The Colonel

 His last apartment before the stroke was unkempt to the naked eye, but to him, it meant home. Back in the day, people bought old houses and converted them into small apartments, usually a total of four, and all barely big enough for you to get around in. It had a tiny kitchen with a stove, small fridge, and four cabinets to keep everything you might need. There was a small bathroom, so small that if you were over six feet, you'd have to cut a hole in the door to put your legs through. The first of two small bedrooms had a single-size bed and a stand-up closet to hang clothes, with a shelf for underwear and socks. The second bedroom was his collection/writting room where he spent a good portion of his time. Back in his day, he was a writer, mostly for the big newspapers, and achieved some fame with his column titled "Thinking it over."In his later years, when the words wouldn't come easily, he just sat at the typewriter and wrote whatever came into his mind. I always thought it was the sound of the keys that gave him hope he'd write again.

He drank too much, and too often, as evidenced by weekly garbage pickup consisting of dozens of bottles clanging as one when tossed into the garbage truck. He smoked like a furnace and found it less expensive to roll his own cigarettes, which he did by buying cans of tobacco, then spending hours rolling enough to fill a plastic holder he kept in his pocket, along with a few airplane-size bottles he put in his coat pocket when he ventured outside his apartment. The walls of that room were stacked to the ceiling with empty tobacco cans; only he knew the answer to that. Looking back, I recall him walking down the street, clanging as the bottles moved around. He taught himself to talk again after the stroke, and he never gave up after 13 years of trying. He was born in the same town where he lived for 80-some years, and he knew almost everybody and mourned the loss of too many to count.
He would take walks no matter the season, always ending up at one of his watering holes where he'd drink with old veterans like himself, reliving the war and toasting to those who never made it home. When he came upon a bar or restaurant he'd never gone to, he had index cards written out, each telling things like how he wanted his drinks made or how to cook his steaks. The local police knew him and often offered him a ride home after a night of heavy drinking, sometimes having to wake him up from a park bench, sometimes covered with snow, amazed at his stamina and his I don't give a crap attitude.
When it became apparent he couldn't live like that any longer, his daughter found him a place to live out his days at a Veterans facility. He balked at first but eventually made friends with other vets, all sharing war stories and hand salutes to the Colonel, who was the highest-ranking officer in the entire place. He wore his ball cap with eagles on the brim so there would be no mistaking him for a lower-ranking soldier. I think he enjoyed his time there right up to his last days. He received a full honors funeral and was buried alongside family members who passed before him. I was gifted the American flag, which to this day is displayed on a shelf along with his medals and two Purple Hearts.
He was a good man when sober and a handful when not, but he was my dad, and I have chosen to remember him as a strong man who served his country with honor and lived his life with hidden monsters living in his head for so long. Whenever I visit home, I'll stop at his grave in the veterans' plots and talk to him. I always leave a cigarette on his headstone and toast him with an airplane-sized bottle of booze and tell myself he'd smile at that small gesture of my love and respect.
Mike  2026

Going back one last time.

 Her long white hair blew in the wind as she walked into the forest. Her grandson drove her there at her request, as she wanted to see the place she loved one more time. She was just seventeen years old back then, when she and some friends answered nature's call and ventured into a valley so beautiful it took her breath away. The world was changing back in the 60s, with Vietnam raging on as protestors made their voices heard to stop the war. Young men grew their hair long, and girls wore flowers in their hair. The different genres of music, like Zeppelin and Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, and Jefferson Starship, filled your inner self with music you still love to this day. Music you shared with your grandkids, hoping they, too, would understand and love it as you do.

They walked slowly in the woods as she would stop and hush him to hear the call of the whippoorwill singing to her babies. As they reached the valley, a sense of calm came over her as she closed her eyes, trying to remember what this place had been. She recalled the music playing as free souls caught fireflies in mason jars, lighting a well-worn path to the camping ground where tents were pitched and campfires set off an orangish glow, as an ember occasionally cracked and shot upward like a rocket.
She blushed a bit when her grandson asked if the rumors were true that people went around in their birthday suits, to which she replied, "Yes, we did." And is it true drugs like marijuana and acid, along with mushrooms and opium, could be purchased like penny candy? She replied All true. They sat down on a fallen tree as she tried to explain what the drugs really meant to them. Acid was a gateway to pictures often distorted, and objects looked like slithering slugs working their way towards your face. Shadows followed you, but weren't you just a figment of your distorted imagination? She recalled doing what was called "traces," where you'd move your hand from side to side, leaving a trail of colors that could entertain you for hours. She told him she never tried the hard drugs but absolutely loved the high from weed and hashish.
They sat on that fallen tree, letting the gentle breeze flow through their hair hers totally white and his jet black- resting past his shoulders. She once asked him why he grew his hair long, and he replied that he didn't think anyone should be told how to wear their hair, how to dress, or what type of music to listen to. Nobody should tell you how or where to hang your hat because nobody but you knows your inner self and where it will lead you. As darkness made itself known, they took out the mason jars they brought along and caught enough fireflies to light their way back from the valley to the waiting VW bus his grandpa gifted him when he passed on. It had a peace symbol on the front and a lot of weed-induced art now all but faded away. She thanked him for the day as he lit a joint, passed it to her, and put in a Janis Joplin cassette. Ready to cruise? He asked, and with one last look at the smoke rising behind her, she wiped away a tear and said she was ready.

Mike 2026                                                       

Mike  2026

A farms demise

 Today marks fifty years since he opened his farm to passersby in search of farm-fresh fruits and vegetables. He purchased the land with his GI bill after returning home from war. He built a house and a barn with his brother's help and married his high school sweetheart. The money he saved while on active duty was used to purchase very used equipment, like a tractor and a combine, which he had to rebuild from the ground up. It took them a year to build the house and another year for the barn. Sometimes a truck with a half dozen farmers would pull up with their tools and join in, something seen often in farm country. Neighbors helping neighbors just because they could.

His first crop was corn and soy, divided into four-acre plots and two long rows of apple trees, sixty trees, if he remembered correctly. In the far back acres, ten in all, he planted Christmas trees that someday, years from then, he'd sell to city folk wanting the whole experience of trudging through snow, wielding axes to hopefully chop down the perfect tree. Most usually, they just picked one out in a fenced-in area close to the road, where trees of all shapes and sizes were ready to be tied to the roofs of cars.
The years passed, and more crops were planted, like pumpkins big and small and everywhere in between. Their eldest boy was tasked with keeping the patch weed-free and putting prices on everything they would sell a couple of weeks before Halloween. The apple trees bore fruit, which their daughter and a few friends picked, bushel after bushel, and loaded onto a trailer to take to the barn, where they were sorted, with the bad ones. Mom would make apple butter and applesauce, preserved in mason jars with fancy ribbons attached for looks. The good apples were counted and put in either a bushel or half-bushel basket, with a free sample for anyone who asked. They even had a press that squeezed apples to make apple cider, which was always a big seller.
Now, in their fifty-fifth year, his sweet wife and he sit on the front porch, watching the cars and trucks pull in or park beside the road, kids running to the pumpkin patch where his grandkids wore Halloween costumes, to the joy of the kids with their eyes on a free apple. Their son's wife ran the stand filled with mom's pies and breads, along with apple butter and apple sauce, and, of course, jugs of apple cider. For them, this place was home and always has been. They watched their children frolic in the corn rows and climb the apple trees when children could be children among the acres. Soon people will come to get the perfect tree and mom's gingerbread cookies. They will warm up by the fire in barrels scattered around, with the smell of pine filling the air. One day he and his wife will retire, leaving everything up to their kids and grandkids to oversee. But until then, Mom came up with the idea of offering hot chocolate free of charge. They set up a table next to the pumpkin patch, greeting their customers with a sweet hot cup of chocolate to warm them up. Hundreds of people came to the farm during autumn and winter; some they knew who came every year, while others brought their grandkids for the first time. The farm eventually closed its doors when it could no longer compete with the big stores that could offer a wide variety of fruits and vegetables at discounted prices. Today, the farm is but a shadow of what it once was: empty bushel baskets worn through time, rusted farm equipment, and fields now fallow parcels of land. They still live in the house they built. Not really caring if it sells. A for-sale sign hangs from a tree limb, swaying in an autumn breeze, as cars rush past, and parents point and tell their kid, " That was the place we told you about when we were your age. "

                                                                                  

Mike  2026

A love story

 She wasn't a perfect 10, except in his eyes. And she thought him a rugged 8. Their hands fit perfectly together, and he thought her the perfect size when her head rested upon his heart. Talking to each other came easily, and sometimes they even finished each other's sentences. They'd spent hours on the phone, often out of things to say but not wanting to hang up, with the only sound being their breathing. He would walk her home from school even in the dead of winter, then walk himself home in bitter cold winter winds thinking only of her and how much he already missed her.

Some called it puppy love, but they knew it was more than that. Together, they were each half of something whole meant to grow with each passing day. Every second together proved their love would withstand anything life may throw their way. Together they discovered the beauty of their first kiss and the warmth of their bodies as they explored the wonders of their love, which grew more with every passing day.
Theres was a true love story envied by many who longed for such a love, hoping one day they too would find that one person who stops the world for just a fleeting moment when eyes meet, and hearts skip a beat. Call it what you will, but no words will ever express what they felt inside as two halves became one heart beating in unison with no words needed.
Mike  2026

When school starts

 School started today as kids shed their swimsuits for uniforms. Bicycles and school buses competed for the road, and crossing guards smiled and asked each child their name. Backpacks looked like a sea of colors winding through the neighborhoods on a mission to carry the weight of books and assorted necessities. Some contained bagged lunches and comic books to share with buddies during study hall. Girls' packs held enough makeup to open a cosmetics counter. The first day meant locker assignments that sometimes meant a popular kid getting the locker next to a nobody and sometimes a perfect match who could end up king and queen at homecoming. The top shelves and the inside of the locker door were filled with pictures, good luck charms, stickers of a favorite band, and emergency cans of deodorant needed after gym class.

Homeroom was when everyone sized each other up, scouting out potential new friends and welcoming back those who had just returned from summers spent at grandparents'.Teachers were either returning for another year and pointing out the brothers and sisters they had taught last year or, in some cases, the parents they had taught years ago. Some were just your average teachers, the men in sport coats and ties, crew cuts and shined shoes. The lady teachers in dresses they probably made themselves and medium-heeled shoes that made a thudding sound as they moved around the classroom in search of violations. And then there was that one first-year teacher who would stop you in your tracks. She walked into the room, and everything got very quiet as she wrote her name on the blackboard, while every red-blooded boy fell in love.
Lunchtime was chaos as older kids shoved you out of a chair they wanted or took your dessert. It was like a big version of musical chairs. But once the dust settled, everyone knew their place and sat where they belonged. The jocks at one table, the nerds at another. The really smart kids, and of course the bullies, tucked away in the back, ready to strike at any moment.
Back in school days, you felt so many emotions that had nothing to do with book learning; it was a time when you were thrown to the wolves and expected to survive, all while being pressured by parents to try harder. Year after year, as you climbed the ladder to senior year, you grew up both physically and emotionally, eventually becoming the leaders of the pack that first-year students strove to become. Senior proms and backseat make-out sessions, getting sick on spiked fruit punch, and dreaming of futures that meant college for some and the trades for others. Some chose the military; others chose a semester abroad or a year off backpacking across Europe.
Now, as decades have passed, I'll bet I'm not the only man or woman who stops in front of the school or schools we both hated and loved. Listen hard, and you'll hear the bell and the sounds of shoes going from class to class, sometimes the sound of books falling to the floor, only to be picked up by the boy you've secretly liked from the beginning. Think about the crossing guards and maintenance people who fought a losing battle to keep things in order. Or the cafeteria workers who smiled at you, thinking you were having a bad day, and gave you an extra dessert.All those moments in time you wouldn't change for anything.

Mike 2026

Mike  2026

Hearts and bubble gum

 He rubbed his hand across the old desk, something he picked up on trash night decades ago. When he got it home and into his workshop, he felt like he'd gone back in time to the days of innocence and puppy love. Dozens of initials were carved into the top, as well as crudely gouged hearts that appeared to have been made with a nail or screw. On the underside were dozens of dried-up pieces of gum probably stuck on in a hurry as a teacher was fast approaching, holding out her hand where she expected you to spit in it, but you were faster than her and claimed a spot under the desk—imagined what each piece tasted like, maybe bubblegum flavored or Spearmint, Juicy Fruit or pin stripe, one of his favorites. I wondered just how many pieces there were under the desks, and when I estimated the number of desks in every classroom at every grade level, I came up with 75 desks, with a dozen pieces of gum under each desk, for a total of 900 pieces of gum. No wonder the janitor didn't smile very much. Every classroom had a show-off who would stick a jawbreaker bubble gum in his mouth, trying his best to chew the entire thing and blow the world's biggest bubble. With purple ooze running from the corners of his mouth, he spotted the teacher coming his way. Hence, he had to act fast as he slammed the wad under his desk, and that solved the mystery of a select few wads the size of a small apple.

I remember on summer break the maintenance people would attempt to sand down the tops of the desks, all 75 of them. Still, they never finished before summer ended, so when school started up again, some kids got a clean slate and christened them with hearts and initials as their predecessors did in years past. The desks became like time machines, telling stories with every heart gouged into the wood, some leading to everlasting love, some lasting forever. I suppose almost everything back in the day, like defacing desks, was just how life was. It took guts to cover up what you were doing, holding a book over the spot you were carving and watching for any sign you'd get busted and sent to see the principal.
I didn't sand down that desk I found at the curb. I dusted it off and put it in my youngest son's room. A few days later, I looked in on him as he did his homework and noticed he had plastered stickers all over the top of the desk. Maybe someday his kid will inherit the desk, peel off those stickers, and replace them with whatever's popular then. One thing is certain: I bet wads of gum will still be discarded on the underside when parents are heard coming towards their kids' room.

Mike  2026                                                      

Mike  2026

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