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

Growing older pros and cons

 Sometimes, growing older isn't always a good thing. We find ourselves remembering the past and those who've gone before us, leaving scars too big to mend. We look in the looking glass and smile a crooked smile at the face staring back at us, but can't be, as we aren't that old, are we? It's said youth is wasted on the young.

Growing older has no pause button we can turn on and off; it keeps on running until it just stops when we realize there is no going back. What we did in our younger years carved the path we follow today, and we hope we made a difference in the scheme of things. We hope our counsel has worth, as those we taught passed our knowledge on, never to be forgotten but admired.
Growing older finds us listening more than we speak, trying to grasp new technologies that often feel lost on us, and sitting quietly with a painted-on face. It's always been a mystery to me how an eight-year-old can navigate complex topics on complex devices. I remember when, back in my younger days, children learned from parents and teachers what we needed to know, and receiving a high school diploma was a major accomplishment.
To me, growing older meant staying mentally strong and physically challenged, and walking on a treadmill could end you. When growing old, the medications you take every day outnumber the days themselves, and you panic when trying to remember if you lost count and skipped one, which would haunt you all day long.
On the bright side of age, you have plenty of alone time to browse old photographs, and you stop to stare at one particular photo and relive the day it was taken. It amazes me that my memories still want to come out and play. Don't be fooled into believing eighty is the new forties, as that will only speed up your final destination.
Growing older can be a memorable time in your later years if you allow it to be. Just don't ever challenge your grandchild to a video game; they will smoke you every time. Don't feel left out of conversations; nod and smile like you understand everything, when in reality you're deep in your memories, trying to remember whether you shut off the stove and turned out the lights.

Mike 2026

                                                                              

The winter boxes

 Soon the ground will lie to rest as winter's breath blows across the land. Trees stripped of leaves; green is only a memory. Firewood is stacked high as winter knocks at the door like a cunning wolf—your first steps on frozen grass sound like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

Inside, cedar chests: you open them to bring back winter's clothing, and fur-lined boots make an appearance for a fighting chance against the cold. Boxes come down from the attic marked as Halloween and Christmas, put in a corner as a reminder it's almost time to decorate.
You decide one cold winter's day it's time to splash colors around the house, so Dad climbs a ladder and hangs the holiday lights, holding off turning them on until the last piece of turkey is gone and the switch is thrown, to the family's delight. Nextdoor neighbors applaud your labor of love for the season, with hundreds of lights and figures on and around the house, as cars filled with families drive through neighborhoods and beep their horns in approval.
It's a time of year when world troubles stay hidden for the time being, and neighbors wave and smile a genuine smile they mean, not a fake gesture expected from them. Cookies and fruitcakes sit on porches with a note that reads, "Happy holidays from your neighbors." Holiday parties are open invitations, a time to reconnect with people who lived feet away but seldom spoke, as they do when they smile and wave when the trash goes out to the curb.
Moms are dressed in festive dresses, often getting approval from someone she didn't know but later learned to be a neighbor, the same one she caught staring over the fence as she sunbathed last summer. The alcohol flowed well into the late-night hour, and kisses on the cheek and many thanks for the invite ended the party, leaving you and your man to clean up the mess, but looking at it all, deciding to let it wait until tomorrow. Dad teased her about her admirer but agreed she did look darn good in a bikini.
The holidays passed too quickly, and the day arrived when Dad took down the lights and put the boxes back in the attic until next year. There was a sadness about it, but that vanished as a huge snowstorm came rushing in like a locomotive racing by on frozen tracks. When the darkness passed and the sun came out, a winter wonderland greeted you as you looked outside at a world turned white. With hot oatmeal gone in four bites, the kids put on their winter clothes, and the door opened to a dream day. Sleds were brought out of the garage, ice skates were sharpened, and a family of snow angels appeared all around the yard.
At dinner time, the kids came inside frozen to the bone, with ice crystals hanging from their frozen brows and pounds of snow that somehow infiltrated into every nook and cranny on their snowsuits. Rosy red cheeks and endless smiles as they swapped stories about a snowball fight with neighborhood kids and a six-foot-high snowman knocked over by a misguided sled racing down the hill, while the dog grabbed the carrot nose and ran to safety. Summer time couldn't hold a candle to winter's fun, at least not in that moment. But that would change when the first warmer days of Springtime said hello; they watched baby saplings grow as spots of green pushed through the thawing land, and they thought about fishing in the stream, camping outside in tents, and eagerly awaiting summer to come knocking. But somewhere in the cool months of October, they talked about more than one occasion, and that was winter and boxes pulled from the attic.

Mike  2026