Wednesday, May 13, 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                                               



A writers mind

 The flame from a candle danced across the room as he tried to find the words that were eluding him for the moment. He watched the flame, which he could change with a soft blow in its direction. It became a sort of game he played watching the flame dance to the right and then to the left, bending too far with the fear it would snuff itself out. Childish, he thought to himself as he picked up his pen and searched some more for his next sentence that refused to show itself.

Then his eye landed on the glow of the fireplace. A beautiful orange in color, glowing one minute and dimming another. The crackling of the burning wood keeps time like a base drum as the falling embers crash down to the floor in one big final. It amused him for a moment or two, but the words still wouldn't show themselves.

He glanced at the window, the pane frozen with a hundred ice crystals that, one by one, began to melt in the heat of the fireplace. Sliding across the glass as if it were their own skating rink. In his mind, he heard their voices like those of the munchkins on The Wizard of OZ, causing him to laugh out loud at his own foolishness. But the words wouldn't come.

He grew tired and blew out the candles, stoked the fire, and went to bed. Lying in the darkness, he suddenly sat upright and reached for his pen. The words began to flow like a mighty river with no end in sight. Guess all he needed were some dancing candles, a musical fire, and a bunch of munchkins skating on a frozen windowpane that somehow made sense.

Mike 2026                                                    


The wanderer

 His eyes were hollow from so many years on this earth. His skin was weathered and thin, which happens when you go without food, but he always has enough coins to buy a fifth of cheap booze. He was a wanderer, they say, with holes in the bottom of his shoes and tattered clothing. He rarely took off except for those times he landed in jail, charged with something stupid like drinking in a public park. The guards had a good laugh at his expense, taking bets on who would be the lucky one to take his clothes to be burned. They found some clothes in the donation box that mostly fit him, except for the boots, which were a bit too large. He'd been there before and had asked for some newspaper, which he stuffed into the toe area, and all was well. They gave him a sandwich from the vending machine, a stale egg salad sandwich that he gratefully accepted. If only he had a snort to calm his nerves, but that wasn't happening.

The following day, he went before the judge. He stood staring ahead as the judge read the charges against him and asked how he pleaded. I don't know," he answered softly. You don't know, the judge asked in a tone that was anything but nice. Well, your honor, I drink a lot, don't know why, really. I suppose because it helps me forget the things that have haunted me for some time now. And that would be what the judge asked.

I went off to war a long time ago. He began. I wasn't prepared for the things I saw and had to do. Each round that exploded around me took a little piece of me, and the fear welled up inside of me, and I ran off the battlefield and never stopped until the military police found me hiding in a burned-out truck. They threw me out of the army, giving me a ticket home and seven dollars, which I used to buy a fifth. The judge was silent for a moment, then softly spoke, saying he found it wrong the way they treated me. I was just a kid fighting a man's war with no compassion at all. He found me not guilty and released me back into the world I seemed to have found peace in. The guards confronted him at the door, handed him a bag filled with clothes and a pair of boots that fit him, and an envelope with one hundred dollars in twenties that they knew he would drink up in no time.

He's still out there somewhere chasing something he will never catch, as the memories will always be with him and the longing for an egg salad sandwich forever on his mind.

Mike  2026                                                  


The wooden monster

 The once mighty rollercoaster, a wooden wonder of engineering back when, now sits abandoned among the other rides that brought so much joy and laughter to all who dared. He walked around in the silence, with only the occasional squeak of a kiddy ride moving slowly in the breeze. He came here often growing up. First, with his family as he waited with great expectation for the day he would reach the proper height on the big measurement sign and be able to ride. On his twelfth birthday, as he grew several inches, he was ready. His dad reluctantly agreed to ride with him, but no amount of asking would change his mom's mind as she watched in horror as they climbed the first giant hill, preparing to do a nose-dive that would take them on a journey of both excitement and sheer terror. When the ride was over, and Dad looked like Casper the Ghost, he begged them to let him go again, but his mom said she couldn't bear to watch that ever again.

The years passed, and trips to the amusement park were spent with friends who rode the coaster over and over until they felt perfectly safe holding their hands in the air as the force of the ride lifted them a couple of inches off their seats. He continued his walk, remembering the sights and the smells of popcorn, candy apples, and corn dogs all blending together to create the perfect menu. As more time passed, attendance at the park dwindled because a very large water park was being built just on the outskirts of town. Aside from the giant slides, there were a few rides meant for season riders, and a kiddy land as well. It didn't take very long, and the park he loved shut down. Some of the rides were sold, but some remained just as they were on the last day. Rust had claimed many of the rides, and once colorful signs lay in the weeds, forgotten forever.

As he was about to leave, he took one last walk to the wooden coaster, and hanging by one screw was the measurement sign that either allowed or forbade you entrance. He took the sign with him and would give it a good home in his workshop. Right alongside his other treasures, he found as he walked through the closed and now quiet park of his youth.

Mike  2026                                         


Monday, May 11, 2026

Through the eyes of a 6 year old

 It was 1959, and I was six years old. My memories of that time are vivid and often revisit me in dreams. One such memory was getting out of bed, hearing my mom and dad softly talking and laughing as a Johnny Mathis record played on the phonograph. I opened my door a crack just enough to see them slow dancing, holding each other close, as my mom looked up to Dad's face and they kissed. I held my hand over my mouth so they couldn't hear me giggling as they stopped dancing so dad could put on another record. I can remember the deep red color of the carpet and the smell of cigarettes forming a cloud of smoke, as that was commonplace back then, when nobody knew the dangers of smoking.

The next morning, as I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, where Mom was making breakfast, I heard her humming that Johnny Mathis song, a smile on her face as she stirred the pancake batter a bit too long. She bent down and kissed my cheek, saying good morning, the only way she could say it as dad came in and put his arms around her waist, pulling her to him like the way they danced last night. She brushed him away, laughing and whispering something I wasn't meant to hear.
Dad went off to his job, and Mom got me ready for school, saying we had to hurry so I wouldn't miss the bus that always stopped in front of our house at precisely eight o'clock. So, with my Superman lunch box in hand, I climbed onto the bus and found a window seat where I could look out and see Mom waving and blowing me kisses, like the half-dozen other moms waving and blowing kisses to their kids while wearing housecoats of many colors. I watched as she grew smaller, then disappeared from my sight, and I wondered if she went back inside, put on that Johnny Mathis record, and danced by herself, remembering last night's memories with a smile and a sigh. I was just six years old, but something in my heart told me I had witnessed what true love really was, and it made me feel good, but still made me giggle when I thought about it.
Mike 2026                                                                

Sunday, May 10, 2026

Caretakers of the land

 She looked around her at the land they worked so hard for together. She remembers the first time they saw it, sprawling hills and meadows, a stream running North to south, and fields as far as the eye could see. It was untouched land, free of humans and machines that would one day carve out a living for them. It was government-owned land to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, and on auction day, only a small group of potential buyers showed up.

He had saved every dollar he made as a carpenter and a government check from injuries he sustained in the war that never should have happened. She worked in town as a schoolteacher and did some sewing and any other work she could find. And in six long years, they were ready to begin a different kind of life, farming the land they hoped to buy when the land auctions were posted in the newspaper with pictures of every parcel being auctioned off. This year's postings were slim, with just three locations up for grabs.
The small group gathered around as the auctioneer began taking bids for the land they wanted, starting at $4,000. "Can I get four thousand?" he asked into the microphone. "Let's go, folks." Do I hear four thousand? He raised his hand, and the auctioneer acknowledged his bid, asking for five thousand, but no hands were raised. Going once, twice, sold to the man in the John Deere hat for four thousand dollars. An amount much less than they ever thought possible. The remaining six thousand they had saved would be put to good use: clearing the land, buying seeds and plants, building a house and barn, buying some livestock, and providing enough fencing to span a six-acre plot where the cows could graze without risk of predators.
In total, they purchased forty acres that really wasn't that much, considering they wanted to plant twenty of those acres with corn and another twenty with soybeans. But they needed a few acres for their vegetable garden, where several kinds would sustain them through the hard winter months. The house and barn would sit on three acres, with lush grass and a stand of ancient oak trees that would provide shade during the hot summer months.
The first year came and went, as did the second, as their dreams and hopes for their land continued to grow with every cut board and every nail pounded. He finished their house in late summer, giving them time to prepare for the harvest, the most important time of the year, as market prices for corn and soybeans were at an all-time high. Day after day, he would harvest the fields sometimes by using the tractor's headlights to guide him through the row upon row of crops. She would bring him his lunch and supper, making him stop long enough to rest a minute, but slowing down wasn't in his nature as he kissed her cheek, wiped the strawberry jam from his mouth, then climbed back on his tractor to continue until he was done.
Time passed, and their dreams kept growing as fast as the crops. The adjacent property, about thirty acres, came up for auction, and they were determined to purchase it if the price wasn't too high. As luck would have it, nobody was interested, and they were the sole bidder as the auctioneer asked to open the bidding at ten thousand dollars. He responded with a five-thousand-dollar bid, and by law, if only one bidder submitted a number and he had the cash on hand, he would be awarded the land. all thirty acres.
Their intentions were to let the land be until they decided the best use of it, and after two years had passed, they decided to separate the land into five-acre plots, which they would lease to other farmers and even a couple of city slickers, as it turned out, who wanted a place to grow vegetables and take them back to the city where fresh vegitables were scarce at best. This plan worked for everybody, and as time passed, they had fenced off even more acreage until all that remained of their corn and soybean fields were more five-acre plots and a waiting list to lease.
Eventually, all but five acres where their house and barn stood became fenced-off parcels containing dozens of varieties of vegetables and fruits. Harvest time became a steady flow of weekend farmers bringing in their crops, with some making a trip to the buyers to sell off all they had grown for a nice chunk of change. Others preserved their bounties by canning almost everything and storing them in root cellars, where they'd stay until needed, especially when they were the only source of fresh vegetables in the cold winter months.
Over time, the farm, which was mostly run by part-time farmers, became a tourist attraction as city folks stopped in to see what all the talk was about. They bought bags of everything and often needed more than one bag to hold it all. Not long ago, they took a ride on an airplane, looking down at row after row of fenced-in parcels, creating a sort of maze filled with the colors of lettuce, green peppers, tomatoes, and strawberries. Carrot tops and cabbage. pumpkins and watermelons, onions and sunflowers.
With hundreds of plots all bringing prosperity to both the lessee and the lessor. They had an average annual income of $2 million, plus a never-ending supply of vegetables and fruit. Now, after a long and often hard life, they sat back and waved to the city folks, most of whom they knew by name. But they still had one more surprise. Years ago, when they first got the land, they walked the tree line until they came across three acres left untouched, except for the Christmas trees they planted. Over one hundred trees, to be exact. And this was the year they would open the tree farm on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. People came from miles to find the perfect tree that they could cut down themselves, just another way a city slicker could brag to his buddies. As it turned out, they purchased another 5 acres and planted more trees.
Decades passed, and the two of them grew tired. They looked out over the many plots they had leased and the acres of planted trees, and a light came on when they talked about selling the individual plots rather than leasing them. The cost, based on her calculations, would bring in over $5 million, more than enough to sustain them until their dying days. And so it was that, when she passed away, with him not far behind, their land became a protected state park where, for many years to come, park employees would watch over everything, making sure the farm would never change. People would travel from miles away to see and purchase only the freshest produce and beautiful Christmas trees that grew right along with their dreams.                                               
Mike 2026


Saturday, May 9, 2026

Snow globes for Mom

 If I could design snow globes, each one would hold a memory of my Mom. I could shake one gently as tiny snowflakes began to fall, and there she was in her kitchen, a place she loved to be.

I'd shake another globe, and when the snowflakes all fell, there was Mom waiting for me at the school bus. She wore a smile, her face filling my heart with an endless love for her.

Another globe shaken, and there she was walking down a snowy field, her head upturned, catching snowflakes on her tongue.

There could never be enough snow globes to capture her style, her class, and her never-ending love for her family. I give thanks every day for having had her as my Mom. 

There will be no shortage of memories she would tell me as she hangs another picture on the walls with little space left. Those pictures and dozens of old-time photo albums told her life story, bringing laughter and sadness, joys and success, all neatly pressed into the pages of her life.

All of us hold on to memories, some just a little more vivid, but even in a fleeting moment of remembrance, it can take you back in time, to having just one more day together with your Mom.

Happy Mother's Day in heaven, Mom.                             


Mike 2026