Memories fading light

 He smiled more when he remembered more than he forgot. It was like a light switch that toyed with him, going on, going off, and that space in between when his mind rested, not by choice.

It was hard work recalling his life, and even harder to keep the memories, as those pesky little memory crashers were always ready to strike again.
Doctors said his advanced stage of memory loss was common, and although there were some medications that may help to slow it down, he chose to let things happen as they would.
I watched him slow to answer questions, but I believed it was because he didn't want to miss anything, and if it took a bit longer, so be it. I often found him outside in the yard, looking left to right and back again, taking baby steps towards the road, but stopping short. He wasnt trying to hurt himself, he just wanted to remember the road, that simple.
Over time, he got worse, but we sat every day, sometimes in silence, letting facial expressions speak for themselves, which eventually became a sort of game between us. A touch to his mouth meant he was hungry. A tug on his ear meant turn up the programs he liked.
At bedtime, I'd hold his hand in mine, the wrinkles like a roadmap of his life, and the realization that the body wears out as the mind does, each fighting to be the last survivor.
At the end, we were holding hands as he slowly went to sleep, hopefully remembering all the memories he fought so hard to remember. He blinked twice, which meant he loved me, and tears fell from both our eyes as his journey was complete.

Mike 2026                                        

The secrets of the forest

 Deep into the forest, there were secrets untold to most. Secrets that dare not be spoken in casual conversation, or it's said demons will intervene, striking you down where you stand.

It was a beautiful autumn day with cool temps and colors like those of an artist's palette. My plan for the day was to drive to the state forest and hike the trails like I'd done many times before. Parking my truck in the visitors' parking area, I unloaded my backpack, checked for water bottles, and set off into the waiting arms of ancient grounds. It was like jumping into a shade of darkness as I took my first steps onto the trail I had no intention of walking on. I climbed over the rope and walked deeper into the unknown, now surrounded by darkness, with only pinpoints of light behind me.
Rumors said an ancient coven of witches lived in this forest as far back as the 1500s. They were a peaceful people who spent their time concocting nature's bounties into salves, creams, drinks, and potions, which they stored in an underground cave. The witches roamed the forest helping strangers in need, never asking for anything in return except total secrecy as to where they were seen. Legend has it that one peaceful day in the forest, the witches were ambushed and tried to escape, but all were caught and sentenced to death by fire. Someone had drawn a map of the burning spot so others could see where it began and ended. There were many maps, some old, others more recent, but the map he had purchased was from a local thrift shop. The shopkeeper, a unique kind of fellow with a knack for storytelling, told me that somewhere in the hundreds of items lining the shelves was the one true map of the forest. He told me to look around as he walked away into a curtained room with a sign warning people to stay out.
I spent hours on my first visit looking through old scripts of ancient lore. I leafed through hundreds of pages of local history, but so far, I have found only old newspapers depicting the times of witchcraft in the area. On my second day, I dug deeper and found a family journal written by a writer from a Northern state. It told of a covenant of witches that he and his family encountered while navigating the forest. They appeared out of nowhere, dressed in gray robes. One witch touched the horse's head, instantly calming it as she touched the rest with the same results. I continued to read the journal as the shopkeeper approached me and said that if I wanted to purchase the journal, I'd have to swear I'd never show it to anyone, never. And if my intent was to find the covenant, I'd have to use the map hidden within the pages of the journal.
The following morning, I set out for the forest and, with the journal in hand, began the almost impossible task of finding the convenient and the witches who called it home. On page twelve, a clue was written about a twisted, hundreds-of-years-old tree with a branch pointing due north. Page nineteen showed a clearing with people dancing around a fire, and on page twenty-seven, a cabin stood alone, surrounded by giant trees that had no branches. I followed the clues and, several hours of walking later, stopped in my tracks as I spotted a small cabin with smoke rising from the chimney. It was barely visible nestling among the heavy vines that almost covered the place entirely.
I was about to leave when the door opened. Five witches dressed in gray appeared. I don't know why I stood up and made myself visible, but I did. Suddenly, they floated toward me, their feet hovering inches above the ground. I wasn't exactly scared, but I was curious about the unknown. They circled me, guiding me toward the cabin. My voice was useless; my mouth wouldn't work, screams gone unheard. Inside, the cabin smelled of nature. Bunches of plants hung from the rafters, drying, I supposed. One witch touched my head, and I fell to the floor, unable to move my legs. Another forced me to drink from a clay cup. Within seconds, I was on an acid trip—or so it seemed, as I’d experienced in younger days.
Night arrived, and dozens of gray-clad witches gathered around the bonfire. They chanted words I couldn't understand. One took a mouthful of something and, like a circus fire breather, spat it in my face. It was warm yet cold. Another chanted inches from my face. Their words felt like the beginning of my end. I was trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape. I lost consciousness and did not know how long. When I woke, I was tied to a pole with vines. Fire circled at my feet, climbing higher. I tried to scream, but my mouth was sewn shut. The pain rose. Heat became a weapon. The last thing I remembered was screaming hard enough to break free, filling the night with cries no one would ever hear.
The rangers found my truck days later. A note on the windshield read, If you find this truck, I am dead. Use this copy of the map to find where I lie. The ranger showed his deputy, and they both laughed at another prank. There had been many. 'Call for a tow, deputy,' the ranger said. 'Let's get lunch. Something smells good.'                                       

Deep in the forest, there were secrets unknown to most. Secrets that dare not be spoken in casual conversation, or it's said a demon will intervene, striking you down where you stand.

Mike 2026

Jacks Harley shop

 I was just a kid when my love for the motorcycle bit me. The looks and unmistakable sound of a Harley grabbed me with a passion I'd yet to feel for anything or anyone in my young life. My uncle Jack owned a small motorcycle shop in town where he repaired bikes as long as they were Harleys. My uncle was a Vietnam veteran who learned his trade there, working in the motor pool. He once told me he could take a Harley apart and put it back together blindfolded. The army used bikes mostly to run messages from headquarters to battlefields, taking hits from snipers along the way, but in most cases made it safely back to camp, leaking oil and gas, and even riding in on two blown tires.

Upon his return, Jack used the GI bill to get a loan to start his business. He found a place in town that was once an automotive repair shop and had an apartment above it where he could live. I'd help him out on weekends, fixing the place up, nothing like a fresh coat of paint to make everything better. My uncle had already made a name for himself fixing bikes at a small storage facility, but it became too small, and the demand was too great, so he moved into town.
Uncle Jack loved Harleys, and knowing he would be a valued customer, Harley sent out a crew to paint his shop inside and out in black and orange, hang posters with the Harley logo, and even display a Harley show bike for the grand opening. When the big day finally arrived, my uncle gave me a new t-shirt with Harley across the back and the name of my uncle's shop on the front, reading Jack's Harley repairs.
It didn't take long as the sounds of Harleys roared down the street, coming to a stop at Jack's place. It seemed that the word had gotten out. Some of the bikers knew and respected Jack and his expertise, which was a valuable asset in Nam. It was like old home week as bike after bike roared into Jack's Mosely to wish him luck, but some were there for repairs or some custom work. It was a huge success with Jack booking fifteen bikes for various services next week.
A lot of people know how the Vietnam veterans were shunned at airports and down south still had to sit in the colored seats and drink out of colored drinking fountains. I forgot the exact date when a group of biker vets joined together to form a motorcycle club. It wasn't a weekend riding event; they even had their own clubhouse where they gathered to set plans in motion to make money, drink the human limit of beers, and grow the number of men wanting to join up. Their name was The Dark Angels. And they were all Nam vets. Over time, several chapters of the Dark Angels popped up, and when in need of anything Harley-related, they knew who to come to
The town folk didn't care much as Harley after Harley roared into Jack's shop, especially when they saw the club's logo of a Harley in a war zone, dodging sniper fire. Often, a bike is brought into the shop as a result of a crash. The owner, on crutches, spoke to Jack, asking him to restore it to its original beauty. Jack said he could, but don't rush him; it would be done when it was done. Business was crazy good, leaving little time for anything else but getting those bikes back on the road in his shop. I was a big help, Uncle Jack would say, changing oil and doing inspections so Jack could order parts when needed. He showed me something simple, like changing plugs or stripping down the engine for a complete rebuild.I learned by doing, and Uncle Jack never once yelled at me for not doing something right. He just calmly showed me again, and from that moment on, I could do most things blind folded.
Years passed, and I was a full-time mechanic at Uncle Jack's shop. I got to know the customers: some were very demanding, while others went with the flow, knowing their bike might be off the road for a while. The dark angels were as loyal as anybody could be. They spread the word about Jack's place, and on any given Saturday, you'd hear the roar of dozens of bikes coming to a stop in front of the shop. It was pickup day for an angel who had been waiting six months for his bike to be finished. His crutches were gone, and he was more than ready as he approached something covered with a tarp. That it, the biker asked. Jack just nodded it was, and pulled the tarp away. When I say you could hear a pin drop, I was serious. For a split second, I got a lump in my throat thinking the angel hated what he saw, but in a nanosecond, he began jumping up and down, fist-pumping, and even some manly hugs that passed quickly. It's amazing, Jack, you did well, no, amazing, whatever it was, perfect in his eyes.
More time passed, and Jack applied to open a Harley-Davidson dealership on a now-vacant patch of land about three blocks from his existing location. He had a half-million-dollar down payment and a reputation that was priceless in the biker community. After a couple of months and several meetings with Harley, Jack was approved for the dealership. On most days after closing up, my uncle Jack and I would walk to the dealership construction site to see what progress was being made, and, believe it or not, they were the fastest construction team we ever encountered. Jack hired shop workers, sales teams, parts managers, and office personnel, as well as a finance manager who did an amazing job getting people approved for a new or pre-owned bike.
Two days before the grand opening, a semi pulled up, loaded with 15 brand-new Harleys. We helped move them into the showroom, where the salesman dusted them off, removed the stickers, and arranged them throughout the showroom, where the overhead lights made them almost sparkle. Then we unloaded our own creations we'd built over the past four years. Two vintage pan heads and two Vietnam-era workhorse Harleys, Jack could tear down and put back together blind folded. As years passed and more and more people started riding Harleys, the business had to expand, so Jack bought the lot next to him and built a second showroom for antique bikes and military bikes, some with sidecars. He also displayed custom bikes he had designed for those weekend riders who didn't mind spending tens of thousands of dollars to be noticed. Unfortunately, some of those guys had never ridden before, except maybe on their neighbor's kids' dirt bike. On more than one occasion, Jack brought the wreck to the shop, negotiated a sale price with the owner, and then rebuilt it as new.
Uncle Jack retired years later, and I took over as the operations manager, a position I didn't take lightly. The business flourished, and it seemed like Harley was unstoppable as new models arrived daily. Bikes for rookie riders, old road dogs, and weekend warriors, all ready to catch the fever that burns brightly in all of us who belong on the road on two wheels. And that's about it, my friends. We were rated the number one Harley dealership in the entire state, but instead of cashing in and selling the place, Uncle ack and I raised a glass to everybody throughout the years who helped us get to where we are today. So what do you say, young man, another five years?
Mike  2026                                          

The window

 I sit looking out the window at the distant fields. In my mind, I see myself as a boy running through the cornfields. When my youth and strong legs once seemed limitless. Eventually, I ran out of breath and had to rest. The house was at least a mile away. The walk was quiet, except for the wind racing through the corn. As I got closer, my dog Randy came running. He was 14 now, no longer fast. His once-athletic body had fallen prey to old age, as it had us all. He walked beside me like he had done his entire life. Randy passed away the next year, and with great sorrow, I buried him on the hill he loved to climb overlooking the farmhouse that he called home.

Looking out the window again, I can see my dad working on a broken-down tractor, cursing like a drunken sailor until Mom came out on the porch, pointing upwards, meaning god was watching him. Dad laughed but promised her he'd tone it down. I can clearly see fresh-cut grass under an oak tree, where picnic tables were set up as a Sunday picnic was taking shape.

I sit at the window and see rows of cars and trucks coming up the dirt road, going slowly so as not to stir up the dust. Handshakes all around and kisses on the cheeks for the little ones, some escaping under a picnic table to avoid a pinch on the cheek that left a mark the entire day.

I can smell the meat cooking on the grill and dish after dish of good cooking, all brought together today to celebrate and give thanks for the bounty they have been blessed with. I sat looking out the window, the shadows began to fade, and the old picnic table, now pieces of the past, returned to the ground from which it came. The cars and trucks drove into the future with well-fed and tired kids falling fast asleep for the long ride home.

My life was outside that window, the good and the bad, the lessons learned, and the word of God. Mom reminded all of us at any given time. My races through the cornfields with Randy, both of us in our youth and unstoppable. Standing outside, cameras clicked countless times as my date and I said goodbye on our way to the Spring dance with a stern warning from her father to me that there would be hell to pay if she wasn't home by midnight. Pictures of a first tooth lost, a new bicycle for a birthday, and a few pictures mom didn't approve of, like when she was working in her garden.

As the years went speeding by and death appeared at our door on numerous occasions, I lost something inside of me, with every one but my memories were strong, and I called on them every day as I looked out that window and replayed my journey over and over again. wondering who would look out my window when all they would see was a pane of glass and a few smudge marks where I pushed my nose against it as Randy went running by.

Mike   2026                                                                

The woods speak to me

 As a boy, my favorite place to be was in the woods. And I was fortunate to have one just pass our house's property line. It was declared a sanctuary, meaning all who lived in those woods were protected by law. No hunting or trapping, no guns or arrows. In other words, man was not welcome. Well, except me. I'd spend as much time as I could between school and chores walking through the huge trees, with the white birch being my favorite. My granddad told me the Indians used birch to make canoes because it was easy to bend and shape and never leaked.

When I ventured into the unknown of the woods, so thick with saplings and vines entwined, it was as if the darkness stole the sunlight, leaving a musty smell and dampness that remained with me as long as I chose to stay, before I went back into the light.
I often sat on a fallen tree to listen to the sounds of the woods. The soft chirping of a nearby squirrel warned others that I was close by. The bubbles from a brook racing down stream on its journey, and my favorite sound, the winds blowing through the mighty pines whose presence couldn't be ignored.
The darkness came quickly in the woods, chasing me home as I stepped over the boundaries into my backyard and into a fading light. I would lie in my bed at night, the windows open, the sounds of the night woods filling me with a calm that eased me into a peaceful sleep.I belonged in the woods, and the woods belonged to the creatures and trees.
Winters in the woods were magical, and the first snowfall seemed to always happen in the stillness of night under the light of the moon shining down on a blanket of white.I would slowly step past the boundary into a place where the animals didn't fear me anymore, and some even called to me in one voice or another. On my winter visits, I brought a bag of fruits and vegetables to feed the smallest of the critters, who often went hungry because of their size.
I believe my unknown number of walks in the woods helped shape me into who I am today. I step quietly so as not to disturb anyone, I feed the less fortunate, and I listen more than I speak.I appreciate the sounds of the winds and the moonlight guiding my way. But most important is the harmony between nature and me that warms my heart. My ashes will be scattered in my beloved woods next to a white birch, where I will remain within the earth and in the breeze of the giant pines.
Mike  2026                                             

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