One final ride

 He still wore his old engineer boots and Wrangler jeans, a black leather vest and a red bandana around his neck. Tattoos covered both arms, once vibrant, now just drooping ink on gunless arms. His beard was white, and his hair long, which he always tied back when he rode. Today was the day he'd been planning for some time now, the day he'd uncover his bike that had been in the garage for a lot of years now. Today he turned seventy-six, and his gift to himself was to take one more ride on the Harley he bought decades ago, before he couldn't ride anymore. His wife of fifty years watched him finish his cup of coffee, then made his way to the garage, turning toward the kitchen window where he knew she'd be watching. She smiled at him and waved, praying he'd come home safe.

He had prepped his bike the day before, checking fluids and giving it a good cleaning so the chrome shined and the paint was so polished he could see his wrinkled face. Tomorrow arrived, and he started it up; the roar of a Harley was music to his ears as he climbed aboard the leather saddle and gripped the throttle, gave it a few twists, then heard the familiar sound of gears smashing into place as he slowly moved forward, heading for the open road ahead. It didn't take long to go through the gears and find himself riding again. Other bikers passed him, giving the universal two fingers down, a symbol of mutual respect that meant keeping two tires on the road.
He rode through mountain roads, each curve a challenge for even the most seasoned rider, but for him, just another mile traveled like the thousands before. The roar of his bike was like music to him, with no onboard radios blasting Steppenwolf or other rock music just the red-hot pipes of a perfectly tuned Harley. He rode into the late afternoon running low on fuel, so he stopped to fill up, drawing attention from some weekend riders who asked him about his classic bike and praised him for riding at his age. He sat there for a minute or two, letting the youngsters ride off the sound of their rice burners like a swarm of bees. He put out the Camel non-filtered cigarette and dropped into gear, riding towards nowhere but an open road where he could open it up one more time as the speedometer buried itself and had no more to give. It was the feeling he desired so badly as his eyes teared through his goggles and the wind blew his face back. One hundred eighteen mph was all it could give, but that was all he could ask for as he throttled down to a safe speed.
She was at the window as he pulled into the drive, giving her a thumbs up and a smile she hadn't seen in a long while. She prayed and thanked god all in one breath, knowing he had done what he wanted to do, and those pipes would be quiet forever. She went to the garage, a cup of coffee in her hand, which he accepted as he climbed off the saddle for the last time. Tomorrow, a man who answered the ad he ran would be coming to look at the old Harley, a true classic anyone would be proud to own. He felt like he was losing his best friend as the new owner loaded it on a trailer and drove away. With the money, he bought a four-wheeler to ride around his property, and when he felt adventurous, he'd take it to the hills where other riders stared death in the eye to conquer the trails. He still wore his engineer boots and Wrangler jeans with his leather vest and red bandana, chasing the wind once again.

                                                                                   Mike 2026

              

 
Mike 2026

The Christmas tree Santa

 I remember the Christmas tree man who drove through the neighborhood a week before Christmas Day. He had a very old truck that sounded like it might explode, but it never did. People said he lived alone on a farm where he grew corn, pumpkins, potatoes, and watermelons, but tucked away on ten acres of his land, he grew what he truly loved: Christmas trees. His great-grandfather planted them decades ago as saplings, and he told his grandson they would grow and flourish as the years passed by leaving them alone. True to his word, the trees grew up, and he'd thin them out, taking some of them to town in the bed of his truck to sell. People loved his perfectly shaped trees, so he sold out in just a couple of hours, telling folks he'd be back tomorrow with more. Little did he know a great depression was coming, and people couldn't buy a Christmas tree when so many were starving and out of work. He decided he would continue going into town with trees in the bed of his aging truck, but not to sell, but to give away to families who had nothing to give their children come Christmas morning. But he had no idea how many were in need.

So rather than taking them to town, he drove through the poorest parts of the city and gave a tree to anyone who swallowed their pride, asking for one their kids could decorate with paper ornaments and give their shacks a feeling of Christmas. He became known as the Christmas Tree Santa. Year after year, he'd drive slowly down the streets, his old truck rumbling and blowing some smoke but always reliable. After the Depression ended and people got back on their feet, he kept roaming the city streets, his truck on its last legs, giving away trees to anyone who held out their hands. When he was too old to tend his farm and deliver trees, his son, my dad, took over and, with my help, filled the back of Dad's newer truck, which held twenty trees when full. Town folk remembered my granddad and his kindness when things were tough, and repaid him by purchasing every tree we brought to town. When my dad grew older and couldn't work the farm, I took the reins and continued where he left off; by then our economy was flourishing, and I started a nonprofit that gave away free trees to the less fortunate. We had three trucks, each carrying fifty trees, that drove through streets where poverty was the way of life, then stopped and opened the truck's doors, the smell of pine a reminder of Christmas, filling the air. My son runs the business now, with trucks numbering in the dozens that leave the tree farm every year, taking only the trees ready to be cut and replacing them with saplings left to grow alongside their ancestors, who patiently awaited their trip to town and into the hands of a grateful family. Great-granddad's old truck went through a major restoration and now participates in the Christmas parade, waving to the people he once gave a tree so their kids could have a Christmas morning. It still smokes a little, and we half-accept it to explode, but it never has and never will.

Mike 2026

                                                                                          

                                                            

Mike 2026

Awards for kindergarten kids

 Sitting in a school cafeteria where the seats are not intended for adults, the kindergarten class walks into the room, and the claps of hands from parents and grandparents- many electing to be late for work, as these moments are fleeting and you want to hold onto every one you can. The three,- or four-foot-tall little darlings, dressed in their finest clothes, wait for their name to be called so they can come up and get their awards. As each name is called, a parent shouts the kid's name, and for a brief moment, eyes meet, and we smile, finding each other across the room. Imagine being six years old, and people are clapping and yelling your name, and it's all you can do not to cry. You get to say goodbye as the kids head off to their classroom with a quick hug goodbye and a kiss blown in the wind. On the drive back home, you remember your own kids and the countless award ceremonies, Christmas plays and concerts, not to forget dress-up days and theme parties. You help with homework you barely understand, mulling through it to the best of your ability.

Then you wake up one day, and your kid is shaving, dating, and hopefully graduating. You have to deal with grades being acceptable or privileges being taken away until your attitude adjusts and you know your 'parents' word is law. You get caught sneaking out the window in your room, meeting up with your first crush who knew in her heart you would be caught, but love prevailed, and the punishment didn't seem to bother either of you. You earned your high school diploma after two years of summer school and countless weeks of being grounded. And once again you sat in the auditorium and waited for your kid to walk up on stage and receive his diploma. You shouted his name when it was called, your eyes meeting for a second, pride filling your heart as you realized his next step would be leaving the nest.
That's why now you sit on chairs that weren't meant for grandparents, but the memories they brought when it was your six-year-old giggling and talking to their friends in a language of their own are beyond priceless. I wouldn't miss one minute of kids and grandkids gathered to be honored by their teachers, who should all be saints. I believe it's the little things they will remember as they grow up with kids of their own and may be lucky to see an older man clapping with hands of age and love.

Mike 2026

                                                                                 

                                                                                  

         

                                                                        

Family values 1950s

 Reaching back to my earliest memories, I find myself touching my mother's face and looking into her smiling eyes as she held me in her arms, softly singing a song that, to this day, makes tears flow down my face when I hear it. I remember her teaching me to tie my shoes and comb my hair, reminding me how important it was to clean up after myself and always use my manners. I can close my eyes and see her in the kitchen, her dress of many colors and her hair and makeup perfect. Women in those days looked like women getting the latest fashion tips from the moms on television, like Leave It to Beaver, My Three Sons, and The Donna Reed Show, all of whom dressed more like the moms I pictured.

In the 1950s, life was simple: you went to bed early on school nights, woke up to the smell of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon, and left your lunchbox and books on the counter. Dad was up and dressed, his tie tucked into his shirt as Mom told him she wasn't about to hear from the ladies at the beauty parlor that she sent her husband off to work with egg on his tie. My siblings and I rushed down the stairs and sat at the table, where pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and orange juice filled the room with the smell of breakfast. We never knew what kind of lunch Mom made; some days it was peanut butter and grape jam my grandma made, plus a piece of tin foil holding a couple of carrots and celery, an apple or pear, and a cookie or two. Another lunch would be an egg salad sandwich with sweet relish and cut-up green olives that was my favorite sandwich ever. Another foil-wrapped package meant more carrots and celery and, of course, an apple, peach or pear depending on what was in season. Sometimes, as a special treat, we'd find a store-bought package of cupcakes or Twinkies every kid wanted to trade for two cookies or a lunch-size carton of chocolate milk. Did they think we were crazy?
We got off the school bus a few blocks from home, passing by the corner store owned and operated by Mr. Sweeney, a jolly man who always asked how our family was doing, and he had just seen our mom the other day when she stopped in for some milk. He had the largest assortment of penny candies in glass containers that made choosing one a major decision for a kid. I had been careful not to waste my nickel on extra chocolate milk, but saved it until Friday. Neither of my siblings did that, so all they could do was stare into the jars filled with fireballs, licorice sticks, and wax bottles with juice inside. There were suckers and jawbreakers, candy cigarettes, and chocolate mothballs all sitting side by side as decisions were made. I'd pick out three things and give my siblings one piece of their choosing, being the good brother mom would be proud of. Sometimes, after seeing that, Mr. Sweeney told all of us to pick out two more each with a smile on his kind face.
We made it a point to eat all our treats before arriving home and telling Mom we were starved, and she replied that we wouldn't starve and supper wouldn't be much longer. We did our homework until Dad got home and supper was ready, when each of us told them about our day, good or bad but always truthful. Saturday meant no school, and we had chores to finish before we could even think about playing outside. My sisters helped Mom with the laundry and folded clothes like an army recruit. All of us had to clean our rooms and vacuum every room in the house. As for me, well, it meant helping Dad wash his car inside and out, then cutting the grass with a lawnmower that had no engine, just kid power. When we were done, and Mom and Dad checked that our work was done properly, Mom called us for lunch, which we sometimes had at the picnic table like an unexpected picnic in our backyard.
After lunch, we were told the rest of the day belonged to us as the girls called over the fence, yelling to see if their friends wanted to play with their dolls. At the same time, I jumped on my bicycle and headed down the driveway to my best friend's house, where I found him lifting his leg over the handlebars, ready to explore whatever we could before daylight gave way to dusk. We headed home, pedaling as fast as we could to run up the porch and announce my presence just as Dad shouted not to slam the door. Saturday dinner was what Mom called a light meal, since tomorrow, Sunday, meant a feast one might mistake for Thanksgiving dinner—Saturday evening we'd gather in the living room to watch a show on the television that, mind you, only had three stations to choose from. But every Saturday at eight o'clock a movie like The Wizard of Oz would play as the smell of popcorn popping gave you that movie theater feeling, only smaller than the big screen at the downtown movie house. It had been a good Saturday, and sleep came easy as church clothes were laid out, shoes were polished, and Mom looked more and more like the beaver's mom. 

                                                                                        Mike  2026

Mike  2026

Thumbs up

 He watched his grandkids run from one row of pumpkins to another, their eyes moving faster than their legs as they searched for the perfect one. He kept an eye on them as, one after another, they pointed to a pumpkin and waited for his thumbs-up, but he didn't act too soon, because once he did, the hunt was over and he wanted the moment to last. The eldest had hunted pumpkins for a dozen years, carefully scanning the rows and choosing the first one he saw. The youngest, six years old, asked for her brother's help, and he willingly gave it, remembering how difficult it was for him at her age. She would point to one that had a broken stem or a flat side, and he'd point those things out to her, but she was already rows ahead, her little legs moving through all the shapes and sizes, a real dilemma for a young child whose memories of past hunts were somewhat blurry. Then he heard her yelling for him to look as she held up her favorite, and he gave her the thumbs up. It was small, but then so was she. It had a long stem and was as perfectly round as any pumpkin he had ever seen. I'm going to make it have a big smile," she told him. "And why is that?" he asked her. "Aren't pumpkin faces supposed to be scary?" Some are, she said, but this one is happy. I chose it so I want it to smile. He looked in the rearview mirror at her, smiling and holding her pumpkin in her lap, and he smiled back with a big thumbs up.

Mike  2026                                                                                   

                                          

Autumn's goodbye

 The last of the autumn leaves have fallen to the ground, leaving behind naked branches soon to be pit stops for the falling snow. The ground will harden, and new growth will stop until the sun comes out to work and springtime softens the soil.

The remnants of autumn will go from an artist's palette of color to a forgotten gray of winter soon to arrive. Empty fields of corn stalks and a battered scarecrow the birds rest upon, claiming victory. The streams still flow, but each day they grow colder until they're just a trickle of water dodging the ice, until all is frozen and stopped in its tracks until springtime comes along to give it movement again.
The end of autumn is a waiting game as the sky shows promise and snow clouds build up their strength, getting ready to open up and send blankets of white to cover everything they fall on. Those once-brilliant fall colors turn to a blinding white, with no color visible anywhere you squint to look. It came in the darkness of night, as kids dreamed of a snow day and jumped out of bed, looking out the window at mountains of snow inviting them outside to play in the frozen drifts and icy hills.
It's a long way off until next autumn, but the memories keep it alive in my thoughts, and they catch up to me as I brave the highest hill, sledding down at breakneck speed and running over a small pile of forgotten autumn leaves.

Mike  2026                                                                        

The perfect pumpkin

 The pumpkins left in the patch will be a treat for the animals scrounging for food as they prepare for the cold months ahead. Their crop was good this year, with hundreds of different shapes and sizes being purchased at their country roadside stand. They never got tired of seeing the children's faces as they scanned the patch for the perfect one, while Mom bought some apples and a homemade pumpkin pie she couldn't resist. Dad sat in the car listening to the football game, giving a thumbs up as his kid held up a pumpkin for him to see. It was a difficult decision for most kids, as one was too big or too small. One had a flat side while another had a snapped-off stem where somebody probably tried to lift it, and it snapped off.

His wife ran the stand, where she collected payment and put it in an old cigar box she'd used for too many years to remember. She made conversation for those seeking it and just smiled at those who didn't. She spent more time at the stand during harvest time than she did at the house, only leaving to fetch more pies or jars of honey and having her husband watch things, which wasn't always a good idea when he struck up a conversation with a neighbor and let the line grow behind him.
At sundown, they would light up a dozen pumpkins, carved and spaced along the rows to light the way into the patch, where sometimes a ghostly apparition appeared, popping up and screaming with no warning. Kids and adults could be heard gasping in fright, followed by laughter at the well-intended prank. The stand closed for the day at nine o'clock, and two weary farmers sat at the kitchen table counting the money from the cigar box, which no longer closed because of the stack of money it held. Morning came early as the light of a new day found them loading bushels of apples onto the trailer, a dozen pumpkin pies and jars of honey all taken to the stand and displayed. They enjoyed breakfast together before heading down to the stand, where a few cars had already parked, and kids roamed row after row of pumpkins, searching for that perfect one.

                                                                                     Mike  2026

Mike 2026