Three months of a farmer

 It's that first morning with frost on the fields, and you're thankful you got the harvest in on time. Scattered pumpkins no one wanted lie there and go back into the ground as nature intended, while remnants of corn stalks litter the fields.

The apple trees are bare, but they've provided bushels of fruit that will be the stars of the table, including applesauce, pies, and cobblers. School lunch bags and one for the teacher, a sweet delight.
Time to give thanks for family and friends who share your table, filled with nature's bounty, as children shout for a drumstick. An afternoon football game and a turkey sandwich end the day as the last of the embers glow in the fireplace and kids say their prayers.
December says hello with an early snowfall as the roadside stand of Christmas trees comes alive with fresh paint and colored lights. This is the first year your son is old enough to cut trees with the chainsaw, under close supervision from Dad. Trees of all sizes are cut and stood up as city folks stop and hunt for the perfect tree. Christmas Eve, with all but a couple of trees left, the stand closes, and you join your family to decorate your tree, a balsam fir the kids agreed on.
Three months of hard work pass quickly as you wait for the springtime thaw and the beginning of another cycle of planting, tending, and harvesting. This is your way of life, filled with the good and the bad as Mother Nature decides your fate. Prayers are said at every mass or service for a bountiful harvest, but you realize not every prayer will be answered—broken machinery that costs too much to repair, bad seeds that will never grow. Invasions of bugs stopped, but at a cost. All part of being a farmer: doing what he loves with the people he loves, in a place he will never leave.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026

The last picture

 There are good things about growing older; the best thing is growing older and waking in the morning to the smell of coffee your late wife made every morning, which you now prepare before going to bed on a timer and waking up with a smile, thinking about her before you even wipe the sleep from your eyes. Growing older means having time to browse through old school photo albums and seeing those faces you loved so very much. Time passes so quickly you dare not blink as children become adults with their own babies, and those who've passed on are now just shadows in a yellow-stained picture of your past.

Growing older makes you pause as you contemplate doing something you probably shouldn't, like riding your bicycle in the rain or sledding down a winter hill, as grandkids cheer you on and your child hides the view with her hands over her eyes. Those kinds of things are designed for much younger people; at least that's what you're led to believe as you shut out everything around you and become a kid again, probably for the last time.
I remember hearing a song by Tobi Keith titled Don't Let the Old Man In. That rang true for what I believed as I looked at my weathered face in the mirror, trying to convince myself it wasn't me, even though I knew it was. Staring back at me as each wrinkle told a story of my past, some I'd rather forget while others I accepted as my life journey with no regrets. Growing older and remembering the important parts of your life takes you back to the old photo albums time and again to look deeply into the faces that fulfilled your life and the memories you know will one day fade away.
Your children and grandchildren will browse through those books, laughing with love, seeing you racing down that snow-covered hill with a smile as big as life itself, and the last picture of you riding your bicycle on a rainy day, arms stretched out and looking to the heavens. Growing older is a series of should-I-or-shouldn't-I moments, and you lean toward the should-I, craving one last crazy hurrah for your picture book.                                                

Mike 2026

Winters fury and then some

 He woke to a chill in the air, a sign that autumn was nudging out summer's blistering heat. He took a breath and smelled the earth again as summer said goodbye for a long winter's nap. Soon the leaves would turn colors of burnt orange and crimson as they floated to the ground, leaving naked branches behind. The sound of rakes piling leaves into mounds beckoned children to jump and disappear into the darkness of autumn fun. The smell of burning leaves filled the air, and the last of summer's cookouts could be heard as burgers and dogs sizzled on grills for the last time this year.

Neighbors gathered at a picnic table, pulling on sweaters they'd brought along and watching the sunset sink into the sky as the first cold air settled beside them. The elders were covered in blankets to keep them warm and refused to go inside, claiming they felt invigorated by the crisp air. They used fire pits for the first time in a while, and kids made s'mores with a little guidance from moms and dads. Each moment was captured and remembered as autumn disappeared into the darkness of night and was replaced with a blanket of white that covered everything and left behind paper plates filled with scraps of burgers and dogs quickly gathered by the small creatures of the night to be added to their gatherings needed to sustain them during the frigid months of winter's fury.
He woke covered in a quilt his wife made for him, so warm and cozy he didn't want to get up. Still, the brightness of the morning seemed brighter than usual, so he got up wrapped in the quilt and went to the window of his upstairs bedroom, and his words wouldn't form- just a muttering of sorts as he looked out, seeing nothing but snow that covered everything as far as he could see. He reached for his sunglasses to dull the glare and saw only the tips of telephone poles with drifts over two stories tall. He knew there were cars parked on the streets, but none were visible, buried beneath the mountains of winter's first attack. Still in shock, he heard the kids' laughter as a no-school-today message blared on the radio, but they wouldn't be going outside until they cleared fallen trees and downed power lines.
Drifts covered the windows, and with no power, the house seemed like a prison, dark and cold. He built a fire in the fireplace, burning through wood as fast as it went, fearing they'd run out altogether. They agreed they'd burn furniture if need be, as the kids pleaded with them not to burn their wooden bunk beds. One day became two, and then three, as hope dwindled, but on day four the sounds of work trucks and snow removal vehicles slowly made their way across town, clearing the roads and leaving behind giant piles of snow at the foot of driveways for homeowners to clear one shovel at a time.  Day five arrived, and things leaned towards recovery, but not soon enough, as cabinets once filled were now empty and the only things in the fridge were almost empty ketchup bottles and a jar of sweet pickles with two that escaped hungry hands.
Dad and his sons worked to clear the drifts and eventually claimed victory, turning to the car buried in the street. A few good neighbors lent a hand pushing him out to the screams of victory. The main streets were OK to drive on now that the dangers were gone. The family jumped in as Dad headed for the grocery store only to find that many had been there before them. Mom gathered what she could but realized it would only last a couple of days. But on the 6th day, another radio announcement told people the National Guard was setting up drop zones where trucks full of food and water were available to everyone in need. By day 10, temperatures were rising and melting large quantities of snow, allowing crews to plow the streets so work could be finished and traffic could get back on track. On day 11, school opened again, a blessing for moms who had run out of games to play and stories to tell. Dads went back to work, and grocery stores were full again. No one would ever forget that early winter storm, but they made the best of it by sliding down gigantic snow piles and building snow forts that sometimes spanned a hundred feet. I guess autumn couldn't wait to be over, but did she have to drop in like an atomic bomb? Will we see it happen again? I guess we will have to wait to see.

Mike  2026                                                                

Mike  2026

Sucker fishing

 It was mid-March, and the sucker fish were running in county streams. I was 12 when I first tried to catch some, so I was armed with waders, a three-pronged spear, a lantern, and a burlap bag. I spent some weekends at my aunt and uncle's place, where the saying a one-traffic-light town was very true. My cousin Peter was two years older than me and would show me how to catch these elusive fish, and believe me, it wasn't an experience I cared to repeat. So on a cold March night he drove us down country roads, and I feared we'd never find our way back. We finally stopped and parked beside a stream with angry currents and the roar of an angry beast ready to swallow me up. Peter showed me how to put on the waders, which made me feel like a giant rubber glove from neck to feet. He handed me my spear and lantern, lit the lantern, and told me to put the burlap bag across my shoulders like my newspaper delivery bag. Ok, he said, just follow me and walk slowly like I could do anything differently. Hold your lantern a couple of feet above the water, and you'll see the shadow of the fish, and when you do, spear it. When you get one, put it in the bag and move on. Will we eat these fish I asked and he told me no they tasted awful but made for great fietilzer so try and fill your bag.geared up and redy to go I stepped into the cold water and followed my cousin. It didn't take long, and I saw him put a fish into his bag and yell, "They're on the run, cuz get you some." I'll admit the thought of getting one was overwhelming, but I moved on, and without warning I felt a fish rub against my waders, so with high expectations I threw my spear and immediately felt the rush of frigid water fill my waders. Yep, I speared my waders and lost my balance as the current took hold, and within seconds I was bobbing up and down in the stream, getting farther away from my cousin, who had no idea I was being swept away to who knows where. I saw his lantern coming towards me and pulling me to the bank where I lay freezing to death. Peter thought fast and pulled off my mangled waders and retrieved a blanket from the car and wrapped me up like a burrito as my teeth chattered and my lips turned a shade of blue.So did you get the fish? He asked me with a grin. He got me into the car and turned on the heat as I slowly warmed up and my teeth quit chattering. Country folks love to hear a good story, especially when it's true, and Peter was already thinking about how he'd spin my misfortune into a laughing fit for anyone who would listen. And they listened. The next morning, as we walked the few short steps to the town's only diner, we entered to clapping and laughter all around. Hey, wader boy! One man shouted. Spear any more waders? Another chimed in. Even the cook looked out the serving window and asked if I was going out again that night. Like most stories, mine was set aside for another to be told, and a few days later Peter and I headed to the stream and geared up. I ended up filling my bag with sucker fish and never once speared my waders. Back at the diner the next morning, another round of remarks changed from laughing to congratulations. Peter and I went sucker fishing quite a few times after that fateful night, and as we unloaded our gear, he made sure I got the waders that were duct-taped over the spear marks that made me smile and remember always.   

Mike  2026

                                                                                    

                                                                                 

                                                                             

Letting her get away

 I remember when a handshake sealed a deal, and I remember when a man held the door for a woman and always walked on the outside of the sidewalk so a car splash wouldn't soak her, I Remember when a boy asked her father for permission to date her, and he looked like a serial killer. Do you remember, like I do, the first time you held her hand and it felt so smooth, and the first kiss that made you dizzy? Do you remember Friday under the lights, when your high school football game was played in frigid temperatures, and you gave her your jacket as you silently froze? I remember when I gave her a ring I saved up for; it took forever to pay it off, but the look on her face made it all worthwhile.

I remember having to leave her when I joined the Navy, like my dad did, and his dad before him. At first we wrote letters, but that eventually slowed down until it stopped. I saw a big part of the world and grew up almost overnight knowing that when I got out and went home I'd eventually see her someplace, and I wondered how that would go. That day came when I saw her in a club, dancing with someone who had his arms around her, as she looked into his eyes the way she looked into mine years ago. I remember walking out, looking back as her eyes met mine, and her stopping dancing for a minute to watch me close the door behind me.I can remember running into her at the grocery store, and her tugging on my shirt, smiling that smile that warmed my heart back then. The years had been good to her; a tiny spark lit as my heart beat faster. We went for coffee and talked for an hour before she had to leave, and I stayed until her lilac scent left the room. She was my first real love, and no one else could fill my heart the way she did.
I remember my first love, which ended in a far-away ocean and blank sheets of writing paper. I think of her almost every day and ask myself what our life would have been, but that was just one of many thoughts I had about her, about us, about myself, and questions left unanswered. I'll think about her every time I smell lilacs as I walk down a sidewalk without her hand in mine.

Mike 2026                                                      

Mike 2026

The seasons I remember

 The house is so quiet this autumn day; it's as if time stopped for a minute, letting a season change into another, from the sounds of kids playing Marco Polo in the pool to picking out a pumpkin at the pumpkin patch. Once green leaves, now a splash of colors fall to the ground, leaving bare branches behind to fend off another cold winter. From bathing suits to sweaters, from iced tea to hot chocolate, the changes are a story told in living color that never disappoints. A distant tractor breaks the silence as it harvests the last of the hay and marks the end of another season.

Roadside stands offer baskets full of apples, pumpkins, and cider to families from the city on a Sunday afternoon. The search for the biggest pumpkin farm ends with a field of orange as far as the eye can see, and kids of all ages roam through the rows in search of a favorite. Back home, the firepit holding toys and chew toys for the dog is cleaned out and ready for a cold night when the smell of wood burning can't come soon enough. Piles of leaves stand tall until kids run and jump into them; they are alive as voices and laughter fill the air.
As autumn comes to an end and winter knocks at the door, pools will be covered and grills put up in the garage. Ice skates will replace skateboards, and sleds will replace bicycles next to the grills. The freezer holds a turkey that will soon be the guest of honor at a Thanksgiving feast. A house full of family and friends sit around three tables pushed together as one, and mom brings out dish after dish of everyone's favorites. This day officially marks the end of autumn and gives way to thoughts of the holidays looming just ahead.
A Sunday afternoon in search of the perfect Christmas tree and little voices claiming they had found the one. Then, without warning, a light snow fell from the sky, coming to rest for a minute on the many trees that could have made the perfect Christmas card if the snow hadn't fallen to the ground. A speaker hanging in a tree played holiday music as kids and grown-ups sang the familiar songs they grew up with, bringing back memories of holidays past.
Winter gave way to spring, with the land awakening and sprouts of color peeking through the ground as bulbs became vivid tulips. Heavy coats gave way to jackets, then to T-shirts; jeans were outgrown and cut into shorts, and bare feet replaced rubber boots. Spring meant repairing what winter claimed like a fresh coat of paint, replacing boards on the porch and making sure the lawn mower was in good working order. It meant scattering grass seed everywhere, hoping it would take hold and grow.
Summer arrived, and the pool was uncovered and cleaned; bicycles and grills came out of the garage, and skateboards were well oiled. Fans were turned on, slowly, cooling the house with warm air, while open windows sometimes blessed you with a cooler breeze. Summer meant no school and gave time for exploring the dirt roads and hidden ponds in search of a fishing hole you'd try to keep secret that didn't last long. Soon summer would come to a close as autumn woke up in living color and we began again.

Mike 2026                                                                 

Mike 2026

Saturdays with Dad

 I remember when Saturdays meant doing something with my dad, like me mowing the grass and him reading the paper, making sure I cut it the way he wanted. But it also meant going into town for a haircut, sitting in a chair reading comic books that had seen better days while Dad and the barber talked about whatever you talk about while getting your hair cut. Saturdays felt like an unwritten law: dads and their sons hung out together, taking up a good portion of the sidewalk and going into places like the hardware store and newsstands, where Dad read the news from around the world. In contrast, you looked at the latest comic books, most protected from greasy kid hands with a plastic cover, leaving you to wonder what was inside.

Lunch was a bonus when we went inside the 24-hour diner, and I got to order anything on the menu, which was always a burger with fries and a chocolate shake. It was also when Dad would ask me about school and whether I was trying out for football this year. Did I have a girlfriend or a hundred other questions, some making me blush, but I didn't mind. Being from a small town, it wasn't unusual to run into a friend or two that led to handshakes and small talk between dads and nods of the head between the boys. On the way back home, Dad whistled to the music on the radio as I stuck my head out of the window, catching the air in my mouth like a dog would do
Mom would be standing on the porch watching as we pulled into the driveway, anxious to hear about our day. It was great, I'd say as I ran inside, hoping to watch some television, but I never quite made it before Dad told me to get the gloves out for a game of catch. He always let me warm up tossing the ball a few times at low speeds, and without warning he threw a fastball that hit my glove like a missile on a mission. I'd fling my glove away from the pain, but he told me to laugh it off and get ready for another one. That torture went on for a while until he looked at his watch and told me I was on my own, as college ball was coming on air in just a few minutes.
My dad was a good guy who provided for us and always made it clear I could be anything I wanted and do whatever my heart told me to do. I know I disappointed him at times when I didn't try out for football or join the youth hockey team as my interests leaned more toward being a writer. I believed I had a thousand stories to write about my childhood, and he just shrugged, saying it was my life. Years passed, and I attended the city college, where I received several awards for creative writing. I went on to become a published author, and my first book, titled Time with Dad, sold off the shelves.
One Saturday years later, we had lunch at the diner, where he asked me about my life and smiled as I gave him a signed copy of my book, which Mom later told me he read a dozen times or more. He told me he remembered a lot of the things we did but had no idea I remembered. On that Saturday, I packed my bags to leave, and he brought out the gloves he kept next to my book, asking me to have a catch. I agreed but told him to ease up on the speed, but the missile flew and landed in my glove with a bang as he smiled that smile I remember so well. 

Mike 2026               

Mike  2026