Tears at the train station

 By the light of a silvery moon, he softly touched her face. The train would soon be leaving as countless tears fell to the ground and goodbyes were spoken with shaky voices.

Military uniforms as far as the eye could see, mixed with young brides and weeping mothers, waving until the train couldn't be seen or heard as it chugged along to the next stop and more waiting soldiers.
Months passed slowly, as did the mail, which usually arrived weeks or more after it was sent. Tear-stained, dirty envelopes didn't matter, as the envelope was ripped open, and his voice jumped off the pages and into her heart.
She read his words over and over until she had memorized every word that she repeated to herself during her waking hours until sleep came and her dreams were only of him. She dreamed of him looking so handsome in his uniform, his smile, and piercing blue eyes that saw their way straight into her lonely heart.
His last letter came saying he'd be home soon, and the postmark told her it would be in just two more days. Not enough time to prepare for his return, but she managed to look like his million-dollar baby, something he said often.
She dressed in a springtime outfit he had bought for her, with powder-blue shoes and a matching purse. A stylish hat and silk scarf around her neck, she made her way to the train station, joining at least fifty other wives and moms all filled with the anticipation of their loved ones finally coming home.
From the opposite end of the depot, a faint voice could be heard that the train was coming. Compacts were everywhere as the ladies powdered their faces and applied a bit more lipstick that would soon be kissed away.
As it pulled into the station, the faces of young men appeared through open windows as they scanned the crowd, looking for that special someone. The air was filled with the smell of perfumes that erased the smells of war and the fact that they really were home. She got lost in the crowd as she frantically searched for him, walking quickly through the sea of soldiers until she stopped and saw him looking at her just feet away.
She ran straight into his arms as he lifted her into the air, his strong arms holding her so tightly she almost couldn't breathe. Their lips met, and the first kiss was more like a thank you for bringing them back together. The second kiss was the one they both dreamed of in their dreams.
He hadn't told her in his last letter that he'd be going back for a second tour. He wanted her to feel nothing but happiness in the moment and every day they'd have together, to be what dreams are made of, until it was time for him to go again.
She joined the other wives and moms at the station, holding his hand, feeling his strength as he tried to control a single tear he hoped she wouldn't see. They didn't talk much as they both knew everything they wanted to say had been said. She kissed him, leaving the shape of her heart on his cheek, then a long, tender kiss on the lips that would help her remember his taste for the many months he'd be gone.
She was a military wife and knew what she had signed up for, but it wouldn't stop the loneliness or the endless waiting for a tear-stained envelope. She'd be waiting, as she always did, memorizing every word in his letters and repeating each one throughout her days until another letter arrived, weeks after he'd written it, saying he'd soon be home again.
She lived the life she had chosen and never let him see her deepest longing for him to be home for good. He was a soldier, and she was his wife, and they both had jobs to do. One day, he would retire, and on that day, she would kiss his cheek with ruby-red lipstick that would never wipe away.

Mike  2026                                                    

Treasured family moments in the forest

 The campfire crackled as pieces of fire raced towards the heavens, only to be snuffed out by opposing winds. Once large logs are reduced to glowing embers, the heat, once intense, becomes warmth.

Sticks that pierced marshmallows lay on the edge of the fire, igniting as their sticky remnants caught fire and were swallowed by flames.
Light from a lantern inside a tent eases the children's fear of the darkness as scary stories are told, and they hide under covers, while Mom and Dad share a glass of wine under the star-filled night.
It's getting cold as the fire is now just a pile of smoking ash, and the ground is the only thing that feels any heat. They get into their tent listening for laughs and giggles from the tent next to theirs, but the children are quiet and sleeping soundly, tired from a day of exploring.
Sharing a large sleeping bag, they cuddle together, their bodies providing warmth and other feelings that come to life in the quiet of the night. Sunrise says good morning as a fire is made and a coffee pot from an old thrift store percolates, transforming clear water into brown coffee, showing its colors as the glass top allows a look inside.
As Mom prepares breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and her famous biscuits slathered with honey, the smell awakens the children as they wipe the sleep from their eyes and join their parents around the fire. They'd be heading home today, but not before they took one last hike through the forest they all loved so much. And not before they took their dirty dishes, pots, and pans down to the stream and washed them clean.
This would be the final hours to gather what the forest gave, memories of their time there that would be the source of conversations for months and sometimes years. Six arrowheads, Dad claimed, were at least one hundred years old, along with several fossilized leaves, small creatures like lizards, and even a small footprint that only left them wondering. The best find, agreed upon by everyone, was a very old, rusted axe. Their minds were working in overdrive as they searched through the book of rare finds. And there it was, looking back at them from a page, the exact axe his daughter found as she tripped on a fallen log, and a patch of moss dislodged the ancient tool.
All packed up and heading home, there were a lot of mixed emotions, but more memories than anything else. Three days and nights together in the magic of the forests, the glow of a campfire for warmth, and the best cooking ever. Scary stories read under the covers and screaming when the flashlight's batteries wore down. Then, when pulling into their driveway, a collective sigh knowing it was over at least for a while.
Mike  2026                                                                 

Old man on the lake

 Small ripples lapped on the boat's side as the anchor line held firm. The gentle rocking made his eyes heavy, and he wanted to take a nap, but his days on the lake were running short, and every tug of the line was another possible trophy that he'd end up throwing back in the water to live another day.

He was brought up on this lake, as were his parents, in a place where nature reigned, and the city seemed a million miles away. When they passed just five months apart, he moved into the cottage some forty-something years ago. Math tells him he's lived there a total of seventy-five years and never changed a thing about it.
The hardwood floors were swollen in places as the lake's moisture took its toll. Kitchen cabinets didn't open or close as easily as they did when he was a kid, opening and closing a thousand times in search of a treat or a box of oat cereal. It showed character, he thought, like the pieces of driftwood hanging on the wall and the collections of small, smooth rocks his mom would find on her morning walks.
His line grew taut, and he jerked the pole up and hooked a monster of the lake, maybe the one legends are made of. It put up a fight as the old man grew tired and his arms felt like rubber. Then, without warning, the line snapped, and the would-be trophy dove deep and escaped. He sat there for a minute, cursing that no one would hear except maybe another fisherman around the point who saw what happened and held up his hands in a gesture of dismay.
He took his time securing his gear and pulling up anchor, then rowed the quarter mile back to the dock, also in need of repair. He thought about that and hoped it would hold up just a few more fishing trips, but he wouldn't bet on it. No fish for dinner tonight, he said to himself, but that was okay as he didn't really acquire a taste for it. Strange, isn't it? A kid who was brought up fishing almost daily for decades didn't like fish.
The daylight was sinking, and darkness would follow, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees, so he built a fire and took a hungry man's dinner from the freezer. Salsbury steak, mashed taters, green beans, and an apple crisp for dessert. Life was good, and no washing dishes either, just a two-point shot into the garbage can.
It didn't take long as the warmth from the fireplace filled the cottage with the smell of wood burning as he gave in to sleep sitting on his dad's favorite chair, something else he left as it was so long ago. He'd repaired that chair too many times to count with duct tape and pieces of cloth that ended up looking like a patchwork quilt. But he wouldn't change a thing.
The old man had three more fishing trips that all went well, except on his second trip, when the old dock finally collapsed, sending the small boat to the bottom of the lake and plunging him into the cold water. He was able to retrieve most of his gear, but some things were gone forever, and that was okay with him.
Now he sits in a chair at the foot of the lake tossing out his line. He saw the neighbor around the point, passing him by with his arms held up in dismay and a smile on his face. The old man gestured back with his middle finger held high, adding a few choice words from one fisherman to another.

Mike 2026                                                                    

The writing room

 He wrote in his home office, a small room with a window not much bigger than a large broom closet. The walls were covered with pictures he liked, some of family, others like a World War II fighter pilot, and several pin-ups from days gone by. Fishing rods in one corner and a broken printer that he intends to get rid of one day in another. His desk was saved from the jaws of a garbage truck, old school with years of use everywhere you looked. Initials with hearts and dates that meant something to someone. He'd sometimes catch himself rubbing a heart and wonder if the carver was still among us.

His chair was decades old, with one roller gone and replaced with cardboard and duct tape that did the job. The armrests were worn from years of use, much like the desk, and he often found himself wondering who the person was, assuming they were a writer of some kind. Maybe they wrote for a newspaper ages ago, wrote children's books, or wrote graphic novels.
Many nights when the urge to write overcame him, he'd light a couple of candles and turn on a vintage lamp with an amber bulb, just enough light to write. He never knew what he would write until a word turned into a sentence and sentences into paragraphs. Write, delete, write some more, delete, and try again until he was satisfied that a story was told.
He never thought of himself as a great writer; he just believed it was a gift of sorts that he didn't take lightly. Years passed, and countless stories were written in that small room with fighter pilots and pin-ups on the walls and a seldom-used fishing pole gathering dust in a corner. He had carved his own heart and the dates he wanted to remember on the top of the desk, and every so often, he rubbed his hand across it as memories flooded back and lost loves filled his mind.
He wrote his last story sitting at the desk saved from the jaws of the garbage truck, rolling his chair with the broken wheel to take a break and look out the window, he hoped would inspire him one more time, until the words no longer flowed and one last story was written.

Mike  2026                                            

County fair memories

 We stood in line to ride the carousel on a cool autumn day. Puffy clouds and blue skies made for the perfect day for my grandson and me. I looked at him as he looked around his small hand in mine, and I wondered what it would feel like to be him one more time.

It was a Saturday in 1960, and the county fair was in town. Like most seven-year-olds, I had saved some money all year for just this day when our family would head for the fairgrounds, ready to enjoy all it had to offer. Funnel cakes and cotton candy, popcorn and candy apples, and all those rides.

Dad stood in line to buy our tickets, while my sisters and I couldn't stand still as we watched the many rides and screaming kids. I remember my Mom telling us the usual mom things like don't touch the water fountains and don't lose sight of each other. 

Every year at the fair, Dad would give each of us a ten-dollar bill to do with what we wanted, but when it was gone, it was gone, and there would be no more. Most of the rides were three tickets each, worth a quarter, so we chose the rides carefully so we didn't use them up too fast.

Running from one ride to the next, we'd wait our turn at the Ferris wheel and bumper cars. Giant swings and slides so high that they gave me butterflies. Every once in a while, we'd report back to mom and dad, who sat in the big tent where dad drank some beers and mom talked to friends. She would see us and wave, which was her signal to go ahead and have fun. I remember there was a dance floor in the tent, and when the sun was about to set, the band would start playing, and the large group of parents and grandparents put on their dancing shoes and danced to their favorite songs, bringing back memories of their own.

I loved the fair at night, when all the rides lit up with colored lights, and I was sure they could be seen for miles away. As the night began to wear on, my sisters and I headed for the main attraction, the wooden rollercoaster. A true beast with hairpin curves and speeds up to 50 miles per hour. This year, my little sister just made the mark on the wooden policeman that showed your height, and if you were as tall as his mark, you could ride the monster coaster.

Standing in line to wait your turn was pure terror, as the coaster cars screamed past and above you, kids screaming their heads off, until it finally came to a stop. Each car sat two, so my sisters rode together, and I, well, I rode alone. Once seated, the cars were locked, and we began the slow climb to the top of the tracks. The clanking of the chains filled you with even more fear, and then the moment you'd been waiting for all day was about to happen. The cars took a nosedive, pointing straight down and moving so fast your lips quivered and your stomach did somersaults as you headed for dead man's curve. Around and around you flew the screams of my sisters in the car behind me, sounding like sheer terror as the mighty ride came to a stop and everybody got off, vowing to ride it again.

We left the fair tired and fulfilled, and dad even won a giant stuffed bear at the shooting gallery that he gave to my younger sister, who named it Bob for reasons unknown. One tradition we had was that before we left, we would ride the carousel as a family. Mom and Dad sat on a colorful bench while my sisters and I picked out a mighty steed with flared nostrils, a large ostrich, and for me, a jet black stallion. Round and around we went, the music of the carousel ringing in our ears. and the realization that our day at the fair had come to an end.

My grandson was too small for the big-boy rides, but we had great fun in kiddy land, riding the mini versions of bumper cars and small boats that circled in the water. We took a mini train ride around the fairgrounds, and my favorite part was the six jets that flew in circles on chains, with toy guns mounted on their wings that made gunshots. We finished our day at the fair by riding the carousel. He chose a lion, and I chose a jet-black stallion with flaring nostrils. As we left the fair, my grandson stood next to the wooden policeman, looking at the mark he had to reach to ride the coaster, and said, " Grampa, next year will be my year.

Mike  2026                                                     

One word at a time

 She kept a journal of her life overflowing with words written on gold paper. By all accounts, her life was a simple one, filling her days and nights with precious moments, smiles, and tears of both joy and sorrow.

She often wrote about her husband. A simple man who trusted God with everything and had a genuine fear of hell. He treated her like a princess and brought her flowers for no reason other than he loved her.
They raised two children to be happy and trust their heads and their hearts because both would be a part of their lives. They were tough at times when lessons had to be given for crossing a line, but they never went to bed mad and always got a good-night kiss.

Their home was cozy, with homemade curtains and tablecloths; knick-knacks filled a corner stand, mementos of places they went, mostly no more than a few miles away. A snow globe from the general store with a small Santa and his reindeer looking back at you as snow danced around inside. A small salt and pepper shaker with two farmers, each holding a small sign telling you which was which.
She wrote something every day in that journal, no matter what was going on with her life, good or not so good. Class plays, concerts, and Halloween costumes made in the light of a single bulb. Senior prom and more time spent sewing for a dress that made them cry as she came down the stairs.

She lost count of the pets, but she believed there were seven dogs, five cats, two turtles, and a couple of hamsters, all cherished and buried in a pet cemetery out behind the giant oak tree. Dad made wooden crosses for all of them, and it wasn't uncommon to find him standing looking over them and remembering the joy they brought into their lives.
Her journal, written on golden paper, is heavy now, as thousands of words, sentences, and chapters fill its pages. Who knows, maybe nobody will ever read them, and that's okay, as the memories belong to her. She didn't write it for anybody but herself. But if it's read, she hopes they will know the woman, the wife, the mother, and a friend to many who wrote her life's story one word at a time.

Mike  2026                                            

History lessons

 Time slipped away from me, taking me off guard. One minute I was in my prime, then BANG I was a history book. But that's important for the little ones who never run out of questions about anything and everything under the sun, and somehow, I've always been able to quench their thirst for answers. 

What makes the sun so bright? How do birds fly? What makes a waterfall fall? As adults, we just chalk it up to age and learning is just a tool we use every day, but then I think about their little selves with a virgin brain screaming for answers for anything and everything they question. They see the world around them but don't understand much of what makes things tick. So nothing is off-limits when their volley of questions is shot out with the expectation of answers.

Why do the wheels on a car on television spin backwards? Why can't I spin my head around like an owl?  As they begin to grow and their questions sometimes challenge a scholar, I realize one day I won't have all the answers they seek. How does a penny sink in the water, but a huge ship floats? Why does my stomach growl when I'm hungry, and how can Cousin Bobby shoot milk out of his nose?

Then, as they grow older and the questions keep coming, I fear my usefulness is winding down, and they see it and sometimes ask others to answer the tough ones, like, "Why are there wars when peace can be achieved through talking?" Why do the important things in life come with a cost, and why does what we say and how we look determine our destiny in this century?

I believe the old saying, out of the mouth of babes, holds true. I listen to conversations at the Sunday dinner table, those young minds growing faster and faster, talking over one another until someone throws down their napkin in protest. Just how smart are they? I've asked myself, and my answer is simple. They learn over time that all the seemingly simple questions have seemingly simple answers learned by asking, and they stick with them as their minds grow in capacity to comprehend more difficult questions that boggle your mind and make you want to retreat into your quiet place with a glass of wine and a good book.

Some of these younger people will go on to do great things and ask the really serious questions. I wonder if they will remember asking about what makes a waterfall fall, or why they can't rotate their head like an owl? Were my answers locked somewhere deep down in their mind where they've remained for years? Maybe so because I just saw my eldest grandchild toss a penny into the pond.

Mike  2026