Seasons in the woods

 The woods and their magic are something I never grow tired of. The moss is rich and green, the air has a hint of moisture, and trees stand at attention as if guarding a fortress. The summer months, when activity is limited as the heat peeks through the canopy, a passing thunderstorm interrupts the quiet, raindrops quench the thirst of the creatures who call it home, and the woods fill with a musty yet welcoming smell.

The Autumn woods are a splash of color, with tired leaves waiting their turn to fall. Red, yellow, and orange drift together towards the waiting earth, where countless others who came before them rest as the ground swallows them, changing their colors to the forest floor, forever forgotten.
The springtime woods are a rebirth of countless species of plants and saplings that lie dormant until the last of the snow melts away, giving the newborns a chance to grow and the bulbs that have transformed into tulips like an artist's palette of colors splashed across the valley, where wildflowers grow and dance to the music of a gentle breeze.
Winter's woods are my favorite woods. The extreme silence, except for the crunching of my boots on a blanket of white or the snap of a branch letting me know I wasn't alone. The winter woods beckon me to walk deep into the trees to a valley where I see a six-point buck doing its best to forage in an unforgiving landscape. I watch him for a few minutes, then take a napkin from my pack and unwrap some carrots, celery, and an apple that I set on top of a large stone, then retreat to continue my quest. I think another reason I like the winter woods is the smell. That smell is coming home with me, and the Christmas tree that will fill my house with winter. Not to forget pine burning in the fireplace, adding to those special winter nights in the woods.
Winter, spring, summer, and fall, you'll find me in the woods marveling at God's handiwork and doing my part to share it with others like myself. By the way, let it be known that every scrap of food I sat on a rock was taken with nothing left behind except for footprints in the snow.

Mike  2026                                                            

Eight to Eighty

 I was somewhere between eight and eighty when I realized I was a writer of words, a spinner of tales with stories to tell. Everywhere I looked was a story waiting to be told. As a young boy, I was always on an adventure, whether it be in the woods or on the river, but mostly in my own backyard using sticks for swords to fend off the mighty pirate captian hook. I used an old bedsheet as my cape and painted the letter S on it with spray paint under close observation by Mom. I ran like the wind, jumping up to fly while humming, "UP UP AND AWAY."Sometimes I was a clown or a ringmaster in the traveling circus, standing on a chair, snapping my invisible whip, and barking orders at the furious lions. My yard was the center of my universe, my book of tales, my domain where my mind ran free, and the words that I would someday write were just memories begging to be told. I could be anything I wanted to be as I grew up, sitting on a lawn chair, the one I once stood on to snap my whip at the lions. I watch my grandkids running around the yard playing their versions of superheroes and dangerous pirates, and my favorite, the tree house I built for them, where they'd spend countless hours as the Robinson family from the classic Swiss Family Robinson, a book I read to them a hundred times. I'm still somewhere between eight and eighty, looking for more adventures, but now I reach into my memory book and write about them from the comfort of my desk. The gift that keeps on giving is as clear as day when I let go and dive headfirst into another story to tell. Another memory pulled back from the darkness, to once again be written. Another story to be told to my grandkids, who will hopefully hand them down to new generations who still believe in backyard adventures as I do, as my 80 years grow close enough to touch.

Mike  2026                                                                   

A summer storm

 He heard the gentle wind as it entered through a window and brushed his cheek on its way to silence. Unlike most, he kept the window open just enough to let in a mist, which led to a shower. He sat and watched as trees bent, leaves dropped, and the sound of thunder startled him for a brief moment. He was a patient man, waiting for the sky to open, throwing bolts of lightning all around him. The best show in town, he said to himself, as the storm got closer and the rain snuck under the cracked window and into the cat's bed, who ran for cover under the couch. It was upon him now, the winds howling and blowing the old swingset down the block. The rain came down sideways, beating on the tin roof and sounding very much like a 12-gauge shotgun. Ear-shattering thunder and arrows of fire from the sky hitting their mark on a tree hed planted decades ago, now a burning testimony of the power unleashed by nature's fury. Then an eerie silence came in through the window, unfelt but a warning of things to come. He quickly got up and made a bag of popcorn, then returned to his seat and waited for the show to continue.

Mike  2026                                                      

Summer memories

 Riding in the back seat of Dad's 1957 Chevy wagon, along with my sisters, sticking my head out of the window, eating the air with a puffy face, and laughter from everyone. In the summer, with school closed, it was time for a family vacation. The wagon would be loaded up, and a cooler with sandwiches and other goodies remained untouched until Dad said it was time and pulled off to the side of the road under a big tree that offered shade on a hot July afternoon. Back then, the counties placed picnic tables every few miles on the two-way road, as fast food restaurants weren't something you'd see on every corner. Sometimes we'd see a sign for home cooking, and Dad would surprise us and make a quick turn into the entrance. One in particular I remember was just an old wooden structure in need of a good white wash. It had a front porch where a couple of old-timers were smoking their pipes and playing checkers. Inside looked like a scene from Fried Green Tomatoes, nothing fancy, just one waitress in a long dress and high-top sneakers welcoming us with a smile. Hot one, isn't it? She asked, dabbing the tip of her pencil on her tongue, what are we having, but before we could answer, she said, "Burgers, pulled pork, or the special of the day: country-fried steak with potatoes and green beans. "That's your choice, " she said. It was burgers for everybody and five glasses of iced tea to wash them down. Somewhere in my collection of picture postcards, there's one from that old restaurant. I recall there was a rotating stand with postcards, sold for a dime each. It had a picture of the place painted white, which looked nice and inviting.

After driving hundreds of miles, the guessing game of where we were headed ended when we could hear the sounds of the beach and the boardwalk we would grow to love for many more years. We had our own cottage just a short distance from the sandy beach and a stone's throw away from the arcade. There were vendors selling ice cream and burgers, and a small restaurant for a family dinner without having to drive anywhere. Days of fun in the sun, going from looking like a Q-tip to a bronzed statue with sun-bleached hair. We made friends our age and became inseparable as the days passed all too quickly, watching them pull away as they headed home.
When our time came to an end, and we had to leave, we remembered everything we did, storing memories away in our own private vault, things we kept secret, like meeting a girl with jet black hair and the whitest teeth you'd ever seen. We stuck together like glue, finding time to be with each other as time ticked away, but not without one very special kiss you'd been holding inside, realizing you may never see her again. You remember seeing her walk towards her family, who were finishing packing their car, touching her lips, and turning around to look and wave goodbye. I really hoped I'd see her again, maybe next summer, but that didn't happen, and all I have are the memories. I was fifteen years old back then, and like many things, time erases moments you'd probably forget unless you're like me and keep a secret box with momentos like a picture of two kids holding hands in front of an arcade at the beach.                                                            

Mike  2026

The dancers

 I watched as he sat in his favorite chair, his stocking feet shuffling in a sort of pattern, like a dance move. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling the kind of smile reserved for someone special. There was a picture on the mantel of a young couple, he in uniform and she in a wedding dress. Aside from others in the family who knew love. He used to tell me how much they loved to dance and how they met at a USO dance, and didn't yet know what an amazing love story they were going to write as the years passed. He told me they never missed a chance to dance to the old school songs they remembered. He would smile that smile and admit dancing with her meant another chance to have her in his arms. Sixty years together, each one celebrated with a dance and another memory in the making. Their children, all grown now with kids of their own, stand in the shadows, watching what true love means when two become as one, leaving age behind with graceful movements and smiles reserved for someone special. I would see him shuffling his stocking feet and visualize him in shiny shoes and her in heels, gliding across a dancefloor, oblivious to anyone else, alone in the moment until the music stopped. It warms my heart to watch him as he sleeps and shuffles his feet to a special song they must have called their own. I want to believe she's somewhere, waiting for her dance partner to join her on a heavenly dance floor where the music plays forever, and smiles are reserved forever for someone special.                                                                   

Mike  2026

Shadow dancer

 It started at an early age when I first saw my shadow dancer. My newborn eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing movement that must have been mine. In the toddler stage of life, I saw a shadow of my hand next to the nightlight that I insisted be left on, and I watched as my hand could be contorted into shapes resembling animals, which began my lifelong love for shadow dancers. I must admit I got very good at making shadows do as I said, creating something I shared with my sisters, who clapped after every shadow leaped from the wall to disappear into the night, only to be replaced by one of many requests. Jumping ahead to my teenage years, my shadow grew alongside me as we danced in my room to the latest songs, each move a mirror of my own, dancing the night away. I recall a time at a school dance when I desperately wanted to ask Mary to dance and finally did. As we danced, my shadow dancer joined us, dancing flawlessly with my every move. I grew up and became a dad who seldom missed a night of tucking my own kids into bed and showing them my shadow dancers to the music playing on the radio. It was like a stage show with dozens of animals and other shapes I learned to make years ago. Now, as time ticks away and the shadows don't come calling like they once did, I keep trying with aged and tired hands to make one last shadow that will sustain me until I walk into the shadow of death, followed by my shadow dancer beside me, who just wants to dance one more time.

Mike 2026                                                    

More than a block of wood

 I remember my dad helping me build a race car out of a small kit that included a block of wood about 12 inches long, two axles the size of a wooden match, and 4 tires no bigger than a silver dollar. It was a Cub Scout project, with the first prize being a trophy and a $20 check, a considerable amount back then. We had a month to finish and register our cars, so we couldn't dilly dally. Dad worked a lot, and finding time to help me with the car was limited, but he somehow found it, as he had so many times before. I wasn't stupid; I knew that doing this project with my dad was meant to be so much more. It was a time we could spend together, talking, listening, and learning. No two cars were alike, so a good amount of thought went into the design. Some of the dads had degrees in design, so they always came up with a car that was scientifically correct, taking into account aerodynamic airflow and other factors that the kid could only watch. As for me, I just cut out the block of wood with a place for the single seat, where I put one of my sister's dolls to act as the driver. And Dad punched out holes where the axles would be. I hand-sanded the block of wood until it was perfectly smooth while listening to dad tell a story about him and his dad doing the exact same thing years ago. Then, painting it fire-engine red with the number 11 in white. It wasn't a thing of beauty by any means, but it was ours, and we were proud of what we had done.

Race day arrived, and we headed to the park, where other dads had set up a racetrack. It was six feet tall at the start, then stretched out for the twenty-five feet of track that ended at a finish line. There were two lanes for two kids to race each other, with the winners advancing to the next race and the losers going home with a race-car key chain and the date. We watched as fancy cars you knew were built by the dads roared down the track, finishing first every time and eliminating cars like ours, but we didn't care because our car was built by both of us, and in our minds, it didn't matter if we won because we did something together that we'd remember for a long time.
When it was our turn, you could hear the kids and their dads laughing at our block of wood with wheels and a paint job done with mom's nail polish. At the sound of the whistle, I gave our car a push, and what happened next surprised everyone, including us. You see, the block of wood was heavy, and when I pushed it, the weight took a second to move, but once it did, it was unstoppable. Something no one expected to happen, as our car not only crossed the finish line first, but it flew off the track and came to rest fifteen feet past the track and onto the grass. We didn't win any more races, but everybody, including the doughty dads, applauded our efforts.
We went home with a keychain that, to this day, sits on a shelf next to the car we built together, a constant reminder of a kid and his dad, and of a block of wood that turned into something special in so many ways.                                                        

Mike  2026