Just life

 The old trailer he lived in for 15 years has shown signs of wear and neglect. Once there were trimmed bushes and flower gardens he took great pride in, as did his neighbors, who always gave him a thumbs-up or a shout-out from a passing car; things were looking good. As time wore on, his health grew worse, and he watched as his pride and joy became an eyesore he could hardly bear to see. On good days he'd do his best to trim a bush or weed a garden, but as life sometimes does, he grew weary and went back inside. His trailer resembled a thrift store, with mementos from places he went, pictures of family, and a large assortment of knickknacks only he liked. Snow globes, miniature plastic soldiers, a chessboard set up and waiting for his next challenger. But it's been gathering dust for an unknown time. He had a wall shelf filled with books, most of which he had read, sometimes twice. He loved the classics like moby dick, Tom Sawyer, and collections of westerns. But his favorite pastime was writing. Putting words together came easily to him, so much so that it wasn't uncommon for him to write well into the night when he'd turn out the lights and write by candlelight—the softly glowing light, like dancers in a valley, with the winds their music.

He realized he was old now and memories were his companions, called upon to take him back to the days of his youth when just a few lines were visible, mostly laugh lines he said, but now a well-worn roadmap of a life well lived. He was alone, the kids grown, choosing to live many miles away, for his liking, but who was he to tell them how to live their lives? They never forgot his birthday, usually with a phone call rather than a card, and he liked that, as he got to say hello to the grandkids who barely knew him except for the stories their parents told. Holidays came and went with another call or a box of goodies at Christmas. He ate his meals in front of the television, watching a world he didn't understand, sometimes clicking it off to finish his meal in silence.
He kept up with his medications and tried to exercise but usually quit before he should have, as a freezer pop kept calling to him. He knew for certain he wasn't alone in his trailer, as many signs led him to believe the spirits of those who called this place their home before death made themselves known by turning lights on and off, blowing the curtains on a dead-still night, and moving things around where they didn't belong. After a long time, everything quit, and he surmised they had left to haunt someone else.
He sometimes missed his younger days when everything was new, and adventure was his middle name. He longed for trimmed bushes and gardens of wildflowers, the smell of a rose and a home-cooked meal. But he had his mind that could still call out to him, begging to write a story, a memory come alive, and he smiled a toothless grin and began to write.    

Mike 2026        

Mike  2026

Things that go bump

 Walking down the city streets, a shoulder bump can be commonplace unless you bump too hard. That's how we met, although neither of us knew it at the time. Fast forward a few days, and I'm grabbing some lunch at the Woolworths lunch counter and see you doing the same. There was something familiar about you that I couldn't put my finger on. Standing in line at the cashier, I looked and saw her digging in her purse, not looking where she was going, and instead of moving out of her way, I let her bump my shoulder. That was when the lightbulb went on, and I realized it was her I bumped into a few days ago. How could I forget her golden hair and ruby red lips? The way she looked at me for a microsecond as if she was hurt, then walked on faster. What are the odds we meet again, with a bump being our introduction? I helped her pick up the contents of her purse as she apologized more than once, and I assured her no harm had come of it.

Things happen in the hustle of city streets, with hundreds of people trying to get somewhere, dodging each other as cell phones mirror the number of people lost in a maze, with places to go and people to see, all part of their chosen lives in a concrete jungle. So what's the chance our meeting wasn't a sign of some sort, but a deliberate act of bumping shoulders and exchanging business cards? Time answered that question the day I happened upon her card while looking for something in my wallet. With nothing to lose, I phoned her and asked her out for coffee, and she eagerly agreed.
All the people on those city streets with hundreds of shoulder bumps and cross looks, my shoulder chose yours to bump, and in that very brief instant I knew it wasn't a mistake but rather a message from the universe. A message at the lunch counter and a message to see a bump as a sign that some things do go bump in the night, so pay attention as you walk the city streets, wondering if your one true love walks beside you, ready to bump shoulders and see what happens.

                                                                     

                                                                      

Mike 2026

When kids were kids

 When I was a kid, the best times were had at the parks. Not theme parks, just city or county parks where a family could have a picnic and sometimes aunts and uncles, cousins, and friends all met to enjoy a day of hot dogs and burgers on the grill. One park in particular was well known for a slide that was the highest for miles around. There were twenty-five steps to reach the top, barely enough room to sit down, and letting go as you sped down the steel monster at record speeds, all the while praying you would have a soft landing, unscathed. There were two humps on the slide to slow you down a little, and for kids who didn't weigh much, it wasn't uncommon to get some air as they sped down, screaming with joy, then raced around to the stairs for another go.

Back then, parents let kids be kids, and although it was well known that every mom gasped a little looking at their kid forty feet in the air with nothing to protect them but a handrail to hang on to. Somehow, one kid, somewhere in time, realized that if you rubbed the steel down with waxed paper, you'd increase your speed, so naturally we had to try that, and it really did work. If there was a time when your picnic was in the heat of summer, you dare not wear just shorts to go down the slide, as steel gets very hot and your butt would surely be burned. I can still see a kid with his pants down as his mom tended to his burned rear end.
What was it back in those days when parents allowed their kids to play on rides like the slides and go around on a wooden circular platform that, when pushed faster and faster around in a circle, gravity got you. It was all you could do to stay on until you couldn't and were tossed off, crashing to the ground like a rag doll. And who was the genius who invented the sea-saw on a large scale? The trick was to have two kids close in weight, so when one pushed off the ground, the other kid would be twenty feet in the air, stuck there until the other kid went through the same motions, until one kid decided he'd had enough and got off his seat, causing the other to crash hard on the ground. Oh, the good times.
And what about the spring animals? Farm animals were the choice of the person who devised those whiplashed amusements. The object was to rock back and forth and side to side as the heavy-duty springs whipped you around close to the sky one minute and nose-diving to earth the next. The only saving grace was that little kids couldn't bend those springs as the older kids could, so all they got was a gentle ride on their favorite farm animal.
Today, a place like that would never be allowed. Too dangerous, especially since no protective gear was worn, and if you got hurt, Dad would decide if it was bad enough to require stitches. I think today is all about safety, and that's okay, but where did the sense of adventure go?  Playgrounds are all plastic with mounds of mulch to land on. Fiberglass slides and monkey bars that let your feet touch ground. I suppose I'm just old-fashioned, and I proved that a few weeks ago when I drove to the park I went to as a kid. The steel slide was still there, although it didn't look so intimidating as I climbed the 25 stairs, sat down, and let go of the rails as I raced down the steel monster, laughing all the way until my old rear end hit the ground, leaving me to wonder if I was still in one piece and had no broken bones. I thought for a minute I saw Mom running towards me with her first-aid kit, but it was just Mom bringing her kid a happy meal.

Mike  2026                                                                    

                                                

 
MIKE  2026

The smells of life

 I will never forget certain scents that were all a part of who I am. The smell of mom's perfume is my first smell and will probably be my last as she guides me to the heavens. The smell of Dad's pipe and the sweet smell of captian black tobacco.A smell that has sometimes lingered in my room.The smell of clothes drying on a backyard clothesline, sun-drenched with the scent of lemons.The smell of fresh cut grass and burning pine from a campfire. The smells of the mountains are a smorgasbord of scents, like wet moss, dying leaves, wildflowers, and hidden patches of homegrown herbs. The scent of sweat in the forest, disguised with patchouli oil, spread across the land like wildfire. The smell of a new album and the smell of electricity coming from a group of hopeful songwriters.

The smell of gasoline and motor oil dripping from my Harley, and the scents of the roadside that passed by too quickly as I rode through them, too fast to notice. The smell of a greasy 24-hour diner, with smells on a plate that turned into smiles.Bacon and eggs, pancakes with smily faces and coffee brewed just right. Ashtrays overflowing with burned-out butts and a handful of scented mints from a bowl at the checkout counter. The unforgettable smell of new leather and fringed jackets.
The smells of the ocean and a warship that took me to far-away places. The smell of jet fuel and paint. Waiting in line for a tray full of what I'm not sure of, but soon learned that powdered eggs have no smell. The countries I traveled to, each with its own unique smell. A sidewalk cafe in France that smelled of warm biscuits, opened bottles of wine, and blocks of cheese. Spain with smells of bullfights and scooters everywhere, leaving behind clouds of exhaust. Greece that smelled like centuries ago, the aromas of carefully prepared foods, the scents pouring through windows with no glass.
For four years, I traveled the globe and experienced countless smells of cultures trying to hang on to the old ways. Some places in the Middle East had a smell all their own, a combination of smells that had been around for generations.  I was amazed by the scent of moisture from tropical forests and by the sheer number of different scents in just one place.
Growing old now, my sense of smell has all but left me. Guess I used my nose to the point of being used up. But the strange thing is I may not smell things like I once did, but I can call upon a memory any time to relive the smells of children playing and laundry drying. I can smell the inside of the ice cream truck as lawn sprinklers shoot out well water that smells like rotten eggs. I can smell my wife's perfume and kids with mouthfuls of captian crunch. I can smell the chocolates in a heart-shaped Valentine before it's opened, and when I feel the need to be alone, I go to an empty church and smell the incense and candles slowly wafting into my nose, giving me a sense of calm and quiet reflections of scents I hold close to my heart.

Mike  2026                                                               

A dog named Ralphy

 As I walked down the alley I used to take to school, I caught that musty smell, which I later found to be rotting wood and decay. There was someone's German Shepherd in a fenced area that contributed to that smell, and for some reason, I could smell it no matter how far away it was. The dog is long gone, but its collar lay almost hidden under a pile of debris, so I picked up a stick, and after several attempts I got it to the fence and pulled it under where I wiped off the tag that read, name-Ralphy-address 1212 filmore st. phone-ludlo5678.That told me old rRalphy was in his prime about sixty years ago. Just around the time I walked down that alley and passed him on my way to school. I found the house he belonged to and knocked on the door. An elderly lady answered, and I introduced myself and showed her the collar. Oh my she said, old Ralphy. A tear ran down her face as she told me the story of her 15-year friendship with him. They were inseparable; no matter where she went, Ralphy was by her side. Her dad built the caged area Ralphy stayed in when she was at school, and I told her we must have known each other back then, as I saw him every day to and from school. She said her name was Mary Wilkes but changed it to Mary Silverman when she married. I introduced myself as Mark Willis. She excused herself for a minute, returning with a school yearbook she'd kept all these years. She pointed to herself and then to me, both about eight years old. From that day forward, Mary and I have stayed in touch thanks to a dog named Ralphy. The collar is hanging on the hook she used to hang his leash, a reminder of countless walks and fetching sticks. Belly rubs and wet kisses. And a grade school yearbook that was saved for just that moment in time.  

Mike  2026                                                            

Mike  2026

Dreams of flight

 When asked what I wanted to be as a kid, my answer was quick to come out of my mouth: a bird. I practiced flying by jumping off the doghouse, but only hit the ground time and again. I'd try running as fast as I could wearing a sheet off the clothesline, which got me in trouble and still no air. So I went into my dad's workshop to look for anything I could use to soar in the sky. I came across a box labeled "school play" and opened it. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the angel wings my sister wore in a class play. I quickly got to work making alterations to fit me properly, then I devised a system of ropes attached to the wings so I could control them. I climbed onto the garage roof, which gave me a longer takeoff area, as it was a two-car garage. I decided not to jump off the roof of the house, as it could end up being a nasty fall to the ground below.

As I was just about ready to go, my folks and my sisters came outside and saw me standing on the garage roof, wings spread and all controls working properly. My mom grabbed her chest as Dad made a marathon run to the garage. I knew if he reached me, I'd never get another chance to fly. So I took in a deep breath and began running as fast as I could, and then it happened. My feet left the ground, and with a tug of the ropes, I began to fly. I was as high as the apple tree; I barely missed hitting it, then I soared around the yard watching as my family below grew smaller. Using some very off-color commands, my dad ordered me to come down at once.  I knew I was probably in for a good whooping, but it would be worth it, as my dream of flight had really happened.
I wanted to take my wings to school for show-and-tell, but my mom put her foot down, saying she didn't want to get a call from the principal telling her I was jumping off the school's roof. The wings went back into the box labeled Mike's wings and were put up in the attic for good. I never lost my dreams of flying, and when I learned the local college was offering flying lessons, I signed up, and within a short time I was behind the controls of a Cessna plane. I can't really describe the feelings I had while soaring with the birds and looking down at our garage roof, where it all began. All I know is I'm at my best, high above the ground, laughing like a kid whose dream came true. 

Mike  2026

Things that go BOO in the night

 A pair of baby shoes swings slowly on the rearview mirror. A small statue sits on the dashboard, which Mom would touch every time she drove.

A horseshoe hung above the front door for luck, and never did you step on a crack, or you'd break your mother's back. There were four-leaf clovers encased in plastic for a keychain and a shiny new penny tucked into your shoe to keep you safe from evil.
A pinch of salt thrown behind you at the dinner table and a sprig of sage to rid the house of uninvited guests. Baseball players making the sign of the cross and tapping their cleats twice before going to bat. Placing stones on a headstone for a speedy ascent to the heavens.
Everyone has some fears we half-believe, usually handed down from generation to generation and accepted as fact. And what about those scary things handed down like monsters under the bed, spirits in the closet, and faces at the window? Nightmares so real you might wet yourself as your screams could wake the dead. Parents run to your rescue, soothing you and having Dad look under the bed and in the closets anywhere a monster could be hiding.
Eventually we grow out of monsters but never let go of maybe seeing one, so you make sure every night your legs and feet aren't dangling off the bed no matter your age. You carry your lucky charms without anyone knowing and panic when you've forgotten them. It's a scary world we live in, and I, for one, can never have enough lucky charms to ward off anything that goes boo in the night. Pleasant dreams.

                                                                          

Mike  2026