Life defined

 Life is give and take, ask and answer. Life is good and evil, and trying to understand why bad things happen to good people. Life is happiness and sorrows rolled into one lifetime as we do our best, and best isn't always good enough. Life is a series of tests; some we pass and others we fail, but we keep trying because what else can we do?

Life is our opportunity to share our knowledge and experiences, hoping it will be accepted, respected, and remembered. Life is meant to be an abundance of happiness with occasional letdowns and times when you need to be with others and other times alone.
Life is respecting elders as you thirst for their knowledge and how they even survived the worst of times. You listen as they speak, sometimes with tears rolling down their face as some memories remain too painful to bring back up.
Life is what we make it to be, how we live it and why we did the things we did, all rolled up in a package well used and sometimes abused in the name of fun. Life is a gift we can either like or dislike; that's all up to you, but one thing is certain: we have only one chance to get it right.

Mike  2026                                                              

Ice cream man on a Harley Davidson

 I remember the ice cream man cruising our neighborhood in a postwar trike that the police also used. His was painted white with decals of treats on the ice box that made kids drool. There were ice cream cones and suckers, orange-flavored cream cycles, and fudge bars. But the best treat was the ice cream man himself. He was a large man who always had a smile and a kind word. He was born in Greece and came to America as a young man seeking his fortune, but like so many others, his fortune eluded him. After the war, in which he proudly served, he used his savings to buy a 1940 Harley-Davidson three-wheeler with a box on the side. He painted it white and insulated the box to keep things inside cold. He wore white coveralls, a white hat, and a smile for every kid. Every weekday, he'd fill the box with treats and head out to neighborhoods around six o'clock, ringing the bell he had installed on the handlebars to let everyone know he was nearby. When he stopped, kids would pour out of houses with nickels and dimes to buy a treat while parents waved and he waved back. The box didn't take long to empty, and he'd head back to his large freezer in the garage to restock it, then head back out until darkness came and the box was empty again. On Saturdays, he'd sometimes be called upon to attend children's birthday parties, where he'd park in front of a house and a dozen or so revelers wearing birthday hats ran out to choose a frozen treat that the parents of the birthday boy or girl paid for, along with a nice tip. When the last kid got a treat, he started up the trike and headed for another neighborhood where outdoor barbecues were being held, and families gathered for a backyard picnic. He'd ring the bell and sit still as kids begged parents for a quarter, some who dug into their pockets and came up with one while others had a hissy fit when told not today.

I can still visualize his trike and the sound of the bell. I can taste the creamcicles and ice cream sandwiches and hear his genuine laughter as he handed out treats until the box was empty, leaving behind the wooden sticks licked clean as chocolate faces smiled and waved goodbye until next time. I believe he continued to roam the neighborhoods well into his senior years, until one day the bell stopped ringing and kids quit waiting. Soon after, larger ice cream trucks came into the neighborhoods with music blasting one song on repeat, and someone inside handed out many different kinds of frozen treats that cost twice what they used to when a white Harley-Davidson with a box on the side rolled into your neighborhood.

                                   Mike 2026                                          

Mike 2026

Cycle of a leaf

 I'm sitting on the porch, sipping apple cider and watching autumn-colored leaves float to the ground in a kind of dance, with an encore performance repeated every year. I watch as they twirl and float with no particular rhyme or reason, just a leaf in flight ending with a soft landing on the ground from which its mother tree stands, letting go of her children as all mothers must do. Soon the tree, with bare branches, will go to sleep, knowing springtime will awaken them with tiny buds she must nourish until they too float away on their own as the cycle repeats itself, and I witness the performance from my porch, sipping apple cider.

Mike  2026                                                    

Monster hill

 A gentle snowfall blankets the ground as you sleep. As you wake up, your eyes are blinded as you look outside at a blank slate ready to entertain children of all ages. You pull on layers of clothing, skipping the buttons moms fasten right before sending you out into the crisp air and virgin snow. Garage doors open as sleds and saucers are pulled from months of disuse and hauled to the hills to be challenged again. You arrive as other kids join in the run to be first down the hill as the smaller kids give way to teenagers on a mission. It's an unwritten law that the smaller hill belongs to the little kids, and anyone older will be warned to stay away. For the little ones, the smaller hill is challenging enough: they make it to the top, sit on their sleds, and push off, gaining speed as they go. They jump for joy, yelling to the older siblings about their success, but the older kids have had only one thing on their minds: to be flying down the untouched snow.

The day wore on, and countless runs striped the hills as blades and runners rained on the once-snowy surface, now just a mix of dirt and snow. Soon the kids left the hills and pulled their sleds to the next hill their parents forbade them to go to, but they knew darn well they would anyway. It was known as the monster hill, and for good reason, as you could see it in the distance, reaching into the clouds, or so it seemed. The little kids could only watch; that was fine by them, as fear gripped them at the thought of sledding down at breakneck speeds. Up on top of the giant hill, a few teenagers sat on their sleds, looking down at the little kids who seemed no bigger than a swarm of ants. Then one by one they shoved off and began the death-defying plunge down the hill. The cold turned their eyebrows to ice, and their heartbeats were almost audible as they passed the little kids cheering them on. Then the unthinkable happened: one of the teens lost control and fell off his sled, tumbling down the hill at breakneck speed, and stopped when he rolled into the field, where bushes softened the landing. It became very quiet as everyone waited to see if he was dead, but he got up and waved, saying he was okay and ready to go again.
Years later, when I visited home, I prayed for a good snowfall, and my prayers were answered: on my first night home, a massive storm blew in, covering everything with the blanket needed to challenge the monster hill. My wife said I was crazy, and my kids begged to go but settled for the little hill. I got my old sled from the garage and began the long walk, each step a chance to turn back. I reached the top and sat on my sled as a couple of teens laughed at the older man who just signed his own death certificate. Then, with one little push, I was gaining speed until I felt my cheeks fluttering and my eyelids icing up to the point of blindness, but I wouldn't abort and kept going, speeding past the teens to the bottom where I was greeted by my wife and kids, happy to see me in one piece. The teens came up to me, all saying one word: respect. My kids thought of me as their hero, and my wife said she'd file for divorce if I ever did that again. I never did go down the hill again, but I watched as kids, including my own, faced the challenge of Monster Hill that only those who've experienced it could live to tell.

                                                                               

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

The smells of autumn

 I lay on the cool autumn grass looking up at the cloud animals that entertained me for a few brief moments. I watched two colorful maple leaves drift by, wondering whether they would land on my face; the autumn air smelled musty, like the old corn stalks lying in the harvested fields. I could also smell woodsmoke from piles of burning leaves, their smoke filling the neighborhood and rising into the sky, on its way to who knows where. Maybe a mom hanging her laundry caught a whiff as the passing smell moved on.

Autumn is like a tease, warning us that all that beauty is short-lived and preparing us for what waits down the road. But for now I'll look the fool as I smell everything autumn gives me: pumpkins and gourds, damp leaves, and tilled soil. I'll smell the trees and the last time the lawn is mowed.
I love the smells of a roadside stand where every scent blends to create a five-star dinner: fresh-baked pumpkin and pecan pies selling out quickly to a few lucky city folks who stopped in on a Sunday drive. As sunset draws near and the last of the harvest is gone, the smells grow faint, and soon the smells of winter will let themselves be known. In the meantime, I stand still, looking up at the last of the fallen leaves as one brushes my face on its way to the ground, and all is well.

Mike 2026                                                        

 As a storyteller, I write mostly from thousands of memories I call untapped resources, then sprinkle in some fiction to enhance the reading experience. Let's say I'm writing a story of my childhood where we searched for the elusive giant pumpkin. That part was easy to write, since it truly happened

. But it doesn't make for a very good read. So first I'll tell you what led up to looking for pumpkins: conversations with the family about which patches offered the biggest inventory, and then we jumped in the station wagon with a picnic lunch Mom made for the day trip into the country. Next, I'd probably dedicate some words to describing the pumpkins my siblings chose and the corn stalks Mom wanted for decoration. I'd include Dad loading a bushel of just-picked apples that Mom would make pies and cinnamon applesauce from, and a jug of apple cider us kids could drink until it became an adult drink only. I'd go on to explain how we'd draw faces on our pumpkins that Dad would carve with a large kitchen knife, and Mom would stand by to dress a wound Dad said was okay. I'd tell of trick-or-treats at neighbors' houses, dressed in costumes Mom made, some of which took a whole year to complete. This whole story began with the first few sentences I wrote, then I sat back and let my imagination run wild.

Every one of my thousand-plus stories began with a thought or memory I unlocked; then I let them grow, and I didn't finish them until I read them and either threw them in the trash bucket or tuned them up the way I saw fit. That makes you, the reader, long for more. I purposely keep each very short story to a maximum of three paragraphs, with some a tad longer if I felt it needed more to create a moment in time you may have forgotten but can now experience once again with a smile and anticipation for the next story, just waiting for you to remember something the story told that reminded you of years gone by.

My work is more than a short story with a beginning and an end; my very short stories send you back to some of your greatest memories, pulling you from your surroundings and leaving you wanting more. I call them one-cup-of-coffee reads, meaning that by the time you finish that cup, you can read several very short stories I guarantee will start your day with a smile.

If you'd like to see over one thousand of my stories, visit my blog: mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com. My plan is to publish my thousand-plus stories, then begin with a clean slate for volume number two. It took me eight years to complete volume one so dont be in a hurry to read volume two. Thanks for all the wonderful comments I've received, as they inspire me to keep going.

Mike  2026

Three months of a farmer

 It's that first morning with frost on the fields, and you're thankful you got the harvest in on time. Scattered pumpkins no one wanted lie there and go back into the ground as nature intended, while remnants of corn stalks litter the fields.

The apple trees are bare, but they've provided bushels of fruit that will be the stars of the table, including applesauce, pies, and cobblers. School lunch bags and one for the teacher, a sweet delight.
Time to give thanks for family and friends who share your table, filled with nature's bounty, as children shout for a drumstick. An afternoon football game and a turkey sandwich end the day as the last of the embers glow in the fireplace and kids say their prayers.
December says hello with an early snowfall as the roadside stand of Christmas trees comes alive with fresh paint and colored lights. This is the first year your son is old enough to cut trees with the chainsaw, under close supervision from Dad. Trees of all sizes are cut and stood up as city folks stop and hunt for the perfect tree. Christmas Eve, with all but a couple of trees left, the stand closes, and you join your family to decorate your tree, a balsam fir the kids agreed on.
Three months of hard work pass quickly as you wait for the springtime thaw and the beginning of another cycle of planting, tending, and harvesting. This is your way of life, filled with the good and the bad as Mother Nature decides your fate. Prayers are said at every mass or service for a bountiful harvest, but you realize not every prayer will be answered—broken machinery that costs too much to repair, bad seeds that will never grow. Invasions of bugs stopped, but at a cost. All part of being a farmer: doing what he loves with the people he loves, in a place he will never leave.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026