too hot to handle

 The heat was worse than she remembered as she sat on the porch fanning her face with a plastic fan she picked up at the market some time ago. It was baby blue with pink flowers and a tiny gold label reading made in China. It helped, she supposed, but sometimes she felt like it was just blowing hot air at her. A glass of iced tea sat beside her, but it hadn't taken much time before the ice cubes just melted, leaving a bit more watered-down tea.

She wasn't expecting any visitors today, so she rolled her stockings down and unbuttoned her blouse just enough to fan her neck as droplets of sweat rolled down her already soaked chest. She wasn't one to complain or question God, but today she found herself looking to the heavens and whispering Why?
There was no air conditioning in the old farmhouse, just open windows and a prayer for any kind of breeze at all. But she'd have to wait for nightfall when the scorching sun gave way to the moon and stars as collective souls gave thanks.
Too hot to cook, so crackers and peanut butter were on the menu tonight, and a cupcake treat with melted frosting for dessert. The darkness was upon her as she sat on the porch again, closing her eyes and letting the warm summer breeze lull her to sleep.
Crickets sang, and tree frogs let their presence be known as the creatures of the night ventured out from daytime hiding places to embrace the cooling night. She woke, remembering her dream of a large bowl of ice cream with two cherries on top, only to realize it was just a dream, and now craving ice cream.
The old fridge gave its all but was no match for the heat, and the bowl of her dream had turned to a melted and lukewarm drink. Waste not, she said out loud as she got a straw and sipped her drink down to the gurgling sounds she made as a kid with her first milkshake.
Tomorrow will bring on the heat again, as it has for several days. Fans made in China will fan faces, kids will play in the sprinklers, and dogs will find a place under the house lying on cool dirt. Will this day be the day the sky opens up and rain comes crashing on the old tin roof? Will the almost dead plants and grass find relief as droplets of god's nectar splash the cracked earth? One can only dream and hope that the old fridge comes alive again with ice cream, no straw needed.
Mike  2026

Unfaded squares

 Unfaded squares on a wall where pictures once hung. A family's memories gone to where I don't know. A dusty shelf on a left-behind dresser holds a pair of bronzed baby shoes, somehow forgotten in a rushed move.

A backyard swing set eaten with rust sits idle with the occasional creaking as a breeze passes by, and you swear you hear the voices of children at play.
A makeshift doghouse, decayed and crumbling, once a shelter for a loyal friend.Remains of a chewed-up stuffed animal, half buried and lost forever.
A dilapidated shed with a rusted metal roof draws you inside as sunlight turns to darkness, the last few rays letting you see the forgotten tools of a trade someone used to earn a living. The walls, once filled with hanging tools, are empty except for a pair of pruning shears and a lantern, probably to give light to projects done at night.
A well-disguised old tractor, covered with vines and tall grass, catches your eye as you climb onto the metal seat and imagine you're a farmer who used the machine like his father did until the day it stopped working and was left where it sat from then on.
A chicken coop without chickens, a barn with no hay, an old tire hung with a rope to make a swing. A dried-up pond, once a place for kids to swim or catch a first fish, now just another unpainted square of a family's memories.
Mike  2026

I could write about whatever

 Even when the page is blank and my fingers hover over the keys, I remind myself there is always something to write about. I could write about the beautiful sunrise this morning or the star-filled night sky. I could write about my next-door neighbor, most likely sleep-deprived, pacing back and forth on the porch as she tries to lull her baby to sleep, as she keeps singing to her child in a soft mother's voice.

I could write about my grandson's visit the other day, dumbfounded by how tall he has grown and his plan for his future. We would look through pictures from when he was just a wee bit of a thing, as I looked at his expressions of remembrance and happiness.
I could write about the loss of a good friend recently, but my tears are dried now, I think. I did write something the day I learned of her death, but that's tucked away in a special collection I've written over time and don't share.
I could write about all the love I've had and all I've given, subtle reminders of my life and its blessings. I could write about all the places I've traveled and endless roads I've thundered down, the sound of my Harley music to my ears. Sunday rides going from one bar to another, always a brotherhood of bikers there to greet me with a cold one.
I could write about my youth, my adulthood, and now old age, each part of me as was the plan from the beginning. I can indeed write about anything, with plenty of topics all boiled into a pot of words waiting for me to tap a key.
Mike  2026

Memories of a sailor

 He was alone with his memories as the ship sliced through calm seas on its way to another port of call. Midnight watch on the signal bridge far above the main deck, with nothing to see but blackness and an occasional pod of porpoises illuminated by phosphorescence as they sped past us on their own mission, he supposed. He liked the midnight watch and looking at the stars so close you try to touch one, believing you can but only making a fool of yourself in front of nobody. Hours pass with nothing to do except stargaze and the occasional footsteps of a sailor stopping to say hello and offer a hit or two from a joint. He leaves after a while, and his footprints fade into the quiet of the night as you play connect the stars in living colors until your high wears off.

Darkness slowly replaced with light as your eyes adjust, and the endless black is burned away by the rising sun, and an ocean of bluish green greets you. In the distance, much further away than it looks, you see a landmass somewhere off the coast of Spain growing in size as the ship makes way for the port of Barcelona. 0800 hours, and you're relieved of your watch as you head for breakfast and then to your rack and sleep. You wake to the sounds of the ship and work parties unloading crates at the docks, filled with items like electrical components and plumbing parts, just some of the items given to Spain as gifts from the US. Sailors are granted liberty with two things on their minds: women and booze, usually spending their entire paycheck the first day with 30 more days of being broke.
I loved being a sailor and all the stories told by the old salts—tales of mermaids and Davy Jones' locker. King Neptune and lost cities at the bottom of the oceans. I felt proud wearing my uniform, the old-school 13 buttons on your pants and bell bottoms. Taking hours to shine your dress shoes and a Dixie cup hat you positioned perfectly on your head. That uniform was the cause of many a woman's knees going weak. Going home on leave was another thing I liked. Especially after graduation from boot camp, where you gained ten pounds of muscle, had a nice haircut, and stood tall and proud of the uniform. People greeted you on the streets back then, telling you how good you looked, which also made you proud. Mom made a big fuss, inviting the entire neighborhood over for a barbecue with banners welcoming me home. Things were different back then.
Now all that remains of my time in the Navy. A golden shellback certificate framed on a wall, a belt buckle with the ship's name I served on, and a bunch of photographs, mostly faded but still visible. A couple of cruise books with pictures of all the ports we visited throughout the world. But the most important thing I brought home was my memories of fellow shipmates and the brotherhood we shared out in that bluish-green vastness of the sea.

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

The Colonel

 His last apartment before the stroke was unkempt to the naked eye, but to him, it meant home. Back in the day, people bought old houses and converted them into small apartments, usually a total of four, and all barely big enough for you to get around in. It had a tiny kitchen with a stove, small fridge, and four cabinets to keep everything you might need. There was a small bathroom, so small that if you were over six feet, you'd have to cut a hole in the door to put your legs through. The first of two small bedrooms had a single-size bed and a stand-up closet to hang clothes, with a shelf for underwear and socks. The second bedroom was his collection/writting room where he spent a good portion of his time. Back in his day, he was a writer, mostly for the big newspapers, and achieved some fame with his column titled "Thinking it over."In his later years, when the words wouldn't come easily, he just sat at the typewriter and wrote whatever came into his mind. I always thought it was the sound of the keys that gave him hope he'd write again.

He drank too much, and too often, as evidenced by weekly garbage pickup consisting of dozens of bottles clanging as one when tossed into the garbage truck. He smoked like a furnace and found it less expensive to roll his own cigarettes, which he did by buying cans of tobacco, then spending hours rolling enough to fill a plastic holder he kept in his pocket, along with a few airplane-size bottles he put in his coat pocket when he ventured outside his apartment. The walls of that room were stacked to the ceiling with empty tobacco cans; only he knew the answer to that. Looking back, I recall him walking down the street, clanging as the bottles moved around. He taught himself to talk again after the stroke, and he never gave up after 13 years of trying. He was born in the same town where he lived for 80-some years, and he knew almost everybody and mourned the loss of too many to count.
He would take walks no matter the season, always ending up at one of his watering holes where he'd drink with old veterans like himself, reliving the war and toasting to those who never made it home. When he came upon a bar or restaurant he'd never gone to, he had index cards written out, each telling things like how he wanted his drinks made or how to cook his steaks. The local police knew him and often offered him a ride home after a night of heavy drinking, sometimes having to wake him up from a park bench, sometimes covered with snow, amazed at his stamina and his I don't give a crap attitude.
When it became apparent he couldn't live like that any longer, his daughter found him a place to live out his days at a Veterans facility. He balked at first but eventually made friends with other vets, all sharing war stories and hand salutes to the Colonel, who was the highest-ranking officer in the entire place. He wore his ball cap with eagles on the brim so there would be no mistaking him for a lower-ranking soldier. I think he enjoyed his time there right up to his last days. He received a full honors funeral and was buried alongside family members who passed before him. I was gifted the American flag, which to this day is displayed on a shelf along with his medals and two Purple Hearts.
He was a good man when sober and a handful when not, but he was my dad, and I have chosen to remember him as a strong man who served his country with honor and lived his life with hidden monsters living in his head for so long. Whenever I visit home, I'll stop at his grave in the veterans' plots and talk to him. I always leave a cigarette on his headstone and toast him with an airplane-sized bottle of booze and tell myself he'd smile at that small gesture of my love and respect.
Mike  2026

Going back one last time.

 Her long white hair blew in the wind as she walked into the forest. Her grandson drove her there at her request, as she wanted to see the place she loved one more time. She was just seventeen years old back then, when she and some friends answered nature's call and ventured into a valley so beautiful it took her breath away. The world was changing back in the 60s, with Vietnam raging on as protestors made their voices heard to stop the war. Young men grew their hair long, and girls wore flowers in their hair. The different genres of music, like Zeppelin and Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, and Jefferson Starship, filled your inner self with music you still love to this day. Music you shared with your grandkids, hoping they, too, would understand and love it as you do.

They walked slowly in the woods as she would stop and hush him to hear the call of the whippoorwill singing to her babies. As they reached the valley, a sense of calm came over her as she closed her eyes, trying to remember what this place had been. She recalled the music playing as free souls caught fireflies in mason jars, lighting a well-worn path to the camping ground where tents were pitched and campfires set off an orangish glow, as an ember occasionally cracked and shot upward like a rocket.
She blushed a bit when her grandson asked if the rumors were true that people went around in their birthday suits, to which she replied, "Yes, we did." And is it true drugs like marijuana and acid, along with mushrooms and opium, could be purchased like penny candy? She replied All true. They sat down on a fallen tree as she tried to explain what the drugs really meant to them. Acid was a gateway to pictures often distorted, and objects looked like slithering slugs working their way towards your face. Shadows followed you, but weren't you just a figment of your distorted imagination? She recalled doing what was called "traces," where you'd move your hand from side to side, leaving a trail of colors that could entertain you for hours. She told him she never tried the hard drugs but absolutely loved the high from weed and hashish.
They sat on that fallen tree, letting the gentle breeze flow through their hair hers totally white and his jet black- resting past his shoulders. She once asked him why he grew his hair long, and he replied that he didn't think anyone should be told how to wear their hair, how to dress, or what type of music to listen to. Nobody should tell you how or where to hang your hat because nobody but you knows your inner self and where it will lead you. As darkness made itself known, they took out the mason jars they brought along and caught enough fireflies to light their way back from the valley to the waiting VW bus his grandpa gifted him when he passed on. It had a peace symbol on the front and a lot of weed-induced art now all but faded away. She thanked him for the day as he lit a joint, passed it to her, and put in a Janis Joplin cassette. Ready to cruise? He asked, and with one last look at the smoke rising behind her, she wiped away a tear and said she was ready.

Mike 2026                                                       

Mike  2026

A farms demise

 Today marks fifty years since he opened his farm to passersby in search of farm-fresh fruits and vegetables. He purchased the land with his GI bill after returning home from war. He built a house and a barn with his brother's help and married his high school sweetheart. The money he saved while on active duty was used to purchase very used equipment, like a tractor and a combine, which he had to rebuild from the ground up. It took them a year to build the house and another year for the barn. Sometimes a truck with a half dozen farmers would pull up with their tools and join in, something seen often in farm country. Neighbors helping neighbors just because they could.

His first crop was corn and soy, divided into four-acre plots and two long rows of apple trees, sixty trees, if he remembered correctly. In the far back acres, ten in all, he planted Christmas trees that someday, years from then, he'd sell to city folk wanting the whole experience of trudging through snow, wielding axes to hopefully chop down the perfect tree. Most usually, they just picked one out in a fenced-in area close to the road, where trees of all shapes and sizes were ready to be tied to the roofs of cars.
The years passed, and more crops were planted, like pumpkins big and small and everywhere in between. Their eldest boy was tasked with keeping the patch weed-free and putting prices on everything they would sell a couple of weeks before Halloween. The apple trees bore fruit, which their daughter and a few friends picked, bushel after bushel, and loaded onto a trailer to take to the barn, where they were sorted, with the bad ones. Mom would make apple butter and applesauce, preserved in mason jars with fancy ribbons attached for looks. The good apples were counted and put in either a bushel or half-bushel basket, with a free sample for anyone who asked. They even had a press that squeezed apples to make apple cider, which was always a big seller.
Now, in their fifty-fifth year, his sweet wife and he sit on the front porch, watching the cars and trucks pull in or park beside the road, kids running to the pumpkin patch where his grandkids wore Halloween costumes, to the joy of the kids with their eyes on a free apple. Their son's wife ran the stand filled with mom's pies and breads, along with apple butter and apple sauce, and, of course, jugs of apple cider. For them, this place was home and always has been. They watched their children frolic in the corn rows and climb the apple trees when children could be children among the acres. Soon people will come to get the perfect tree and mom's gingerbread cookies. They will warm up by the fire in barrels scattered around, with the smell of pine filling the air. One day he and his wife will retire, leaving everything up to their kids and grandkids to oversee. But until then, Mom came up with the idea of offering hot chocolate free of charge. They set up a table next to the pumpkin patch, greeting their customers with a sweet hot cup of chocolate to warm them up. Hundreds of people came to the farm during autumn and winter; some they knew who came every year, while others brought their grandkids for the first time. The farm eventually closed its doors when it could no longer compete with the big stores that could offer a wide variety of fruits and vegetables at discounted prices. Today, the farm is but a shadow of what it once was: empty bushel baskets worn through time, rusted farm equipment, and fields now fallow parcels of land. They still live in the house they built. Not really caring if it sells. A for-sale sign hangs from a tree limb, swaying in an autumn breeze, as cars rush past, and parents point and tell their kid, " That was the place we told you about when we were your age. "

                                                                                  

Mike  2026