A walk with pops

 He walked more slowly now, his footing carefully placed, stepping over exposed roots and other hidden obstacles. His grandson walked close to him, ready to catch him if need be. Can you smell the wildflowers he asked, and the rainbow of tulips on both sides of the path? Can you hear the running water from the same stream I swam in as a kid? I do, Pops, I see it all through your eyes.

They stopped by the stream, cupped their hands, drank the cool water, and rested for a minute before moving ahead. I made this walking stick, you know, I found it on a Sunday walk with your mom. True, it's just a stick, but I saw something more than that. I saw the face of an angel, nature-carved, and I had to have it. You can have it when I'm gone.

They were halfway home when they came upon the fire pit, the place where a fire was built, and bones were warmed. A thermos of hot chocolate and a PBJ tasting better than any fast food. I built this pit, he told his grandson. When you were just a gleam in your daddy's eyes. The night air was getting colder by the minute, so they put out the fire and headed home.

Here's the wandering man, Grama said as she helped take off his coat, replaced with a warm blanket she had set near the fireplace. Did you have many adventures she asked. But sleep caught up with him, and there was no answer. He said goodbye to his grama and bent to kiss his pops' forehead, whispering a thank-you for the wonderful day.

As he got into his car and began to drive away, he looked back and saw his pops waving goodbye from the window, probably wondering the same thing he was, as he returned the wave and kept on going.

Mike 2026                                                 

A man and his mountain ways

 Sitting by the fire, he traveled back in time when life was an open book of discovery. He strokes his long white beard and remembers throwing away his razor on his forty-fifth birthday. It was the same year he left the city behind, choosing a life of quiet solitude on a mountain, where wildlife became his friend and the seasons his clock and calendar.

In the quiet night, as the fire spat out tiny sparks of light, it reminded him of headlights down below, where the people of the city blew their horns and yelled at the traffic as if it would matter or make it possible to move a few inches forward.

As he sat in the cold of the night his face warm from the fire he remembered his first time smoking some weed with friends deep in the darkness of the forest where the sounds of nature and a lone guitar filled the air as that sweet smell of pot filled his lungs and opened his mind to the true meaning of what he wanted his life to be.

He could have followed the masses and become another sheep following the rituals of those around him, but his true self couldn't allow that, no matter how hard he tried. He was a solitary man who craved the mountains and forests and the sweet smell of weed filling the air as his imagination ran wild and his spirit soared with the eagles.

At seventy-two years old, he had become a legend in the mountains. His cabin was a welcome station for hikers passing by, who sat by his fire as he passed the pipe around and told them stories of yesteryear, capturing their attention as their minds opened to the true reality of his life and what he had given up by choice.

Years later, a simple wooden cross marked the spot where his cabin once stood. It's said he fought off a grizzly bear but lost. Others said he ventured down the mountain for reasons unknown, made it halfway, sat against a tree, and fell asleep, but never woke up.

I sat by his fire once a long time ago, where he shared the pipe with me, telling stories, some real and others a byproduct of decades smoking the weed he loved so much. I never met such a man whose life was a story many would never read, but he was as real as it gets, and his legend will live on as long as there are those who choose to believe in a mountain man with a very long white beard and a well-smoked pipe.

Mike  2026                       

Spring times arrival

 The smell of Spring's arrival stirs creatures big and small. Reminders of winter's wrath are seen in small patches of snow, holding out, melting into the ground. Nests are made in trees and in the safety of caves and holes. Love fills the air, awaiting the births of new generations.

Tiny buds appear on the trees. They replace the few old leaves that held on through blizzards and frigid temperatures. Now those leaves fall to the ground without fanfare.
It's out with the old and in with the new as rugs are beaten and windows are opened, saying goodbye to stale air and letting in the fresh air, with the scents of nature's rebirth. Soon, the wildflowers will appear, and gentle breezes will scatter their seeds in a palette of colors. The tulip bulbs will burst out of the ground in a rainbow of reds and yellows, some in a vase on the table to be enjoyed.
Brown grass will give way to lush green, and the season's first picnic will be welcomed as family and friends gather beneath the old oak tree, while children run free for the first time since winter's long, dark days.
Tiny cries are heard as the springtime babies are welcomed into the world, always hungry and keeping parents busy gathering enough food for the hunger that never seems to end. The woods are like a symphony of voices as evening approaches, and the insects join the concert, serving as alarms warning of predators nearby.
Rows and rows of fields are plowed and planted, nurtured and tended to in the hope of a bountiful harvest to come. April showers don't disappoint and quench the thirst of parched crops as the kids and the first litter of puppies are introduced to mud puddles, fetching sticks, and rubber balls.
Soon, the wonders of spring will give way to the heat of summer when crops can whither under the sun's glare, and there's never enough water to satisfy all the needs of both man and creatures, who can be seen licking up the last few drops of muddy puddles.
The seasons collide as summer gives way to autumn and bountiful harvests that will be preserved in root cellars for the long winter ahead. Bonfires will be built as neighbors gather, knowing that soon enough the bonfire will fizzle out, only to return when called upon.
Springtime is just a memory now of tiny voices in the woods and all the dazzling colors that remain in your mind as you paint a watercolor that hangs on a wall, and you smile every time you see it alongside the others. knowing that you've once again captured spring and never have to let it go.

Mike 2026                                                   

Bar of heroes

 His ball cap was faded and worn, but he wore it proudly as he had for many years. He bought it at the veterans hospital, where he attended group meetings for ptsd with other vets who marched to the same drummer. Looking around the bar, he noticed other ball caps from all branches of the military, some staring into bottomless glasses in silence, while others talked about their time serving, embellishing their stories in a way that seemed to make them remember just the good times.

It was a military bar, for sure, with every wall space filled with black-and-white photographs of duty stations and ports of call, and shadow boxes filled with patches and medals once proudly worn. In a corner was a table that no one ever sat at, and every man in this place knew the reason.
The barmaid was married to a soldier who never came home many years ago, and she shared that pain with others who bought her shots as she listened to their stories about brothers in arms who had given their lives as so many had. She did so much more than pour drinks and keep the bartop clean; she spoiled them like a mother would do, reminding one not to forget his appointment tomorrow or making sure another had a ride if needed.
There was an air of respect in that bar, especially when an old-timer came in wearing his ball cap that read "Korean war veteran."Or another in a wheelchair pushed by his grandson on leave from boot camp. Glasses were raised and salutes given as they found a place to sit, as plastic chips, good for one drink, piled up in front of them. The barmaid kept bowls of peanuts and pretzels full, happy with her tip jar filling up fast.
Unlike most bars, this one closed at eight o'clock. Taxies were called, and relatives came to take their loved one home, some needing help out, but never a harsh word was spoken as heroes said goodnight and see you tomorrow. He finished his last drink and was heading out when he saw a faded ball cap on a stool. He handed it to the barmaid, who hung it on the wall behind the bar, knowing someone would claim it tomorrow when the doors opened again, and heroes marched in.

Mike 2026                                       

A Fathers love

 A father's love for his children far surpasses any other love. The daughter whom he spoils with no regrets from her first breath to his last. The way she held your finger as the first steps were taken, and how her voice remained in your head when you were apart. A father's love for his daughter continued to grow as she became a teen and a young lady living her life, but always finding time for an ice cream cone with daddy. He smiles as he remembers her as an infant lying on his chest, her little breaths gently rising and falling with his every breath. Tea parties in a chair he barely fit in, and bedtime stories when he caught her staring at him with a smile on her beautiful face. She grew up, and he grew old, but the bond between them never faded; it grew stronger as he watched her dreams come true. Now it's a tea party with chairs he fits and stories from the heart, not a bedtime tale. She was, and always will be, his little girl. He was meant to spoil her with pink canopy beds and princess bikes. She is his reason for wanting to grow old and spoil her daughter, his granddaughter, who looks remarkably like her mom. I read her bedtime stories and see her mom's eyes staring at me, as if it were yesterday, and I fall in love all over again.

A father's love for his son goes beyond toy trucks and baseball games. It's understood that dad is the teacher and the son is the student. Dad becomes larger than life, and every lesson learned is locked away in a vault to be opened only if needed. You smiled as he grew, wanting to dress like you, talk like you, and even walk like you. One memory you held onto was you changing the oil in your truck with him right beside you, lying on the garage floor, handing you the tools you needed, proud of himself for remembering which tool was what. With the job completed, father and son wiped the grease from their hands and went inside, as mom laughed with love, seeing her men covered in oil stains and with two huge smiles. As he grew up and being with dad wasn't always the first choice, he saw some of himself in his son, and pride filled his heart. As a young man, he knew his calling and pursued it until he mastered it, climbing the ladder to success and reaching the top at a very young age. They didn't talk every day because he had a career and two children that kept him busy, but out of the blue, he'd call his dad, catch up on life, and ask if he needed anything. Again, his pride swelled, and his love grew. Time flies past you, and one day you find yourself in need of some help that he gives without thinking about it. You realize that your son has grown up to be a good man, a good dad with a huge heart, and you hold back tears realizing the lessons taught were truly learned, and you couldn't be more proud.

Mike 2026                                              

Memories fading light

 He smiled more when he remembered more than he forgot. It was like a light switch that toyed with him, going on, going off, and that space in between when his mind rested, not by choice.

It was hard work recalling his life, and even harder to keep the memories, as those pesky little memory crashers were always ready to strike again.
Doctors said his advanced stage of memory loss was common, and although there were some medications that may help to slow it down, he chose to let things happen as they would.
I watched him slow to answer questions, but I believed it was because he didn't want to miss anything, and if it took a bit longer, so be it. I often found him outside in the yard, looking left to right and back again, taking baby steps towards the road, but stopping short. He wasnt trying to hurt himself, he just wanted to remember the road, that simple.
Over time, he got worse, but we sat every day, sometimes in silence, letting facial expressions speak for themselves, which eventually became a sort of game between us. A touch to his mouth meant he was hungry. A tug on his ear meant turn up the programs he liked.
At bedtime, I'd hold his hand in mine, the wrinkles like a roadmap of his life, and the realization that the body wears out as the mind does, each fighting to be the last survivor.
At the end, we were holding hands as he slowly went to sleep, hopefully remembering all the memories he fought so hard to remember. He blinked twice, which meant he loved me, and tears fell from both our eyes as his journey was complete.

Mike 2026                                        

The secrets of the forest

 Deep into the forest, there were secrets untold to most. Secrets that dare not be spoken in casual conversation, or it's said demons will intervene, striking you down where you stand.

It was a beautiful autumn day with cool temps and colors like those of an artist's palette. My plan for the day was to drive to the state forest and hike the trails like I'd done many times before. Parking my truck in the visitors' parking area, I unloaded my backpack, checked for water bottles, and set off into the waiting arms of ancient grounds. It was like jumping into a shade of darkness as I took my first steps onto the trail I had no intention of walking on. I climbed over the rope and walked deeper into the unknown, now surrounded by darkness, with only pinpoints of light behind me.
Rumors said an ancient coven of witches lived in this forest as far back as the 1500s. They were a peaceful people who spent their time concocting nature's bounties into salves, creams, drinks, and potions, which they stored in an underground cave. The witches roamed the forest helping strangers in need, never asking for anything in return except total secrecy as to where they were seen. Legend has it that one peaceful day in the forest, the witches were ambushed and tried to escape, but all were caught and sentenced to death by fire. Someone had drawn a map of the burning spot so others could see where it began and ended. There were many maps, some old, others more recent, but the map he had purchased was from a local thrift shop. The shopkeeper, a unique kind of fellow with a knack for storytelling, told me that somewhere in the hundreds of items lining the shelves was the one true map of the forest. He told me to look around as he walked away into a curtained room with a sign warning people to stay out.
I spent hours on my first visit looking through old scripts of ancient lore. I leafed through hundreds of pages of local history, but so far, I have found only old newspapers depicting the times of witchcraft in the area. On my second day, I dug deeper and found a family journal written by a writer from a Northern state. It told of a covenant of witches that he and his family encountered while navigating the forest. They appeared out of nowhere, dressed in gray robes. One witch touched the horse's head, instantly calming it as she touched the rest with the same results. I continued to read the journal as the shopkeeper approached me and said that if I wanted to purchase the journal, I'd have to swear I'd never show it to anyone, never. And if my intent was to find the covenant, I'd have to use the map hidden within the pages of the journal.
The following morning, I set out for the forest and, with the journal in hand, began the almost impossible task of finding the convenient and the witches who called it home. On page twelve, a clue was written about a twisted, hundreds-of-years-old tree with a branch pointing due north. Page nineteen showed a clearing with people dancing around a fire, and on page twenty-seven, a cabin stood alone, surrounded by giant trees that had no branches. I followed the clues and, several hours of walking later, stopped in my tracks as I spotted a small cabin with smoke rising from the chimney. It was barely visible nestling among the heavy vines that almost covered the place entirely.
I was about to leave when the door opened. Five witches dressed in gray appeared. I don't know why I stood up and made myself visible, but I did. Suddenly, they floated toward me, their feet hovering inches above the ground. I wasn't exactly scared, but I was curious about the unknown. They circled me, guiding me toward the cabin. My voice was useless; my mouth wouldn't work, screams gone unheard. Inside, the cabin smelled of nature. Bunches of plants hung from the rafters, drying, I supposed. One witch touched my head, and I fell to the floor, unable to move my legs. Another forced me to drink from a clay cup. Within seconds, I was on an acid trip—or so it seemed, as I’d experienced in younger days.
Night arrived, and dozens of gray-clad witches gathered around the bonfire. They chanted words I couldn't understand. One took a mouthful of something and, like a circus fire breather, spat it in my face. It was warm yet cold. Another chanted inches from my face. Their words felt like the beginning of my end. I was trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape. I lost consciousness and did not know how long. When I woke, I was tied to a pole with vines. Fire circled at my feet, climbing higher. I tried to scream, but my mouth was sewn shut. The pain rose. Heat became a weapon. The last thing I remembered was screaming hard enough to break free, filling the night with cries no one would ever hear.
The rangers found my truck days later. A note on the windshield read, If you find this truck, I am dead. Use this copy of the map to find where I lie. The ranger showed his deputy, and they both laughed at another prank. There had been many. 'Call for a tow, deputy,' the ranger said. 'Let's get lunch. Something smells good.'                                       

Deep in the forest, there were secrets unknown to most. Secrets that dare not be spoken in casual conversation, or it's said a demon will intervene, striking you down where you stand.

Mike 2026