Christmas in July remembered

 It never mattered to me if I wrote about Christmas in July or August. I'd crank up the A/C and start writing. I have memory overload when it comes to the holidays: the sights and sounds, the food and colored lights, and the smell of pine that filled the house. Sometimes I feel as if I have a never-ending loop of those memories going round and round in my head, making me smile on my worst days. I sometimes find myself so deep into a memory that everything around me stops, like the smell of pumpkin pie invading my nose. It's the smallest of things, giving back to me from my youth, that brings me joy, if only briefly. A dish of ribbon candies in a glass bowl, sitting on a table at Grandma's house, the smell of her starched apron, a breath of freshness as she scurried around her kitchen, baking Christmas treats like only she could do.

My youngest holiday memories are of when Santa was very much real, as I stood in line at a department store to tell him my wishes, which took so long I'd have to pee, which Mom told me happened every year I stood in a line. She could hardly stop laughing, telling Dad how every kid waiting was jumping up and down, grabbing their privates and hoping they wouldn't burst. It was a great day when one of Santa's elves held your place in line so Mom or Dad could take you to the restroom, and a sigh of relief even Santa could hear.
I peel back another layer of memories, taking me back to my youth, when my dad took me to his brother's toy store for the holidays. Can you imagine, a kid in a toy store what could be better? I remember being told in a stern kind of way I wasn't allowed to unwrap any boxes, but I was welcome to go in the basement, where I'd find a dozen, if not more, boxes marked "missing pieces." I'd get lost for hours, taking pieces apart piece by piece and making them into something that looked good to me, so I took one of my creations and showed it to my dad, who placed it on a shelf with the good toys and marked it at $3.00. When my dad and I got back after lunch, my uncle handed me $3.00, saying he had sold my creation. I know that wasn't the case, but at the time it was something I told everybody with great pride.
As I grew up and certain truths became known, I kept those memories safely locked in my memory book. Every so often, a grandkid would ask me if Santa was real, and I assured him he was as real as you and me. One year, we wrote letters to Santa, which we took with us to the big-box store, where Santa greeted the kids and heard their wishes. The line was long, and kids began to jump about, grabbing their privates, and I looked down at my grandson, standing quietly, saying he was glad I made him go before we left the house.
It was a sad day for me when the youngest of my grandkids told me he wouldn't be going to see Santa this year because kids in his class laughed at him for believing he was real. I could have let it go, but instead I rented a Santa suit with all the trimmings that, in my opinion, was the best I'd ever seen. There was no way possible I'd be recognized, so I opened his classroom door and, with a few loud HO hO HOS, I saw all of them quickly writing down their Christmas wishes. One by one, the kids sat on my knee, swearing they'd been pretty good this year and asking if I would please bring that new bicycle and life-size doll house? When it was time for Santa to go, he reached into a red sack and tossed candy canes into the crowd, wishing everybody a Merry Christmas. As he was almost out the door, he turned around and told my grandson to tell his dad he appreciated his help this year, and he'd see him again next year. His grandson became a sort of legend around school after that, and I had another memory I'd tuck away in my holiday memory files.

Mike  2026                                                          

  

Mike  2026

A church in the valley

 The empty church sat in a country valley with peeled whitewash and creaky floorboards. Pieces of glass, broken over time, allowing squatters to enter with cans of spray paint, are covered with weeds and vines that crawl up the walls in an attempt to hide the evil somehow let inside. Overturned pews, some used for firewood, others as carving boards of crude images depicting wayward youth with too much time on their hands. Litter strewn across the floor like empty bottles and cans, the last drops long since swallowed, and faded newspapers maybe used as covers on cold nights. The pulpit, once a place to hear the words of God, became a place where mockery and darkness brought applause from an audience of traveling nomads searching for anything but answers. I look around at faded walls and shadows of the cross, a reminder he's still here and crying with me.

Mike  2026                                                                        

Their song

 Have you ever been stopped abruptly by a song playing off in the distance? Not just any top ten hit, as there are hundreds of those that you could listen to while doing laundry or vacuuming the floors.  I'm talking about that song, the one you remember dancing to with the girl of your dreams, holding you tight as you softly sing her the lyrics. The song that withstood time as years passed you by. It sometimes plays on an oldies station, and you try to sing along because you still know all the words, but trying to sing it out loud doesn't work out too well, and you blame it on the two packs of cigarettes you've inhaled every day for decades. But it doesn't bother you, and you sing along out of key and out of breath. It all comes back to you seeing her in a red dress, her hair flowing down her back, and a hint of her perfume lingering in the air with every twirl she makes.

She greeted him at the door, home from work, asking why he was late, and he handed her a package, which she opened with curiosity and found to contain an old 33-rpm vinyl record titled Johnny Mathis Greatest Hits. Wait before you play it, she said. I'll be just a jiffy. He dusted it off and set it on the old record player he's had for years. Looking at the list of songs only Johnny could do justice to. Coming out, she said, as his heart skipped a beat seeing her in that red dress, her long hair falling down her back, and the scent of her perfume filling the air with every twirl she made. He lowered the needle to the third groove, and Chances Are began to play. It was the song they danced to long ago, but the feelings remain as strong as they were when love filled the air and time stood still for a fleeting moment.

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                         

The love for grandma

 When I was a boy, my grandma would sit down with me and share stories of her youth. She was born in 1898 and witnessed firsthand the passage of time and all it brought.  I couldn't imagine living without electricity or not being able to get in a car and drive. She remembered when the Wright brothers flew like a bird and how she lived through world wars and depressions as she made do with what she had. She told me she accepted life because wishing for a better life wasn't up to her, and her faith got her through the roughest times. She had four children to raise on her own, and she worked two jobs to feed and house them. She told me the hardest part was watching them go without things other kids had. She had a coffee can that she kept her spare pennies in, hoping that come Christmas she'd have enough to buy each of them a gift. She remembered how on Christmas Eve she'd hang their stockings, and each one got an orange, an apple, and a peppermint candy cane. The big surprise was a new baseball for her oldest son, a jump rope for one daughter, and a game of jacks for the other. Her youngest got a baby doll that she never let go of.

I loved her stories, and because of her, I learned to love writing. We'd sit at her kitchen table, and she'd give me a topic to write about as she baked some cookies. The words just flowed onto the paper, and when I was done, she'd read what I wrote, choking back tears and telling me I had been given a gift straight from God. From that day on, I'd write about anything and everything, and she read each one, telling me my words would someday be known by many and my legacy would be my stories. As we all do, my grandma passed away, and my heart was broken. I tried to write, but the sorrow blocked the words, and blank sheets of paper and a couple of sharpened pencils went untouched for quite a while. Then one springtime day, as I was walking home from school, I heard her voice, clear as a bell, telling me to write again. It was her speaking to me, and nobody could tell me otherwise as I ran the rest of the way home, without a minute to spare. The words began to flow again, on multiple sheets of paper with a nub for a pencil. I wrote about her and the times we shared, like long walks and sitting on the front porch, as she once told me everything out there has a story in the making, and all I had to do was open my mind and my heart to do what comes naturally.
Many years have passed since those days of sharing stories, but when I'm feeling down and the paper is just a blank sheet, I recall a memory or two, and the words begin to flow again. I believe that every so often someone enters our life and we are changed for good. My grandma was that person, partly because she saw things in me I didn't know existed, and she knew one day, like the Wright brothers, I'd take flight, and I did just that.

Mike 2026                                               

                                                               

Mike  2026

Boating memories

 I can still smell the marina in spring, when tarps put on last fall are removed, allowing for new bottom paint as wood surfaces are sanded down and varnished to a mirror gloss. Down below, the cushions and curtains are taken home to be washed to remove the musty smells trapped there during the winter months.

New sparkplugs and filters are replaced, and bilge pumps are tested to assure they're ready in case we spring a leak that is always a possibility with a wooden hull. Mom arrived with boxes filled with paper products and non-perishable goods stored below, as well as bed linens and blankets for those cool nights in late spring.
When the day arrived, we'd watch as the forklift lowered the boat into the water, then grab the lines and tie up alongside the dock to fill up with gas and keep a lookout for excessive water in the bilges. When everything checked out, Dad called everybody on board, and the ropes were cast off as we motored out of the harbor on our way to the river and open waters. Our boat was a classic wooden-hulled cabin cruiser that drew a lot of attention from passing craft, which gave us the thumbs-up as we passed. As spring turned to summer, we took the boat out every weekend, exploring new places some we could dock at and have a meal in a waterfront restaurant. And as usual, we drew a crowd of admirers who all had good things to say.
I remember both day and night cruises on the river as I learned how to navigate in both light and darkness using charts and Dad's knowledge of the waters. Eventually, Dad let me man the controls more often as he and Mom sat back and enjoyed the ride. As I became a young man, I was allowed to take her out by myself sometimes with a few friends on board, where we'd find the perfect swimming hole and drop anchor for a day in the sun. Now, as a grown man, Dad signed the boat over to me, claiming he was too long in the tooth to keep up with the maintenance a boat demands. I taught my boys how to care for it, seeing them fit right in as they did the things I did under my dad's supervision. I imagine one day my wife and I will be invited on a nice cruise, sitting back and watching with pride as the boat Dad and Mom saw potential in motors down the river we all love so much.

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                           

Mike  2026

Mr. Fix it

 His old work boots caked with dry dirt should have been tossed out, but there they sat in a corner of the mudroom calling out to him. He was never one to use things up then throw them away; he'd re-sole his boots many times and put in new laces when needed. He kept the leather well oiled just as he did his old baseball mitt that actually looked like a hand. He learned from his dad that it pays to take care of things because in return they will take care of you. He found it interesting to take broken things, figure out what was wrong with them, and use his brain to find the fix. He chuckled a bit when he remembered his wife telling him she demanded a new washing machine because hers was so outdated. She even went so far as to loosen a couple of screws, which made a horrible noise the neighbors probably heard. He came in with a screwdriver, tightened those two screws, and the machine sounded like brand new. She huffed and puffed a little but then questioned her own sanity, thinking he would admit some things were beyond repair.

He loved working with wood and built new kitchen cupboards nicer than the ones she showed him from the Sears catalog. He made bookshelves, furniture, and a dining room table from cedar. Each piece a labor of love and another test of his craft. Many years ago, when the kids were still young, he could be found in his workshop late into the night, transforming sheets of plywood into all kinds of Christmas decorations. Reindeer and Santa's sleigh, elves and carolers, candy canes and even a Christmas train. Every year he'd add something new, and before long people were coming from miles around to see the spectacle he crafted by hand.
The kids are older now and live quite a sleighride away, but on the chance they come to visit, he puts the decorations out, though not as many, as his old bones don't do so well in the cold anymore. This past Christmas, he surprised his wife with a brand-new washing machine. The man at the appliance store showed him a few machines that had arrived with missing parts and would be scrapped later that day. He offered to take one for twenty dollars and was told to load it up. Once back home and in his workshop, he took the machine apart and found that a seal was missing, which meant water was gushing out like Niagara Falls. He rummaged through his shop and found a seal he'd saved who knows when, and it fit perfectly. He wiped it off, put a red ribbon on it, then went back inside and took off his boots.
The following morning was Christmas, and he awoke to the sound of his wife, who had obviously found the new washer, yelling with joy as he prepared himself for a bear hug and a kiss. You'd think he'd given her the Hope Diamond. And this is for you," she said, handing him a small, wrapped package containing a new pair of laces. He immediately changed out the old for the new, oiled them up, and headed out to his shop to begin another project. Maybe a heart-shaped end table for Valentine's Day, he thought to himself. Maybe not.

Mike 2026                                                             

Mike   2026

Chocolate smiles

 Saturday with Dad

Two Saturdays a month I got to spend with my dad. Why only two? Well, that's when we got our hair cut. The year was 1958, and Dad was home from the war a while ago, but he still carried the hidden scars he'd live with forever. He didn't talk about it with us, but when he went to the VFW and had a few beers with other veterans, he seemed to calm down inside for a few days anyway.
After our haircuts, we'd sometimes go to the drugstore where he'd test the fuses on a machine that would tell you if the fuse was bad or still good. Another stop was at the hardware store owned by our neighbor, a WWII veteran. I loved that store, with dozens of wooden boxes filled with any screw, nut, and bolt you could ever want. The walls were lined with tools hanging by hooks all the way to the ceiling, which the owner would reach with a long pole, hooking it to a hook and pulling the tool down to the floor. I can still smell that store, mostly the wood that lay in bins, cut to size, and the open cans of house paint being mixed by a shaker machine the owner himself designed. In the very back of the store were bags of fertilizer, seeds, and manure that smelled like the ground, if there is such a smell.
My bi-monthly Saturdays also meant having lunch with Dad at the soda fountain that he told me was where he proposed to my mom. Each booth had its own tabletop jukebox where, for a dime, you could play a record. Dad would play a couple he liked, saying they brought back beautiful memories. Lunch was a greasy cheeseburger and fries, washed down with a chocolate shake, and when we left, he'd pick out a small box of Mom's favorite chocolates, then let me give it to her as she kissed his cheek and then mine. The rest of our Saturday we spent tossing a ball or working on his car, which always seemed to need some work. He would teach me how to change a flat tire and remove a radiator cap so that I wouldn't get burned by the hot steam. After supper, he'd sit in his chair reading the evening newspaper while I sat close by reading the latest adventures of Superman he bought for me at the drugstore. Then it was bath time and time to get ready for bed. I hated saying goodnight because I never wanted our day together to end. He'd pick me up onto his lap and whisper how much he enjoyed spending time with me. Then he brushed my cheek with his unshaven face, which got me off his lap and running for the safety of Mom's arms.
I remember all of those Saturdays as if they were yesterday, and although he's been gone for a long time, I try to carry on traditions today with my son. The barber shop is still where it's always been, but the owner gave it to his son, who is pretty old but keeps on cutting hair and still has the old wooden pony he uses for kids getting their first haircut to sit on. The smell of Wildroot and talcum powder fills the air, and just like his dad, every kid got a nickel to get a gunball on the way out. The old hardware store closed its doors, as competing with the big-box stores was impossible, but we'd stop in front and look in through a dirty window at a small selection of hand tools that would probably end up in the town's historical museum.
One thing that never changed is the soda fountain where I'd take my son just like my dad took me. We'd have greasy cheesburgers, fries, and a chocolate shake, and stop on the way out to pick up three boxes of chocolates for my two girls and my wife. It's the simple things in life that matter to me, and as I look at my son with chocolate on his young face, I set the napkin aside and hope he will always remember this day with a chocolate smile.                                   Mike 2026                           

       

                              

Mike 2026