Labor day

 Labor Day is a celebration of thanks for hard-working Americans who keep our country up and running. Firemen, police officers, teachers, tradespeople, and many others who get up every day and go to work.

I don't know for sure if the fashion rule for not wearing white after Labor Day still exists, but I can tell you it started as a way for the wealthy upper class to signal they were returning from summer vacations and packing away lightweight clothes. I'd bet that some people still practice that fashion rule.
Not many can remember when workers in this country worked 12-hour days at a minimum wage and few, if any, benefits, which led to the formation of labor unions whose goal was to create a labor force with suitable working conditions and fewer hours worked. and fair wages. That was the start of progress in the workforce.
Take a minute and honor all the workers who have built this country through hard work and a desire for the American dream. And please back off the white clothes a little as I look down on the crowded streets and see all white like a crowd of ghosts. HAPPY LABOR DAY!

Mike  2026

More within me.

 At 72, I feel as if my brain has retained enough, but I keep coming up with more stories to share and memories to relive, and who am I to stop writing about whatever is left inside of me, screaming to get out.

My meager existence revolves around a cup of coffee in the morning and sitting down at my desktop, where, like a Qui-ja-board, my fingers go to the right keys and the journey begins. The almost-silent tapping takes me to far-off places I somehow manage to summon, joining me as I dive deeper into a darkness made clear the further I go.
Distractions don't bother me as long as  I don't have to stop for some outside reason, like a truck delivering joy to someone or a kid mowing a neighbor's lawn. Inside my house, I've created a storybook land with clowns sitting on stools and an unknown number of pin-up girls from the 30s and 40s  giving me more inspiration to write.  Pictures of my family when everyone gathered for a summer picnic.  Christmas cards yellowed from time but never thrown out. Shelves crowded with knick-knacks like old plastic army men, sea glass, and a yo-yo with no string.
My writing space itself is small, with just enough room to work, but any smaller, I fear, would lead to a phobia of enclosed spaces. I love writing at night when candles are lit, throwing shadows across the room, trying to bother me but never can, as the candles' glow comforts me and sparks my imagination for the umpteenth time.
Willy Nelson once said everything in the world is a story to be told. No greater words were ever spoken. Many writers spend hours, days, and months researching content for their writing, but I start writing, and my memories become my content. 72, 73, or 85, I'll still write even though I've told myself there will never be a big turnout if I had a book signing.
I'm older now, and all the chaos of my life has blown away on a summer breeze. Silence is golden, and I often forget to turn off my phone, which bothers my kids as they think the worst, like finding me curled up in a ball, my face halfway submerged in a bowl of Raisin Bran and my dog beside me licking away at the milk. Could be worse for sure.
I hope that one day they will read, in death, what they didn't in life, and be proud of my work and share it with the world. There's an image I often see where hundreds of people from all walks of life are sitting in a meadow, reading my books and blogs, tossing pages to the wind as they finish one story and reach for another.
Who do I think I am? I ask myself. I've never had any classes on writing, which is very apparent in my work, nor do I claim it's good stuff. But it is all mine, and I'm proud of all of it, and isn't that what really matters? So time marches on, and more stories come to me, but the words have slowed down as I struggle to find the right ones at times; that's okay with me as long as I don't lose it all and desert my laptop for a shot of whiskey and a cigar.
Mike  2026

Washing Dads 55 coupe

 I remember my dad washing his car on a Saturday morning; his trousers rolled up past his ankles so they wouldn't get wet, his white T-shirt hanging from a tree branch. He saw me looking and handed me a sponge, showing me how to rub in circles with a lot of elbow grease, and once the car looked like a giant blob of soap bubbles, he sprayed it off, then handed me the hose, which wasn't such a good idea as I turned the hose on him. I chased him around the car, his laughter a memory I've always held close to my heart.

Once we wiped the car dry, he showed me how to apply a coat of wax. Small sections at a time, he told me, round and around; then, letting the wax dry, we moved to the next section, doing it over until the first section was ready to buff. And now the secret weapon, he said as he opened a box containing an automotive buffer that Mom got him for Father's Day this year. Round and round he went, letting the machine do in half an hour what would have taken hours by hand. He let me try the buffer, but on my first try it flew out of my hands, which he thankfully caught before it hit the ground.
Next was the interior, where he vacuumed up pieces of candy and some popcorn from the drive in a few nights ago. He wiped off the dash and cleaned the windows inside and out, then handed me a clean cloth and told me to make the hubcaps shine. When we were finished, he rolled down his trousers and put on his shirt, yelling to Mom we'd be right back. Hop in, he told me we're going cruising. We ended up at the curbside burger shack where dozens of guys were showing off their rides, and none got as much attention as my dad's 's' 55 Ford coupe. I always just thought of his car as a car, nothing that special, but I was dead wrong.
I inherited that coupe and still have it today, locked up in my garage, only driving it on special occasions and an occasional ride to the burger shack for people to see. I still wash it the way Dad taught me and the way I taught my son. It's the little things we remember in life, and that 55 Ford coupe stays locked up in my book of special memories every time I hear Dad's laughter as I chased him around and around with the garden hose on a sunny Saturday morning.

                                                                

Mike 2026

The naked fireman/farmer

 The heat was showing off, holding back the rain for too long. We need a good soaker, he told the air. Yep, a soaker.  He lived alone in a small cottage on his land, the place he was born and would undoubtedly die. He didn't have any of that air conditioning people talked about in town, just box fans that, in his humble opinion, just blew hot air around. Heat was nothing new for a farmer back in his day. No air-conditioned combines or fancy tractors, just a straw hat and a bandana that soaked up some sweat. I suppose you could say he had a farmer's tan, with brown arms and face and bright white on the rest of his body.

As the day wore on, the quiet was overwhelming, and even the smallest of creatures sought shelter from the relentless heat. He sat naked on his front porch, something he often did when the heat was on and soaked through his coveralls like he was about to burst into flames. He kept a jug of sun tea beside him on the old table he found buried in the barn and watched as the color turned darker and darker until it became a cup of hot tea. He dumped it out and went inside to get a cold beer that he drank down in two large swallows, then rubbed the empty bottle across his forehead for a moment until the glass heated up with everything else this day.
He must have dozed off until a clap of thunder so loud he jumped out of his chair and looked to see if the army was in his yard. Then a bolt of bright lightning pierced right through the old oak tree just feet away from him. Flames were burning the tree from the inside out, and he knew if he didn't do something, the massive tree could come crashing down on his cottage and him. He ran naked to the barn where an old fire truck pumper had been sitting covered up until the Fourth of July parade. He kept the water tank full for reasons unknown until that moment. He fired it up and drove the few hundred feet to the burning tree where he manned the hose and let the water flow. It didn't take him long to douse the flames, but little did he know that a news van had been going down the road and had seen the whole thing in real time.
Flashbulbs nearly blinded him as a reporter asked him questions, and he waved them away and off his land, telling them there was nothing to see. Well, that wasn't all the truth because the next day's hometown news showed him buck ass naked manning the old fire pump, with the caption reading No more farmers tan for naked farmer. Life went on as he had his fifteen minutes of fame, but the news faded away, replaced with stories of missing livestock, kids playing tip the cow, just the normal goings-on in the life of a farmer. People do stop by every once in a while to see firsthand the scorched tree with a burned-out section where the lightning hit. He didn't mind their curiosity, but he hated the fact that he couldn't sit naked on his porch anymore in that darn heat.

                                                                                          The heat was showing off, holding back the rain for too long. We need a good soaker he told the air yep a soaker.  He lived alone in a small cottage on his land, the place he was born and would undoubtedly die. He didn't have any of that air conditioning people talked about in town, just box fans that, in his humble opinion, just blew hot air around. Heat was nothing new for a farmer back in his day. No air-conditioned combines or fancy tractors, just a straw hat and a bandana that soaked up some sweat. I suppose you could say he had a farmer's tan, with brown arms and face and bright white on the rest of his body.

As the day wore on, the quiet was overwhelming, and even the smallest of creatures sought shelter from the relentless heat. He sat naked on his front porch, something he often did when the heat was on and soaked through his coveralls like he was about to burst into flames. He kept a jug of sun tea beside him on the old table he found buried in the barn and watched as the color turned darker and darker until it became a cup of hot tea. He dumped it out and went inside to get a cold beer that he drank down in two large swallows, then rubbed the empty bottle across his forehead for a moment until the glass heated up with everything else this day.
He must have dozed off until a clap of thunder so loud he jumped out of his chair and looked to see if the army was in his yard. Then a bolt of bright lightning pierced right through the old oak tree just feet away from him. Flames were burning the tree from the inside out, and he knew if he didn't do something, the massive tree could come crashing down on his cottage and him. He ran naked to the barn where an old fire truck pumper had been sitting covered up until the Fourth of July parade. He kept the water tank full for reasons unknown until that moment. He fired it up and drove the few hundred feet to the burning tree where he manned the hose and let the water flow. It didn't take him long to douse the flames, but little did he know that a news van had been going down the road and had seen the whole thing in real time.
Flashbulbs nearly blinded him as a reporter asked him questions, and he waved them away and off his land, telling them there was nothing to see. Well, that wasn't all the truth because the next day's hometown news showed him buck ass naked manning the old fire pump, with the caption reading No more farmers tan for naked farmer. Life went on as he had his fifteen minutes of fame, but the news faded away, replaced with stories of missing livestock, kids playing tip the cow, just the normal goings-on in the life of a farmer. People do stop by every once in a while to see firsthand the scorched tree with a burned-out section where the lightning hit. He didn't mind their curiosity, but he hated the fact that he couldn't sit naked on his porch anymore in that darn heat.

Mike  2026

                       
Mike  2026

One dance, one kiss

 Billy Holiday sings " I'll Be Seeing You " on the jukebox as soldiers and sailors have one last dance with the prettiest gal in the room.  Soon the lights will go on, and empty bottles, known as little soldiers, sit empty, and ashtrays are filled with smoldering camels and Lucky Strikes, all reminders of the night. The smell of perfume lingers in the air as those lucky enough to get a kiss smile on their way to uncertainty.

Brothers in arms stumble onto their ships and into barracks, waking those asleep with stories of the night. Pink and blue chiffon dresses and skin like silk as her head rested on your shoulder, the music going on and on, with every guy hoping and waiting for the last dance.
The punch bowl is empty, with only chunks of fruit remaining on the bottom and beer bottles too many to count, some on their sides as the last drops fall to the floor. Addresses were shared and tucked away with a promise to write, which many did, in hopes of seeing each other when the war was over.
Time passed, and victory was declared as soldiers and sailors came home mourning those who didn't. The USO welcomed them home with a victory dance in their honor. Girls in pink and blue chiffon dresses and cherry red lips danced with every guy who asked, some not quite the same as the ones who went away. Those carefree boys who told stories of their first real kiss with the prettiest gal in the room the night before shipping out seem distant now, but they still managed a smile as the music played on and the little fallen soldiers lay on their sides as the last few drops were spilled onto the floor.

Mike  2026

Mike  2026                                                        

A Mothers treasures

 A single light in an upstairs bedroom. A lady searching through a box of treasures she often had to look through. A single candle, bouncing shadows off the walls, and the smell of lavender took her back in time, when the days were filled with children's laughter and sometimes noisy family conversations over the dinner table.  With great care, she pulled items from the box, aware of their fragility, which could turn to dust if she wasn't careful. She sighed as she removed a packet of photographs wrapped with a rubber band, which she carefully undid, but the band snapped, and she set it aside. Each picture a memory, a feeling, a moment in time. It took time to see all of them as she held each one, reliving the captured likeness of those she loved. She pictured herself in the photos at that moment, with the others laughing together, allowing her to be young again, if only for a few moments.

She removed a stuffed animal, worn with age, as she softly kissed its face and briefly smelled her child, while other treasures waited their turn to come back, if only for a moment. A tattered box of checkers, a Yankees ball cap autographed by mickey mantel, and folders filled with a child's drawings and art projects like a birthday card with glued seashells that had mostly fallen off. So many things she cherished that wouldn't hold any value for anyone else but her. She didn't have to wonder where time slipped away; she knew it with every item she looked at, with yellowed photographs and tattered drawings. Everything that led to this night was her life in a cardboard box full of memories. Sleep was calling to her as she closed the box and slid it under her bed until the next time, as she blew out the candle with the scent of lavender and the smell of her child to comfort her.

                                                                 A single light in an upstairs bedroom. A lady searching through a box of treasures she often had to look through. A single candle, bouncing shadows off the walls, and the smell of lavender took her back in time, when the days were filled with children's laughter and sometimes noisy family conversations over the dinner table.  With great care, she pulled items from the box, aware of their fragility, which could turn to dust if she wasn't careful. She sighed as she removed a packet of photographs wrapped with a rubber band, which she carefully undid, but the band snapped, and she set it aside. Each picture a memory, a feeling, a moment in time. It took time to see all of them as she held each one, reliving the captured likeness of those she loved. She pictured herself in the photos at that moment, with the others laughing together, allowing her to be young again, if only for a few moments.

She removed a stuffed animal, worn with age, as she softly kissed its face and briefly smelled her child, while other treasures waited their turn to come back, if only for a moment. A tattered box of checkers, a Yankees ball cap autographed by mickey mantel, and folders filled with a child's drawings and art projects like a birthday card with glued seashells that had mostly fallen off. So many things she cherished that wouldn't hold any value for anyone else but her. She didn't have to wonder where time slipped away; she knew it with every item she looked at, with yellowed photographs and tattered drawings. Everything that led to this night was her life in a cardboard box full of memories. Sleep was calling to her as she closed the box and slid it under her bed until the next time, as she blew out the candle with the scent of lavender and the smell of her child to comfort her.
Mike  2026

Mike  2026

Father and son memories

 Remember this place, his grown son asked him. Of course, he answered, "This is the spot where you caught a fish with a stick and some fishing line you baited, wedged it between some rocks, then went exploring." His son laughed, remembering being told he not only caught a fish but a record-breaking fish with his crude pole.

Remember this place, his grown son asked him. Of course, he answered, this is the beach we walked for miles searching for treasures from the deep. We would take our treasures like one sneaker, plastic shovels and pails, pieces of ship's rope, broken surfboards, and whatever else we found back home where we'd hang them on the fence. I remember he said again.
Remember this place his grown son asked him? Of course I do, he answered. There used to be a bus station right over there, he pointed to. You were 16 years old that summer, and you were catching a bus to North Carolina to visit the girl of your dreams you met at a beach bonfire. You said you couldn't be without her, and your love was true. You played me pretty good; he told his dad and even bought me a ticket for the next bus just an hour away. I did, he said, hoping I could change your mind but leaving it up to you to decide. You climbed onto the bus, and I watched as you went out of sight, hoping I did the right thing by letting you go.
I remember you calling me, saying it was a mistake that her folks didn't welcome you and forbade their daughter from seeing you again. I told you I was coming home and was thankful for the bus fare you had stuffed in my pocket.
What else can you remember, Dad? His grown son asked. He was quiet for a minute, then, with a tear in his eye, he said he was sorry he couldn't remember more. He wished they had more time together, more laughs, and the little things like watching Sunday football together that meant a lot to him. But even after all these years, he remembers holding your hand as you walked through the forests like two explorers. Teaching you to drive a car, games of catch in the yard, and helping me do chores quickly so we didn't miss the father-and-son derby car competition, which we won for three years in a row.
Today they sit on a park bench, each with their own thoughts of years gone by, his son finally saying he does remember everything well everything that really mattered. Now multiply that by a hundred, and that's the amount of memories I carry with me about you, about us. How about a beer, Dad?" his son asked. "Maybe some wings," he answered. Sure thing, old man, as he took his father's hand and slowly walked away together towards another father-and-son memory.

Mike  2026

                                                                                  

Mike  2026