Its who we were and we were happy.

 We had long hair and smelled of patcouly with a whiff of pot. We listened to our own kinds of music that filled us with peace and harmony. And we danced. Lord, did we dance around the campfire on star-filled nights when fireflies lit up mason jars and moved to the beat of a Dylan song.

We shared rent costs among the six of us who tried their luck at higher education, but daytime was for sleeping, and the night brought opportunity on the streets where college kids sat in the park, the lofty smoke of a hash pipe filling the calm air. We had a pusher who kept us stocked up with weed, hash, and my favorite mescaline. And on a night when a concert was in town, we sold out in less than one hour. On a night like that, it was normal to sell $ 1,000 worth of product, and after our investment, we cleared about $700.
Our house was old, and many repairs were needed, but the landlord was a stingy old man who looked and smelled the other way. He lived next door and could often be caught with a spyglass peering into a bedroom window where all too often a fine young lady stood naked at the window blowing him a kiss as she lowered the blinds.
When we heard an outdoor concert was being planned in the hills of a beautiful valley, we purchased a lot of party favors that, in the end, netted us over $3,000. Of course, we saved some for ourselves, and on the eve of leaving, we six dropped some magic acid that took us places we never could explain. Trees with limbs that danced and sang to you from a knothole, which appeared to be a mouth. No flying monkeys, but plenty of distorted bodies clinging to each other as reality began to set in, and sleep took over as the campfire burned out, and sleep had to follow.
We loved our lives and the changes it brought along, like buckskin jackets beaded with love from one of the girls. Headbands and colored beads were worn around our necks and draped from clothing. A common sight was a girl braiding her boyfriend's long hair or a lone guitarist banging out a song he had written about this place. There was a freedom we cherished as the people below the hills carried on with a life programmed into their souls from an early age of obedience.
As years passed, bands of people left for reasons known only to them. Loading their vans and ancient school buses, hoping it would make the journey and not be added to the other old vehicles ending in a hollow, forgotten forever. At that time, in the blink of an eye, time ran, not walked, down the hills and into a lifestyle few wanted to return to. The old house burned to the ground, the old landlord blaming it on our constant smoking of one thing or another, and the dozens of candles used for all the light we wanted.
Some of our mighty six went on to school, some far away, while others took their message of peace and love to the masses, who responded just as he knew they would. Communes were built as safe havens for the odd and the strange, all with a dream of being who they were, not what they were expected to be.
I joined the Navy, a choice between jail, and I chose the Navy. I didn't cry when they cut my hair, but inside I wept, remembering my girl braiding it as she hummed a Carole King song. Now, nothing but another pile of lost manes on the barber's floor. We all dressed the same, ate the same, worked the same, and left it to me to find a way to provide party favors upon request.
For two and a half years, I did the navy thing, hiding my hair inside my cap, loaded with butch wax to hold it down. On my last time leaving the ship, I took off the cap to the cheers of the sailors on the deck. My hair fell several inches, and by all accounts, I looked somewhat as I remembered it all those years ago. I bought a Harley and strapped on a bedroll and other supplies, then headed for the hills I loved so much.
I'm in my later years now, and my memory of those beautiful times and of the people who never wanted anything more than to live in peace among themselves is gone. I suppose I'm the last survivor of the magic six. Standing on top of the hills looking at them in all their glory and beauty, I fire up a hand-rolled joint and inhale the sweet smoke rising into the air as a distant voice shouts out, " Don't bogart that joint, man, pass it along. Happy to, brother, happy to.
Mike 2026                                         

Summer memories

 Summers meant endless adventures. Some with the family, but most dear to me were the sweltering days of August when the air hung heavy, and rain showers brought momentary relief to my buddies and me. A typical summer day began with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and a few words from Mom about being careful and making sure to be home in time for dinner. Outside the screen door, my friends' shouts called for me to hurry it up as baseball cards of no value were attached to our bicycle spokes,with wooden closepins that made our bikes sound like my next-door neighbor's Harley.

Unlike today, when water bottles didn't exist, we had canteens bought at the Army-Navy store downtown. We filled them up and strapped them to our bikes with some discarded jump rope and baling twine found alongside the road. We rarely had a plan; we just followed whoever was in the lead, sometimes taking us into town, where we'd stop for some penny candy and look at comic books until the clerk told us to buy or get out.

Other times, we'd ride to the swimming hole where kids gathered all summer, swimming in the cool waters of a deep spring and taking turns swinging from a rope that someone had put there a long time ago. It had to be ancient, as my dad told me he swung on that rope when he was my age. When our bellies growled, it was time for some lunch, and we came prepared with PBJ sandwiches and the penny candy we bought earlier.

Leaving the swimming hole, we headed for the mountain, a place where, over the years, the city had piled up a massive hill of dirt that came from clearing the land of new subdivisions being built everywhere you looked. We had to walk our bikes up the hill as it was too steep to ride. Once on top, you could see the entire town and even the steeple of St. Mark's church in the next town over.

One by one, we pushed off and began our descent downhill at speeds we wondered were world records. One thing was certain: there was nothing to slow us down except a bunch of cardboard we had stacked up before walking to the top, hoping that if we did wipe out, the cardboard would slow us down I'm here to tell you it did not.

We could always tell when our day was coming to a close as we headed home, tired and sweat-stained, with empty canteens and sun-kissed arms and legs. One by one, we headed toward our houses, where a waiting mom barked instructions to take off our clothes and get into the bathtub, and, for goodness' sake, leave those filthy sneakers at the back door.

Summers meant freedom from school, hours spent swimming, and roaring down a mountain of dirt on our trusty steeds. It meant a lot of PBJs and a quarter's worth of penny candies. But most of all, it meant spending time with your buddies and the memories you made that have lasted a lifetime.

Mike 2026                                           

The boat builder

 He was a boat builder like his dad. He learned from his father the art of creating a boat from an idea and the perfect tree. His father would fell the tree in the forest and drag it home, the donkey leading the way. Back in the day, his dad taught him about the proper tools for various tasks. These lessons required immense patience and the understanding that nothing could be rushed. On average, he would build two boats a year, commissioned by both local and often out-of-area clients, and delivered hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away.

Over time, he realized that the craft his father taught him was a gift few men had, and as his name became well known in boatbuilding, more difficult builds were asked of him. On one occasion, a retired gentleman asked him to build a boat with sleeping quarters, a gally, and other amenities he had never built before. As always, he was up for the task and agreed to build it.

He watched his father, and it became obvious he was nervous about this build, but the real tell happened when the boat was completed and the final inspection brought tears to both of them as the boat rolled off the dock into the harbor to the cheers of everyone seeing her leave the shop where the magic occurred. How many long and tedious days in all kinds of weather did he find his dad figuring out his next steps, all under his son's watchful eye as he absorbed all he could from the master craftsman?

It wouldn't be right not to tell you about his shop. It was once a wood shop where fine furniture was crafted, like dressers and tables, headboards, all crafted by gifted hands It sat at the end of a long ramp that spilled into the harbor, where merchant ships would sail them across the sea to their new owners. Business was booming for the furniture builders until one late night, a fire broke out, devouring everything made of wood, leaving a burned-out shell of darkness and lingering smoke that smelled like pine.

With what he had saved up over time, he purchased the land where the woodshop once stood and began rebuilding it to suit his needs. There was room enough for a tool room where dozens of hand tools were hung, and god help you if one went missing. There was a rope locker filled with various thicknesses of rope that would be used in the process when the boat slipped into the harbor. He also built a cabinet filled with stains and resin, paints of many colors, and a very small office where he'd go to amend a plan to his liking.

To this day, when I step foot in the boat shed, the smells and sounds of tools at work fill me with a sense of awe. My mind races back in time when teaching and learning went hand in hand, and the pride of the craftsman is now inside of me. After dad passed, I continued building boats, his spirit guiding my hands as I used his tools he so proudly displayed. After all these years, there's never been a power tool used in the building of our boats, and never will be. The only sounds you'd hear were the gentle stroke of a wood plane, the sound of steam as it shaped the boat, and a few craftsmen whistling a maritime song.

Mike 2026                                                     

The last performance

 His grandson pushed the wheelchair into the theater. Plush crimson seats lined the space, now threadbare from countless performances. The musty air faded beneath the voices of legends, whose lifelong dream was to stand on that stage and sing.

Golden rope draped around the velvet drapery, a background for the performer to stand looking out at the smiling faces of the well-to-do awaiting his first performance.

Behind the curtains, a small group of people, mostly family, stood quietly smiling with thumbs up as the singer, the son, the brother, and best friend took center stage amid the tuning of the orchestra, now ready to begin.

He was just a young man that first night, but his voice was one of a master whose music was set in stone. He looked out into the bright lights, and the faces looking back showed their approval, wanting more as he walked off the stage. And he returned.

Ready, Grandpa, his grandson asked. He nodded his head and took one last look at his past, hearing his own voice softly sing as the lights went out and the dusty curtains fell for the last time.

Mike 2026                                              

My first haircut

 It was my first haircut at six. My mom and grandma would comb and brush it. Dad looked on, waiting to boil over. He did just that when he came home from work one night, stopping at what he saw. There I was, my long hair flowing as I danced around the room in a dress. That's it, he said, taking me up to my room and dressing me in boys' clothes. He took my hand and softly told me we were going downtown to see Ted the barber. He was just about to close, but he stayed open for my dad because they were in high school together. Ted went to the corner of the shop and came back with a small wooden horse he had modified to fit on the arms of the barber chair. Have a seat, partner, he said, and with Dad's help, I was on the mighty steed pretending to be my favorite TV character, Mr. Roy Rogers. My dad told Ted to turn me back into a boy, and Ted set to cutting and snipping until my long golden locks lay on the floor beneath me. Then, with a soft brush, he dusted me with talcum powder and pulled a cherry lollipop out of his apron.

Upon arriving back home, Mom and Grandma made a big fuss about me losing my mane, but it didn't take long for them to realize I looked like a boy my age should. Years passed, and as a young man in the era of rock 'n' roll and Woodstock, I grew my hair long again, but that was my decision. Mom would make a fuss when I came for a visit, showing me pictures of my first haircut and of me dressed like a girl, and we all got a good laugh, except Dad, of course. He looked up from his newspaper and grunted, telling me he'd better take me back to see Ted the barber, who I imagined had shaky hands after all this time.

I remember that first haircut and Ted the barber, who's long since passed away, his shop now a Subway sandwich shop. I stop in front of it when I'm in town, looking into the glass window, seeing the six-year-old me with flowing locks looking back at me, wishing for a cherry lollipop.

Mike 2026                                              

The iron maiden

 The sand beneath my feet dared me to keep going, farther from the shore. The sand seemed to go on forever as I ventured deeper. The people on the beach grew smaller. The sounds of the midway fade, then disappear into the sounds of silent waves. The carousel becomes a spinning top, like a child's toy, and disappears into the sand.

The sea now laps at my face, my feet in a scramble with the bottom to see who goes the distance. It's in plain sight now, bobbing to and fro with every swell another inch forward as my lungs begin to burn and fear creeps up.

Another twenty feet and I'll be able to touch the iron maiden as it takes me for a ride on the waves, but remains anchored safely in place as it has a job to do. I climb up on the small platform, waving my arms towards the shoreline, barely making out a small cluster of boys, and I imagine their shouting their approval for my success.

I had to catch my breath and begin my return journey, as the distance was the same and my body was as rested as it would get. I let go of my grip and started swimming until I felt the sand beneath my feet that gently touched down like the first man on the moon.

The sights and sounds of the midway slowly began coming into view through my salt-filled eyes. My boys are still rooting for me, as I was so close to earning my medal of bravery, which was in reality the bottom of a soda can cut off with a dull knife and strung on a piece of old rope. But it was a right of passage and meant a lot to each of us.

I finally reached shore, collapsing on the still warm sand, mostly for effect, as the crowd of young boys vowed to be the next one to swim out to the iron Maden. And back. But today, the bragging rights belonged to me as they hoisted me upon their shoulders, and I proudly showed off my medal for all to see.

Mike 2026           

                                                                                                                                            

Memories of the Junk man

 Many decades ago, as a kid, I'd watch and listen for the junk man coming down our street, walking next to his horse, which he called Barney. A flat-bed trailer, either bursting at the seams with other people's discarded items or almost empty if he hit the wrong street at the wrong time. It was always on a Thursday when the jingling of bells on Barney's collar announced he wasn't far away. JUNK MAN, JUNK MAN hed sing out as people rushed to the wagon with broken tools and discarded toys. Old pots and pans, worn-out shoes, and mismatched linens.

Days before the junk man's arrival, I would scurry about the house asking my mom what we could give to him, and she seemed to always find an item or two that had seen better days. Tarnished silverware and broken tea cups. Rusted milk jugs and cracked clay pots. As his voice grew farther away, Barney's bells went silent, and the junk man headed home.

Home for the junk man and Barney was an old barn that had been in his family for decades, but disaster struck one night when a fire broke out in the house, destroying everything but the barn. His family left, but he remained behind and began filling the barn with items others no longer wanted. As the years went by, he organized the barn into two sections. The first part of the barn was for newly found treasures that needed fixing, and the other half was filled with finished items ready to sell.

Many people stopped in to have a look at the junk man's handy work, some even recognizing something they had disregarded and considered just junk. They'd sometimes spend hours looking at his massive collection as the kids offered Barney an apple or a carrot, and in turn, Barney would nod his head and ring the bells on his collar, to the children's delight.

I don't remember exactly when the bells quit ringing, and Thursdays went by without the song of the junk man. Some say he passed away in his barn, repairing a toaster or putting new tires on a child's bike. Others like myself just believed he got too old, as did Barney, and they passed away together, roaming the streets of eternity with the sound of jingle bells and the call of the junk man.

Mike 2026