Imaginations of childhood

 I remember, as a boy, letting my imagination run wild and untamed as I turned everyday objects into whatever my mind saw them as. A metal trash can became an army tank with me as the gunner, using a stick for a machine gun, complete with sound effects. The garden hose was used to fuel my tank, and two-by-fours laid under the tank served as the tracks with different sound effects.

Sometimes I was a big-game hunter, climbing a tree to set up my sniper nest. I'd cover my clothes with small branches, hiding my location from the big cats and other predators hunting me as I hunted them. There was an apple tree I liked to hide in and eat the sweet apples as I patiently awaited an approaching animal below. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large jungle cat as our eyes locked, and I readied my shot. With precise and controlled movement, I aimed and took my shot. With an award-winning sound effect, the neighbor's cat, Missy, ran for safety under the porch.
Another adventure found me standing on the bank of a mighty river, fishing gear included a pair of dad's rubber boots that turned into waders, a pool cue for the pole, and one of mom's empty flower baskets slung around my shoulder where I'd put the fish. I found some string in dad's tackle box, along with a cork bobber I tied to it that would disappear beneath the water, letting me know something had taken the bait. Patience was required when fishing, so I didn't speak when I heard Mom calling me in for lunch. Then, with a mighty tug on my line, the bobber floated to the surface as the monster fish broke loose and disappeared into the murky water. Mom spoke again, telling me to get out of the puddle, put my dad's boots back where I found them, and get inside right that minute.
Every kid wants to be someone they admire at some point. Girls become ballerinas and princesses, dressing up in old Halloween costumes, while others are homemakers like mom, baking award-winning pies at the county fair. Some want to be nurses using their baby dolls as patients as they wrap their arms and legs in rags they found in moms rag box. From astronauts to firemen, police officers to army generals, there was no end to the imaginations of a child. As for me, well, I ate my lunch and went back outside to venture further than anyone had gone before, as long as I stayed in my own backyard.

Mike 2026                                                  

Looking through the glass

 In days past, in the small town where I was born, I would walk the streets, looking into the windows of local bars. Men after their shifts at the factory gathered to tip a few after a hard day's work, some just looking to waste time before going home to a houseful of kids and a wife who went from prom queen to housewife, exchanging high heels and peek-a-boo blouses for a well-worn housecoat. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to prop myself on a stool and order an ice-cold beer served in a frosted glass mug. As I continued to watch through the window, I'd see someone playing the jukebox so loud that the glass I was standing by vibrated until the bartender turned it down. The bar itself was very old and had been in one family since it was built sometime in the 1890s. The walls and the floor were made of wood, as was the long bartop, which the bartender seemed to wipe every few minutes. Sitting on the bar were several large glass containers filled with hard-boiled eggs and pigs' feet that made me gag just looking at them. I don't think I ever saw anyone actually eat one.

There were wooden tables, most scarred with cigarette burns, and at some tables black indentations of a girl's name or a heart that said Mom. A little carving and a lot of drinking. I saw men playing checkers for money and poker games that sometimes went on well into the night, some smiling, and one leaving the bar wondering how he'd tell his wife he'd gambled his paycheck away. I looked into that bar through rain and shine, seeing the same old faces that to this day sit on the same stool they did when they turned 21 and looking the same as they do now, fifteen years later.

Remembering back when I finally became of age, I walked into that bar that I had only been able to look inside for so long. I picked out a stool, looking around and avoiding being anywhere close to pigs' feet and hard-boiled eggs. The bartender asked for my ID, which I gladly showed him, and asked, "What will it be, son?" Your first one is on the house. Sitting there, I smelled the smells of a bar, something I could only imagine as smells don't pass through glass. The smell of cigarettes and cigars, old wooden floors, and the scents of hard-working men that couldn't care less how they smelled.

I became a regular at that old bar right up to the day the city claimed the place would have to shut down as a new highway was going to cut right through there. The owner got a hefty offer to buy him out, and that was that. I stopped at the closed bar one more time, looking through the glass and remembering the faces, the smells, and the genuine laughter of hard-working men tipping a few cold ones and possibly eating a pig's foot or hard-boiled egg that made me gag one last time.

Mike 2026                                          

I grow weary

 I grow weary at times, redoing the day before and the day before again. My eyes serve as my guide now, red with time and endless glances and glares.  My weathered hands with throbbing veins are a testimony of hard work for decades until they softened and hard-earned calluses vanished.

I grow weary at times, wondering what could have been and spending too little time thankful for what is. I find myself thinking out loud as my memories refuse to be silent, and I am grateful for being called upon.
I grow weary listening to the noise of mouths that should never open and actions that should never have taken place. But no one says I have to conform because I refuse to listen to words; I just ignore them with both ears.
I grow weary because I chose to be, and I've earned that after decades of following the leader before learning that I had the right to walk away from things that prevented me from smiling.

Mike 2026                                                                      

Slower pace

 There are times I'm good with being old. The fast-paced world we live in can all become a blur, and that's when I close my eyes and write about the things I remember at a much slower pace.

Sitting down and writing a letter to a friend by candlelight in cursive, careful to spell everything correctly, or having to toss it into the trash can and start again. We've all seen pictures of a person surrounded by crumpled-up balls of paper strewn across the floor, with a look of frustration on the writer's face. But the end result was a beautifully written work of art, complete with a wax stamp and vintage stationery.

It seems to me my generation and those before me took more pride in things that today aren't as important at all. Handwritten recipes handed down by grandmothers and Christmas cards containing a heartfelt message. Birthday cards carefully picked out that were kept forever in a box of special things you'd take out sometimes to read over and over again. Each one is a memory you wanted to keep close to your heart.

Family time together with no phones or games, just each other and conversations about school, work, and that feeling of closeness every family should have. Family nights with bowls of freshly popped popcorn, with four hands digging into the bowl at one time, while a black and white movie played on the black and white television.

Kids didn't grow up as fast as they do today, finding time to sit and talk and going into town with a parent was just how life was back then. Teenagers still voiced their opinions, but the parents had the final say, and that was that. But some had to chance it by sneaking out of the house to meet up with a boy or girl friend and usually got caught during a routine check by a parent who was once a kid too. This meant being grounded, no matter what was going on, like school dances and football games.

Life was simpler back then, and although we had our share of problems, everything seemed to work out in the end. Kids didn't disrespect their elders or bring guns to school, except for hunting rifles on a gun rack in a lot of pickup trucks. Killing something meant hunting for that elusive buck or shooting clay pigeons with dad.

I don't mind getting old as long as I can keep remembering my younger days brought to me in black and white at a pace I control.

Mike 2026                                                    

Best of friends

 He walks close to me and follows wherever I go. Since a pup, he's done that, and it made me wonder if it was the breed or just him being my shadow. It's been 12 years now since I fell in love with him as a pup, and his devotion to me is something I didn't even have with two wives.

We're growing old together, and our once bounding through the tall grass days are reduced to a slow walk, and I wonder if he's missing that as much as I do. The way he looks at me tells me he does.

His hearing is all but gone, and he doesn't move around as fast, but if there's a snack to be had, he's up and moving as he gently takes the treat from me, holding it by a corner as he goes back under the table to slowly enjoy it.

He used to chase lizards and bark at the ducks in the pond, but he never hurt one, and I wonder if he was just asking if they wanted to play. He could talk when he wanted to, kind of hard to explain, you just had to hear it as he barked in different tones trying to sound like his human being, me.

Like most dogs, he loved being brushed and always fell asleep as I spoke softly to him. I'd finish brushing and softly sneak away, but he senses that and wakes up to be by my side as usual. We both liked the warmth of a late spring day and sitting outside me on a chair and him as close to it as he could manage.

He would whimper every time I closed the door behind me, going somewhere he couldn't, but I'd make it up to him by taking him for an ice cream cone, vanilla being his flavor of choice. He'd finish his first, then stare at me until I gave him the rest of mine. I think he knew me more than I thought.

I thank God for giving me such a great friend, and I carry more memories of him than I could ever remember in a lifetime. As I look at him, I still see that bouncy puppy running to fetch a stick, always to big hanging out of his mouth and dropping it at my feet. I see him staring at me when he had to go outside, and never once in all these years did he mess in the house.

Sometimes when we sit in silence, I wonder what he's thinking. Is he flashing back to our younger days and all the fun we had, or is he thinking what I am, that 12 years isn't enough? One thing I do know is that one day we will run those fields again together forever.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                     

Last breaths

 Those few last breaths fighting not to end but to begin again in a place where it's springtime every day you want it to be. When you've picked a million wildflowers, then place them onto a waiting cloud.

The last few breaths are free of pain as the memories flood back, seemingly exhaling all the wrong you did, but are forgiven with a gentle touch on your shoulder that lets you know the end is near, and you need not fear.

Your loved ones stand by you, taking turns holding your hand now, too weak to squeeze back as painted-on faces hold back the tears, the best they can, walking swiftly out of the room to cry a river unseen and so much alone.

Those few last breaths make some wonder if he knows these are his last few moments, and whether he will be gone when everything goes quiet. Will he know the machines have stopped, and only sobs of sorrow now fill the room?

They will all leave now as his body is prepared, and his last wishes are remembered. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. No casket, no memorials, and above all else, no grave. He chose cremation, fast and final, and his ticket to eternal peace.

Those last breaths released his soul as it let his human self to follow the angel leading him into the light and eternal rest. All his questions were answered at one time before he stood at the gate alone, waiting for them to be opened or closed for all eternity.

The massive white gates opened slowly as a softly spoken man with a kindness the likes of which he had never known extended his open hands as a gesture to enter. Stepping into the light, he came through to a softer light where he could see millions of souls, both human and animal, together with no cares and endless memories

There were no greetings, only a feeling of that very moment when he knew he belonged. A microsecond of remembering a face or a place, a special event, or a motherly hug to stay with you for just a moment on your journey.

Beautiful doesn't do justice to the pillow-soft clouds you could feel free to hitch a ride with to yet another place, leaving you in awe. More beautiful than a field of roses or stars, you could touch as they welcomed you anytime.

Oceans of blue, clear water, you could look into at the millions of sea life swimming free with no chance of hooks. Some of the larger creatures that once scared you become friends, allowing you to jump on for the grand tour of God's creations.

Death isn't something to be afraid of if you've tried your best to live a good life. God knows this and so much more. All of your fears, your questions, and doubts vanish into another realm where every day is one more truth spoken, one more chance to question anything. And one last breath to take you there.

Mike  2026

AS A WRITER, I FEEL THE URGE TO WRITE WHAT I'm FEELING, AND I MEAN NO DISRESPECT TO ANY RELIGION AND THEIR BELIEFS.

                                                              

Where do the words go?

 Where do the words go when the fingers stop moving? Are they gone forever or just playing possum to get the creative juices going again? Where do the memories go when you believe you've written about all of them?

Where do the stories go when they've all been read time and again, and new ones are in a corner of your mind refusing to come out? Maybe it's time to stop looking.

I'm 72 years of age, and I believe I can say I've spent over thirty years of that writing about this or that, mostly about memories I didn't want to forget, and it turned out I have a gift for remembering pieces of my past from infancy to the present. To me, their building blocks and then a game of fill in the blanks.

To date, I've penned over one thousand very short stories, published three books, and thrown away scraps of jibber jabber not worthy of sharing. And what saddened me at first is that most of what I've written hasn't been read. There may be some truth to the saying, " You have to be dead before your work is noticed. Don't panic, I don't plan on going anytime soon.

Even though there are a few cobwebs in the old melon, I continue every day to find something new to write about. And it amazes me that I can still tap the keys and let my fingers do the talking. I've visualized a loud voice saying, STOP, that's enough but I ignore that voice, believing it's a bad angel who I can banish with just one sentence.

So I suppose I'll forge on, digging deep into my mind and my heart to try and find new meanings to old memories that I can turn into something when read, which will stir some memories for you, bringing a tear or two, maybe some laughter, and above all, will take you to places long forgotten.

Mike 2026