Maple leaf cycle

 A maple leaf floated to the ground from which it was born. Rich soil untouched by man or machine, alone in birth and alone in death. What purpose did a leaf serve as it grew into maturity, clinging to its union with the tree? It wasn't alone, as hundreds of others like itself grew and died with who knows how much time in between. I wonder what they felt as they changed from green to crimson and gold, and in that split second when their lifeline snapped, sending them down to lie together at the foot of the mighty tree. In time, their colors would fade into the ground and be forgotten until the snow gave way to a new generation of baby buds that held on tightly when the winds blew, and the rains pelted them; some were knocked down, while the strong survived to grow another day.

A maple tree fell in the forest today, a victim of God's light show, as lightning slammed into its trunk and fire burned into its very core. Some of the leaves were spared as they unhinged themselves on the way down, floating away from the destruction, while most went up in flames that would eventually become dust from which, in time, new growth would climb upward as a young sapling struggled to take the place of its ancestor. It took hundreds of years to become just another tree, surrounded by elders who had survived what nature threw their way for unknown years. They provided shade for the saplings and wrapped their limbs around them to protect them from the wind. Slowly, and with no one watching, the little maple became a strong, beautiful adult tree. Filled with countless leaves that would honor it with a parade of colors floating downward, some touching in a final goodbye as one by one they detached and floated back to the ground from which they came. And the cycle continued.

Mike  2026                                                       

Remembering Dad

 You've been gone a while now, Dad, but I still have countless memories of us together. I recall the crazy little things, like trying to roll up a cigarette pack in my t-shirt sleeve or opening a bottle with my jackknife—the important things you taught me.

I remember you teaching me how to shave with a kids' shaving kit, which included a shaving mug, a bar of soap, and a wooden-handled brush you used to lather your face. I'd stand next to you at the sink, watching what you were doing so I could do the same. When we were finished, you would pat my face with a few drops of aftershave so I smelled good for the ladies, he'd say in just a whisper.
I remember going to church on Sunday and dressing up. I guess God liked well-dressed women, men, and even kids. You tried to teach me how to tie a tie, but after many failed attempts, you bought me a new invention called a clip-on tie, pure genius. Shined shoes were a must at our house. Mom was in charge of my sisters' patent-leather shoes, wiping them off with a damp rag, but yours and mine had to pass inspection. It seemed your military life taught you to make your shoes shine with two fingers wrapped in a soft cloth, usually an old T-shirt cut into small pieces. On Saturday evenings, you'd get the wooden box filled with several tins in different colors: black, brown, cordovan, and natural. Different colors for different colored shoes. There were several sizes of brushes with wooden handles that you'd dip into a tin, slowly work around the shoe, and then set aside to dry. While one shoe was drying, the other shoe went through the same thing. Then came the big brush, made of horsehair. You would show me how to get your rhythm, like the sound of a locomotive, as you brushed and brushed until the shoe began to shine like glass. Next came the toes. Using the pieces of cloth you'd wrap around two fingers, dip them into the polish, then into the tin filled with a little water. Slowly, you got your rhythm as you went around the toe over and over until it began to shine, but it had to outshine the rest of the shoe, which took a long time to accomplish. When my shoes were done, I put them next to yours at the door. Let me tell you, I had the shiniest shoes in school.
I could go on and on about our times together, but anymore and I'd have to write a book. You were a great dad, and I still love and miss you every day. Happy Father's Day in the sky, Dad. You are missed.

Mike  2026                                                                                                                

Whats a Dad?

 This is just one man's opinion of what it means to be a dad. My childhood was memorable to me in many ways. My dad was mostly around, except when he traveled for his job, but he never forgot to bring my sisters and me a little gift he'd buy at the airport store. A coloring book or puzzle, and always a Whitman sampler box of chocolates. And he never once forgot to get my mom some perfume.

My dad was someone I could always depend on to be seated at a band concert or school play, and sometimes showed up breathing hard as mom took his hand and squeezed it with a smile on her face. I can remember seeing him, still in a suit and tie, leaving his office, trying not to be too late.
My dad spoke quietly most of the time, especially when he was trying to get a point across to us. To me, that was worse than yelling, but he didn't believe in yelling unless we did something really bad, like kicking out the streetlights and getting caught by the town policeman, who was larger than life and very scary. He yelled about that, and if you think a five-foot-seven man couldn't instill the wrath of God, you'd be mistaken.
My dad listened to my questions and always gave it a minute or two to answer. I suppose he was just searching for the right words, not just making up a response. He could be firm and didn't shy away from giving me a good whooping with his belt, but I believed he went easy on me out of love that always trumped violence.
My dad was a fair man, a loyal man, and a man I aspired to be and follow in his footsteps the best way I could. I'm older than dirt now, and my dad's been gone for a long time, but his face is always on my mind as I play back all the moments, we shared, and I'm always thankful for the time we had together. What inspired me to write this was an empty Whitman's chocolate sampler I found in my treasure box of memories. I'll admit I wiped a tear away but did so with a smile. Happy Father's Day, in heaven, Dad. I love you every day.                                         

Mike 2026

The old desk

 The old desk bore the scars of kids with pocket knives. It had been handed down for generations and, per his request, finally reached his house because he'd actually use it for what it was meant for: writing. It would need some TLC as the years had taken their toll, but nothing some elbow grease and sandpaper couldn't fix. He decided to leave the top as it was, with all those little hearts and initials carved by mischievous boys throughout the years. There were four small drawers that he used to store paper and folders, hard copies of his writing, and ink cartridges for the printer. The fourth drawer held finished stories he had written over the months and years, a resting place for characters he had given life to but who now stayed silent in the darkness of the closed drawer.

He had cleared out his soon-to-be writing room, where the finished desk would sit, allowing him to see out the window. He was often inspired by the weather or the quiet, interrupted by a flock of birds or by his dog barking for him to let him inside when he lost track of time and the words begged to be written. He believed in keeping things simple and distraction-free, where he wrote. A two-tiered shelf held a model motorcycle and a large snow globe beside a framed picture of his grandmother, who was the first person to tell him he had a gift for words. A desk lamp sat at the edge of the desk, its beautiful green globe filling the small area with soft light, and a candle on the shelf, with dancing flames that dared him to write.
His first story with the old desk was everything he had hoped for. Its history fired up his imagination, and he sometimes stopped for a minute to trace a heart with his finger and wonder where that boy was today. Did he go on to become a famous artist after school gave him all he needed, or maybe a woodworker who built wooden boats? He traced another heart that read "Billy loves Susan," and he wondered whether they were just high school sweethearts who had parted ways, or had gotten married and raised a family.
Many years flew past as he continued to write at the old desk, filled with youthful inspiration by the tips of pocket knives gouging out slivers of old wood meant to last forever, just like the desk.

Mike   2026                                                           

May I have this dance?

 His body twitched, a slight smile on his face as he slept, dreaming of the times they danced. It was the 1960s, at a junior high school dance, when his buddies egged him on to ask the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen to dance. He felt sick to his stomach with fear that she might say no, and he'd have to walk back to his buddies in shame. But she didn't say no, and they danced again and again.

As time moved forward, they danced at their high school prom and later at friends' weddings, knowing one day he'd ask her to marry him, and that day came when he got down on one knee. She was so beautiful the day they wed, a vision in white, an angel sent to be by his side forevermore. They danced into the night to the songs they loved, wishing each dance would last forever.
Time can be cruel, and time can take away, as it did when she left this world, leaving him alone with memories that return when he sleeps. He'd see her in her wedding dress, floating through the heavens with angels by her side. He feels a gentle kiss on his cheek as she disappears into the light, leaving him alone once more in a world without dancing, in a world without her.
His time came, and his body twitched for the last time as he ascended to the heavens, where she waited for him to ask for a dance. Some say they see a couple dancing in the clouds, moving to the rhythm of the wind, with the sky as their dance floor. What can be said other than he defined the words, "May I have this dance?”

Mike  2026                                                     

A quiet house

 It's quiet in the old house as a man of the same age sits alone, remembering when quiet was just a wish. He looks around at stuff accumulated over time, things that meant something to him, and most wouldn't understand. The Led Zeplin poster from a concert he took his grandson to, not the real deal, but good impersonators just the same.  There was a clay head that looked like Jesus, holding incense sticks, and two ventriloquist dummies sitting in a chair that totally freaked out his daughter. There was an old-school stereo that didn't work, and two speaker boxes sat there in silence. Snow globes and a stack of photo albums that transported him back in time when his skin still fit and his teeth were his own. A steamer trunk filled with stuff that required moving everything that sat on top if he wanted to open it, which he did occasionally, usually on a rainy day for some reason. Inside were forgotten memories like his Navy cruise books, belt buckle, and a Zippo lighter with the ship's name. Two CD demos of songs he wrote, but that few ever heard except himself. Handwritten tablets of poems and two paperback editions of his first published books. A small box containing three bracelets hand-made out of beads he wore for years, along with a wrist watch and a pocket watch that his dad gave to him long ago.

It's quiet in the old house as he dozes off for a bit, awakened by a passing car playing some sort of music way too loud for this retirement community, probably someone's grandchild here for a visit. He shuffled to the kitchen, where he knew every little thing would be when he came looking, like coffee filters that he kept in the pantry and somehow ended up in a cabinet above the sink. Eventually, he'd get the old-school perculator he'd had for too many years to recall put on the burner and forgotten about until he heard the last couple of whatever you call it purks, I guess, when the coffee was ready. No coffee pods or fancy machines for him. The same held true for cooking. He had one black cast-iron skillet in which he made his supper, which never got washed; it was just wiped clean after use. A silverware drawer with two of each fork, knife, and spoon was all he needed, and he couldn't see any reason to have more.
He had a few fridge magnets with drawings his grandkids made for him and some black-and-white pictures taken with a Kodak Instamatic camera, memories of days gone by, but forever in his heart. It's a quiet house, his quiet house, that makes noises from worn-out floorboards and a dripping faucet he'd get around to fixing some day, maybe. There's the quiet snoring of his dog and companion of twelve years, his shadow, and best friend he hopes stays around for a long time, but he finds himself missing him already. Time doesn't stand still, but the quiet never lets him down.

Mike  2026                                                      

Dads snow plow

 I remember snow days when we stayed home from school. And I'll always recall one in particular that turned into a week. I remember staying up late pretending to be asleep, but actually looking out my second-floor bedroom window at black, not white. When sleep took me and the long hours of darkness woke me up, I had to squint my eyes from the brightness that invaded my bedroom. I looked out, and with my mouth wide open, I couldn't believe what I saw. It wasn't a blanket of white; it was a monster that buried everything I couldn't see but knew was there. Drifts so big that only the tips of telephone poles were visible, and dozens of cars parked on the street were just gone. Somehow, a big drift missed my window, letting me see the carnage below as an eerie silence filled the air, broken only by my mom's voice downstairs, shouting for a flashlight. I got my Batman flashlight and headed downstairs, guided by the cape crusaders' light straight into the darkness.

Power was out, and the house was growing colder by the minute as Dad built a fire in the fireplace, saying he was glad he had just brought in more wood the day before. My sister turned on her transistor radio to a news station, listening to the announcer talk about the massive storm and what people should do. Lists of places that had closed, seemingly endless, were broadcast on the hour, and emergency services were tasked with getting their equipment out into the neighborhoods where senior citizens and other people in need were told to sit tight as they made their way to them. Plows were out, slowly cutting through the huge drifts with everything they had, but it wasn't enough. The call went out to anyone with a snowmobile or a Four Wheel Drive truck to help, and they responded in the hundreds.
On the second day, Dad decided to head to the garage at the back of the house, where he kept his pride and joy, a 1957 Dodge Power Wagon. It was his project ever since I could remember, and he was very proud of it. He even entered it in car shows, where he won a trophy for the best restoration in the truck class. But that day, it was just another piece of equipment needed to help those in need. He told me to dress extra warmly if I wanted to ride along, and before you could say "snow," I was ready to go. The power wagon was equipped with a six-foot plow that Dad tested, making sure the hydraulics were working, and with the heater blasting hot air, we inched our way out of our driveway and into banks of snow we pushed aside to clear the streets. It was a long and tedious task, as we were joined by others who wanted to help.
Then a call came from the news station that medications needed to be delivered to folks stuck in their homes and couldn't get out to refill them. And everyone with a powerful enough truck to get through to them was to go to city hall, where they'd be given plenty of medicine and the addresses of those in need. " Looks like a job for the power wagon," Dad said as he blasted through drifts and plowed driveways for waiting people, some of whom offered us coffee or hot cocoa, which we usually accepted. Dad and I worked into the night, losing count of the people we helped, but come sunup, the power wagon headed back to our garage, where Dad took care of some minor problems, making sure the old truck was ready for more.
I spent three days with my dad, slowly clearing the streets and helping deliver needed medicines to shut-ins affected by the storm of all storms. I was just a kid, but I felt like a grown-up as we finally finished and went home. A week later, Dad received a letter from the city thanking him for all he had done to help. There was even mention of me that made me feel proud, almost as much as Dad did. Years went by without another mega storm, and the old power wagon eventually became mine. I treated it with the same loving care that Dad did, keeping it show-ready for years to come. But knowing if the snow came again, I'd be ready to roll. I had some pictures taken that day when everything was buried, which I displayed next to the truck, showing me and Dad plowing our driveway with the power wagon and powering through to a snowbound house, where an elderly lady, grateful for her medicines, offered us coffee or hot cocoa.

                                                                                  
Mike  2026