The park bench

 He remembered sitting on a park bench eating an ice cream cone with his grandma. Decades have passed since that time, with the old bench replaced by a new one, a magnet for anyone with a pocketknife to carve out their initials, hearts, and professions of love. It was like a rite of passage, handed down and never forgotten as time made room for one more young lover's expression of first love.

He remembered his crudely carved heart done in the darkness of an empty park years ago, his own heart beating fast in fear of being caught, but never was. And like many others, an X carved through the heart meant a breakup and a message to others that they were over and available.
Those years of innocence were so different than today's, when a guy carved his feelings, and girls drew hearts on book covers for everyone to see. It was a time when milkshakes were shared and holding hands in the school hallways was a big deal. It was skipping last period and going to the park, where first kisses left you breathless and speechless, as you unveiled the heart you had carved for the world to see.
As my kids grew up, all the old benches were replaced with composite ones, making them impossible to carve on, so colored markers became the jackknives, and the legacy continued. Kids still hold hands and experience a first kiss; they still sit on a bench looking for an X, but more important is knowing their love can be expressed with a magic marker, whether time will erase it or not.
Mike  2026

Atomic fireballs

 He was just a kid who lived in the country. Growing up around family and a couple of good friends. He'd sit on the wooden crate in front of the general store, tossing stones at a stray cat, never intending to hit it, just to scare it a bit. He was going to meet up with Billy and John, his only real friends, but neither showed up, thinking they probably got tied up with more chores. He fumbled in his overall pockets, searching for the quarter he'd earned from Mrs. Jefferies, whose husband of sixty years passed on a while back. He'd drop in on her every so often as she always had something needed done. He went straight into the store to the orange-colored cooler, where bottles of five different flavors were kept cold and frosty. He chose a Dr. Pepper today and a bag of peanuts that he'd pour into the bottle, making a Georgia milkshake. It erupted like a volcano, something he learned from his older brother. Thing was, by the time it was done erupting, there wasn't anything left to drink, so he didn't do that much anymore unless he was trying to impress Betty Joe, the girl of his dreams who couldn't care less about his stupid tricks.

He had a seat on the old crate again, this time kicking a can of empty beans until it landed under the sheriff's car, and he was sure enough not going under there to get it. The sheriff came out of the store with a bottle of Coke, chugged it down, and handed the empty bottle to him, saying he could get the two-cent deposit and get himself two cents' worth of candy. That was an easy decision as he set two atomic fireballs on the counter along with the empty bottle. Back outside and sitting on the crate, the challenge to himself began. The object was to suck on the fireball until your mouth couldn't take it anymore. When your lips felt like two red peppers, and your throat began to close up. What seemed like forever but was really only a minute or so until the darn thing quit burning and was reduced to a marble-sized ball that could safely be eaten until it was gone. He put the other fireball in his pocket for another time, knowing he didn't want to go through that again, at least not for a while.
He looked inside the store at the Coca-Cola clock, which showed him it was getting late and that it was time to get home before his dad finished plowing and before Mom rang the supper bell. Just as he began his walk home, he saw Mr. Larry's old pickup truck headed for the store, which meant one thing: he was running late as Mom's dinner bell rang at four thirty sharp. You see, Mr. Larry was what my mom called a creature of habit. Every day except Sunday, he left his job at the mill at exactly four oclock. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the store where he'd buy a loaf of bread and a six-pack of a cheap beer. Then he'd head straight home, arriving at four thirty-five on the dot. As he pulled away from the store, Mr. Larry leaned out the window without slowing down, asking him if he needed a ride. Get in the back, he told him again, never slowing down. It was a bumpy road, especially when Mr. Larry hit every pothole in sight. He yelled out the window and told him to go ahead and jump off, as he wasn't going to stop. So, with no other options, he jumped out, rolling through the dirt and coming to rest at the gate. He jumped to his feet and ran down the road leading to the farm, where he saw his dad putting the tractor in the barn and, seconds later, the supper bell ringing. It was a close call, but he made it in time, and that's what mattered. He asked his mom why Mr. Larry kept such a tight schedule, and she answered that he had never missed an episode of Wheel of Fortune since it began airing. She said he was in love with Vanna White like so many men were. She may be hot, he thought to himself, but as for him, he'd rather get his hot from an atomic fireball at least for the time being.

Mike  2026

Another life, maybe.

 All of us, at one time or another, believe we've lived more than once. We see something never seen before, giving us chills as it all becomes so clear we've been there before.

I believe I was a fighter pilot in ww2 a product of a military father who made my decision to join up a no-brainer. I went to flight school and graduated in just enough time to witness Pearl Harbor in such detail that I still can close my eyes and see myself in the cockpit, taking off from a crude runway and looking down at the destruction burning a hole in my heart.
I was 25 years old and quickly discovered I had a talent. My skills as a pilot were well known, with 30 confirmed kills, each a painted lady on the fuselage of my plane. I could feel the plane as we took part in dogfights, watching as black smoke filled the sky, forcing me to fly blindfolded at times but always breaking through in time to shoot down another enemy plane.
I witnessed one of ours go down in flames, and I prayed for their souls but was never distracted from my mission. Outnumbered until reinforcements arrived, we fought in the sky blanketed by darkness, our ammo running low but our spirits high as enemy planes crashed into the sea below us. Tired and wounded, we refueled and flew back into the battle to help our brothers alone without us to protect them.
When it was over, we limped back, our planes riddled with hits, engines overworked, and nothing shy of a miracle we survived. I can smell the war on my flight suit, a smell of fuel everywhere and of death, as one of my brothers crashed before my eyes in a fireball of flames. It's all so clear to me today; the panic and the realism burn inside me as I take to the skies over and over until it all disappears, and I'm back home safe and sound.
I was never a pilot, or, for that matter, never served one day in the military. Not by choice, mind you, but a medical condition disqualified me from joining up. I ask myself how, after all this time, I remember everything in vivid detail. The sounds of my plane, the explosions on the ships in the harbor, the choking smell of jet fuel, and a picture of my wife next to the fuel gauge, even though I never wed.
I can only come up with one reason that I had lived another life, and yes, that sounds unbelievable, and maybe it is, but to me I believe such things do happen, and sometimes we're shown that previous life in details too great to ignore. A dream, some ask; I don't think so more of a portal into another time, where we find ourselves in death reaching for another time, another chance, or maybe just another version of ourselves.
Mike  2026

Whispers at the head stones

 When I go home for a visit, I spend time with those who have passed before me, going back from decades to generations. I'll sometimes have to search certain areas obscured by weeds and grass, and others that are kept up by those left behind, maintaining a peaceful spot where heaven's light shines down upon them as they talk to the departed.

My Mom is laid to rest on a slight hill that seems to grow steeper with every year I age. I'll catch my breath and tell her about my life, how big my grandkids are, and how I remember her and miss her every day. I always bring her some lilacs, as they were her favorite. In the quiet of the day, I touch her headstone and whisper my love for her, a love that time can't change or grow less. Saying goodbye breaks another piece of my heart as I walk down the hill, leaving tears that follow me always.
It's easy to find my dad, who is laid to rest in a military section of the graveyard. He rests among the dozens of his brothers-in-arms who fought the great battles of wars and conflicts, some who died in battle while others lived a life filled with hidden pain. I speak to him with the respect he deserves and forgiveness for his anger that was fueled by the bottle and his endless nightmares that often woke me in the darkness of night as I held my pillow over my head to drown out a voice I didn't recognize. I'll brush away the weeds to clearly see his name and salute him, knowing that would make his day.
I make my way across the hundreds of graves and come upon a beautiful place, the resting place for a father and a son lying side by side for eternity. As I sit on a small bench, I can hear them debating on one topic or another, both deep in thought and planning their next move in never-ending chess games. I see their faces as I remember two scholars, a father and son who loved each other more than any lifetime could understand.
My final stop is that of my first love. Taken from this world too soon, leaving a trail of broken hearts, none more broken than my own. She lies beside her parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, together forever, with her name, Tamara Star, etched into the stone that I trace with my finger, hoping a speck of heavenly dust remains with me forevermore. I can't stop my tears as her beautiful face smiles down on me and eases the pain I've felt for decades. I often sit in silence, remembering her in every way I can and knowing words aren't needed; just a little more time until we meet again.
My baby sister, as well as my best friend, chose cremation; their remains on shelves are a constant reminder of their presence and importance, always in view and always in my heart. I speak to them as I did the others who, in so many ways, touched me in ways only I can feel. I will find myself at the ocean, staring out to an endless sea where my best friend blows with grains of sand at the ocean's bottom as I cup a handful of damp sand, wondering if it's him telling me everything is okay. I find myself hoping he will watch over my sister among the grains of sand and stay by her side, like I picture him doing.
Death isn't just a time of mourning; it's a place of comfort for those like me who never really said goodbye just one-way conversations between a man and his whispers to headstones that sometimes whisper back.
Mike  2026

Pumpkin patches and more

 I remember walking through a pumpkin patch that seemed to go on forever.  Odd-shaped gourds destined to sit on a porch with carved-out faces, often from the imaginations of children. I recall drawing the face with a crayon, then Dad taking charge of the knife and carving it exactly the way I drew it. Mom would soak the seeds in saltwater, then bake them to a golden brown, and my sisters and I ate them until our lips were parched. On Halloween night, the candles were lit, and the ghoul-ish faces came to life as another memory was added to my childhood book of smiles. It was always a little sad to see the once mighty pumpkin reduced to mush and discarded. Still, I only had to wait another year for a trip to the pumpkin patch, when I'd search row after row for that perfect pumpkin whose face I would color in crayon. Dad said maybe next year, but not today, as he took the knife and began carving upside-down triangles and jagged teeth sure to scare even the bravest kid. I never liked the day after, when pumpkins sat atop trash cans, deformed and scorched by the candle's flame, looking like defeated soldiers on a battlefield. But on the upside, we had pillowcases full of candy that my sisters and I would trade for Kit Kats, Snickers, pieces of Double Bubble gum, and more. Our thoughts of Thanksgiving and the grand daddy of all Christmas were on our minds. It was fun being a kid back then, when boxes filled the shelves in the attic, each marked for the occasion, filled with costumes to be handed down and paper turkeys cut out using your hand as a template. Box after box of Christmas decorations, filled with ornaments handed down from generation to generation, and dozens of handmade ornaments made by the kids that were hung on the tree every year. But the most important boxes contained hundreds of strings of colored lights Dad would spend hours untangling, swearing this was the last year he'd do it. But there he was, up on a ladder turning our house into a winter wonderland like he's been doing since I can remember.

I count my blessings for the childhood years I shared with my family, and over the years I've found myself doing the same things for my children and grandkids. We've even started our own traditions, like sitting around a campfire on Christmas Eve, drinking hot chocolate, and singing holiday songs. We invite neighbors over to share in our bounty, and every kid exchanges small homemade gifts with one another. We still visit that pumpkin patch where we let the grandkids run from row to row in search of the perfect pumpkin to draw faces on with a crayon, and I finally get the honor of using the knife to carve exactly what they drew, no matter how they looked.

Mike  2026

Dads dream boat

 I was about twelve when my dad brought home a big boat on a trailer, towed by a tow truck. It was quite the show as neighbors watched it slowly make its way through turns and park in the driveway. From the look on my mom's face, this was one of those times when Dad preferred to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. The boat was in fair condition but would need some work to make it seaworthy. As luck would have it, one of the neighbors was a well-known carpenter with years of experience reconditioning boats. I later learned that the carpenter and my dad had met up at the marina on several occasions to plan something that wouldn't break the bank.

Dad grew up living a stone's throw from the Niagara River, which, like most young boys, was a place to learn to swim and help with small chores at the marina. He fell in love with boats and had a few over the years, telling me he was working his way up from smaller boats to a cabin cruiser he had yet to find.  I'll never forget the day he got a call from the harbor master at the marina, telling Dad that a 28-foot Trogen cabin cruiser went up for sale at a very good price. We quickly took the short drive to the marina, where the harbor master showed us to the metal hut where boats were placed on cradles and covered with tarps to protect them from the bad weather.
There she blows, the harbor master said, pointing to a boat covered with blue tarps, which he pulled off, revealing what Dad said was a dream come true. All I saw was a hull and a ton of work to be done before she ever hit the water. On his first visit, the carpenter told my dad it would take about $4,000 to restore it to its original beauty. Plus, the engine would have to be overhauled and all electrical components brought up to current codes. Mind you, my dad wasn't much of a get-your-hands-dirty kind of guy, but he could negotiate with the best of them, eventually getting everything done for 3,500 dollars, which was no small amount in 1963.
The boat took shape in our driveway for a year and a half, and the finished product was one of beauty and grace. Everybody in our family did their part, with Mom making curtains down below in the living area, and my sisters lending a hand. The boat had a cooking stove, a small fridge, a stand-up shower, and a commode. It had a forward berth with a good-sized bed and a table that folded down to form a sleeping area. I'll never forget the smell of new wood and knew why the carpenter was in demand.
We launched the boat on July fourth. Dad and I had already given her a test run, with the mechanic getting out the bugs and giving his stamp of approval. We passed inspection by the Coast Guard, who put a red sticker on the bottom of the windshield dated 1965 through 1966. So with food and drinks stowed away below and sunscreen applied, we headed out of the harbor onto the mighty Niagara River. That was just the first of many voyages we took on that boat as time swam past; Dad couldn't operate the boat anymore due to his failing health. But it didn't stop him from becoming first mate, passing down the captain's hat he wore for many years to me.
Long after my parents left this world, I kept the boat for years, taking my kids on weekend cruises, showing them the places my dad showed us, always with a tear shed. But eventually the upkeep became a burden, and we decided to sell her. I learned that a young couple bought her and treated her with the respect she deserved. As for me, well, I found another boat under a tarp in the marina and called the carpenter straight away.

Mike  2026

Waiting for your next nap.

 It took him a little longer to get to his chair these days, plopping down hard enough that he thought he'd blow out the stuffing. It wasn't always like that he remembered. There were times he could have jumped over the darn thing. These days it's the little things he remembers, like getting his first tattoo and the dozens that followed. Now just a faded ink highway no one would notice.

He smiles as he looks at a picture of himself in his navy uniform, wondering if he really was that age and where the time went. He spends hours looking at old photographs, each a story of his life; he never grows tired of remembering and knowing the day will come when the stories will grow fewer and fade away altogether.
He naps every afternoon, not by choice; mind you, it's just a way of saying he can no longer control sleep as it finds him whenever it pleases. He has one of those new-to-him cell phones his daughter gave to him so she could keep tabs on him. After all, Dad, she would say, you can't be alone all the time without letting me know you're okay. He didn't argue with her, as he knew he couldn't win unless you call turning the damn thing off a win.
As he sat in his chair, he'd put himself into a kind of trance, reliving precious memories of his life, seeing clearly the faces he loved and the laughter of so many, each unique in their own way. Everything was crystal clear, like the time he kicked a can down a country road, hearing crickets and the buzzing of bees hovering over a patch of flowers. Or the time he bought his first car from the junkyard, a 1957 Chevrolet for seventy bucks, and drove it home.
The doorbell rang, and he ignored it, knowing it was just another somebody wanting to mow his grass or shovel his driveway when the snow came. They'd go away, slipping a pamphlet under the door, which he used for kindling in the fireplace. After all, he wasn't glued to his chair and still maintained his house; it just took a while longer to finish, and he hoped he wouldn't fall asleep halfway through.
He used to shrug off people calling him old, but somewhere along the line he accepted the fact that he was. But old doesn't always mean old; it just means slowing down and waiting for a nap.

Mike  2026