To my readers

 I thought it might be nice to write Christmas stories for you to read and share with family and friends to spread some holiday joy. I wrote the first one today, and when I go back to earlier holiday posts, I'll bring them out of mothballs to share with you. I'm giving myself until Christmas Eve to share one post per week, or 7 posts. But if you've been following my posts, you know I'll sneak more in, so I don't know exactly how many I'll end up writing. There could be dozens. In my opinion, it's never too early to be thinking about the holidays. Your gift to me will be comments from all my readers. I'm hoping to have enough comments on each post to create a collection, which I hope to publish. I hope you enjoy each story as much as I've enjoyed writing them for you.

Mike  2026

A box of ornaments

 He kept a box tucked away in a corner, which he'd open on December 1st. With each passing year, he grew more cautious, as the contents were his last remaining memory of her. For decades, they would look forward to the holidays, Christmas in particular, when they'd hunt for the perfect tree and decorate it with the ornaments she treasured. There were no store-bought decorations, just things she made by hand. There was a small church made from toothpicks and painted in such detail it could have been sold in stores. A dozen little stars made from cardboard and painted blue and silver that sparkled when the candlelight hit them just right, which was something he sat and waited for every year. Six red ribbons she had used to tie back their daughters' hair, some with strands of their hair, a reminder of her love for her children. Her most treasured ornament was the angel she made from her youngest daughter's doll, which had seen better days, and the promise to make her an angel delighted the child. She made a dress from material scraps kept over the years, and he remembered her saying, "You never know when something might come in handy." Hers was a labor of love: she stayed up late while the children slept, carefully stringing tiny colored beads around the gold satin dress and wings made from cotton sheer enough to let the light in when a single bulb brought it to life.

When the kids left the nest, it was just them to put up the tree, a smaller version of the trees they usually found, and the idea of a living tree appealed to both of them. From then on, they went to the local nursery and found their perfect tree, which would fill their house with joy. After the last of the Christmas cookies were gone, they planted the little tree in the yard where it would grow and become one more in an already fair-sized addition to their stand of trees that all told a story of Christmases passed.
Today he'd go to the nursery, find a tree he thought she would approve of, and take it home, her excited voice in his ears like it always was. He carefully opened the box and looked inside at all her ornaments, so lovingly made, as he placed each one by memory, knowing exactly where everything was supposed to hang. Her favorite Christmas music played in the background as he wiped away the tears, remembering her and the thousand memories they shared. He removed the angel last, placed it high on the tree, and plugged it in as he heard her voice whisper to him, a little to the right: My love, perfect.

Mike 2026

                        

                    

                                                                           

Morning flood

 I woke to the sound of rain on my tin roof. It was gentle and soothing at first until the volume turned up and the sound became a bombardment of hail, and drops became like bowling balls striking at will. I looked out the window and saw debris of every kind passing by like it was on a schedule. Broken branches and palm fronds clogged the drains until something larger broke them free. I watched as water rose to historic levels, submerging vehicles up to the tops of their tires as, one by one, they reclaimed their identities as boats. The sun tried to shine, but curtains of water blocked everything bright from getting through, as the darkness demanded its presence.

School buses were empty, and the mail trucks broke their promise of delivery no matter what. Through the rain-streaked window, I saw blurry figures in orange coats trying their best to clear sewer drains, but for every handful they took, more took their place, and the battle went on. Children's toys and remnants of tipped-over trash cans floated past me, leaving me to wonder where it would stop. I was on my second cup of coffee as the local news station reported any little thing, always gloom and doom, it seemed, but it took the place of political news, and that was ok with me.
What seemed like forever, I waited and watched out the window as the rain tapered off and the war on my tin roof grew silent. Distant thunder moved further away, a nightmare headed somewhere else while we ventured outside to see the damage, always on the lookout for alligators and snakes. Eventually the rain stopped completely, and life got back to normal after the water receded, leaving behind a trail of items, some gone forever but never forgotten. The sun did eventually shine again, and life carried on as it was meant to be. As for me, well, my trailer didn't end up floating away, and the only thing I lost was a quiet night's sleep.

                                   Mike 2026                                          

Mike 2026

First communion

 I remember receiving holy communion for the first time as a young boy. My mom and dad watched proudly as I joined the others, walking down what felt like a million steps to the altar. I wore my first suit, which Mom had to alter a little because it was a hand-me-down from an older cousin. My hair was cut the day before at the neighborhood barbershop, where other boys my age were having the same thing done as proud dads held their emotions, but no one fooled anyone, because they all felt the same.

I remember kneeling before the priest named Father Mathew, whose robes smelled comforting to me, and the softness of his voice as he placed the body of Christ in my mouth, which had frightened me for days, hoping I didn't drop it out of my mouth to gasps of horror from my parents. Then, as he passed me the chalice to drink the blood of Jesus, I wondered for a split second if it would taste like blood from a cut knee the day before.
When Father Mathew blessed us, and we went outside to meet up with our families, I felt a deep sense of being filled in a way I never had before. We went for breakfast at the pancake house where I noticed some friends had the same idea. It looked like a convention of little business people in suits and ties. Pictures were taken quickly, as those ties were coming off sooner rather than later. Back at home, Mom told me to hang up my suit and change into play clothes as soon as friends and family arrived for a picnic. We played horseshoes and lawn darts that made most of the moms nervous, and baseball on the vacant lot next door.
I was proud of myself for learning the catechism and memorizing the three prayers I still pray today. I had a little trouble learning the Act of Contrition, but with Mom and Dad's help, I nailed it. I believe religion is a personal belief, one that you keep inside your heart and that stays with you throughout your life when, at any given moment, you call upon for help when your world seems dark, and you seek the light. I believe in God from the deepest part of myself, and I've spoken to him through whispered prayers in a vacant church. I light candles on bended knees on a wooden floor to try and imagine the pain Jesus felt as he suffered on the cross.
My faith remains strong sixty years after my first communion. As I grew up, my prayers became more complex. When once upon a time I prayed for Mom and Dad and my sisters, my grandma, and all my friends, now I pray for peace in the world, the end of violence and crimes so horrific I cry. I ask God why he takes the lives of children while killers run free. I ask why we have so many homeless people and why some go hungry while others throw out food. But mine is not to question but to believe there is a reason; we will get answers when we enter his kingdom.
I passed by the church I've attended for six decades and saw all the little boys in suits and girls all in white. I feel their anxiety as they say to themselves one more time the three prayers they will have to recite in front of family and god. I couldn't hold back, so after finding a parking spot, I quietly entered the church and had a seat. It took me back with clarity as candles burned, and Father Tom, who took the place of father Samual, who took the place of Father Matthew, said the Mass of Communion today. The smells were the same, like incense and starched robes. I watched with a feeling of peace as the children received the body and blood of Christ, who would guide them throughout their lives and follow on God's path he's already chosen for each of us long before this day.
The church emptied as Father Tom prepared the altar for the next Mass. I softly asked him if I could receive communion, as I'd asked for forgiveness at confession the day before. He removed the last wafer and placed it on my tongue, then offered me the chalice to drink the blood of jeasus christ. I left the church on a beautiful springtime day, filled with the Spirit and the wonder of the God who lives inside me every day of my life.

Mike 2026

p.s
All of my stories are based on things I remember clearly, but I've added content to give the story something to capture the reader's attention. Hopefully, open-minded readers will understand that these are stories of one man's imagination and his faith that nothing can take away. Most people believe in something, while others don't believe in anything, and that my friend is your God-given right.                                                                    

 right.

Memories of Halloween

 There was a pumpkin patch right over there, he pointed out to his children as they drove down a country road on a sunny autumn day. Over there, he pointed again, was the old general store where, as a kid, he'd go with his buddies when they had pennies to spend on candy, and sometimes they'd pool their coins and buy the latest Superman comic. They'd find a place to sit, usually under that giant oak he pointed out for the umpteenth time, and take turns reading it until it was read; then they played coin pitch, and the winner got to keep the comic for a week, then it was passed on to the others, and so on, he said.

And just over there, behind the trees, was a pond where we'd fish and swim on hot summer days, when our only care in the whole world was wondering what Mom was making for supper. Then Mom spoke up, telling us there was an old train trestle that went over the pond, and it was a kind of rite of passage to jump off the trestle into the pond below. Everybody jumped; she laughed well, most everybody. She looked at him and smiled, knowing he'd kept their secret for so many years.
Up ahead was a country market just before the exit to the highway, where you could buy farm-fresh produce, fresh honey, apples and cider, not to mention homemade crafts and a huge selection of pumpkins as far as the eye could see. The car had barely stopped to park when my sisters and I started our search for the perfect pumpkin to carve into something happy, maybe sad, and quite possibly something only the carver knew. Mom filled her basket with so many things that Dad had to hold another basket for her.
Back on the highway, we drew pictures of what our pumpkins would look like, and Mom used a clean cloth she always had handy with three kids to wipe off apples so we didn't have to wait to eat one until we got home. Even Dad ate one down to the core that he started to toss out the window, but Mom stopped him and took the core and placed it in the garbage bag she always brought along, knowing full well there would always be something sticky, mushy, or just downright dirty she'd have to dispose of.
When we got home, we unloaded our pumpkins and set them on the front porch, where they'd stay a few more days before we carved them as close to our drawings as possible. Dad helped us carve, especially my youngest sister, who whined because she couldn't use the kitchen knife as we did, but once she saw the carved-out pumpkin, she clapped her hands in approval. We spooned out what we called the pumpkin guts, and we dried the seeds and soaked them in saltwater; then Mom baked them until golden brown and ready to eat. It was quite the treat.
Halloween finally arrived, and we put on our costumes Mom and Grandma made by hand: me as a swashbuckling pirate, my older sister as an Egyptian princess, and the youngest sister as an apple tree with plastic apples from Mom's decorative fake fruit. Dad made branches out of paper towel rolls he spray-painted brown. We were quite the sight, to be sure. Then, after what seemed like a hundred knocks on doors, we headed home with bags of goodies, some a bit strange, like caramel popcorn balls, shiny pennies, and one homeowner gave out dental floss; I suppose he thought it was funny.
I remember those times as if it were yesterday, and I do my best to pass those memories on to my own kids and grandkids, who I'm happy to say enjoy them as much as I do, and to all you ghosts and goblins, HAPPY HALLOWEEN AND DON'T FORGET TO FLOSS!

                                                                           Mike 2026

Mike  2026

The caretaker of the trees

 The shack in the woods, covered with vines, hadn't seen a living soul in decades until today. It sat nestled in a valley surrounded by Christmas trees, most planted years ago by his grandfather, who built the shack after his wife passed at an early age, and others were gifts from above as pinecones fell from the sky onto the forest floor. Over the years, as the trees grew and needed thinning, he had the idea of hauling fresh-cut trees, mostly pines, down the valley road to a crude roadside stand he would build a couple of weeks before Christmas.

People began showing up, mostly on the weekends, city folks stopping at the crude stand with a sign he made and hung from the stand simply saying Christmas trees, written in green paint left over from when he painted their house that has sat vacant since her death, and he built the valley shack where he would live until he joined her high into the sky where stars shone, and the moon guided him to wherever she may be.
He lived a simple life in the valley, tending to the trees, always saying a few words as he bent down to replace the trees he'd taken with saplings that, over time, would grow into trees of many shapes and sizes. In the days leading up to the start of his busy season, he'd make wreaths from the droppings of branches, each a little different than the others, some decorated with red ribbon he found in her sewing basket he had brought with him to the shack, never knowing when something would need mending.
He lived out his days in the valley, a man at peace with clear memories and a heart that never really healed. He spoke to his trees, and they answered as the winds whistled through the branches, thanking him for caring for a place he loved so dearly. Today the roadside stand is just a pile of wood scattered about, and the shack in which he lived, a reminder of a man who carved wooden animals, mostly reindeer, he'd give to the children when a smile on their faces was all the payment he required.
It gave me chills to see two large branches draped across the roof like they were protecting him, or maybe hiding him from anyone who wanted to take him out of the valley. But  I scattered his remains throughout the place he called home. I made my way back to the road, where, looking down, there was an old and weathered sign with the words " Christmas trees painted with faded green letters. As I began to leave, a sudden burst of wind touched my face, and I knew it was him saying goodbye and thanking me for bringing him home to his valley of trees. 

Mike 2026

                                                                                      

                                  

Mike 2026

Tiny dancers of candlelight

 My eyes slowly burn as I try to write by candlelight, forgetting for a while that with one click of a switch I'd be fine again. Still, the story wouldn't have the same meaning; the characters wouldn't stand out in my mind with fluorescent lights piercing the darkness, a direct hit on the monitor, while candlelight creates movement and a calm that lets me write words worthy of writing.

As I continue to write by candlelight, tiny dancers make their presence known as a result of the strain, and my eyes feel them as I try not to blink too often, at least until I finish this paragraph or two. I'll admit there have been moments when I stop and close my eyes, still seeing the tiny dancers in shadow form under my eyelids. I stay still, waiting for them to finish their dance before I continue writing.
Refreshed, I continue as the flames from the candle come alive again, more dancing, more shadows, and more images to capture as words flow like a lazy river. At last I'm finished, and I save the final draft of my story and put it away, hoping someday it will be read by candlelight as tiny dancers perform for you as they do for me.   

Mike 2026                                                         

Mike  2026