The rebirth of a bicycle

 He walked down a winding dirt road on the way to and from school. There was no school bus for him to ride, since his house was just across the city line, so he walked.  Sun, rain, snow it didn't matter; he walked. His dad said he wasn't raising a crybaby, didn't want to hear him whine, and that he was lucky to have legs. That comment stayed with him for a long time and is probably somewhere in his memories he hopes never surfaces.

On the last day before summer break, he kicked a can down the dirt road, not in any hurry to get home, as he knew his dad had left a note with his chores listed, all to be done each day before he could do what he pleased. He didn't mind helping out; after all, he ate his dad's food and put a roof over his head. Cut the grass once a week, weed the vegetable garden every other day, and took the trash down to the street on Tuesdays and Fridays. He took the note to his room and taped it to his mirror so he'd see it every morning, knowing what chores he had that day.
There was a bright side to doing all those chores: he got an allowance he'd save for a new bicycle. The one his folks got for him at the start of school last September was stolen, and his dad said he'd bet him a hundred dollars he forgot to lock it up at school, so now he'd walk until he could get another, which he would pay for on his own. Dad left for work before the sun rose, and Mom didn't drive, so he had to wake up hearing Dad's truck leave, giving him forty-five minutes to eat some breakfast and run out the door, taking a deep breath and walking at a fast pace until he finished the toast Mom handed to him on the way out. The walk turned to a brisk run, only slowing down if he spotted something interesting along the way.
He recalls an autumn day when something shiny caught his eye deep in the field, forcing him to retrieve what turned out to be his lost bicycle. It had been stripped of both tires and handlebars, making it hard to recognize, except for the small license plate that had his name on it, which he had bolted on as a gift from his folks on the first day of school. He slung the bike over his shoulder, or at least what was left of it, and carried it home. His dad was coming down the dirt road, coming to a stop next to him, telling him to throw it in the back and he'd cut it up for scrap, but he told his dad he wanted to rebuild it and he'd pay for everything on his own. Every day, when his chores were done, he'd go to dad's workshop and fill a wagon with tools he would need, like rakes, shovels, and saws, and anything else he'd need, as he walked from neighbor to neighbor, offering his services in rain, heat, and snow.
He finished rebuilding his bicycle in late January, but it wasn't your average bicycle. He put on off-road tires that could ride through even the deepest ruts and an old lawnmower motor that produced enough horsepower to reach a top speed of 20 mph. He installed a seat from his old banana bike he rode as a kid, as well as ape-hanger handlebars and iron pegs for a passenger to stand on. Lastly, he took the last of his savings for two cans of black spray paint and a heavy-duty lock and chain to make sure it stayed put where he left it. It was a work of beauty, and when he showed it to his folks, their reaction was one more thing he'd lock away in his memories.
On the first day back at school, he slept in after hearing his dad's truck pull out, as he wasn't in too much of a hurry. He sat down and ate his breakfast as Mom handed him the lunch bag that he put in the saddlebags he had made out of two old military bags just growing dust in the garage. Be careful on that thing his mom yelled over the noise of the lawnmower engine. He put on his helmet and, with a few bursts of dark smoke, began his journey to school. One of the biggest thrills was him passing the school bus as kids waved to him, which he acknowledged with a toot of his horn. The one he had taken off his sister's bicycle, unnoticed by her until it wasn't. He rode that bicycle throughout his senior year, giving rides to kids and sometimes letting his buddies ride it solo. In the end, he got his driver's license and put the bicycle in the garage where it remained for many years. Every so often, he'd catch his dad removing the tarp, showing off his son's invention with pride in his voice and love in his heart. He grew up to be a race car driver and eventually an IndyCar champion. But he never forgot that bicycle built from pieces and parts that waits for the right moment for his son to climb on and be crowned the king of the dirt road.    

Mike  2026                                       

                                                                               

Mike 2026

The end of a train depot

 For the last time, he had a seat on a bench that bore the initials of a generation. Somewhere, he said to himself as he rubbed his hand across the bench, searching but to no avail. In the near distance sat the wrecking ball that would erase any sign of the old train station whose tracks were removed years ago to make way for asphalt roads, and to close the station that once bustled with travelers who now chose faster means of transportation.

He got up and walked inside, the wooden floor buckling as he made his way to the ticket counter, something he remembers doing to purchase a ticket to the city on more than one occasion. Rust-stained porcelain sinks and unhinged restroom doors were just a couple of things that were vandalized over time. He remembers the benches inside where you'd sit, waiting for the train, as people spoke to those beside them, sharing stories of their travels that day. Some sad news, but more often than not, talking about going home for a special occasion with the kids who would ride their first train, claiming the window seats.
He stood in silence, broken by the sound of a flock of birds guarding their nests, and wished he could somehow warn them of the impending doom. He saw the broken newsstand, once filled with the day's newspapers, travel guides, and dime novels to pass the time on a long journey. He returned to the outside bench and once again rubbed the surface, looking for his heart, but it wasn't meant to be. Darkness fell, and soon the police would shine their lights, looking for any looters, even though the place had been all but destroyed.
Morning came, and he returned to join a group of people standing behind the yellow tape as the wrecking ball started up, black smoke billowing from its engine, waiting for its cue to proceed. Then, with the swing of the ball, it landed blow after blow until all that remained was a pile of wood and twisted metal. Other machines moved in, filling dump trucks one load after another until all that remained was a dark spot of nothing. The tape was removed, and the people went on with their day- well, almost everybody- as he walked slowly around the dark spot when perseverance paid off. He stooped down, brushing dirt from an object he believed to be the outside bench. It was a small heart-shaped carving on a piece of that bench, maybe three inches in size. He put it in his pocket and slowly walked away, turning around one last time, rubbing the heart to remember the station, now forever in the memory book of his life.

Mike  2026                                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                        

Mike  2026

Christmas in July remembered

 It never mattered to me if I wrote about Christmas in July or August. I'd crank up the A/C and start writing. I have memory overload when it comes to the holidays: the sights and sounds, the food and colored lights, and the smell of pine that filled the house. Sometimes I feel as if I have a never-ending loop of those memories going round and round in my head, making me smile on my worst days. I sometimes find myself so deep into a memory that everything around me stops, like the smell of pumpkin pie invading my nose. It's the smallest of things, giving back to me from my youth, that brings me joy, if only briefly. A dish of ribbon candies in a glass bowl, sitting on a table at Grandma's house, the smell of her starched apron, a breath of freshness as she scurried around her kitchen, baking Christmas treats like only she could do.

My youngest holiday memories are of when Santa was very much real, as I stood in line at a department store to tell him my wishes, which took so long I'd have to pee, which Mom told me happened every year I stood in a line. She could hardly stop laughing, telling Dad how every kid waiting was jumping up and down, grabbing their privates and hoping they wouldn't burst. It was a great day when one of Santa's elves held your place in line so Mom or Dad could take you to the restroom, and a sigh of relief even Santa could hear.
I peel back another layer of memories, taking me back to my youth, when my dad took me to his brother's toy store for the holidays. Can you imagine, a kid in a toy store what could be better? I remember being told in a stern kind of way I wasn't allowed to unwrap any boxes, but I was welcome to go in the basement, where I'd find a dozen, if not more, boxes marked "missing pieces." I'd get lost for hours, taking pieces apart piece by piece and making them into something that looked good to me, so I took one of my creations and showed it to my dad, who placed it on a shelf with the good toys and marked it at $3.00. When my dad and I got back after lunch, my uncle handed me $3.00, saying he had sold my creation. I know that wasn't the case, but at the time it was something I told everybody with great pride.
As I grew up and certain truths became known, I kept those memories safely locked in my memory book. Every so often, a grandkid would ask me if Santa was real, and I assured him he was as real as you and me. One year, we wrote letters to Santa, which we took with us to the big-box store, where Santa greeted the kids and heard their wishes. The line was long, and kids began to jump about, grabbing their privates, and I looked down at my grandson, standing quietly, saying he was glad I made him go before we left the house.
It was a sad day for me when the youngest of my grandkids told me he wouldn't be going to see Santa this year because kids in his class laughed at him for believing he was real. I could have let it go, but instead I rented a Santa suit with all the trimmings that, in my opinion, was the best I'd ever seen. There was no way possible I'd be recognized, so I opened his classroom door and, with a few loud HO hO HOS, I saw all of them quickly writing down their Christmas wishes. One by one, the kids sat on my knee, swearing they'd been pretty good this year and asking if I would please bring that new bicycle and life-size doll house? When it was time for Santa to go, he reached into a red sack and tossed candy canes into the crowd, wishing everybody a Merry Christmas. As he was almost out the door, he turned around and told my grandson to tell his dad he appreciated his help this year, and he'd see him again next year. His grandson became a sort of legend around school after that, and I had another memory I'd tuck away in my holiday memory files.

Mike  2026                                                          

  

Mike  2026

A church in the valley

 The empty church sat in a country valley with peeled whitewash and creaky floorboards. Pieces of glass, broken over time, allowing squatters to enter with cans of spray paint, are covered with weeds and vines that crawl up the walls in an attempt to hide the evil somehow let inside. Overturned pews, some used for firewood, others as carving boards of crude images depicting wayward youth with too much time on their hands. Litter strewn across the floor like empty bottles and cans, the last drops long since swallowed, and faded newspapers maybe used as covers on cold nights. The pulpit, once a place to hear the words of God, became a place where mockery and darkness brought applause from an audience of traveling nomads searching for anything but answers. I look around at faded walls and shadows of the cross, a reminder he's still here and crying with me.

Mike  2026                                                                        

Their song

 Have you ever been stopped abruptly by a song playing off in the distance? Not just any top ten hit, as there are hundreds of those that you could listen to while doing laundry or vacuuming the floors.  I'm talking about that song, the one you remember dancing to with the girl of your dreams, holding you tight as you softly sing her the lyrics. The song that withstood time as years passed you by. It sometimes plays on an oldies station, and you try to sing along because you still know all the words, but trying to sing it out loud doesn't work out too well, and you blame it on the two packs of cigarettes you've inhaled every day for decades. But it doesn't bother you, and you sing along out of key and out of breath. It all comes back to you seeing her in a red dress, her hair flowing down her back, and a hint of her perfume lingering in the air with every twirl she makes.

She greeted him at the door, home from work, asking why he was late, and he handed her a package, which she opened with curiosity and found to contain an old 33-rpm vinyl record titled Johnny Mathis Greatest Hits. Wait before you play it, she said. I'll be just a jiffy. He dusted it off and set it on the old record player he's had for years. Looking at the list of songs only Johnny could do justice to. Coming out, she said, as his heart skipped a beat seeing her in that red dress, her long hair falling down her back, and the scent of her perfume filling the air with every twirl she made. He lowered the needle to the third groove, and Chances Are began to play. It was the song they danced to long ago, but the feelings remain as strong as they were when love filled the air and time stood still for a fleeting moment.

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                         

The love for grandma

 When I was a boy, my grandma would sit down with me and share stories of her youth. She was born in 1898 and witnessed firsthand the passage of time and all it brought.  I couldn't imagine living without electricity or not being able to get in a car and drive. She remembered when the Wright brothers flew like a bird and how she lived through world wars and depressions as she made do with what she had. She told me she accepted life because wishing for a better life wasn't up to her, and her faith got her through the roughest times. She had four children to raise on her own, and she worked two jobs to feed and house them. She told me the hardest part was watching them go without things other kids had. She had a coffee can that she kept her spare pennies in, hoping that come Christmas she'd have enough to buy each of them a gift. She remembered how on Christmas Eve she'd hang their stockings, and each one got an orange, an apple, and a peppermint candy cane. The big surprise was a new baseball for her oldest son, a jump rope for one daughter, and a game of jacks for the other. Her youngest got a baby doll that she never let go of.

I loved her stories, and because of her, I learned to love writing. We'd sit at her kitchen table, and she'd give me a topic to write about as she baked some cookies. The words just flowed onto the paper, and when I was done, she'd read what I wrote, choking back tears and telling me I had been given a gift straight from God. From that day on, I'd write about anything and everything, and she read each one, telling me my words would someday be known by many and my legacy would be my stories. As we all do, my grandma passed away, and my heart was broken. I tried to write, but the sorrow blocked the words, and blank sheets of paper and a couple of sharpened pencils went untouched for quite a while. Then one springtime day, as I was walking home from school, I heard her voice, clear as a bell, telling me to write again. It was her speaking to me, and nobody could tell me otherwise as I ran the rest of the way home, without a minute to spare. The words began to flow again, on multiple sheets of paper with a nub for a pencil. I wrote about her and the times we shared, like long walks and sitting on the front porch, as she once told me everything out there has a story in the making, and all I had to do was open my mind and my heart to do what comes naturally.
Many years have passed since those days of sharing stories, but when I'm feeling down and the paper is just a blank sheet, I recall a memory or two, and the words begin to flow again. I believe that every so often someone enters our life and we are changed for good. My grandma was that person, partly because she saw things in me I didn't know existed, and she knew one day, like the Wright brothers, I'd take flight, and I did just that.

Mike 2026                                               

                                                               

Mike  2026

Boating memories

 I can still smell the marina in spring, when tarps put on last fall are removed, allowing for new bottom paint as wood surfaces are sanded down and varnished to a mirror gloss. Down below, the cushions and curtains are taken home to be washed to remove the musty smells trapped there during the winter months.

New sparkplugs and filters are replaced, and bilge pumps are tested to assure they're ready in case we spring a leak that is always a possibility with a wooden hull. Mom arrived with boxes filled with paper products and non-perishable goods stored below, as well as bed linens and blankets for those cool nights in late spring.
When the day arrived, we'd watch as the forklift lowered the boat into the water, then grab the lines and tie up alongside the dock to fill up with gas and keep a lookout for excessive water in the bilges. When everything checked out, Dad called everybody on board, and the ropes were cast off as we motored out of the harbor on our way to the river and open waters. Our boat was a classic wooden-hulled cabin cruiser that drew a lot of attention from passing craft, which gave us the thumbs-up as we passed. As spring turned to summer, we took the boat out every weekend, exploring new places some we could dock at and have a meal in a waterfront restaurant. And as usual, we drew a crowd of admirers who all had good things to say.
I remember both day and night cruises on the river as I learned how to navigate in both light and darkness using charts and Dad's knowledge of the waters. Eventually, Dad let me man the controls more often as he and Mom sat back and enjoyed the ride. As I became a young man, I was allowed to take her out by myself sometimes with a few friends on board, where we'd find the perfect swimming hole and drop anchor for a day in the sun. Now, as a grown man, Dad signed the boat over to me, claiming he was too long in the tooth to keep up with the maintenance a boat demands. I taught my boys how to care for it, seeing them fit right in as they did the things I did under my dad's supervision. I imagine one day my wife and I will be invited on a nice cruise, sitting back and watching with pride as the boat Dad and Mom saw potential in motors down the river we all love so much.

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                           

Mike  2026