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                                                                         

Closepin memories

 The sheets are drying on a backyard clothesline. A gentle breeze and golden sunlight, a mixture of clean and fresh late into the day. Tomorrow, the colored clothes will take the place of linens, trying harder to catch the breeze, and some will need extra clothespins. The bag they are kept in is just a simple bag Mom put together from old sewing materials and hangs on the line for easy access. There were two different kinds of clothespins, the basic wooden ones and the ones with a spring that, as a kid, would pinch your fingers sometimes by accident as you handed one to mom, and other times when nobody was around, and you tried to be a brave little soldier and pinch one on your nose.

On windy days, you'd run through the clothes, smelling the freshness as mom watched from the kitchen window, remembering doing the same thing as a young girl. It's funny how we recall childhood memories that are somehow passed down from one generation to another with little change. Your great-grandmother used wooden clothespins that her husband made by carving sturdy sticks into equal lengths, then slicing them down the middle so they fit snugly on the line.

Your grandma used those until seeing a bag of clothespins in the hardware store, all pre-cut and sanded, ready to use. It even had a handle on top to hang on the line, ready when needed. Your mom used store-bought ones like her mom, but one day, while window shopping, she saw the latest in clothespin design, made of plastic and available in a multitude of colors. Truly a great invention, not just for hanging clothes but also for toy soldiers: some in colorful uniforms and others in no color at all, engaged in battle until mom needed one or two, and we had to choose which fallen soldier would give its life.

My generation doesn't hang clothes outside when they have a gas or electric dryer to do the job, unlike most people. But call me old school because my wife and I still hang clothes to dry in the fresh air and golden sunlight. Our kids make toys from clothespins, mostly wooden, by the way, with a bag of colored ones, so they can play soldiers just as I did. I would imagine that my kids' kids will be left wondering just what in the world those odd-looking wooden and plastic things they found in a box in the garage were used for. I'll search my memory bank and tell them we used wooden pins to attach baseball cards to the spokes of our bikes so we'd sound like a bunch of wannabe bikers. Good times, good times. I'll let their mom and grandma tell them the other side of the coin in their stories.

Mike  2026                                                       

Childhood memories of Aunt Elda and uncle joe

 As a boy, when my dad went off to the army reserves in the summer, my mom and I, along with my two sisters, went to Michigan to visit my mom's aunt, Elda, and uncle, Joe. They lived quite a ways back from a country road in a modest but very nice house. They had a few acres that bordered a corn farmer, who let us run through the rows and rows of corn so sweet we ate it until our bellies ached. Uncle Joe had a small tractor that he used to cut the large yard with, and he would hoist me up and sit me on his lap as we mowed and mowed until Aunt Elda called us in for lunch. Any meal Aunt Elda served was a three-course meal. Breakfast consisted of fresh eggs from her chicken coup, toast made with her homemade bread, and her homemade jellies. Fresh orange juice or tomato, if you prefer. And Uncle Joe's favorite: a thick slab of Canadian bacon. Aunt Elda knew my mom's favorite was a nice, hot bowl of grits with a dab of real butter, prepared just for her.

Lunch meant a huge bowl of fresh-cut fruit, a selection of lunch meats and cheeses from the butcher shop, as pre-packaged meats never saw their table. Each of us kids got a tall, chilled glass of whole milk with a spoonful or two of chocolate syrup to wash everything down.

Dinner was a work of art, featuring an entire turkey or a glazed ham that Uncle Joe had hand-carved, along with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a dinner salad, and fresh corn from the neighbor. Homemade dinner rolls and fresh-squeezed lemonade. The desert was a cake Aunt Elda baked with whipped cream frosting, topped with an assortment of her famous chocolate chip and butter cookies, another of Mom's favorites.

Uncle Joe was a successful businessman who owned a large plumbing business, which afforded them a comfortable life. He was a hunter and owned a trailer in a private hunting club that we went to for the weekend. Nestled deep into the woods, the trailer had everything Aunt Elda needed to prepare the same wonderful meals the same way she did at home. All of us wore bright orange vests so we could be seen by other hunters, even though his plot of land was over five acres and posted with a no-hunting sign. If I remember, I heard Aunt Elda tell my mom Joe didn't plan on killing a deer when we were there, he just didn't want us kids to believe he shot Bamby.

I loved our visits to Michigan, the sights and sounds of country living, and the sound of crickets and star-filled nights. Waking up with the sound of a rooster and bellowing cows waiting to be milked. Our time there went by too fast as we talked about next summer and how it couldn't come fast enough. With bags full of sweet corn and a variety of foods, Aunt Elda made sure we ate well on the ride home. As for Uncle Joe, he handed each of us kids a twenty-dollar bill, more money than any of us had ever had. He slipped mom a small wad of cash, pressing it into her hand, knowing she could use it.

The ride home was long, giving us the time we needed to recall all the great things we did and the food, oh my lord, the food. Some years later, we stopped going to Michigan. I suppose time caught up with us, and hanging out with friends was more important. But they came to visit us once a year, and our time together was as wonderful as always. Aunt Elda took over Mom's kitchen, and Dad took Uncle Joe to the firing range to shoot paper targets. He still gave us each a twenty-dollar bill and pressed a wad of cash into Mom's hand. Memories are a beautiful thing, especially when you have an aunt, Elda, and an uncle, Joe.

Mike 2026                                                           

                                                                                                                                                           

The smells of each season

 The smells of any given season are etched in my mind as I walk down a country road. In winter, the air is crisp and pure with a scent that's frozen in the ground until Spring arrives. Springtime creates a botanical garden of countless plant species and grass. Tulip bulbs planted in the fall crash through the ground and come to life in splashes of colors as wildflowers fill an entire valley with a fragrance to rival any high-priced perfume. Springtime rains that smell fresh make you want to stand in them as tiny drops shower your gardens, helping everything in the ground grow.

Summer brings with it the smells of everything outside. The charcoal grill and fresh-cut grass houses are being painted, and the swimming pools that smelled of chlorine. Summer means the smell of tanning lotions in many scents and the intoxicating smells of fair food. Summer means trail rides through the woods, smelling the ancient pine trees and layers of moss that carry the scent of something old.
Autumn smells like colored leaves, if that's even possible. The hay bales now stacked away in a barn leave behind empty fields plowed under with the dead corn husks that will enrich the ground for the next planting. Piles of raked leaves will be burned, the smell traveling from one house to another until only black spots on the ground are all that's left. Autumn smells like a pumpkin stand, an apple orchard, and sticking your head out the car window to let the smells fill your nose.
Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall each have their own scents that we can enjoy throughout the year if we take the time to breathe deeply, slow down, and savor every little thing that's ours to smell.
Mike  2026                                                              

Uncertainty of time

 He sat at his kitchen table, the one he found curbside. He didn't understand why someone would throw it away, as the legs were sturdy and the surface only needed some sandpaper and elbow grease. He worked on it until he was satisfied, then replaced the old table with another curb find he had come upon years ago.

He ate a bowl of oatmeal with the maple or brown sugar flavor, which was his favorite. The box said to add hot water and stir until a creamy texture appeared, but he liked the little clumps, so he didn't stir it too much. And it wasn't uncommon for him to find some of those clumps later in his beard, pick them out, and eat them.

He didn't do much these days, probably because he'd done about everything a person could do in seventy-some years. A circle of life, he said, the joys of childhood and the years leading up to adulthood, filled with memories in the making. Successes and failures too numerous to say and falling in love more times than he cared to remember. Now, as he enjoys his life with few distractions, all that remains is the uncertainty of time.

He once told someone that old age allowed you certain privileges, like sitting around all day in your pajamas, not showering for days until you smelled yourself, and putting on more deodorant just because you had to run some errands. It meant eating in front of the television and yelling at the news caster that he didn't know what he was talking about. One time, so upset he'd knock over his drink that splashed the cat, who went screaming away.

He knew the trash pick-up days and planned accordingly, which days he'd back up his old truck out of the garage and head to an area he knew all too well, as it was where he once lived a long time ago. He would keep a sharp lookout for hidden treasures buried in piles of unwanted items being thrown out just because something had quit working. He never had to buy small appliances; he'd just fix the ones he found, making them as good as new.

His was a simple life, one he chose with little regret, even though he sometimes found himself drowning in memories he couldn't erase. Joys that turned to sorrow, love that turned to hate, and time that wouldn't slow down. Today, he sits at the old table he found on the curb and, with a pocketknife, carves his initials into the sanded surface, a reminder of who he was for the guy who picks it out of his trash.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                                     

RUN!

 When I close my eyes, I see you alone in a small wooden room painted white with only a straight-back chair for you to sit. Your long hair lies perfectly still across your shoulders, and your eyes half open or closed, looking out the only window at the freedom you know awaits you.

I speak softly, just loud enough that I know you can hear me, and inch closer to you so I can smell your scent of wildflowers that you must have bathed in before I arrived.

They had you dressed in white, which made it seem you blended with the room itself, a peasant dress, I believe it's called. No slits or short lengths, just white clinging to your body like a windblown sheet that's as still as the room itself.

I whisper your name, but you remain with eyes half open or closed, looking straight at that window as if planning your escape. I thought for a brief moment I saw your lips part just a bit as if wanting to speak, but no words were spoken, just as it's been for six months. I take your hand in mine, feeling your softness as no fingers move, no words spoken, and no idea if you'll ever come back to me.

A nurse comes in asking if I'd like the window open for some fresh air, and I saw her turn ever so slowly, only visible to me. Her lips parted, and she whispered RUN!

Mike  2026