Closepin memories

 The sheets are drying on a backyard clothesline. A gentle breeze and golden sunlight, a mixture of clean and fresh late into the day. Tomorrow, the colored clothes will take the place of linens, trying harder to catch the breeze, and some will need extra clothespins. The bag they are kept in is just a simple bag Mom put together from old sewing materials and hangs on the line for easy access. There were two different kinds of clothespins, the basic wooden ones and the ones with a spring that, as a kid, would pinch your fingers sometimes by accident as you handed one to mom, and other times when nobody was around, and you tried to be a brave little soldier and pinch one on your nose.

On windy days, you'd run through the clothes, smelling the freshness as mom watched from the kitchen window, remembering doing the same thing as a young girl. It's funny how we recall childhood memories that are somehow passed down from one generation to another with little change. Your great-grandmother used wooden clothespins that her husband made by carving sturdy sticks into equal lengths, then slicing them down the middle so they fit snugly on the line.

Your grandma used those until seeing a bag of clothespins in the hardware store, all pre-cut and sanded, ready to use. It even had a handle on top to hang on the line, ready when needed. Your mom used store-bought ones like her mom, but one day, while window shopping, she saw the latest in clothespin design, made of plastic and available in a multitude of colors. Truly a great invention, not just for hanging clothes but also for toy soldiers: some in colorful uniforms and others in no color at all, engaged in battle until mom needed one or two, and we had to choose which fallen soldier would give its life.

My generation doesn't hang clothes outside when they have a gas or electric dryer to do the job, unlike most people. But call me old school because my wife and I still hang clothes to dry in the fresh air and golden sunlight. Our kids make toys from clothespins, mostly wooden, by the way, with a bag of colored ones, so they can play soldiers just as I did. I would imagine that my kids' kids will be left wondering just what in the world those odd-looking wooden and plastic things they found in a box in the garage were used for. I'll search my memory bank and tell them we used wooden pins to attach baseball cards to the spokes of our bikes so we'd sound like a bunch of wannabe bikers. Good times, good times. I'll let their mom and grandma tell them the other side of the coin in their stories.

Mike  2026                                                       

Childhood memories of Aunt Elda and uncle joe

 As a boy, when my dad went off to the army reserves in the summer, my mom and I, along with my two sisters, went to Michigan to visit my mom's aunt, Elda, and uncle, Joe. They lived quite a ways back from a country road in a modest but very nice house. They had a few acres that bordered a corn farmer, who let us run through the rows and rows of corn so sweet we ate it until our bellies ached. Uncle Joe had a small tractor that he used to cut the large yard with, and he would hoist me up and sit me on his lap as we mowed and mowed until Aunt Elda called us in for lunch. Any meal Aunt Elda served was a three-course meal. Breakfast consisted of fresh eggs from her chicken coup, toast made with her homemade bread, and her homemade jellies. Fresh orange juice or tomato, if you prefer. And Uncle Joe's favorite: a thick slab of Canadian bacon. Aunt Elda knew my mom's favorite was a nice, hot bowl of grits with a dab of real butter, prepared just for her.

Lunch meant a huge bowl of fresh-cut fruit, a selection of lunch meats and cheeses from the butcher shop, as pre-packaged meats never saw their table. Each of us kids got a tall, chilled glass of whole milk with a spoonful or two of chocolate syrup to wash everything down.

Dinner was a work of art, featuring an entire turkey or a glazed ham that Uncle Joe had hand-carved, along with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a dinner salad, and fresh corn from the neighbor. Homemade dinner rolls and fresh-squeezed lemonade. The desert was a cake Aunt Elda baked with whipped cream frosting, topped with an assortment of her famous chocolate chip and butter cookies, another of Mom's favorites.

Uncle Joe was a successful businessman who owned a large plumbing business, which afforded them a comfortable life. He was a hunter and owned a trailer in a private hunting club that we went to for the weekend. Nestled deep into the woods, the trailer had everything Aunt Elda needed to prepare the same wonderful meals the same way she did at home. All of us wore bright orange vests so we could be seen by other hunters, even though his plot of land was over five acres and posted with a no-hunting sign. If I remember, I heard Aunt Elda tell my mom Joe didn't plan on killing a deer when we were there, he just didn't want us kids to believe he shot Bamby.

I loved our visits to Michigan, the sights and sounds of country living, and the sound of crickets and star-filled nights. Waking up with the sound of a rooster and bellowing cows waiting to be milked. Our time there went by too fast as we talked about next summer and how it couldn't come fast enough. With bags full of sweet corn and a variety of foods, Aunt Elda made sure we ate well on the ride home. As for Uncle Joe, he handed each of us kids a twenty-dollar bill, more money than any of us had ever had. He slipped mom a small wad of cash, pressing it into her hand, knowing she could use it.

The ride home was long, giving us the time we needed to recall all the great things we did and the food, oh my lord, the food. Some years later, we stopped going to Michigan. I suppose time caught up with us, and hanging out with friends was more important. But they came to visit us once a year, and our time together was as wonderful as always. Aunt Elda took over Mom's kitchen, and Dad took Uncle Joe to the firing range to shoot paper targets. He still gave us each a twenty-dollar bill and pressed a wad of cash into Mom's hand. Memories are a beautiful thing, especially when you have an aunt, Elda, and an uncle, Joe.

Mike 2026                                                           

                                                                                                                                                           

The smells of each season

 The smells of any given season are etched in my mind as I walk down a country road. In winter, the air is crisp and pure with a scent that's frozen in the ground until Spring arrives. Springtime creates a botanical garden of countless plant species and grass. Tulip bulbs planted in the fall crash through the ground and come to life in splashes of colors as wildflowers fill an entire valley with a fragrance to rival any high-priced perfume. Springtime rains that smell fresh make you want to stand in them as tiny drops shower your gardens, helping everything in the ground grow.

Summer brings with it the smells of everything outside. The charcoal grill and fresh-cut grass houses are being painted, and the swimming pools that smelled of chlorine. Summer means the smell of tanning lotions in many scents and the intoxicating smells of fair food. Summer means trail rides through the woods, smelling the ancient pine trees and layers of moss that carry the scent of something old.
Autumn smells like colored leaves, if that's even possible. The hay bales now stacked away in a barn leave behind empty fields plowed under with the dead corn husks that will enrich the ground for the next planting. Piles of raked leaves will be burned, the smell traveling from one house to another until only black spots on the ground are all that's left. Autumn smells like a pumpkin stand, an apple orchard, and sticking your head out the car window to let the smells fill your nose.
Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall each have their own scents that we can enjoy throughout the year if we take the time to breathe deeply, slow down, and savor every little thing that's ours to smell.
Mike  2026                                                              

Uncertainty of time

 He sat at his kitchen table, the one he found curbside. He didn't understand why someone would throw it away, as the legs were sturdy and the surface only needed some sandpaper and elbow grease. He worked on it until he was satisfied, then replaced the old table with another curb find he had come upon years ago.

He ate a bowl of oatmeal with the maple or brown sugar flavor, which was his favorite. The box said to add hot water and stir until a creamy texture appeared, but he liked the little clumps, so he didn't stir it too much. And it wasn't uncommon for him to find some of those clumps later in his beard, pick them out, and eat them.

He didn't do much these days, probably because he'd done about everything a person could do in seventy-some years. A circle of life, he said, the joys of childhood and the years leading up to adulthood, filled with memories in the making. Successes and failures too numerous to say and falling in love more times than he cared to remember. Now, as he enjoys his life with few distractions, all that remains is the uncertainty of time.

He once told someone that old age allowed you certain privileges, like sitting around all day in your pajamas, not showering for days until you smelled yourself, and putting on more deodorant just because you had to run some errands. It meant eating in front of the television and yelling at the news caster that he didn't know what he was talking about. One time, so upset he'd knock over his drink that splashed the cat, who went screaming away.

He knew the trash pick-up days and planned accordingly, which days he'd back up his old truck out of the garage and head to an area he knew all too well, as it was where he once lived a long time ago. He would keep a sharp lookout for hidden treasures buried in piles of unwanted items being thrown out just because something had quit working. He never had to buy small appliances; he'd just fix the ones he found, making them as good as new.

His was a simple life, one he chose with little regret, even though he sometimes found himself drowning in memories he couldn't erase. Joys that turned to sorrow, love that turned to hate, and time that wouldn't slow down. Today, he sits at the old table he found on the curb and, with a pocketknife, carves his initials into the sanded surface, a reminder of who he was for the guy who picks it out of his trash.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                                     

RUN!

 When I close my eyes, I see you alone in a small wooden room painted white with only a straight-back chair for you to sit. Your long hair lies perfectly still across your shoulders, and your eyes half open or closed, looking out the only window at the freedom you know awaits you.

I speak softly, just loud enough that I know you can hear me, and inch closer to you so I can smell your scent of wildflowers that you must have bathed in before I arrived.

They had you dressed in white, which made it seem you blended with the room itself, a peasant dress, I believe it's called. No slits or short lengths, just white clinging to your body like a windblown sheet that's as still as the room itself.

I whisper your name, but you remain with eyes half open or closed, looking straight at that window as if planning your escape. I thought for a brief moment I saw your lips part just a bit as if wanting to speak, but no words were spoken, just as it's been for six months. I take your hand in mine, feeling your softness as no fingers move, no words spoken, and no idea if you'll ever come back to me.

A nurse comes in asking if I'd like the window open for some fresh air, and I saw her turn ever so slowly, only visible to me. Her lips parted, and she whispered RUN!

Mike  2026                                               

A writers mind

 The flame from a candle danced across the room as he tried to find the words that were eluding him for the moment. He watched the flame, which he could change with a soft blow in its direction. It became a sort of game he played watching the flame dance to the right and then to the left, bending too far with the fear it would snuff itself out. Childish, he thought to himself as he picked up his pen and searched some more for his next sentence that refused to show itself.

Then his eye landed on the glow of the fireplace. A beautiful orange in color, glowing one minute and dimming another. The crackling of the burning wood keeps time like a base drum as the falling embers crash down to the floor in one big final. It amused him for a moment or two, but the words still wouldn't show themselves.

He glanced at the window, the pane frozen with a hundred ice crystals that, one by one, began to melt in the heat of the fireplace. Sliding across the glass as if it were their own skating rink. In his mind, he heard their voices like those of the munchkins on The Wizard of OZ, causing him to laugh out loud at his own foolishness. But the words wouldn't come.

He grew tired and blew out the candles, stoked the fire, and went to bed. Lying in the darkness, he suddenly sat upright and reached for his pen. The words began to flow like a mighty river with no end in sight. Guess all he needed were some dancing candles, a musical fire, and a bunch of munchkins skating on a frozen windowpane that somehow made sense.

Mike 2026                                                    

The wanderer

 His eyes were hollow from so many years on this earth. His skin was weathered and thin, which happens when you go without food, but he always has enough coins to buy a fifth of cheap booze. He was a wanderer, they say, with holes in the bottom of his shoes and tattered clothing. He rarely took off except for those times he landed in jail, charged with something stupid like drinking in a public park. The guards had a good laugh at his expense, taking bets on who would be the lucky one to take his clothes to be burned. They found some clothes in the donation box that mostly fit him, except for the boots, which were a bit too large. He'd been there before and had asked for some newspaper, which he stuffed into the toe area, and all was well. They gave him a sandwich from the vending machine, a stale egg salad sandwich that he gratefully accepted. If only he had a snort to calm his nerves, but that wasn't happening.

The following day, he went before the judge. He stood staring ahead as the judge read the charges against him and asked how he pleaded. I don't know," he answered softly. You don't know, the judge asked in a tone that was anything but nice. Well, your honor, I drink a lot, don't know why, really. I suppose because it helps me forget the things that have haunted me for some time now. And that would be what the judge asked.

I went off to war a long time ago. He began. I wasn't prepared for the things I saw and had to do. Each round that exploded around me took a little piece of me, and the fear welled up inside of me, and I ran off the battlefield and never stopped until the military police found me hiding in a burned-out truck. They threw me out of the army, giving me a ticket home and seven dollars, which I used to buy a fifth. The judge was silent for a moment, then softly spoke, saying he found it wrong the way they treated me. I was just a kid fighting a man's war with no compassion at all. He found me not guilty and released me back into the world I seemed to have found peace in. The guards confronted him at the door, handed him a bag filled with clothes and a pair of boots that fit him, and an envelope with one hundred dollars in twenties that they knew he would drink up in no time.

He's still out there somewhere chasing something he will never catch, as the memories will always be with him and the longing for an egg salad sandwich forever on his mind.

Mike  2026