard he tried. He was a solitary man who craved the mountains and forests and the sweet smell of weed filling the air as his imagination ran wild and his spirit soared with the eagles.

At seventy-two years old, he had become a legend in the mountains. His cabin was a welcome station for hikers passing by, who sat by his fire as he passed the pipe around and told them stories of yesteryear, capturing their attention as their minds opened to the true reality of his life and what he had given up by choice.

Years later, a simple wooden cross marked the spot where his cabin once stood. It's said he fought off a grizzly bear but lost. Others said he ventured down the mountain for reasons unknown, made it halfway, sat against a tree, and fell asleep, but never woke up.

I sat by his fire once a long time ago, where he shared the pipe with me, telling stories, some real and others a byproduct of decades smoking the weed he loved so much. I never met such a man whose life was a story many would never read, but he was as real as it gets, and his legend will live on as long as there are those who choose to believe in a mountain man with a very long white beard and a well-smoked pipe.

Mike  2026                       

Spring times arrival

 The smell of Spring's arrival stirs creatures big and small. Reminders of winter's wrath are seen in small patches of snow, holding out, melting into the ground. Nests are made in trees and in the safety of caves and holes. Love fills the air, awaiting the births of new generations.

Tiny buds appear on the trees. They replace the few old leaves that held on through blizzards and frigid temperatures. Now those leaves fall to the ground without fanfare.
It's out with the old and in with the new as rugs are beaten and windows are opened, saying goodbye to stale air and letting in the fresh air, with the scents of nature's rebirth. Soon, the wildflowers will appear, and gentle breezes will scatter their seeds in a palette of colors. The tulip bulbs will burst out of the ground in a rainbow of reds and yellows, some in a vase on the table to be enjoyed.
Brown grass will give way to lush green, and the season's first picnic will be welcomed as family and friends gather beneath the old oak tree, while children run free for the first time since winter's long, dark days.
Tiny cries are heard as the springtime babies are welcomed into the world, always hungry and keeping parents busy gathering enough food for the hunger that never seems to end. The woods are like a symphony of voices as evening approaches, and the insects join the concert, serving as alarms warning of predators nearby.
Rows and rows of fields are plowed and planted, nurtured and tended to in the hope of a bountiful harvest to come. April showers don't disappoint and quench the thirst of parched crops as the kids and the first litter of puppies are introduced to mud puddles, fetching sticks, and rubber balls.
Soon, the wonders of spring will give way to the heat of summer when crops can whither under the sun's glare, and there's never enough water to satisfy all the needs of both man and creatures, who can be seen licking up the last few drops of muddy puddles.
The seasons collide as summer gives way to autumn and bountiful harvests that will be preserved in root cellars for the long winter ahead. Bonfires will be built as neighbors gather, knowing that soon enough the bonfire will fizzle out, only to return when called upon.
Springtime is just a memory now of tiny voices in the woods and all the dazzling colors that remain in your mind as you paint a watercolor that hangs on a wall, and you smile every time you see it alongside the others. knowing that you've once again captured spring and never have to let it go.

Mike 2026                                                   

Bar of heroes

 His ball cap was faded and worn, but he wore it proudly as he had for many years. He bought it at the veterans hospital, where he attended group meetings for ptsd with other vets who marched to the same drummer. Looking around the bar, he noticed other ball caps from all branches of the military, some staring into bottomless glasses in silence, while others talked about their time serving, embellishing their stories in a way that seemed to make them remember just the good times.

It was a military bar, for sure, with every wall space filled with black-and-white photographs of duty stations and ports of call, and shadow boxes filled with patches and medals once proudly worn. In a corner was a table that no one ever sat at, and every man in this place knew the reason.
The barmaid was married to a soldier who never came home many years ago, and she shared that pain with others who bought her shots as she listened to their stories about brothers in arms who had given their lives as so many had. She did so much more than pour drinks and keep the bartop clean; she spoiled them like a mother would do, reminding one not to forget his appointment tomorrow or making sure another had a ride if needed.
There was an air of respect in that bar, especially when an old-timer came in wearing his ball cap that read "Korean war veteran."Or another in a wheelchair pushed by his grandson on leave from boot camp. Glasses were raised and salutes given as they found a place to sit, as plastic chips, good for one drink, piled up in front of them. The barmaid kept bowls of peanuts and pretzels full, happy with her tip jar filling up fast.
Unlike most bars, this one closed at eight o'clock. Taxies were called, and relatives came to take their loved one home, some needing help out, but never a harsh word was spoken as heroes said goodnight and see you tomorrow. He finished his last drink and was heading out when he saw a faded ball cap on a stool. He handed it to the barmaid, who hung it on the wall behind the bar, knowing someone would claim it tomorrow when the doors opened again, and heroes marched in.

Mike 2026