The racer in me

 It was 1969, and I was 15 years old when my dad purchased a 1969 Ford Mustang convertible—burgundy with a black interior. With its three-speed floor shifter and 289 HP engine, the car cost $2,800.00 off the showroom floor.

I learned to drive in that car, sometimes switching off to my mom's 1966 Chevy Impala, but my driving scared her too much to continue, so the Mustang it was. I got my license in the dead of winter, and anyone who experienced a driver's test on icy roads and snow blindness knows all too well how difficult that was for the instructor and me.

Little did I know that just a year and a half later, I'd be trading in the asphalt for a destroyer in the United States Navy. Just 17 years old with an option to either join up or be carted in front of a judge for possession of a bag of pot my dad found in the glovebox of his Mustang, a stupid thing to do  on my part, to say the least.

I spent four years on that tin can and was finally discharged in South Carolina, where I purchased my first Harley-Davidson motorcycle from a guy heading out to sea and had no further use for it. It was a 1959 Road King that needed some TLC, but it was doable. I rode that bike all the way to upstate New York, taking my time to see the sights and enjoy life on the road, where I met many people living their dream of communing, while others like myself chose the open road and the adventures it brought.

At 22, I bought a 1963 Chevy Impala Super Sport. With the money earmarked for college, but that was not in my plans. The Impala had a 327 cubic inch engine with a four-speed on the floor and some hidden items that would prove useful when I street raced it on Friday nights under the lights. I recall my first time racing it up against a 1955 Chevy with a blower, and god knows what else, but it was a beast to say the least.

The flag was lowered, and all I can remember is my Impala front wheels coming off the ground as I did my best to keep it in my lane. The fireblowing Chevy was inches behind me and sure to win until I mashed the nitro button, and with a trail of fire, I crossed the finish line to applause from my friends in the stands.

I continued racing and building cars, and the track became my second home. I taught both my son and my daughter to drive, each with the same passion for speed I had. We were on the road a lot, going from one race to another, and doing well enough until a major sponsor approached me, and just like that, we were in the big league.

Time raced past me, and after a wreck that left me with a broken neck, I retired from racing but never far away from it as I became my kids' manager. They went on to become well-known in the racing world, earning a comfortable life and fulfilling their need for speed.

Me, you ask. Well, I found a 1932 Willys, a car I'd dreamed about when I was a kid. It was in the fields along a long, winding country road, rotting away, until I towed it home and began the task of putting it back to its original glory. It took me three years to complete, with the goal of one day racing it against any fire-breathing monster who dared to race me.

Rolling up to the starting line, both my kids were assisting me and cheering me on as the tree lit up green and my willys jumped off the ground and disappeared down the strip all alone with no other car in sight. I deployed the chute and coasted to the end of the field, where I was pushed back to the staging area, and screaming fans who had just witnessed the fastest time ever on that track.

I never raced that car anymore, but I sat in it more times than I can remember. reliving that first and last race that forced me into retirement, to the joy of my wife, who, although scared every time I buckled in, waiting for the green light, sat in the stands, hands clenched, silently cheering me on.

Mike  2026                               

A dance token

 People saw him as just another old man staring into space, when in reality, he was reliving memories. Now, standing on a busy street corner, he remembered what it looked like decades ago—when youth and love were blossoming, the war had ended, and the dream of a bright future was within their grasp. As the crowd brushed past him, he saw her in his mind, young and beautiful, a smile on her face and love in her heart as they walked to the courthouse to be married.

Sixty years later, he looked up at a rooftop restaurant where they once dined. The building looked the same, although others had surrendered to the wrecking ball. The city had grown, and changes occurred before his eyes as he stepped off the curb with the crowd heading to one last stop.

The windows were boarded up, and the doors padlocked as he approached the old dance hall where they danced the nights away when each song played by the band found a place in their hearts to be called upon when memories were all he had left to remind him of her.

He could be seen on any given day roaming around the city, just another old man in an outdated coat and dancing shoes. Looking into windows, hoping for a reminder of her, like the old drugstore with a display of her favorite perfume in the window. The clerk seemed disturbed as he counted out the change from his pocket, coming up fifty cents short. He reached into another pocket and set a silver dance token on the counter, claiming it was worth so much more.

The night air was cold as he headed back to his modest home, where they lived for decades, although he admitted she kept a much neater home. He took the perfume from the bag and sat down. Very slowly, he let the mist hang in the air long enough to picture her there beside him, spraying the mist everywhere she said she wanted to be kissed.

Old age has no expiration date, no less feelings of wanting to be loved and remembered, just bits and pieces of dancing the night away with that special person, and a favorite perfume purchased with a dance token, and the need to remember.

Mike 2026                                             

Fresh paint

 He spotted the rusted remains of his son's scooter covered with spider webs and a hundred stories waiting to be told. He remembered the day he brought it home for his 7th birthday, all shiny and new, with a blue bow and colorful streamers, as he stood, frozen in the moment, alongside his wife, who had saved the pennies to buy it.

In another part of the cluttered garage, he spotted his daughter's bicycle, much in the same condition as the scooter. She had to have a pink bicycle, and he remembered how difficult that was, since every pink bicycle in town was sold out for Christmas. But that didn't stop him as he drove a hundred miles in all directions, stopping at every toy store and bicycle shop he could find, and each one telling him they were sold out. With all options gone, he had an idea.

He bought a blue bike, which there were plenty of for some reason, and four cans of pink spray paint, which he used to turn blue into pink. He didn't skip a single spec of blue as he carefully disassembled the bike down to the frame and prepped it for the paint job. He had painted his own bikes when he was younger, and it came right back to him with the final result being a world-class paint job. The years passed, and young girls grew up, as did young boys. Their interests weren't pink bicycles and scooters anymore, and that's how they ended up tucked away in the garage, where one day his grandchildren would be surprised when a freshly painted scooter and pink bicycle rolled out of the garage, ready for the joys of being a kid, just one more thing to smile about.

Mike 2026                                         

Days of my youth

 If I could go back to the days of my youth, I'd try to relive every happy moment, both big and small. I remember going for a haircut with my dad on a Saturday morning, holding his hand as we crossed the street to the soda fountain. There, he looked at me the way only a father does and told me I could have anything I wanted, but not to tell Mom.

I'd go back to Sunday drives, pulling over and having a picnic by the side of the road, the peaceful sounds of nature, far from the noises of man. We'd leave the car unlocked because back then, people were honest, and the bad guys didn't exist. We would walk in the fields and gather wildflowers that mom would take home and display as a reminder of our day.

I'd go back to a first crush, when we found ourselves holding hands as I walked her home from school, and stole my first kiss quickly so her mom wouldn't see out the window. All the way home, I'd taste her lips and walk on clouds knowing I'd see her tomorrow.

Throughout my youth, I loved and was loved in return. The love of parents ,siblings, and a grandmother who taught me the old ways of doing things, I remember to this day. Aunts and uncles, cousins, all who had an impact on me throughout my life.

And then one day, I don't know which, I was a young man who was too cool to be seen with my parents and wanted nothing to do with almost everybody. I retreated into my world, a world of outdoor concerts and long hair I refused to cut. A world of defiance and rebellion that ended when I was sworn into the Navy by my own father after a bag of pot was discovered in my sock drawer.

The days of my youth became my memories that filled my heart with the simple things I realized I needed to be reminded of so they wouldn't sail away on the wings of time.

The days of my youth are long gone now, and memories fade. Photographs are left in a book gathering dust as smartphones capture anything they want, spilling out like gumballs from an antique dispenser long forgotten.

If I could go back to my youth, I'd capture as much as possible and never let go of the people, places, and things that shaped my life in ways only they could. If only I knew that back then.

Mike 2026                                              

The red wagon

 He was a lanky man, quick to smile at everyone he met. In his prime during the 1930s, he dreamed big, always chasing get-rich-quick schemes. Often, it was the bottle talking as he sat at the table, his mother glowing as he described his next big score.

He tried several jobs, but most were terminated for sleeping in the night before and arriving late to work. He tried selling insurance and new and used cars, but all ended up taking a back seat to his priority: the drink.

He came from a circus family and quickly grew to love it, a chip off the old block, as his dad was a circus band leader and his mom walked the tightrope. They traveled from town to town, setting up in vacant fields, where he was tasked with setting up and taking down the big tent. Nobody knew exactly how many days of work he missed, but he was often found sleeping it off under a circus wagon, which led to him being fired, again.

He wandered aimlessly across the states, always with a smile and a promise to do a good job, but the booze ruled his life, and before he died of a bad liver, he went back home to live with his mother and memories of his dad. It was then that he came across a 1930s food truck abandoned in a field. Immediately, he knew what he wanted to do. All he needed was someone to believe in his dream as he did, and his mom agreed to lend him the money if he promised her he would stop drinking.

He was a guy who worked with his hands and his vision, fixing what he could and figuring out the rest through trial and error. He painted the truck bright red and painted the name on both sides. When it came time to outfit the inside, his skills shone as much as the stainless sinks and countertops he designed himself. He went to auctions and bought a cotton candy machine, a peanut roaster, and a hot-dog-and-burger grill. He found a soda fountain at the curb and took it home, where he fixed it like new. He searched for the elusive candy apple machine without any luck until he visited the county fair and played poker with the workers. When everybody cashed out, it was just him and the candy apple vendor.

He probably cheated, but he didn't much care, as he talked the vendor into putting up the candy apple machine, which the vendor reluctantly did, and then lost. With that secure in the truck, he was ready to hit the road and live his dream. He traveled with carnivals and fairs, doing great business, and for the first time in a long time, he was sober and making money. But like many things in life, he fell off the wagon and often found himself alone in his truck after the fairs closed down and left him behind.

Years later, the little red wagon, faded red with vines growing in the wooden-spoked wheels, came to rest next to his mother's house, where it remained until a passerby noticed it and its potential. He sold it to that passerby for pennies on the dollar, enough to keep him in whiskey for a few months, when he developed liver cancer and passed away at 44 years old.

To this day, you'll still see the little red wagon at county fairs and carnivals across the land, the smell of hot dogs and burgers cooking, and the smiles on children's faces as they bite into a candy apple.I like to think he's looking down at his vision, proud of what he did and sorry for what he didn't.

Mike 2026                                                          

The view from my world

 Looking out the window on a damp, gloomy day, I see my little space on the earth below me. Rainwater flows down the sides of the street. A little boy's toy boat lay capsized without a captain, and the chalk of the hopscotch game washed away.

Meanwhile, outside, a few children in bright yellow raincoats and rubber boots jump in puddles and sail paper boats downstream, which are quickly sucked into a drain.

A pet lover braves the rain to walk their dog, begging it to hurry along as cats take shelter under the porch.

I retreat from my window and pick up the book I started during the last storm, dressed in the robe gifted to me by my daughter, who claims I shouldn't live alone anymore.

I'm far from being alone, more like a spectator watching from a second floor as the circus below me must go on. There are animals and clowns in yellow raincoats, show dogs and feats of bravery everywhere I look, as props float away only to be retrieved when the gloom turns to light.

What a difference a day makes as I wake to sunny skies and fluffy clouds. The once-moving water has dried up, leaving behind a rubber boot and a box of waterlogged chalk turned to liquid colors. I'll venture outside and sit on the porch to listen to the sounds I couldn't hear from my window. Kids' laughter, dogs barking, and finally the sound of the ice cream man, and a quarter burning a hole in the pocket of my robe.

Mike 2026                                                    

Emergence of spring

 Another almost-invisible speck of green poked through the remaining snow. She knelt beside it, wanting to touch it, but refrained as its delicate stalk danced in the gentle breeze. There were signs of spring everywhere she looked, in the trees, where once bare limbs shivered in the cold, now slowly warm themselves with hundreds of baby leaf blankets.

Her walk finds her at the river's edge, where the ice has melted for the most part, allowing the streams to flow with purpose as she cupped her hands and drank the ice-cold water. In the distance, a newborn bird screams its song for its mother, who's never too far away, gathering food to fill their empty stomachs.

She had walked a good distance from her home and knew it wouldn't be long before her mom called out to her to come inside for a warm bowl of soup. She had another look at the magic of spring that surrounded her house, wondering how many more tiny miracles would appear overnight as she slept.

The morning brought the color green everywhere she looked, as if the warmth had arrived overnight and taken the snow away for another year. Splashes of color from the tulip bulbs planted in the autumn burst into an artist's palette of reds, yellows, and white, rising from hidden places known only to her.

It was her special place, with sights she had longed for amid the endless cold of winter's fury. Her love for the outside, where animals ran free, and time was measured by hunger pains. Her vision of living in the forest was etched in her mind: chasing fireflies in mason jars and never forgetting her role as a caretaker of nature. It was her calling, and the forests listened to her every word.

Mike 2026