Getting results

 I took my son fishing when he was old enough to hold a pole. Down by the river in a spot I've been fishing for a long time. There were good-sized rocks all around us, and being a kid, he liked to explore everything around him. I noticed him getting bored with just standing there in one spot and tuning out whatever it was I was talking to him about, so I turned him loose, and off he went. A little while later, he came up to me holding a stick he had found and asked if he could make his own fishing pole. Why not, I thought to myself, he didn't know I spent a small fortune buying him the best rod and reel available. He took a spool of fishing line and wrapped it around his stick, then tied on a hook and a bobber. He baited the hook and tossed his line about ten feet offshore, then jammed the stick between two rocks, and once satisfied, he wandered off again.

Alone with my thoughts, I glanced beside me and noticed I didn't see his bobber, and the line was taught. I yelled for him to come check his line, and as he unwedged the stick and gave it a good tug, a good-sized trout showed itself. He held on tight as he walked backward until the fish was on shore, and he wore a smile that's forever etched in my mind and my heart. I suppose there is a moral to this story that it doesn't matter what you use to get results as long as you have fun getting them.

Mike 2026                                                            

Waiting for Mom

 We waited for our mom to get home from the city, but she didn't come. The snow was falling, and the cold seeped through us as we watched the school bus driver try to keep the bus on the slippery road. She asked us if we'd be okay, and we assured her our mom would be here soon. My sister was just a couple of years older than me, and I looked to her to get us inside, away from the now-blizzard conditions. But the doors were locked, and we didn't have a key. I guessed that Mom knew she'd be home in time to meet the school bus, but we thought she'd been stranded in the city as the snow kept coming.

There was a corner store named Ben's Grocery just under the railroad bridge, and my sister said we should walk there and ask to use the phone to call our dad. She produced a small piece of paper with his work number, which she kept tucked into her boots as we trudged through what felt like an eternity before reaching the store.

The frozen bell on the door clanked rather than rang as we entered the store, as Ben got off his stool behind the counter and hurried over to us, grabbing a couple of blankets off the shelf, giving each of us some welcome warmth. Ben's wife came downstairs and, seeing us, sprang into action, climbing the steps to her kitchen and putting the kettle on to make us some hot cocoa. We told them that our mom hadn't come back from the city, and the school bus dropped us off in front of our house, leaving us stranded. My sister remembered the piece of paper and asked to use their phone to call our dad, but Ben told us the lines were down and the phone didn't work. He said we were better off to just wait there until the blizzard was over, and we could only hope our mom would turn up.

Then the bell clanked, and the door opened, and my sister and I stared at the tall man with a long coat covered in snow. He had to duck down to get inside and introduced himself as our uncle Larry. Our mom's brother, whom we'd heard about over the years but never met. He told us our mom called him from the city where the phones worked and asked him to go to our house and get us until she could get home. It seemed that Uncle Larry was just passing through for a couple of days, and she knew he'd be at the neighborhood bar he had always frequented when he was passing through. Thankfully, he was there.

Our parents had always told us to never go anywhere with a stranger, and he was just that, a stranger. Ben and his wife didn't know what to do or say to the tall stranger, except maybe that the kids could stay there and wait for their mom. Uncle Larry agreed and offered us some candy, but our parents always told us to never take candy from a stranger. He tried to make conversation, but we remained silent because our parents had taught us never to talk to strangers. Then, after what felt like a lifetime, our mom came through the door, hugging both of us so tightly we could barely breathe. She hugged Uncle Larry, and when he told her he had tried to get us to go with him, they refused because of everything they had been taught.

Later on, back in our warm home, Dad finally made it home, and we all had dinner together, including Uncle Larry, who, it was said, never grew tired of telling the story about my sister and me and a frigid day waiting for our mom.

Mike 2026                                                           

Missing Mom

 My mom would soothe me back to sleep after a nightmare. She would stroke my hair and sing a lullaby, softly, the one her mom sang to her. I remember how her face looked and imagined she was wishing it was her and not me with the nightmares.

I remember her telling me my school drawing of our family was as good as she had ever seen and sticking it to the fridge with a magnet from someplace we went on vacation.
I remember standing on my tiptoes, looking over the counter as she made bread, and she surprised me by putting some flour on the tip of my nose. Then there was the special treat she made for me with leftover dough. She would roll a ball, then flatten the middle, fill it with grape jelly, and bake it to a golden brown.
I remember her chasing me around the house with the vacuum cleaner, laughing all the while as I desperately tried to outrun her. I remember sitting on the front porch as she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and all I could think of was being her son.
She's been gone six years now, and all I have left are some pictures and a heart full of memories. But she's close by, and I relive as many moments as I can to see me through another day without her.

Mike 2026                                                            

Laughter and tears

 I feel her presence almost daily. I see her smile and hear her endless bouts of laughter. I picture how she must look as I fight time and wonder if she will look the same as I remember. My memories have brought me back to forgotten times and places we once shared when we were young and so much in love. And for that I'm grateful.

I feel her presence when a soft wind blows, and her perfume fills the moment, if only briefly. I feel her with me as I say goodnight to an empty space beside me, and I shed tears until sleep eventually comes.
I feel her presence in simple things like a monarch butterfly resting on a branch of the tree I planted for her on her 30th birthday. Or a songbird singing a song when she hushed me so she didn't miss a note. She would clap at the end of its song, laughing that laugh I grew to love and cherish.
I feel her presence everywhere I look, every place we ever went, and every second spent with her for the time we had together. There is such a thing as falling in love at first sight because we did just that. Two hearts beating as one until two became one, along with the memories of laughter and tears.

Mike 2026                                                      

A fisherman's story

 His wife said he was possessed by the fishing bug. Not a day went by since he retired to the lake house they built decades ago that he didn't shove off in his small boat right at sunrise with rods and reels, a cooler, and a favorite cigar. He valued the silence on the lake and therefore didn't have a motor, just oars to move him around to a few choice spots where catching fish was guaranteed. He seldom kept what he caught, throwing them back to grow larger and give him a better fight should they meet again.

The years passed, and he kept fishing, catching his fair share of lake trout and other species, all of which were put back to grow. Occasionally hed see another boat on the lake, usually on weekends when the weekend warriors drank beer and talked loud enough to scare any fish for miles. They would get close enough to him and hold up stringers of dead or dying fish, a few barely legal in size.

He would pull up his anchor and row away as quickly as he could, as the sight of them made him sick to his stomach. He knew they wouldn't eat what they caught, as it was all about bragging rights to them, and he bet that when they called it a day, they tied up at the dock and threw the fish away.

 He had an idea he shared with his wife, who agreed it would be a valuable and expensive lesson for the weekend warriors. He had a good friend who worked for Fish and Game, and he told him about the weekend fish slayers and that he thought they needed a quick lesson in fishing etiquette. The warden hid around a bend until he saw firsthand how they treated their catches, like letting them roll around the deck of the boat until they died from lack of oxygen. Or how one guy put a lit cigarette into a fish's mouth and watched as it looked like the fish was smoking. He had had enough and hit the blue lights as he sped towards the weekend warriors.

He tied off to the boat and pulled out his violations book, asking for ID from everyone. " What's wrong?" one guy asked. "All we're doing is having some fun."Yeah, me to the warden replied and began writing tickets. Seeing as how all four of you violated the law, I'm going to give each of you the same fine. He handed each of them a ticket with a two-thousand-dollar fine.

What happens next he asked his friend. Well, they will have an interesting ride home trying to explain to their wives how their bank accounts are two thousand dollars less. But is what you did legal, charging them so much? Oh, I'll wait a few days and resend the tickets, giving them some time to realize not abiding by the law can be costly. I'll drop the fines to one hundred each, but one thing I'm fairly certain of, you won't be seeing them on the lake for a while. And you can go on fishing in peace and quiet.

About two months later, as he was sitting in his boat, a line out and his favorite cigar nearing the end, he felt his line grow taut, and he grabbed his rod and began what would later be told over breakfast tables across the county, the biggest fight of his life was on. He fought the giant for an hour, his small boat being pulled right alongside it, until finally it wore itself down, allowing him to net the biggest lake trout that had ever been caught in the lake. He carefully removed the hook, and with a few rubs on its belly, the giant swam away to be caught another day.

Mike 2026                                                              

A tale of the sea

 The sea was rough, violent at times, like a fisherman's bobber when getting a big hit. The swells grew to great heights as the captain fought to keep her upright, knowing that at any time a rogue wave could appear out of nowhere and send the ship to Davy Jones' Locker.

Down below, the crew latched themselves to anything to keep from being tossed around like rag dolls as cargo shifted, posing a great danger to life and limb. The smell of vomit and the cries of the youngest shipmates echoed against the wind that passed through the wooden vessel.
On deck, the giant sails lay scattered and torn, the masts bending with every powerful gust of Neptune's fury. The captain and first mate, blinded by the salt spray, tied themselves to the helm every second, a challenge to stay afloat.
Minutes seemed like hours and hours like days as the crippled ship beat the odds and survived the journey. A new day arrived with calming seas and gentle winds, and the tasks of repairing what they could with what little they had. Portholes were opened, letting the fresh air in, and decks were scrubbed by the youngest of sailors who now knew the meaning of sea sickness.
The ship made port on the seventh day after the storm. Battered but not beaten, and sailors long to feel the ground beneath their feet. Weeks passed, and the ship was repaired and ready to sail once again as supplies were brought on board and a few new sailors replaced the lads whose stomachs couldn't take another round of Mother Nature.
Back at sea, the captain leaned against a rail, smoking his pipe, looking at the calm seas and guiding stars, wondering what this journey would bring. But that wasn't of concern as he knew he and his crew would face anything the gods of the seas threw at them. They were sailors, and sailors would accept nothing less than to be buried at sea should their ship succumb to nature's fury.

One month passed, and one more storm was approaching. Another Nor'easter, more powerful than their last encounter with an angry sea. The captain kept his composure as he shouted commands to the deckhands, some with fear in their eyes, and to other old salts, who sang seafaring songs to ease the fear of the unknown.
It was a rogue wave that beat them. The wooden ship was battered by forces that couldn't be beaten as masts snapped and tons of crushing sea came down upon them with a vengeance. All that remained of the ship were splinters of wood bobbing up and down like that fisherman's bobber. Screams of drowning sailors turned to silence as one by one they found themselves in Davy Jones ' locker, where they remain to this day.
Some say the ship can be seen in all its glory sailing the sea, its captain leaning against a rail, smoking his pipe, as sailors line the deck, singing sea-faring songs. Probably just another tale of the sea, but who's to say?                                                                 

Mike 2026

Old truck new life

 He didn't look up from the task at hand. He had to finish fixing the truck he uses every day around the farm. Mom said he should replace it with something newer, but he argued that his old truck only needed some TLC once in a while, usually sooner rather than later. Today it was the starter, so yesterday he hitched a ride into town, where the auto zone came up with a replacement starter. The kid behind the counter was blowing the dust off the box and laughing when he whispered to him that, from now on, he'd have to special-order any more parts for his old truck.

As he left the store, he saw a couple of his old buddies lingering around the store. It seemed to have become a meeting place to swap stories about their farms, equipment, and the rising prices. He stopped to chat for a minute, but needed to get the truck running again, so he said goodbye and left.
His son, who just turned eleven, was waiting for him as he got home. It seemed he told him he could help fix the truck, which he had forgotten, but it was okay, as he valued the time they spent together. The boy was learning about the various tools and their uses, and he soon became very well-versed in every tool in the toolbox. The garage became like a surgery room as tools were requested and quickly handed to dad, never once giving him the wrong tool." Fire it up," his dad said as the kid slid into the truck and turned the key, to the sound of a healed victim of age.
Five years passed, and the kid got his driver's license and also inherited the old truck he knew inside out. Some of the kids pointed and laughed as he pulled into the parking lot, asking whether the scrapyard had reported it missing. He didn't respond, but little did they know he had saved enough money from his chores to send it off to the body shop for a complete makeover. New sheet metal and body filler were used, along with primer, and everything was sanded by hand until it was as smooth as a baby's rear end. He had chosen a dark cherry-red color with a black leather interior. A set of deep-dish chrome wheels finished it off, and it was ready to show to his family and friends.
Dad was more excited than anyone else as he walked around the old truck, rubbing its glossy shine and acting like a kid at Christmas. That can't be the same truck, he said as he climbed in and marveled at the chrome instruments and the soft leather seating. The cherry on the cupcake was an antique license tag that only vehicles over twenty years old could display.
On Monday morning, as he pulled into the school parking lot, kids turned towards a rumbling sound some knew as dual exhaust with cherry-bomb mufflers. Some ran towards it in awe at what they were seeing, as he parked and took out a soft towel to rub away any handprints. Even the principal and a few teachers came over to have a look at the beautiful truck, the one he had been asked about, to see if the scrap yard was missing a truck.
His truck rode in the town's parades as well as custom cars and trucks events around the county. He took home his fair share of trophies, and when he went off to college, he wrapped it in a tarp and stored it in the barn. Four years passed, and with a diploma in hand, he returned home and uncovered his truck. His dad helped him change oil and put the tires back on while his little brother softly wiped every inch of it with a soft cloth. The three of them hopped in and headed for town, where people shouted hello with thumbs up and whistles.
He kept that truck to someday give to his son, but that was years away, and he couldn't take it to his new job five hundred miles away, so he put the tarp back on and stored it once again in dads barn where its been said he would start it up sometimes listening to the rumble of the cherry bomb mufflers and the smell of leather. He smiled as he saw a picture of himself and his eldest son standing next to a rusted, almost always broken truck, paperclipped to the visor.

Mike 2026