Rocking chairs and smoke rings

 He sat in the chair she used to sit in. Remembering the talks they had about life's happiness and sorrows. They talked about everything until the silence kicked in, and the only sounds were her rocking and him making smoke rings from his pipe on a still August night. In the distance, a train's whistle blew, and he wondered what his life would have been if he had pursued his dream of working on the railroad. He rocked in her chair when she wasn't there, hearing her voice tell him about the times they worked the land together and what it meant to her to be by his side through the good years and the not-so-good years. He heard her laughter and dried her tears when something broke her heart. He would kneel beside her chair back then and stop it from rocking, look into her eyes, and give her a tender smile, which she met with a smile and a squeeze of her hand in his.

When the snow began to fall, he brought her chair inside and sat it by the fireplace so she'd be warm, remembering how much she disliked the cold. He couldn't count the times he watched her rocking away and tending to her knitting, her fingers doing the work but her mind a thousand miles away. He remembered one such night when he stood up and asked her if he'd done something wrong, nervously watching his pipe smoke disappear into the darkness. She stopped her knitting and smiled at him, saying the only thing he was guilty of was being the best man she'd ever known.
Springtime arrived, and her chair went back outside where she could feel the warmth on her face and smell the flowers she'd planted everywhere. They ate almost every meal outside, laughing at times and other times as silent as the air itself, beckoning her to walk off the porch and dance in a valley of wildflowers. He clapped his hands and stomped his boots as he watched her spin around, her long hair swinging in the breeze and her laughter as pure as honey. Then she took a mason jar and chased fireflies, trapping them inside and lighting her way around her private dance floor.
They were as one, living their perfect life together through the good and the bad, the joys and sorrows that belonged only to them. Her chair quit rocking one summer day, the same day his heart broke into pieces. He spends most days now sitting in her chair, slowly rocking as smoke rings float up to the stars, where she will poke a finger through one and smile.

Mike 2026

                                                                                     

MIKE 2026

Only have eyes for you

 He knew this would be one of his last rides before the snow came. It was already cold enough that the wind froze his eyebrows and the heat from the pipes warmed his legs. It was early Friday night as he headed for the family-owned bar tucked away on a stretch of road just across the county line. That meant that while bars closed at two am in one county, we could stay open until four am. By two thirty we were at full capacity, and then some, as diehard drinkers came in for those last couple of drinks and hopes of a hookup for some lucky few.

His dad joined him behind the bar, serving up drinks as fast as they could pour while cutting some off and calling a cab, holding on to their keys until tomorrow. He'd just been discharged from a four-year hitch in the Navy and worked the bar until something better came along, but the months passed, and he found himself liking life as a bartender. There was no shortage of girls who came in, an assortment of just-legal to seasoned women who were always offering him a drink or a warm bed on a cold night. His sister told him his tough appearance and the Harley he rode made him desirable. He just laughed and kept on pouring.
Then one late Friday night she came inside, followed by a small group of friends, all good-looking and a little baked as their laughter filled the bar. He watched her approach the bar, her long jet-black hair halfway down her back and white slacks that spoke for themselves. Her smile hit him right in the heart as she leaned over the bar and ordered a drink; her perfume smelled like a siren's call as their eyes locked and every other woman in the place became invisible. A song came on the jukebox titled I Only Have Eyes for You, and he came out from behind the bar and approached her, asking for a dance. His dad threw up his hands and yelled for him to get back behind the bar, but nothing was going to stop him as she accepted. The crowd cleared out as last call was called, some heading for the 24-hour diner a couple miles down the road to drink coffee and sober up enough to drive back to where they lived.
He asked to see her again, and she told him maybe she'd come back, maybe not. A couple of weeks passed, and she came in alone that time, took a seat, and caught his smile as their eyes met across the bar. He asked his sister to watch the bar as he sat beside her, the smell of her perfume filling his senses as the same song played that had been playing when they first danced together. She stayed at the bar until closing, and he asked her to go to the diner with him, but she'd have to drive her car as it was way too cold for her on the back of his Harley. She told him to follow her to her apartment where she'd make some coffee, and he could warm up. The only thing was she lived on the second floor, which, of course, had steps, but he was determined and told her to open the door upstairs and stay clear as he revved the throttle and rode up the stairs straight into her apartment.
That was the beginning of something wonderful until a job offer took him out of town and away from her. Time marched on, and memories replaced being together; he heard she'd moved on, gotten married, and started a new life. When he did manage to come back for visits, he'd work a few shifts at the bar hoping to see her walk through the door, but she never did. Now all these years have passed, and life took the turns it was meant to take, leaving him with the smell of her perfume, long jet-black hair, and those white slacks that fit her so well.                              

Mike  2026

The lady and her home on wheels

 She bought it in 1968, the year she retired after forty years as a teacher. Her friend, who claimed he could fix anything and had an eye for value, connected her to the mobile home dealer just outside of town. These houses on wheels were relatively new but offered everything a person could want. She was taken by the room inside, as that one was called a double-wide, much more spacious than the single model. As they looked around, her friend pointed out it wasn't the best construction he'd seen in all his years, but he'd seen much worse. An excited man greeted them and offered to show them other models with various floor plans, but she was certain the one she'd been looking at was her favorite.

She had inherited a parcel of land, tree-covered, with ten acres of grassland and even a small pond; she could imagine a place to sit and read. A short time later, a large truck brought her new home to the property where four men, two days before, laid the slab and hooked up the water lines in preparation for this day. She sat in a chair out of their way and watched, and marveled at their skills at work. She did admit there were times she got very nervous as a man or two climbed underneath the trailer to level it, with only their legs hanging out, a reminder of The Wizard of Oz and the bad witch looking the same way.
That first night without any furniture wasn't terrible, but she admitted she was more than happy when she heard a truck coming up the hill with a load of furniture she had purchased a week ago. Two young, seemingly very strong men went to work unloading and placing everything where she instructed them, and they finished in no time at all. Then she felt more at home, especially when her son showed up with two of her grandsons pulled up in a pickup truck filled with boxes of her personal belongings. After some lemonade and sandwiches, they left her to unpack and put things in place, each piece a part of her past she treasured. The china she got when her grandma passed away, a collection of books, mostly novels she'd read a dozen times, and two standing floor lamps she had found at a thrift store. She tucked away the box labeled Christmas and another labeled My memories that she opened.
She sat down and opened the box containing old pictures of family and friends, with plenty of wall space to hang them and look at them every day. She pulled out a small wooden box where she kept her wedding rings, a St. Christopher pendant, and the scapular she received at her first communion decades ago. Digging deeper into the box, she found her son's baby shoes she had bronzed like so many parents had done back then. Three photo holders held more than pictures: pages of children's drawings from years as a teacher she couldn't let go of. She'd look at each one with a child's name on it, and she could close her eyes and see that child plain as day.
Time went on, and she had turned the land into a sanctuary where wildflowers grew, and butterflies flew free. Sunflowers and fireflies called this place home and never disappointed her, giving her a magical show when the stars came out. She sat on a bench her son made for her, a few feet from the pond, where frogs said hello and curious small animals learned over time that the nuts she scattered were for them. After so many years of telling kids what to do, it was time for the land and all its wonders to teach her.
She lived a peaceful life on her hill in her mobile home, passing away on that bench with a handful of nuts in her hand at ninety-four years of age. In the years that followed, her name became known as the lady who lived in a home with wheels, among the wildflowers and butterflies, at peace with nature and with herself. On a wall in her son's house hangs a picture of an old lady dressed in coveralls, her long white hair never cut after she first moved into her home. She smiled from ear to ear, and the light above her wasn't just daylight but the light of a free soul continuing her journey from teacher to student.

                                                                                Mike 2026

Mike 2026

Trick or treat

 I remember back in my youth, when Halloween was something you started talking about in the last days of summer. The leaves started changing to a hint of autumn colors, and the mornings got cooler. It usually started with talking on the school bus about what we wanted to be this year, then with slow walks home from the stop to our homes. Back then, costumes were basically a cartoon or superhero bought at the five-and-dime for families who could afford one. At my house, Mom listened to what we wanted to dress up as, and she somehow made it happen starting in September. I can still hear her sewing machine deep into the night, piecing together bits and pieces of discarded materials and letting her creative juices run wild. The end results were amazing, as she made me and my sisters' costumes we could only hope for, like Alice in Wonderland for one sister and the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz for the other. My costume that year was a pirate, and it looked so good I won the best costume award at school. 

Today, costumes are mass-produced and displayed in stores and online as early as August, when most kids are still enjoying summer vacation, and parents gasp at the prices. It used to be a couple of pumpkins and a cardboard skeleton hanging in a front window; over time, that evolved into a display of projected goblins with sound effects that could wake the dead. Back when we knocked on a door yelling trick or treat, we meant it. If no one answered the door and hid inside a darkened house, we'd thank them for nothing by decorating their trees with toilet paper and running for dear life as pieces of our candy fell out of our bags. Do that today, and the homeowner would call the police and try to sue our parents.

I remember going home after hours of trick-or-treating with a huge amount of candy and other things like shiny new pennies, apples, and popcorn balls, just to name a few of what some people thought a kid would like. We'd dump our bags on the floor, and Mom and Dad would inspect everything that could harm us. If there was a half-wrapped piece of candy, it went into the trash can because Dad said there are some bad people out there who want to harm us. He told us stories about apples with a razor blade inside and another about pins inside popcorn balls. But after their inspection, they threw away a dozen items and left us with mountains of candy. My sisters and I made piles of the same kinds of candy, like Milky Ways, Butterfinger, Snickers, Reese's peanut butter cups, Chunky bars, and more. Then we'd split them up, and we each had the same amount of every kind of treat. Even Mom and Dad got into the fun, taking a piece or two of their favorites and putting them into a small bag they hid somewhere we'd never look, and it lasted for weeks, maybe more.

I believe the spirit of Halloween stays with us, but it can never compare to the times when we were left alone to join our friends, sometimes with our younger siblings in tow, that slowed us down but made their day as their little hands and mouths were covered in chocolate. Parents who came along with the little ones carried flashlights to light the way for all those princes and Cinderellas who sometimes tripped on their costume dresses and fell down, leaving Dad to wipe away a tear and pick up the scattered goodies. Another Halloween passed, and another memory for kids to relive on the school bus the next day. Kids pulled out a couple of candy bars hidden in their pockets, some trading for something better than they had. Darkened pumpkins sat on the porch, soon to be discarded, and the cardboard skeletons didn't move anymore, packed away in a box marked Halloween stuff. As for those costly costumes, I believe the best was a simple white sheet with cutout eyes and no mouth, hiding a giant smile.                                                                           

Mike 2026

Mountain bikers

 As a young boy growing up in upstate New York, I dreamed of someday riding in competition alongside older kids as they raced down mountain paths where one mistake could send you flying off the edge. Like most sports, mountain biking took a lot of practice and just as many spills to conquer the rough terrain around every curve. The danger was real, and the adrenaline was always present as we challenged every foot of the way, pushing to the finish line and victory.

Most of my friends were about my age, and we all had bikes designed to teach us the skills we'd need to ride with the big boys. Our course was much shorter and had very few dangers, but it was still challenging for beginners. We spent most of our summer vacation on the course, learning from our mistakes and earning scars to prove it. I think the worst thing that happened early on was that Billy lost control when his front tire blew, throwing him into a patch of poison ivy. It seemed like a lifetime, but we managed to master the course and believed we were ready to challenge the older kids. We all had new, mountain-ready bikes with knobby tires and front suspension to absorb the bumps. They were our mighty steeds, and we were ready to ride them to victory.
On the day of the race, people lined the course, mostly family and friends, and even a news crew was on hand to capture the madness for the six o'clock news. After all, it was quite the event for our small town. The older kids taunted us, saying things like You're about to see what winners are made of, and you ain't them. They also made other remarks meant to make us uneasy. But little did they know we were more than ready; all our practice on the smaller course prepped us for victory, and we wanted it badly. Twenty bikes were registered and numbered, and mine was the lucky seven. Then, when everybody was in the starting position, the signal gun was fired, and forty wheels took off. As the race wore on and a biker or two dropped out because of mechanical issues, the field shrank, and others seemed sure they would win.
The hills were brutal, making my legs throb and my breathing hard, unlike the smaller course. But one by one, I passed another bike, with the rider pumping faster as I left him behind in my pursuit of winning the race. The crowd cheered as I fought the steep hills, never losing my stride, flying past every biker except last year's winner, who just happened to be my older brother. He had maybe fifteen feet on me as he struggled to widen the gap, but my determination and desire to beat him far outweighed the pain in my legs as I gained on him and finished first. I went to shake his hand for a race well done, but he just sneered something and walked away—sore loser. The following year we raced again, and my brother won that one while I placed third. We became much closer and eventually taught each other things to improve our races.
I go home as often as possible, but I try to go on race day, when my brother and I cheer from the side of the racecourse as kids who looked so young tackled the hills and the rough terrain just as we did a long time ago. Our old bikes sat in the garage, and on the morning we headed home, we'd dust them off, oil the chains, and pump up the tires for a two-person race on the hills we were born to conquer. True, we didn't give it our all for fear our hearts would burst, or we'd pump our legs too hard and never walk again—just a half-speed competition with no winner, just a bond between two brothers and a love for mountain bikes.  

Mike 2926                                                        

Mike 2026

Chivalry isn't dead

 He was a dapper-looking gentleman with shiny shoes and a fedora hat worn close to the brow at a slight angle. His pocket kerchief matched his tie, one of several sets he owned. He wore a double-breasted navy blue suit, trousers cuffed to touch the top of his shoes, and a Hart-Schnafer and Marks topcoat as the cold winds blew on this otherwise perfect day to be alive. He walked the way he was taught: shoulders back and eyes ahead, scanning the city streets for damsels in distress who might need his assistance. Mind you, he was in no way a pervert, just a gentleman wanting to let people know chivalry was in no way dead. He spotted a young woman nearing her due date, holding on for dear life as strangers' hands brushed against her in a way she tried to block out. He immediately stood and motioned for her to take his seat, which she gladly did, all the while thinking there were still some gentlemen in the world.

As he got off at his stop, he noticed a lady at the newsstand fumbling with her purse to get the money for her favorite magazine, which she bought every week. He noticed a line forming behind her, with people getting loud and telling her to move, but she couldn't find her change purse; she thought she'd put it in her purse that morning. He gently worked his way to the front of the line, smiling at the angry group as he handed the stand worker a crisp dollar bill for the magazine and another dollar as a tip for the inconvenience. Then, with a tip of his hat, he disappeared back into the crowd, leaving the lady behind him and telling herself chivalry was alive and well.
The rain began to fall as people ran for cover, holding newspapers over their heads and running into each other with little concern for anything else, like the older man shuffling along at the speed of a turtle, getting bumped and bumped some more until he ducked into a diner to dry off and have a cup of coffee to warm his bones. The gentleman watched from a distance as the waitress went right past the older man once, twice, three times before he noticed his worn clothes and shoes, the toe area cut off so he'd get more use out of them, at least for a little while. And a dirty coat with missing buttons, a sure sign the older man had no money for a meal. On the waitress's fifth pass without stopping, the gentleman cleared his throat to get her attention. She stopped with a smile and her order pad ready to write up his order. “ What will it be??" she asked. "Funny you should ask," he replied. “ Let's start with your so-called big breakfast." I'd like five of those, with coffee and some orange juice. One is for the gentleman down on his luck that you passed on by five times. The others will be for the four children in the booth, sitting with their mother, drinking water and wishing it could be more, but their well-worn clothes told him they had no money for anything and just hoped they could get out of the rain until it stopped. He paid the bill at the register, leaving the waitress a single quarter as her tip. On his way out, the mom grabbed his coat and, with tears in her eyes, said Chivarly was indeed alive and well.
Back out in the rain, he walked along the edge of the street to shield others from the spray of a passing car. He tipped his fedora, now looking like a waterfall as the rain ran off it, but he didn't mind. He walked straight up like he was taught, meeting eyes with eyes and always on the job to help where he could. In his mind, Chivalry isn't dead; it's just playing possum until another gentleman steps out, rain or shine, to offer his assistance.

Mike 2026                                                                      

One final ride

 He still wore his old engineer boots and Wrangler jeans, a black leather vest and a red bandana around his neck. Tattoos covered both arms, once vibrant, now just drooping ink on gunless arms. His beard was white, and his hair long, which he always tied back when he rode. Today was the day he'd been planning for some time now, the day he'd uncover his bike that had been in the garage for a lot of years now. Today he turned seventy-six, and his gift to himself was to take one more ride on the Harley he bought decades ago, before he couldn't ride anymore. His wife of fifty years watched him finish his cup of coffee, then made his way to the garage, turning toward the kitchen window where he knew she'd be watching. She smiled at him and waved, praying he'd come home safe.

He had prepped his bike the day before, checking fluids and giving it a good cleaning so the chrome shined and the paint was so polished he could see his wrinkled face. Tomorrow arrived, and he started it up; the roar of a Harley was music to his ears as he climbed aboard the leather saddle and gripped the throttle, gave it a few twists, then heard the familiar sound of gears smashing into place as he slowly moved forward, heading for the open road ahead. It didn't take long to go through the gears and find himself riding again. Other bikers passed him, giving the universal two fingers down, a symbol of mutual respect that meant keeping two tires on the road.
He rode through mountain roads, each curve a challenge for even the most seasoned rider, but for him, just another mile traveled like the thousands before. The roar of his bike was like music to him, with no onboard radios blasting Steppenwolf or other rock music just the red-hot pipes of a perfectly tuned Harley. He rode into the late afternoon running low on fuel, so he stopped to fill up, drawing attention from some weekend riders who asked him about his classic bike and praised him for riding at his age. He sat there for a minute or two, letting the youngsters ride off the sound of their rice burners like a swarm of bees. He put out the Camel non-filtered cigarette and dropped into gear, riding towards nowhere but an open road where he could open it up one more time as the speedometer buried itself and had no more to give. It was the feeling he desired so badly as his eyes teared through his goggles and the wind blew his face back. One hundred eighteen mph was all it could give, but that was all he could ask for as he throttled down to a safe speed.
She was at the window as he pulled into the drive, giving her a thumbs up and a smile she hadn't seen in a long while. She prayed and thanked god all in one breath, knowing he had done what he wanted to do, and those pipes would be quiet forever. She went to the garage, a cup of coffee in her hand, which he accepted as he climbed off the saddle for the last time. Tomorrow, a man who answered the ad he ran would be coming to look at the old Harley, a true classic anyone would be proud to own. He felt like he was losing his best friend as the new owner loaded it on a trailer and drove away. With the money, he bought a four-wheeler to ride around his property, and when he felt adventurous, he'd take it to the hills where other riders stared death in the eye to conquer the trails. He still wore his engineer boots and Wrangler jeans with his leather vest and red bandana, chasing the wind once again.

                                                                                   Mike 2026

              

 
Mike 2026