Burned wood and ashes

 Sitting in a bombed-out cafe in France, he was surrounded by nothing but ashes and memories. He found a single table and chair that survived somehow, where all the others lay scattered and burnt, never to be sat at again. He came back to that place, hoping by some miracle she would come and find him, but he sat alone until the darkness set in with only his memories of a sunny Saturday afternoon waiting as he said he would.

He was just eighteen, and she was sixteen. He had bumped into her, knocking the bouquet she carried to the ground, and quickly gathered it up and handed it to her. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and she smiled a girlish smile that melted his heart. He tried to speak to her, but his words seemed frozen as she pointed to a cafe and, in broken English, told him they could meet there next Saturday for coffee. He nodded his head and smiled, pointing to the cafe.
Two days until Saturday, and the bombs dropped, destroying almost everything in the village, including the cafe where they were going to meet. And although he knew she wouldn't come, he held onto hope and the belief they were meant to be. He had just a couple of memories of her innocence, her beauty, and the effect she had on his heart. And he cherished each one, knowing those memories would be burned into his head with every passing day. He picked up a menu with chard corners and wrote her a note, which he left tacked to a board, hoping she might find it and find him.
He was 23, and she was 21 when he received a letter from France postmarked from the small village where their eyes met, and his words froze. The letter read, "I hope this finds you well, and you know how hard I looked for you." When the bombs fell, my family escaped just in time as we hid underground until the soldiers went away. I ran to the cafe but found only ashes and smoldering wood, and my heart sank until, years later, the cafe and other buildings were rebuilt with help from the villagers, including myself. It was then, in a brief moment, that I was compelled to turn over a board and found your note.
She went on to say how much it would mean to her if we could meet at the same cafe two Saturdays from now, and that he would recognize her by the bouquet of flowers on the table. The letter was signed, Victoria. He made the journey to France, amazed by the village's rebuilding, including the quaint cafe with outdoor seating, where he saw her with a bouquet on the table as she nervously looked in all directions. He walked over to her table, standing in silence as their eyes met for the second time in five years.
Theres was a happy ending, married for fifty-two years. They lived in America but often traveled to France, where they'd find a table at the old cafe, where time stood still, and a hint of burned wood and ashes a reminder that they were meant to be.

Mike 2026                                                     

Just another number

 One day, you awake and realize you don't have to wake up to an obnoxious alarm, a real alarm, the kind that you bought at Wallgreens, wrapped so you could see the face. I don't know why the faces come in different colors, like who's going to see it, even you don't, until it sounds like a four-alarm fire going off in your head, just inches from your face.

As you drink a second cup of coffee, you realize that while you were running late, all you ever had time for was half a first cup, and the remainder stood on the kitchen counter, a swimming pool for flies. Now the coffee pot is almost always filled with enough to last you the day, but that last cup could probably be used to clean rust off of chrome.
Retirement isn't always what it's cracked up to be, but there are some perks, like boxing up the dozens of ties in multiple colors and designs that you were forced to wear around your neck each and every workday. Donating a closet full of business suits to a charity, but keeping one for funerals or special occasions you hoped would never come along as quickly as they do.
Retirement means retraining our brain to take things slow, as there's no rush anymore, just slow-paced walks to visit nature that you usually only saw out a taxi window. You'd find yourself talking to the trees or laughing at the squirrels fighting over acorns. You wore your bathrobe over your old army coat, which you found while undoing your clothes closet. and finally had a chance to try out the rubber waders your son gave to you at your retirement party, because you said you might take up fishing.
With so much time these days, you took every opportunity to stay in touch with the friends still breathing, meeting at the diner for lunch that somehow managed to stay in business for decades. You'd skip the bacon-and-mayo sandwiches, and water would be the drink of choice to help your kidneys. It looked more like a lady's social than a man's lunch, with several pictures of beer and smoke rings from a hand-rolled Cuban cigar.
All in all, being retired isn't so bad as long as we keep telling ourselves we're just aging like fine wine, saved for the next celebration, not a random number when the final curtain falls. Whether it's 70, 80, 90, or more, we are still who we've always been, except for those pesky age spots we wear with a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

Mike 2026                                                                                   

                        

Fingertips on fire

 Some will say that your life flashes in front of you when you're about to pass. I believe my life's history has been broken into a million pieces that appear in memories I can either call on or that just appear at the ends of my fingers, tapping away and becoming another story. Whatever the reason, I feel blessed to have been given this amazing gift of memory that takes me back in time to places I've been and people I've met along my journey. Using my keyboard, I travel back to summer days and family gatherings where my grandma sits beside me, telling stories of long ago. The keys on fire as I do my best to keep up, but sometimes I can't write fast enough, and that memory fades away.

I sometimes wondered if all the drugs I took in my younger years somehow opened my mind and my heart a little more than those who never partook in those mind-altering moments. They're called flashbacks when something so real comes to me with vivid colors and conversations never spoken, in my case, but written with my keyboard and lightning-fast fingertips.
I can choose what I want to remember, sometimes in just a quick and passing thought that becomes 600 words or more. Sometimes I hear a song from eras long before I was born, and the words are clear, leaving me wondering where they came from. And how did I know them? How can I know the streets of Paris or the artwork in a cathedral I have never visited? How is it that I can clearly remember being three years old and watching jaws drop as I spoke the words of a dream I had?
As I grew, my memories became easier to express, and they grew with me through the countless writings I composed with an open mind and a heart searching for love. Somewhere along the way, I began to write snippets or very short stories that were easy to read and shorter than the average short story. To date, I have over one thousand very short stories that cover over one thousand different topics, all coming from a mind that has to stop one day, but not this day, as another memory seeps into my mind and my fingertips spew flames. 

Mike 2026                                                              

The meatball

 Back in the 70s, I worked for a General Motors radiator plant in upstate New York. I'd made a few friends, one of whom was Anthony Dacrupa. His love for Italian food was well known and usually all he talked about. He said he had tried a dozen Italian restaurants since moving here from Chicago, where there were so many restaurants it would take a lifetime to try them all. One night after second shift, I asked him to come with me to experience what I believed was the very best in Italian cuisine. He was leery of anything I suggested, no matter the topic, but he eventually agreed, and that night we rode down a back-county road and saw what looked like a run-down farmhouse. Set back off the road, mostly a place that time had forgotten. But inside, everything changed. Opening into what was once a large living room with velvet curtains and wine racks in each corner. The walls were papered with paintings of Italy, and the flags from both countries proudly displayed. Red table cloths and napkins on every table, and in the background, the sound of someone singing at the top of his lungs, old songs from the old country. I told Anthony that Geno was the owner and that he would soon come to our table to tell us about that night's menu. What he can't afford, menus we read ourselves, Anthony asked. Just then, a waiter, the only waiter, came to our table with two glasses and a bottle of Chianti. He poured us a glass and disappeared back into the kitchen. Where some angry Italian voices were coming from the kitchen and a broken glass or two, Geno put on his best smile and came to our table. His English was very broken, but we managed to ask what was on the menu, and he replied, meatball. Anthony looked puzzled, as did I, as he went on to tell us that his meatball had won many prizes back home and that he should come to America and open a restaurant where countless people could experience it for themselves. And with a bow, he backed up, then turned to the kitchen, barking out in Italian, Two meatballs.

Good thing there's a 24-hour diner not that far from here. Anthony said, "I don't think one meatball is going to fill me up. We looked around the room at every table and noticed there were no appetizers or bread baskets in front of the people eating. Just a bottle of Chianti and enough glasses. Then, with a bit of fanfare, Geno and his sole waiter pushed carts out of the kitchen and served every guest a plate with the biggest meatball they had ever seen. When I say it was big, I meant huge, the size of a softball, maybe even bigger.

Geno began by saying, " Don't let the look surprise you. Take your fork and gently pull back some of the ball, where you'll find four layers of the finest cheeses anywhere. Let your fork dig deeper as it passes through two layers of fresh tomatoes I grow in the back yard. Have a taste of the sauce mixed with some cheese as I continue. Using a knife and fork, cut further into the ball, where you'll find a layer of veal and a layer of lightly seasoned homemade sausage. Now use your knife and fork to cut the ball into three sections, then use the ladle provided to mix the ingredients in the bowl with a combination of fresh vegetables that have simmered to perfection. Lastly, use the ladle to pour the tomato sauce from the bowl provided all over the best meatball you've ever tasted. Anthony and I became regulars at Genos, along with many friends who had to see firsthand why one meatball was the only thing on the menu.

Mike 2026                                                     

                                                       

My inner kid

 Popsicle sticks bombs, baseball cards in bicycle spokes. Eggs and rotten tomato wars were just a few of the childhood memories of the kid who still resides inside of me. Every so often, I'll embarrass my grandkids by dancing the way we used to when the twist or the limbo were in style. They would beg me to stop, but that just fueled me even more, doing the Watusi and the frog.

I loved fooling around with them, like when I told them I'd take them for ice cream and come out of my room in basketball shorts, white knee-high socks, and sandals. They said they wouldn't go anywhere with me dressed like that. Oh, good times.
I treasure the inner kid in me because there are a thousand memories I can look back on that bring joy to my heart and put a big smile on my face. I still like Saturday morning cartoons and reading cereal box labels. I laugh at the funny pages in the newspaper, and even after all these years, you can still buy a plastic egg of silly puddy that I flatten out and press onto a comic character.
I still make paper boats that I keep handy for when it rains, and my rubber wader boots stand tall waiting for me to put on and wade through the flooding waters in the street and in my backyard. I never grew tired of waving to the engineer and the conductor as a train roared past me just yards from my boyhood house, where I still reside.
My daughter once told me how much the grandkids liked visiting me because there was always something crazy to do that beat playing video games. That had always been my goal: to show them how to make paper boats and popcycle bombs, and our favorite was putting baseball cards in the spokes of our bicycles, then roaring through the neighborhood like a pack of wild bikers.
Water balloons, snowball fights, games of hide-and-seek, and my attempt at Twister that almost sent me to the emergency room.Swinging on a rope and letting go to splash down in the creek. and finding night crawlers in the darkness of night with a flashlight put in a can, saved for first light, when we fished for hours.
Penny candies like fireballs and peach pits, Long pieces of white paper with colored candies somehow glued on them, root beer hard candies, and wax bottles filled with different flavors. Double bubble gum and licorice in red or black. Gooden plenty and milk duds, tootsie rolls and taffy suckers, all those and more at the corner general store sitting in glass canisters waiting to fill our paper bags for a penny each.
I could go on, and on reliving my memories and bringing them back to life, but at some point, I have to return to reality, even if I don't want to. I suppose one day I'll have to be content to watch my grandkids do all the things I taught them to do as I sit on my porch waiting for the ten o'clock train so I can wave to the engineer and the conductor, who smile and wave back.

Mike 2026                                                              

Good bones

 I remember, as a boy, walking through a vacant house on the outskirts of the city. It sat empty at that time, but not always by any means. During construction in the early 1890s, it was dubbed the elegant lady as no expense or extravagance was spared. I recall how it smelled like varnish and wax that kept the woodwork looking new, and I imagined the countless hands that gripped the banister as they descended the stairs, making a grand entrance.

Every wall, ceiling, and floor was crafted by the best woodworkers whose reputations were put to the test with every room an expression of their talents. As I walked down the long, narrow hallways, I ran my finger along the artistic carvings that ran the length of the walls, only pausing at a door, of which there were many. Most bedrooms were large enough to accommodate furnishings, giving the appearance of a sitting room with a sofa, dressing tables, full-length mirrors, and four-poster beds. I imagined the lady of the house serving tea to a family member who came to her room for needed conversation.
Downstairs, a crystal chandelier hung in the foyer that led to the living room, where, upon entering, you were awe-stricken by a fieldstone fireplace, each stone carefully chosen by a mason who worked his magic to create a one-of-a-kind masterpiece. As I continued my walk, my eyes were drawn to the stained-glass windows, each pane bursting with color as sunlight pierced them, splashing the room with light.
I entered the large kitchen, where I imagined the kitchen staff preparing everyday meals as well as holiday feasts and birthday meals. Marble countertops, wooden cutting boards, and empty ceiling hooks where pots and pans once hung. An ice box sat in a corner, requiring a worker to go to the icehouse in town and bring back large blocks of ice to keep food fresh. The stove was made of cast iron with several heating surfaces, once fueled by wood and later replaced by electricity. There was also a space for workers to eat. A long table with benches, I assumed.
Every room had a story to tell as I looked around, picturing a huge Christmas tree in the living room, a roaring fire in the fieldstone fireplace, and family and friends gathered around the piano, singing holiday favorites. I saw men sitting in leather chairs, smoking pipes and talking about the day's events. In my mind, I watched as history brought changes to the house, but the house itself stayed true to itself in ways that mattered. She had good bones, people would say, and as I walked away, I think I heard her whisper, " Don't be a stranger.

Mike 2026                                                              

Crazy days of summer

 As the late great Nat King Cole sang, break out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. I remember all too well the last bell before vacation and trading in my school clothes for a pair of shorts and sneakers. We kept a T-shirt in our saddlebags strapped to our bicycles in case we had to go into a store or the soda fountain, which we did a lot. I close my eyes and open my memory bank to withdraw moments in time that seemed to stand still so I could revisit them.

I remember long, hot days and muggy nights, praying for a breeze to enter my bedroom through the window, with a fan that made more noise than it blew air. With my eyes closed, I can go back in time, listening to the neighbors up late, gathered with friends on the porch, and ladies fanning themselves with a folded magazine. The clanking of empty bottles as another ice-cold beer was opened, and would eventually be disgarded with the others already stacking pretty high on the porch.

I recall the first day the public swimming pool opened for the summer as dozens of kids waited in line with their towels and goggles, talking among themselves to see who would be the first one to brave the giant slide that emptied into the deep end. The lifeguards were mostly high school seniors making a couple of dollars as summer jobs, and there was always a group of giggling girls around them. Some were going to extremes, faking they were in trouble, so a lifeguard had to jump in and get them back to the deck, where they miraculously made a full recovery.

Summer meant baseball, and every kid old enough to hold a bat and throw a ball joined the city leagues. We received uniforms donated by various companies and businesses, and we got to pick our team names. Our uniforms could only be worn for games, but our hats stayed glued to our heads the entire summer. We would practice almost every day in a field that, over time, had been trampled down and looked just like the city field except for the absence of chalk lines and sand-filled bags as bases. For those, we used flat rocks.

With my eyes still closed, I wandered back in time once again to camping out in the woods, where we pitched our tents, handed down by older brothers who pretty much wore them out. My dad was in the army reserves, and one day he surprised my friends and me with almost-new tents he claimed were only slightly damaged. We left it at that. Camping meant eating too many snacks and reading comic books with a flashlight that some of us won by answering questions on the back of a cereal box. We would usually go exploring in the darkness of night on the hunt for trools and other scary things that went boo in the night

In the morning, we'd go to the lake and wash off the sticky mess that s'mores left on our hands and mouths, then it was time to mount our steeds and head out exploring parts unknown, but always an adventure. We came across an old field that had once grown corn but now lay in waste, with four rusted tractors just sitting there. We played on those until the thrill wore off, then headed into town, where we put on our t-shirts and stepped inside the soda shop for a burger and fries smothered in brown gravy.

My times as a kid will be with me forever, as will the faces of my friends who scattered across the country seeking their callings, just as I did, ending up thousands of miles away with a wife and three kids. We've made our own memory book, and sometimes I'll pull out my photo albums, mostly in black and white, that once had my daughter asking me why we didn't have colored clothes and cars.

I feel so lucky to remember those lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer spent with some lifelong friends, and to have a memory like a steel trap.

Mike 2026