County fair memories

 We stood in line to ride the carousel on a cool autumn day. Puffy clouds and blue skies made for the perfect day for my grandson and me. I looked at him as he looked around his small hand in mine, and I wondered what it would feel like to be him one more time.

It was a Saturday in 1960, and the county fair was in town. Like most seven-year-olds, I had saved some money all year for just this day when our family would head for the fairgrounds, ready to enjoy all it had to offer. Funnel cakes and cotton candy, popcorn and candy apples, and all those rides.

Dad stood in line to buy our tickets, while my sisters and I couldn't stand still as we watched the many rides and screaming kids. I remember my Mom telling us the usual mom things like don't touch the water fountains and don't lose sight of each other. 

Every year at the fair, Dad would give each of us a ten-dollar bill to do with what we wanted, but when it was gone, it was gone, and there would be no more. Most of the rides were three tickets each, worth a quarter, so we chose the rides carefully so we didn't use them up too fast.

Running from one ride to the next, we'd wait our turn at the Ferris wheel and bumper cars. Giant swings and slides so high that they gave me butterflies. Every once in a while, we'd report back to mom and dad, who sat in the big tent where dad drank some beers and mom talked to friends. She would see us and wave, which was her signal to go ahead and have fun. I remember there was a dance floor in the tent, and when the sun was about to set, the band would start playing, and the large group of parents and grandparents put on their dancing shoes and danced to their favorite songs, bringing back memories of their own.

I loved the fair at night, when all the rides lit up with colored lights, and I was sure they could be seen for miles away. As the night began to wear on, my sisters and I headed for the main attraction, the wooden rollercoaster. A true beast with hairpin curves and speeds up to 50 miles per hour. This year, my little sister just made the mark on the wooden policeman that showed your height, and if you were as tall as his mark, you could ride the monster coaster.

Standing in line to wait your turn was pure terror, as the coaster cars screamed past and above you, kids screaming their heads off, until it finally came to a stop. Each car sat two, so my sisters rode together, and I, well, I rode alone. Once seated, the cars were locked, and we began the slow climb to the top of the tracks. The clanking of the chains filled you with even more fear, and then the moment you'd been waiting for all day was about to happen. The cars took a nosedive, pointing straight down and moving so fast your lips quivered and your stomach did somersaults as you headed for dead man's curve. Around and around you flew the screams of my sisters in the car behind me, sounding like sheer terror as the mighty ride came to a stop and everybody got off, vowing to ride it again.

We left the fair tired and fulfilled, and dad even won a giant stuffed bear at the shooting gallery that he gave to my younger sister, who named it Bob for reasons unknown. One tradition we had was that before we left, we would ride the carousel as a family. Mom and Dad sat on a colorful bench while my sisters and I picked out a mighty steed with flared nostrils, a large ostrich, and for me, a jet black stallion. Round and around we went, the music of the carousel ringing in our ears. and the realization that our day at the fair had come to an end.

My grandson was too small for the big-boy rides, but we had great fun in kiddy land, riding the mini versions of bumper cars and small boats that circled in the water. We took a mini train ride around the fairgrounds, and my favorite part was the six jets that flew in circles on chains, with toy guns mounted on their wings that made gunshots. We finished our day at the fair by riding the carousel. He chose a lion, and I chose a jet-black stallion with flaring nostrils. As we left the fair, my grandson stood next to the wooden policeman, looking at the mark he had to reach to ride the coaster, and said, " Grampa, next year will be my year.

Mike  2026                                                     

One word at a time

 She kept a journal of her life overflowing with words written on gold paper. By all accounts, her life was a simple one, filling her days and nights with precious moments, smiles, and tears of both joy and sorrow.

She often wrote about her husband. A simple man who trusted God with everything and had a genuine fear of hell. He treated her like a princess and brought her flowers for no reason other than he loved her.
They raised two children to be happy and trust their heads and their hearts because both would be a part of their lives. They were tough at times when lessons had to be given for crossing a line, but they never went to bed mad and always got a good-night kiss.

Their home was cozy, with homemade curtains and tablecloths; knick-knacks filled a corner stand, mementos of places they went, mostly no more than a few miles away. A snow globe from the general store with a small Santa and his reindeer looking back at you as snow danced around inside. A small salt and pepper shaker with two farmers, each holding a small sign telling you which was which.
She wrote something every day in that journal, no matter what was going on with her life, good or not so good. Class plays, concerts, and Halloween costumes made in the light of a single bulb. Senior prom and more time spent sewing for a dress that made them cry as she came down the stairs.

She lost count of the pets, but she believed there were seven dogs, five cats, two turtles, and a couple of hamsters, all cherished and buried in a pet cemetery out behind the giant oak tree. Dad made wooden crosses for all of them, and it wasn't uncommon to find him standing looking over them and remembering the joy they brought into their lives.
Her journal, written on golden paper, is heavy now, as thousands of words, sentences, and chapters fill its pages. Who knows, maybe nobody will ever read them, and that's okay, as the memories belong to her. She didn't write it for anybody but herself. But if it's read, she hopes they will know the woman, the wife, the mother, and a friend to many who wrote her life's story one word at a time.

Mike  2026                                            

History lessons

 Time slipped away from me, taking me off guard. One minute I was in my prime, then BANG I was a history book. But that's important for the little ones who never run out of questions about anything and everything under the sun, and somehow, I've always been able to quench their thirst for answers. 

What makes the sun so bright? How do birds fly? What makes a waterfall fall? As adults, we just chalk it up to age and learning is just a tool we use every day, but then I think about their little selves with a virgin brain screaming for answers for anything and everything they question. They see the world around them but don't understand much of what makes things tick. So nothing is off-limits when their volley of questions is shot out with the expectation of answers.

Why do the wheels on a car on television spin backwards? Why can't I spin my head around like an owl?  As they begin to grow and their questions sometimes challenge a scholar, I realize one day I won't have all the answers they seek. How does a penny sink in the water, but a huge ship floats? Why does my stomach growl when I'm hungry, and how can Cousin Bobby shoot milk out of his nose?

Then, as they grow older and the questions keep coming, I fear my usefulness is winding down, and they see it and sometimes ask others to answer the tough ones, like, "Why are there wars when peace can be achieved through talking?" Why do the important things in life come with a cost, and why does what we say and how we look determine our destiny in this century?

I believe the old saying, out of the mouth of babes, holds true. I listen to conversations at the Sunday dinner table, those young minds growing faster and faster, talking over one another until someone throws down their napkin in protest. Just how smart are they? I've asked myself, and my answer is simple. They learn over time that all the seemingly simple questions have seemingly simple answers learned by asking, and they stick with them as their minds grow in capacity to comprehend more difficult questions that boggle your mind and make you want to retreat into your quiet place with a glass of wine and a good book.

Some of these younger people will go on to do great things and ask the really serious questions. I wonder if they will remember asking about what makes a waterfall fall, or why they can't rotate their head like an owl? Were my answers locked somewhere deep down in their mind where they've remained for years? Maybe so because I just saw my eldest grandchild toss a penny into the pond.

Mike  2026                                              

Master boat builder

 He built his first boat at the age of twelve. It sank quickly. But he learned from his mistakes and vowed the next one would be carefully thought out, and he wouldn't hurry. His grandfather, a master boat builder, saw the potential in his grandson at an early age. It was said he let the young boy make mistakes on his first attempt so he'd never repeat them. Taking the boy under his wing, he taught him the proper kind of wood to use and how to use wooden pegs rather than metal screws to prevent rust and corrosion. He showed him how to steam the wood and bend each plank to the exact size needed. It was something that couldn't be rushed, as was every piece of trim, every single coat of varnish, and an eye for detail throughout the boat.

It wasn't just a lesson in boat building; it was many life lessons the boy learned from his grandpa throughout the build. How to think long and hard if the plans he drew up were the very best he could do, and realizing if they were almost perfect, he'd start over until everything was. He instilled into the boy the meaning of patience, as rushing anything could mean the difference between floating or sinking. He wasn't a man of many words, but when he had something important to pass along, he demanded that the boy listen with both ears.

For eight months, the boy learned, believing he had mastered the craft, only to be reprimanded for rushing and failing to consider every detail that could cause the boat to sink during its first water trial. He learned how to sand the wood until he could run his hands across each plank and deck board with no slivers to be had. He learned that the more coats of varnish applied, the better the appearance, so it was sand and varnish, then repeat until it looked like a thick layer of caramel that shone in the light.

On its first maiden voyage, standing beside his grandpa, they listened for leaks, which every wooden boat would have until the wood swelled and created a seal between the planks. He had a pail of tar, which he'd use to plug the seeping nothing that can't be fixed; he'd say, keep moving forward. The boy, now a young man, rowed to the rhythm of the waves, each movement of the oars a test of strength, as the boat plowed through them, the bow rising higher and higher until it would surely come crashing down hard and damage itself. But she performed like every boat his grandpa had built, and the smile on his face told the young man he was satisfied.

He and his grandpa built many boats together in the years that followed, with his grandpa giving him more responsibilities as he observed each wooden peg and steamed boards with keen eyes, pointing out what his grandson had forgotten to do, and the lessons never ended. He kept building boats of all sizes and purposes, each reflecting his grandpa's vision and attention to detail. People waited years sometimes to commission a boat, some as small as a dinghy, others cruisers powered by large engines to go further out to sea. Grandpa passed away, but his grandson carried on the traditions he had learned from the master boat builder. Now each finished boat has a plaque next to the helm that reads " built by a master boat builder and grandson.

Mike 2026                                                  

Where I belong

 The smell of a forest takes me back to when I was living with the stick soldiers, ancient trees that shared their shade in the summer and their heat in the winter. The smell of burning campfires an invitation for others to sit down and be warm.

As I hiked through the forest, the smells captured me and stirred my senses with every step. Damp patches of moss and decaying leaves, a musty reminder I was an uninvited guest who tread lightly on sacred land, as not to wake the spirits who slept deep into the ground.

As I continued, it was not the smell but the sound that brought me to a river, its raging water deflecting rocks and boulders as it rushed to a waiting calm that silenced its rage and gently flowed onward.

Once again, I found myself deep into the white birch and mighty oaks that had smells of their own. Deserted nests cradled in the crook of a pine, a smell of life born and a mother's care until the day of reckoning when wings spread, and freedom just a few flaps away.

I loved climbing the trees and looking out at the distance that seemed to have no end. The fear of falling was just a passing thought as I climbed higher, and I found a nest as large as any I had ever seen. The sound of a baby's cry followed by the scream of an eagle on a kill mission, and that mission was me. I climbed down the tree and lost my footing as gravity got me to the ground quickly and without injury.

To me, the time I spent in the forest was better than any book or campfire stories. It was my one-room schoolhouse that invited me in to walk beside the teachers who shared their knowledge of earth, sky, and life as old as time itself.

When I walk out of the shelter of the trees and the smells of hot dogs being grilled await me, a sadness fills my heart, and I wish I could retreat back into the ancient trees, the smells of damp moss and decaying leaves filling my senses, and the understanding that this is where I was meant to be.

Mike 2026                                                  

Winters memories of fun

 My mom would get me dressed for a Nor'easter with layers of clothes and no skin showing except for my eyes. I looked like the Michelin Man. In those days, there were no video games or the internet. No television except for cartoons on Saturday mornings and family night to watch a black-and-white movie.

Our backyard was my playground with everything a kid needed to entertain himself. Winter had its challenges, especially if you were by yourself, but if a couple of friends showed up, well, that was a different thing altogether.

After an all-night snowfall, the back yard was an undisturbed blanket of white with everything buried with drifts of snow, some as high as the tip of the swing set, and the fun began. After freeing a swing from the grips of the snow, I'd swing higher and higher, then jump off into a drift, burying myself in the powder and laughing to myself.

Hours would pass as I found new things to do, like climbing a fruit tree with low-hanging branches and taking a minute to find a sturdy branch while wearing a space suit. Eventually, I reached my destination, looking all around me and over the fence, seeing nothing but snow-covered mountains. 

Lunchtime came around, and I headed inside, where Mom had a bowl of my favorite tomato soup waiting. She partially undressed me, taking my space suit off and setting it next to the heater to thaw out. My ice-coated mittens were replaced with a fresh pair, and new bread bags were put into my boots. I was fueled up and ready to go back outside when the doorbell rang, and my next-door neighbor greeted us, asking if I'd like to go sledding. He was several years older than me, but my folks liked and trusted him enough to put me in his care.

With our sleds in tow, we ventured out beyond the confines of my backyard to a huge pile of snow in the city park. It was the biggest pile of snow I'd ever seen as we slowly climbed to the top behind other kids, then sat on our sleds and raced towards the bottom at breakneck speed. Over and over again, we sled down that hill until our frozen selves were tired and cold.

As the daylight began to fade, we headed home, laughing at the times we wiped out, doing face plants that froze our eyelashes, and barely getting run over by older kids on toboggans. I thanked my neighbor for taking me along, then headed inside where Mom was waiting with dry clothes and a slice of freshly baked bread and butter.

Dad got home, and I told him about my day, especially the parts where we sled so fast our eyes froze shut, leaving us blind and flying by the seat of our pants. He laughed and told me how he remembered sledding down that very same hill when he was much younger. You know it's supposed to snow again tonight he said with a grin on his face. And its saturday, so no work. How about we tackle the hill together, he asked. I think my old sled is in the garage.

After mom's ritual of stuffing me into the space suit, my dad and I ventured out to the park, and seven more inches of snow fell during the night. To me, winter was my favorite time of the year, and my memories are vivid. Dad's laughter as he captured his inner kid and me smiling, knowing I'd always remember those times together. And do you know the best part of it was knowing that someday I'd race down that hill with my own kids, taking a deep breath and racing them to the bottom, praying not to be run over by a screaming bunch of kids on a toboggan.

Mike 2026                                             

Defying the odds

 He lived in a small apartment with poor heat and drafty windows. The carpet was stained beyond help, but he didn't seem to mind. His easy chair was threadbare and tilted to one side, but he didn't care. The small kitchen had a stove with just one working burner and a fridge that barely kept things cold, but he didn't care. A black iron skillet was where he cooked every meal, fried eggs and bacon for breakfast, and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Supper was either a cheap steak or a couple of pork chops cooked in the skillet with grease from previous meals, which he said gave them flavor.

There was just one bedroom that he did his best to keep in military fashion. Crisp and sharp corners on the sheets and a blanket folded at the foot of the bed in case he got cold in the night. A bedside stand next to where he slept was an alarm clock he bought at the drugstore years ago, a glass of water that held his dentures, and, of course, a pack of hand-rolled cigarettes that he would wake in the night to light up and watch the orange glow until snuffing it out and going back to sleep.

The tiny bathroom was just big enough to do his business and look in a cracked mirror when he shaved. It was only showers as a tub would never fit in such a small space, but he didn't care. He spent his days reading the newspaper from cover to cover, always interested in what was happening outside his weathered door. He owned two pairs of pants and two shirts, all of which he purchased at the Goodwill store just a short walk from home. His grown kids often tried to give him new clothes, but he always said no, so eventually they gave up and let him do as he pleased.

Decades had passed since his military life as a highly decorated officer that was cut short when he had a stroke, and doctors said he'd never speak again or be able to communicate easily. He worked every day on his speech and movements, writing his thoughts on endless sheets of paper and putting notes in his pockets that had his recipe for a perfect martini or how he wanted his steak.

He rarely had company, and that's how he liked it. But when one of his kids showed up to check on him, he seemed to have a glow that welcomed them. Against all odds, he eventually began to speak again and could walk with a cane, kissing the wheelchair goodbye. He loved to walk and could often be seen in the summer, winter, fall, and spring making his way to his favorite bar and grill, where he met other veterans and became good friends.

He left this world; he chose to live on his terms with a greasy skillet on the stove and hundreds of hand-rolled cigarettes stashed away in empty coffee cans. His son had kept his father's military dress uniform, and he was buried in that, along with full military honors. The flag was presented to his son and, to this day, is proudly displayed on the mantel of his fireplace.

He may have lived in a cold, drafty apartment with little to show for the bravery he displayed throughout his life, but he died a hero to us and an example of defying the odds, walking the path he had chosen even when it was said he'd never be the same man again.

Mike 2026