Rich soil and pine

 Since I was seven years old, I have usually spent summer vacation on my grandparents' farm. They were only ten miles away, but to me it seemed like another country. The days leading up to my leaving, Mom washed and packed most of my clothes, even though once I arrived, I changed into my coveralls like granddad wore, except for going to church on Sunday. On the morning I was leaving, Dad pulled me aside as Mom loaded the car, telling me to mind my manners, since Granddad was old-school and sometimes demanded a lot. I assured him that my granddad and I got along just fine, but I said it to myself as I nodded and promised to do as I was told.

The car ride to the farm took only about twenty minutes, but Dad seemed to drive more slowly than usual. I think maybe he didn't want to see me go for the next two months. As we pulled onto a dirt road that led to the farm, I looked out of the window at cows grazing and fields of corn that seemed to go on forever. As we got closer, I saw granddad and grandma standing on the front porch, waving as dad honked the horn to announce our arrival. I jumped out of the car as Lucky, my granddad's dog, jumped up on me, almost knocking me to the ground, and gave me sloppy kisses.
One of my fondest memories of going to the farm was the clean air and the smells of the country, like rich soil and pine. But the best by far was the smell of Grandma's cooking. Don't ever be told there's no difference in the way a country lady cooks than that of a suburban home maker. Mom always said she could never understand why Grandma would go through so much work in the kitchen when all she had to do was go to the supermarket and get everything needed to cook a proper meal.
Mom and Dad left to go home after a nice visit, and I settled into my room. I put on my coveralls, which Grandma had washed and folded on my bed, and headed out the squeaky screen door at a full-on run to catch up with Grandpa, who was climbing onto his tractor on his way to plow for the next crop. Jump on, he said, and next time run faster. Yes, sir, I said, knowing full well he wasn't angry, it was just his way. Fast forward nine years, my 16th year, and my continued vacation on the farm turned into weekends throughout the seasons. Granddad had a mild stroke a few years back and couldn't do some things he took for granted. None of which he admitted to as he climbed on a tractor, spending entire days doing what he loved best, but slower than he once was.
After I graduated from high school, I had the opportunity to attend college and decided to take night classes studying agriculture, so I could learn how to properly run the farm. My folks weren't too happy with my choice, but they supported my decision, and in Dad's eyes, I saw a kind of relief, as I often heard him talking to Mom about what would happen when Granddad could no longer run things. And now in his will, he left everything to me. We'd spend hours on the front porch after a delicious meal, talking about my plans for the farm. Some he agreed would be good, while some things that have proven to be in good working order would be left as is.
I was twenty-six years of age when we buried granddad alongside grandma, who left this earth for a better place. Lucky the dog rested with them, living a full life over the rainbow bridge, where he could chase rabbits as often as he liked. As for me, well, I never did find a wife or have children of my own, but I found a calling by offering kids a place to learn. Several times a month, a school bus would come down the dusty drive to the farm, with Lucky Junior running beside the bus. I'd show them life in the country and all that goes along with it. And wouldn't you know. Some of those kids became farmers, neighbors, and friends.
My days of farming are nearing an end, but the farm lives on through a grant I started so kids from all walks of life can work the ground, plant the crops, and harvest the fruits of their labor. Today, the farm belongs to every kid who wants to learn and, hopefully, become a guy or girl in overalls, with a great love for rich soil and pine.

Mike 2026                                                         

The struggles of words

 One of my bigger fears is not being able to write anymore. As I age, my brain keeps some memories alive, but at other times I feel as if small bits are forgotten and cast aside, lost forever. I suppose it's just how life works for some; words flow with a graceful transition to paper, and for others like myself, we have to reach deeper to remember even the simplest of thoughts.

I never want to forget things like my children's births or their first tooth. Homecoming dances and trophies for Little League Baseball. I want to recall without the struggle of having to remember so hard, trying not to admit defeat. It's like a star that burns out among a million others, but if you look closely, you'll see it still struggling to be bright one more time.
I want my visions to always be a part of me, as they are real, even larger-than-life at times. I see my Mom and Dad, lost loves and first dates, and my first kiss with my one true love, who may be gone but still comes to me so vividly. I reach out to touch her, but hear only a whisper telling me that one day we'll soar through the heavens together again.
I suppose I chose to write something every day because I don't know when it will be my last entry. I've penned thousands of stories and published three books that never gained any traction beyond family and close friends. But that's okay, as in many cases, a writer's fame comes after the pen runs dry and the stories are discovered in dusty boxes.
I get up every morning and have a seat ready to write the next bestseller, but my mind remains quiet as I click the pen time and again, as if to wake it up to join me on my quest for lost thoughts. One thing is certain: I will never stop trying to stay one step forward, where new memories await me, as others rest peacefully behind me.

Mike  2026                                                      

Sunday memories

 Lying in bed on a Sunday morning, I could smell coffee and the sizzling of bacon coming from the downstairs kitchen. I hear mom humming a tune as she tries to be quiet, knowing soon we'd wake up and may already be, as we struggle with going down or staying in a warm bed, covered to the chin, and breathing in the smells of Sunday morning.

Then the house came alive as siblings raced to be the first downstairs, where mom greeted each one with a cheerful good morning and a glass of orange juice. Dad was the last one down, smiling and giving Mom a kiss on her cheek with a whisper that made her blush. Our mouths were watering as we said grace, then dug into bacon and eggs, biscuits and homemade strawberry jam. Sometimes, Mom would go the extra mile and serve up a batch of pancakes and warm maple syrup.
Sunday morning meant lying on the living room floor with the comics as Dad read the entire Sunday newspaper. At ten thirty, we went to church, smiling at friends and saying prayers for those in need of some heavenly help. Sometimes after church, we'll take a ride in the country, usually in autumn when the trees put on their best show of colors. A stop for ice cream topped off the day as we returned home and changed from Sunday best to playing clothes in our backyard.
Sunday evening meant another feast as mom baked a ham, complete with yams and mashed potatoes, baby peas, jello, and warm dinner rolls. The conversation ranged from talking about school grades to the names of school crushes, making a sibling blush, and flicking a pea at the tattle-teller. After helping mom clean up and take out the trash, we'd all settle in to watch a Sunday program like the Ed Sullivan Show, which we all enjoyed.
Another Sunday back in the day went down in the history books as the kids went to sleep and mom and dad shared some much-deserved quiet time together. Tomorrow would soon arrive, and the bustle that went with it, as I was already thinking about next Sunday and the smell of sizzling bacon.

Mike  2026                                                     

Imaginations of childhood

 I remember, as a boy, letting my imagination run wild and untamed as I turned everyday objects into whatever my mind saw them as. A metal trash can became an army tank with me as the gunner, using a stick for a machine gun, complete with sound effects. The garden hose was used to fuel my tank, and two-by-fours laid under the tank served as the tracks with different sound effects.

Sometimes I was a big-game hunter, climbing a tree to set up my sniper nest. I'd cover my clothes with small branches, hiding my location from the big cats and other predators hunting me as I hunted them. There was an apple tree I liked to hide in and eat the sweet apples as I patiently awaited an approaching animal below. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large jungle cat as our eyes locked, and I readied my shot. With precise and controlled movement, I aimed and took my shot. With an award-winning sound effect, the neighbor's cat, Missy, ran for safety under the porch.
Another adventure found me standing on the bank of a mighty river, fishing gear included a pair of dad's rubber boots that turned into waders, a pool cue for the pole, and one of mom's empty flower baskets slung around my shoulder where I'd put the fish. I found some string in dad's tackle box, along with a cork bobber I tied to it that would disappear beneath the water, letting me know something had taken the bait. Patience was required when fishing, so I didn't speak when I heard Mom calling me in for lunch. Then, with a mighty tug on my line, the bobber floated to the surface as the monster fish broke loose and disappeared into the murky water. Mom spoke again, telling me to get out of the puddle, put my dad's boots back where I found them, and get inside right that minute.
Every kid wants to be someone they admire at some point. Girls become ballerinas and princesses, dressing up in old Halloween costumes, while others are homemakers like mom, baking award-winning pies at the county fair. Some want to be nurses using their baby dolls as patients as they wrap their arms and legs in rags they found in moms rag box. From astronauts to firemen, police officers to army generals, there was no end to the imaginations of a child. As for me, well, I ate my lunch and went back outside to venture further than anyone had gone before, as long as I stayed in my own backyard.

Mike 2026                                                  

Looking through the glass

 In days past, in the small town where I was born, I would walk the streets, looking into the windows of local bars. Men after their shifts at the factory gathered to tip a few after a hard day's work, some just looking to waste time before going home to a houseful of kids and a wife who went from prom queen to housewife, exchanging high heels and peek-a-boo blouses for a well-worn housecoat. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to prop myself on a stool and order an ice-cold beer served in a frosted glass mug. As I continued to watch through the window, I'd see someone playing the jukebox so loud that the glass I was standing by vibrated until the bartender turned it down. The bar itself was very old and had been in one family since it was built sometime in the 1890s. The walls and the floor were made of wood, as was the long bartop, which the bartender seemed to wipe every few minutes. Sitting on the bar were several large glass containers filled with hard-boiled eggs and pigs' feet that made me gag just looking at them. I don't think I ever saw anyone actually eat one.

There were wooden tables, most scarred with cigarette burns, and at some tables black indentations of a girl's name or a heart that said Mom. A little carving and a lot of drinking. I saw men playing checkers for money and poker games that sometimes went on well into the night, some smiling, and one leaving the bar wondering how he'd tell his wife he'd gambled his paycheck away. I looked into that bar through rain and shine, seeing the same old faces that to this day sit on the same stool they did when they turned 21 and looking the same as they do now, fifteen years later.

Remembering back when I finally became of age, I walked into that bar that I had only been able to look inside for so long. I picked out a stool, looking around and avoiding being anywhere close to pigs' feet and hard-boiled eggs. The bartender asked for my ID, which I gladly showed him, and asked, "What will it be, son?" Your first one is on the house. Sitting there, I smelled the smells of a bar, something I could only imagine as smells don't pass through glass. The smell of cigarettes and cigars, old wooden floors, and the scents of hard-working men that couldn't care less how they smelled.

I became a regular at that old bar right up to the day the city claimed the place would have to shut down as a new highway was going to cut right through there. The owner got a hefty offer to buy him out, and that was that. I stopped at the closed bar one more time, looking through the glass and remembering the faces, the smells, and the genuine laughter of hard-working men tipping a few cold ones and possibly eating a pig's foot or hard-boiled egg that made me gag one last time.

Mike 2026                                          

I grow weary

 I grow weary at times, redoing the day before and the day before again. My eyes serve as my guide now, red with time and endless glances and glares.  My weathered hands with throbbing veins are a testimony of hard work for decades until they softened and hard-earned calluses vanished.

I grow weary at times, wondering what could have been and spending too little time thankful for what is. I find myself thinking out loud as my memories refuse to be silent, and I am grateful for being called upon.
I grow weary listening to the noise of mouths that should never open and actions that should never have taken place. But no one says I have to conform because I refuse to listen to words; I just ignore them with both ears.
I grow weary because I chose to be, and I've earned that after decades of following the leader before learning that I had the right to walk away from things that prevented me from smiling.

Mike 2026                                                                      

Slower pace

 There are times I'm good with being old. The fast-paced world we live in can all become a blur, and that's when I close my eyes and write about the things I remember at a much slower pace.

Sitting down and writing a letter to a friend by candlelight in cursive, careful to spell everything correctly, or having to toss it into the trash can and start again. We've all seen pictures of a person surrounded by crumpled-up balls of paper strewn across the floor, with a look of frustration on the writer's face. But the end result was a beautifully written work of art, complete with a wax stamp and vintage stationery.

It seems to me my generation and those before me took more pride in things that today aren't as important at all. Handwritten recipes handed down by grandmothers and Christmas cards containing a heartfelt message. Birthday cards carefully picked out that were kept forever in a box of special things you'd take out sometimes to read over and over again. Each one is a memory you wanted to keep close to your heart.

Family time together with no phones or games, just each other and conversations about school, work, and that feeling of closeness every family should have. Family nights with bowls of freshly popped popcorn, with four hands digging into the bowl at one time, while a black and white movie played on the black and white television.

Kids didn't grow up as fast as they do today, finding time to sit and talk and going into town with a parent was just how life was back then. Teenagers still voiced their opinions, but the parents had the final say, and that was that. But some had to chance it by sneaking out of the house to meet up with a boy or girl friend and usually got caught during a routine check by a parent who was once a kid too. This meant being grounded, no matter what was going on, like school dances and football games.

Life was simpler back then, and although we had our share of problems, everything seemed to work out in the end. Kids didn't disrespect their elders or bring guns to school, except for hunting rifles on a gun rack in a lot of pickup trucks. Killing something meant hunting for that elusive buck or shooting clay pigeons with dad.

I don't mind getting old as long as I can keep remembering my younger days brought to me in black and white at a pace I control.

Mike 2026