Wildflowers and bumblebees

 She lay in a field of wildflowers as a warm breeze kissed her face, leaving a scent of jasmine behind for just a fleeting moment. A bumblebee flew around her head like a helicopter, looking for a place to land and finding nowhere, so it buzzed off into the distance.

She softly sang a song her mom would sing to her as they walked hand in hand in this very valley, letting the stems of flowers slide between their fingers as a summer rain shower came out of nowhere. They twirled around and around, their faces lifted upwards, letting the falling drops of heaven's nectar quench their thirst.
She had brought her journal with her, which sometimes remained just a blank sheet, but other times, like this day, the words came to her with a speed she could barely keep up with. She wrote of the valley and the wildflowers, the bumblebee looking for a place to land and holding her mom's hand in hers as they walked, sometimes in silence, taking in the wonders of the world around them, right here in their valley.
Out of nowhere, the rain began to fall, and that nectar from the heavens fell upon her face as she twirled around and around, knowing her mom was right there with her, dancing in her linen dress, spinning around and around, her laughter like a song you don't ever want to stop hearing. Tomorrow she'd venture back to the valley where the wildflowers showed off their colors and bumble bees found places to land. She'd open her journal and share her stories with her young daughter as they danced in the sudden summer rain.
Mike  2026                                                             

Orange colored picture books

 Fireflies danced across the meadow as wildflowers swayed to a gentle breeze. The car is packed with tired kids and an empty picnic basket as darkness makes way for a billion stars. It's a quiet ride home, the radio softly playing as Mom sings along at barely a whisper. Dad points to a deer on the side of the road, our headlights scaring it back to the woods to the delight of the kids not asleep. Sunburned faces and a few cuts and bruises, all in a day's fun captured by Dad and the camera that stayed glued to him like a third arm. He would take the film to be developed tomorrow, and 24 hours later we'd sit down and look at everyone smiling and laughing at how we looked, like the one with Mom trying to hide her face, claiming she didn't even have her lipstick on. Each picture was a treasure, protected inside an orange-colored picture book and tucked away in Mom's big red trunk in the attic. As an adult, I looked through those little orange books, remembering picnics and days at the beach. Little league baseball games with me up to bat and Mom caught on film yelling and cheering me on. There were pictures of every new car Dad bought over the years, usually with him washing them. There were decades of birthday parties caught on film, as well as first communions, first haircuts, and every holiday known to man. I believe Dad was the only guy with a camera who took pictures of before-and-after things, like a shot of Thanksgiving dinner in all its splendor, then another shot of after dinner was over that could have been described as a bomb going off. Half-eaten slices of pumpkin pie and chewed dinner rolls. The turkey, once a thing of beauty, now a carcass Dad just had to take a picture of.This obsession of his held for every holiday before and after, but I'll admit that as I looked at all those pictures, I was happy he was so obsessed.

There's something special about those old pictures, a kind of window into our lives when time stood still long enough for him to capture each moment as a memory. I was gifted Dad's camera after his passing, a simple, inexpensive, no-frills camera, not even a timer he could have set to go off as he ran to get in the picture. I guess that's why he wasn't in too many of the orange colored picture books, except for a bunch of shots Mom took, like him getting an award for his work in advertising and him in uniform when he fought in Korea. I finished well into the night, looking at my life in black and white, then closing the red trunk that will remain closed in the attic until someone else dusts it off, sits on the floor, and opens the orange-colored picture books.

Mike  2026                                                  

Mike  2026

My ship

 I served on the U.SS KOELSCH DE-1049 FROM 71-75.

Our home port was Mayport, which we didn't see much of, as we were always taking six-month cruises to places like the Med and the Indian Ocean. As a young man of 18, life aboard a naval ship was an experience like crossing the equator twice and becoming a golden shellback. I visited too many places to remember, but many have stayed with me in memories I hold close to my heart. France, Italy, Spain, Majorca, South Africa, Gibraltar, and many more ports of call; I made brothers for life and visualize their faces some 50 years later. I can remember many cold nights on the signal bridge as a signalman, a rating that no longer exists. On a visit to Buffalo, New York, I visited the Sullivan brothers, a WWII ship now a museum, where I could roam the decks and get as close as I could to the Navy way of life. She's been decommissioned a while now and sails the oceans no more. But the Koelsch will forever live on in my memories as I feel the salt spray on my face and the endless seas of blue.

Mike 2026

                                                                               

 

     

Just once more

 Just once more, I'd like to walk through a winter forest where all is quiet. To sit on a stump and wait for a fallen branch to snap under the weight of a woodland animal.

Once more I'd like to sit on golden sands as small waves break around me and the smell of the sea lingers.
Once more I'd like to hold my children when they were babies and tell them I'd always be there for them, then see if I was.
Once more I'd like to be in love, if only in my dreams. I want to feel her softness and taste her lips as we stroll hand in hand on a street made of bricks. Once more, I'd ride the steepest rollercoaster and ride my Harley through the mountains in autumn splendor.
Once more, I'd like to remember my childhood and all the parts I played, from superhero to baseball legend. I'd relive my life in slow motion so as not to miss one precious moment.
Once more I'd tell myself I did okay on this earth enough to earn my place above where the angels soar.
I would go fishing with my son and have a grown-up tea party with my daughter. I would sit on a front porch looking out over the endless fields of corn we played in as kids. I'd hold my mom's hand wherever we were and always see my dad as my hero. I would write one more story the world would read, and one kept close to my heart for my eyes only. There are way too many things I'd like to do just once more, but the one that tops my list is I'd like to dance with the girl of my dreams, to hold her so close I'd hear her heartbeat just once more.

Mike  2026                                                                       

The old Oak

 He sat under the old oak tree his great grand dad planted as a sapling almost one hundred years ago.  It was a tree kids would climb as they grew, along with it with sturdy branches and challenging limbs to navigate the highest of climbs. Each generation of kids dared their friends to go higher and higher until one such brave kid reached the top, sticking his head out of the tippy-top branches, where he yelled loudly. He could see the whole town from up there. To his reckoning, nobody else ever climbed that high again.

As the years passed, tree houses were built in the old oak shelters to camp out in or pretend to be lookouts for the enemy. They were constructed with materials found around the farm and, on more than one occasion, fell apart, sending wood and boys falling to the ground below, causing one broken arm and bouts of poison ivy. Dad, who was a carpenter by trade, built a tree house unlike any other, with a floor, sturdy walls, a roof with shingles, and a trap door. A rope was lowered to the ground to let someone climb up if invited, and an emergency ladder kept inside just in case a wise guy took the rope off.
That old oak tree had a rope swing hanging from a sturdy branch that could hold the weight of the fattest kids, who, in most cases, chose it instead of trying to climb the rope up to the tree house. That tree was a part of kids' lives, including his, who could close his eyes and see the joy and laughter it brought on any given day. As he stood next to the oak, he saw the carvings of hearts and initials, dates and notches, showing the growth of kids as they grew up. A tear rolled down his face as he saw his kid's name on the mighty oak, a babysitter he thought of as a never-ending source of happy times.
Lightning struck that old oak, scorching some of its bark and catching fire, which was quickly put out, but not before leaving a scar that never healed. It wasn't strong enough to climb anymore, but it still stood as a reminder of its once mighty self, ready to take on the best tree houses and lookouts from low-hanging branches. Much like himself, it refused to acknowledge old age and would probably outlive generations to come who would hear the stories and look up to the heavens, where the shadow of a boy could be heard yelling that he could see the whole town from up there. And he smiled, remembering he could.

Mike  2026                                                                

    

Mike  2026

Ice cream horror

 He stopped in his tracks, bending his head towards a familiar sound. Faint in the distance but growing louder with an occasional stop in time as it grew closer. He tried to run towards his house, but his legs wouldn't respond to his brain's call as he joined the others screaming that he was coming, and the noise grew louder. With his legs now in a full-out sprint, he barged through the kitchen door, causing his mom to jump and scold him not to run up on her like that. He tried to form the words as his mom removed a quarter from her apron pocket, which he snatched up, giving her a quick kiss on her cheek. DON'T SLAM THE DOOR, she yelled after him, but he was already joining the other kids, ears tuned to that sound every kid wants to hear on a hot summer evening. THERE HE IS, one kid yelled. I see its head. The music grew louder as it inched closer: the painted-red mouth and the massive blue-and-yellow head, a young kid's worst nightmare. And just like that, the ice cream truck stopped and a man dressed as a clown opened the window, taking orders from kids of all ages. It's the simple things that give us pleasure, like waiting for an ice cream truck, that have all the ingredients of a PG-rated horror show.

Mike 2026                                                          

American dreams and promises

 The year was 1933, a few years into the great depression, and he remembered it well. Thousands were going to bed hungry, only to get up again, searching for any job that might pay enough for a loaf of bread that you'd have to stand in line for, hoping they didn't run out as you waited. Children still played in the streets, girls playing hopscotch while boys too young to work used discarded pieces of board as bats and well-guarded baseballs. Across the river, life was sweet, as those of privilege rode in fancy cars, ate at fine restaurants, and wore anything but the finest clothes. He remembers sitting on the docks, where, in the distance, music played, and the twinkle of bright lights lit the sky. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine it was you over there, a man of success with a cigar sticking out of your mouth, sitting at a shoeshine stand where the attendant had black, stained hands from years of applying polish with his fingers.

Reality found him back on his side of the river and the endless pursuit of employment. Hundreds of men pushing at the gate where a guy with a clipboard selected five of them and said, " That's all for today. You lucked out one morning getting chosen for a road crew to dig dirt that paid two dollars for nine hours of hard work. With those two dollars, he bought a loaf of bread and six potatoes, with enough left for a bottle of milk, something his kids had gone without. That night they gave thanks for the food and to the man who worked so hard, but knowing tomorrow would be another day of empty stomachs and hope.
Time moved forward, and life began to improve as he dug on the road project, becoming a foreman with a six-dollar-a-day paycheck, which allowed his family better food and shelter. From there, change became the norm as government jobs became more plentiful, and the endless days and nights were just memories soon to be left behind. Years passed, and his country was at war. And like thousands of other men, he joined up to fight. But by the grace of God, he came home and started a new life, where times got better, and the American Dream became reality.
He passed away at home, his family beside him, leaving behind a legacy of a man who never stopped looking after his family, never gave up on his promise always to provide the best he could, and never once thought only of himself. He was the poster guy for dreams and promises kept.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026