Strait up

 The beautiful thing about memory is that it lets imagination fill in the blank spaces.

Mike

If you were to watch him sitting quietly in his favorite chair, looking out the window, you might think he's just old, and that's something old folks do, and you would be so wrong. It's 1942, and we are at war. He proudly wore the uniform of an army pilot, chasing death and saying prayers, lots of them. He flew a P-40, a single-prop fighter plane fast for its time, able to maneuver quickly but sometimes hit by enemy fire that punched holes in the skin. He observed that, back on the ground with thanks, it wasn't worse, and he lived once more to fly.
If you were to watch him, you'd see his closed eyes twitch a little, and his fingers occasionally tap the arm of his chair like he was at the controls of his plane, lining up his targets and firing fatal shots at enemy planes as they slammed into the ocean like a cigarette being snuffed out in a glass of water. You'd see his head tilt from side to side as he did a barrel roll, earning another painted star on the fuselage. You'd hear a slight sigh as he managed a smile, landing to the cheers of his fellow pilots and the knowledge that another mission was completed.
If you were to watch him in his recliner, which serves as his cockpit in his dreams, you'd see him high in the sky, where the cold was numbing, and his vision, scanning in all directions, was like an owl's. You'd see him touching the photo of his one true love waiting back home, smudged by his touch on every take off and landing and everything in between. If you were to watch him, you wouldn't see just an old man; you'd see a hero who dared to give up until every enemy plane crashed in balls of flame. Walk away now and leave him with his dreams and memories, and let him fly once more straight into the heavens.

Mike  2026                                                          

Mike  2026

Down in the valley

 His hair was long, his beard a shade of white, his feet were bare, and his flannel shirt faded. His cottage was small, nestled in a valley where fireflies danced all night, and stars fell from the sky. He didn't need to stay busy because he'd already done that decades ago. He smoked a pipe he had since his dad passed away, leaving him with a collection from around the world. His favorite is a clay pipe from Ireland. He let each new day decide what to smoke, sometimes a blend and other times a bud or two. He chopped and stacked wood daily, adding to the mountain that quickly went up in smoke, but that was cool with him, as it kept his guns hard. His tattoos were old and faded, yet he remembered when he got each one, mostly in his navy days when ink, booze, and youth were the soup of the day. He still had his Harley back in the shed, where it's been since he rolled it in, broken and silent, after he laid it down to avoid being hit by a logging truck. As years passed, he slowly got it running again, and when the roads were free of snow, he'd ride. To this day, his favorite sounds are birdsongs, a child's laughter, and the growl of his Harley. You have to understand, he didn't run away back then; he chose to leave the world he was forced to live in after fulfilling his obligations to his family, who finally understood why he had to go. In the valley, voices aren't heard, and nightmares don't occur; the only crime is burning the bisquets. Everything around and about him is old now, and that's okay with him. He doesn't mind that his cottage needs a coat of paint, which he will never get around to doing. He doesn't care if a hundred animals eat from his garden as long as he has enough to sustain himself. No more haircuts or beard trimming, no more traffic or the noises of the city he left behind. Just a white clay pipe, a rickety chair on his front porch, waiting for the evening show to begin down in the valley.

Mike  2026                                                           

Dan the Donkey

 I was standing on the safe side of the pasture where an old donkey lived out its final days. He became a favorite spot to stop on a sunday drive when I was just a little boy filled with wonder at the sounds it made and a giant mouth that learned over time not to be so impatient as he snached a carrot out of my hand and allowed me to scratch his head as my mom yelled out to me not to get so close as he was a wild animal which couldnt be more un true. One such Sunday, the farmer who cared for him came up beside him with a bunch of carrots, which he handed to me over the top of the fence, and asked if I'd like to know the history of the one he called Dan.

Dan was owned almost twenty years ago by a man who traveled with the circus. He gave donkey rides to children in a round ring that, for a quarter, could ride for exactly five minutes around and around, as Dan, wearing crazy hats made of straw and flowers, went through the motions with an occasional bellow that made some young kids yell to stop and get off his back. Days were long for Dan as the man made him walk in circles well into the night until the circus closed for the day and he could walk in a straight line back to his stall and some much-needed rest. The man never spoke to Dan unless he scolded him for stopping dead in his tracks and refusing to move, which he often did, knowing that he'd get a beating once back in his stall. One day, a farmer asked the man to sell him, Dan, for one hundred dollars, which was much more than the man could make at a quarter a ride, so he agreed.
The farmer let Dan roam several acres of lush pasture, where he learned to run, play, and bellow at passing cars, which led some to stop and feed him all sorts of treats, which he grabbed and ran away with as if it were a game. When the word got out about Dan the donkey, school buses full of kids would stop as Dan ran to the fence, happy to see the kids. Over time, as he got older, he didn't run much anymore, and his appetite wasn't what it once was. But he continued to come to the fence and drop most of the treats to the ground, bellowing his thanks for their kindness. On any given Sunday, Dan would come to the fence wearing a straw hat with flowers on it to pose for pictures, which he loved. He was a big ham. Dan was showing off his huge smile as kids stood on the other side of the fence and parents snapped pictures. The farmer thought how great it would be if he made a gate so kids could come into the pasture and play with Dan, and play they did. Dan let the kids think they could catch him as he ran back and forth, tucking his tail so they wouldn't grab it. Then he would stop and turn towards the kids who weren't quite sure what his next move would be. Then, with a loud bellow, Dan charged as kids scrambled away and chased by Dan at half speed, never intending to harm them, as they were all his friends. And that's the story of Dan the donkey, who for years brought joy to kids and adults looking for a place to stop on a Sunday drive. And as we pulled away, I stared out the back window of our station wagon, and I heard Dan bellow a goodbye as his straw hat with flowers faded into my favorite childhood memory.

Mike  2026                                                       

   

All you can be

 He stumbled in the darkness as he made his way to his home office. One word of profanity was stifled by his hand, which smelled of the homemade chocolate cookies he had eaten before going to bed. It was too late to go back for a flashlight, so he hugged the wall until he felt an open space that was his office. He didn't turn on the overhead light as his eyes adjusted; he lit a couple of candles and sat down at his desk. As he stared at his desktop and the numerous home screens of pin-up girls, he remembered being woken up with words that had to be written, but, as luck would have it, he didn't remember which words. They must have been important to wake him from a deep sleep, maybe a vivid memory or a verse he knew from a novel he had read. Could it have been from a conversation, or a podcast, maybe a passing billboard, or a magazine he browsed while waiting to see the doctor? He had braved the darkness, stubbing a toe on a quest to write something powerful, but the words stayed at bay, and he grew tired. He woke up to a sunny day, the smell of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, soft music playing as his wife came into his office and set a mug of coffee on his desk. "Miss April," she asked as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Indeed, he answered as he moved the mouse to unveil yet another blank screen. Maybe today, he thought to himself, he would be inspired by a passing billboard, perhaps one that asked if he could be all that he could be, and then it hit him that those words were exactly the ones he'd been searching for.

Mike  2026                                                           

A midsummer day

 Time seemed to stand still like that of a midsummer day when even the dust isn't moving. You look out at the corn crops mid-high by the fourth of July and jokingly tell yourself you hope they don't start popping. Inside the house, your grandkids visiting for the summer get their bathing suits on as he finishes blowing up the pool with what he believes could take his last breath.

As sunset arrived, he gave silent thanks for a slight breeze enough to watch the curtains dance and hear crickets sing an evening song. Bowles of ice cream for the grandkids and an iced tea for him and the wife sitting on the front porch watching for lightning in the distance, heat lightning some would say. Sticky hands are washed as another day comes to a close, and a bedtime story is read to sleepy faces soon to be in dreamland.
Darkness arrives, with fireflies in the distance dancing across the field, enjoying their short lifespan, like a snowflake, he supposed. She asked if he was coming to bed, and he said in a minute as he lit his pipe, the one he got for his last birthday. Smoke rings and the smell of captian black tobacco were the only movement as the night wrapped him in her arms to say goodnight.

Mike  2026                                                             

Red bricks and memories

 They walked hand in hand down the streets of a small town that many had never seen. Red brick buildings he helped build so many years ago now stand vacant, with windows boarded up, and a few somehow manage to stay open, like the pizza parlor that made deliveries by a kid on his bicycle, even in the dead of winter.  Mr. Rizzo opened his pizza palace some 50 years ago, first with his two sons as helpers who eventually went their own ways, leaving him to run things alone. But he didn't mind that as long as people called for a little slice of heaven. And there was the old hardware store with no new inventory. Mr. Jones ran the place and lived upstairs in the apartment where he and his late wife had lived a comfortable life together for over 60 years. Now he sits in his store, jolted awake by the bell on the door when the occasional customer would stop by to chat, checking in on him and sometimes buying something they had no real use for.

Urban renewal caught up with their town when the county decided to build a bypass that cut off the little town, with no need to go there unless you called it home. Very soon now, the once-quaint town would be demolished to make way for new development, including apartment buildings, restaurants, and a couple of box stores that would draw from interstate traffic. As they walked hand in hand past the empty storefronts, each in their own way remembering days gone by. She remembered the dress shop where she worked for 30 years, only stopping when her hands stopped working as well. She remembered the corner pharmacy where Mr. Lang would open in the middle of the night to fill a prescription that had run out and needed to be filled quickly. And then there was the hub. An old railroad car converted into a diner that never closed. A place you could go at three in the morning and order steak and eggs or a pile of pancakes, known as comfort food. Mr. and Mrs. Brown fulfilled their dream by opening this place so folks could come and eat or just have some coffee any time, day or night. They saw young lovers sharing a milkshake, planning their futures, or a husband apologizing for his wandering ways. The diner was the middle ground where everything under the sun could be fixed with a stack of buttermilk flapjacks.
He stopped in front of a building that brought back feelings he thought he had buried a long time ago, when it was a toy store. They took their boys there occasionally on a Saturday morning, being first in line to buy the latest model airplanes or the newest editions of their favorite superheroes. The owner was Mr. Williams, a happy-go-lucky man who never missed a meal, as evidenced by the way he huffed and puffed to get out of his chair. He loved kids, but never married, so he treated every kid who came in like the kid he never had. At Christmas, Mr. Williams dressed like samta claus and didn't need to stuff the suit with pillows, as he was a natural. All those places are soon to be gone when the wrecking ball hits its mark, as thousands of red bricks are reduced to rubble and memories.
They walked hand in hand through the heart of their town, shedding some tears, some laughter as they remembered things that left their mark on the last of the residents who hadn't moved away, and the few who stayed, wishing they could have one more cup of coffee at the diner that's been bulldozed away to a waiting pile of red bricks and memories.

Mike  2026                                                                     

Summer was the best of all

 Like most kids, the lazy days of summer meant having one adventure after another. Swimming in either your own or a neighbor's pool, cookouts, and fireworks on the Fourth of July. It meant getting dirty didn't matter, and going barefoot was common until you stepped on too many stickers and mom made you put something on your feet, preferably the flip-flops you just had to have. Summer meant watermelon and spitting the seeds at anyone near you. It meant squirt-gun fights and water balloons, slushies and pop-cycle stick bombs. For those who aren't familiar with that, you simply fan out five popcycle sticks in your hand and carefully weave one through the next and so on until you can let go and the sticks don't fall apart. Then you throw it up in the air, and when it hits the ground, it explodes back to single sticks.

Summer meant baseball games at the field that served as a ballpark and an ice rink for winter skating, and when the fire department flooded the field, it was just another thing to watch for fun. Summer was going shirtless, and on the first day, you got the sunburn from hell, and mom helped by applying vinegar to ease the burn. Who thought that one up? Summer meant family vacations and the county fair, where you ate cotton candy and caramel apples, then washed your hands in the kiddy boat ride. You finally met the height requirements to ride the monster roller coaster, as your mom closed her eyes and your dad cheered you on. You blew through the ten dollars dad gave you trying to win a purple stuffed monkey, with a one-in-a-hundred chance. And the day came, you actually won, giving the monkey to your baby sister, who kept it in her room for many years.
Summer was like a speeding locomotive that flew by so quickly that if you blinked, it was gone. Ice cream cones you bit the bottoms off of and sucked dry, root beer floats, and frozen Kool-Aid cubes made in an ice tray. Summer meant falling asleep after a full day of fun, resting your head on mom's lap as the sun set, the moon rose, and a thousand stars came to life. The perfect ending to another summer that would always be as carefree as those who lived it.

Mike 2026