Sunday, December 29, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Some say...
Author Mike OConnor: Some say...: The darkness didn’t go away at sunrise but seemed to stay a shade of gray for the third day now. Flowering bushes stayed without color c...
Some say...
The darkness didn’t go away at sunrise but seemed to stay a
shade of gray for the third day now. Flowering bushes stayed without color
craving the sunlight but getting none. Childrens faces pressed against the
window glass were bored and anxious to go outside watching their swingset
without movement and other toys sit unattended.
About noon on the sixth-day silent ash began to fall from
the sky. It came to rest on everything leaving the outside world looking like
one giant landscape of gray. Ugly and for what purpose? Was it a weapon of mass
destruction some wondered, while others said it was a sign from God but again,
for what purpose?
On the tenth day, the skies were the blackest of black so
much so lights couldn’t penetrate it and some feared the end was upon them.
Without warning, the rain began to fall. It poured down so hard the noise was
almost unbearable as children clasped their hands over their ears and adults
were shaken to the core. With the rain came a cleansing that washed away the
ash creating flowing rivers of gray soon followed by clear raging rivers that
emptied into the vast ocean.
The eleventh day brought back the sunlight to the joy of
children and parents alike. Swingsets and toy tractors were back in operation
as were hanging the laundry outside and the roar of lawnmowers. Grills were
fired up and the smells of summer filled the air. Life went on but the feelings
of the ten days of darkness lingered on for a long time. No one could explain
it although many speculations ran amock creating conversation at picnics and
pool parties.
Some say high upon the highest of mountains God wanted to
get our attention so he cried tears on a campfire spewing ash to all below.
Some say he left the ash and the darkness for ten days as a reminder we can not
take anything for granted, that life as we know it is not guaranteed. Some say
he reached into the heavens and squeezed a thousand rain clouds on the eleventh
day to wash away the darkness, and life returned to normal. Some say it will
never be normal again.
Monday, December 16, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Holiday cart parade
Author Mike OConnor: Holiday cart parade: The low humming of a golf cart gets louder and the colored lights glow brighter as yet another senior citizen's yearly entry into the...
Holiday cart parade
The low humming of a golf cart gets louder and the colored
lights glow brighter as yet another senior citizen's yearly entry into the
festival of lights takes a lap around the park. Most of the passengers have a
drink in hand as they sing along with the Christmas songs of long ago blaring
on a portable radio attached by bungee-cordsIt’s a yearly tradition that grows or shrinks in number depending on how many passed on before the parade and how many new residents came to live here. Alot goes into the decorations on the carts each unique in its own way. One old guy hung empty liquor bottles entirely around the top of his cart with a spotlight shining on them while “I DRINK ALONE” blasted from a boom box.
I get a front-row seat every year for this little parade and it never disappoints. Last year I escaped injury when a senior lady took too long a swig from her tall drink and missed hitting me by inches. She did take out a couple of my plants before getting back on course laughing all the way.
A few of the drivers decided that they would tie their carts together and string lights completely around all the carts. It looked nice standing still but, when they all took off in different directions, it became a tangled mess of carts and lights. How nobody gets hurt in this holiday demolition derby is beyond me.
As I sit and wave as they pass by, I can't help but think how these older folks must be having the time of their now mostly quiet lives. The smiles on their faces and joy in their voices must somehow transform them to the days long past when feeling young came with no effort, unlike the present when for at least one night under the glow of colored lights they are once again just a bunch of kids having fun
Each year I tell myself next year I'll enter the parade but I'll have to get a cart and convince myself that I'm through riding motorcycles. I don’t know which one is more dangerous, or fun. Time will tell.
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Wednesday, December 11, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Gingerbread
Author Mike OConnor: Gingerbread: The smell of gingerbread baking filled the house with memories of holidays past when the family would fill the table, and laughter was t...
Gingerbread
The smell of gingerbread baking filled the house with
memories of holidays past when the family would fill the table, and laughter
was the joy of the season.
Being with friends and making new ones ringing in the new
year in basement bar rooms scattered throughout the normally quiet
neighborhoods of my home.
Postcards of silent nites that could have been the street I
lived on. My winter holidays will forever burn brightly in my memories of days
long forgotten by most but remain with me like the smell of gingerbread baking.
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Tuesday, December 3, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: THE WALK
Author Mike OConnor: THE WALK: THE SNOWFLAKES FELL TO EARTH SO SOFTLY THEY SEEMED MORE LIKE FEATHERS. THE STREETS WERE ALL BUT EMPTY THIS COLD DECEMBER NIGHT.AS FAR AS...
THE WALK
IN BETWEEN THE GLOW OF THE STREET LAMPS I WAS THROWN INTO
DARKNESS, BUT MY SENSES LED THE WAY AS I KNEW THE STREETS OF THIS CITY LIKE I
KNEW MY NAME.I BELIEVE I COULD FIND MY WAY PAST THE LIBRARY AND FOOTBALL FIELD
AROUND THE HIGH SCHOOL AND THROUGH THE WOODS TO MY HOUSE BLINDFOLDED.
I SPOKE SOFTLY OUT LOUD AS I WALKED NOT THAT I CARED IF
SOMEONE HEARD ME, I JUST LIKED TALKING SOFTLY IT WAS A NARRATION OF SORTS.EVERY
WALK TOOK THE SAME ROUTE, AND THAT LED ME TO THE HALFWAY POINT A 24 HOUR DINER
CALLED DONS.I TOOK MY USUAL PLACE AT THE COUNTER AND WAS GREETED BY LORI WHO
HAD BEEN WORKING AT DONS SINCE IT OPENED FORTY YEARS AGO. SHE DIDN’T SMILE AS
MUCH AS SHE ONCE DID, BUT SHE STILL REMEMBERED WHAT I WANTED SETTING A PIECE OF
APPLE PIE AND COFFEE IN FRONT OF ME BEFORE I COULD GET MY COAT OFF.
THERE WERE NEVER MORE THAN A FEW PEOPLE IN HERE AT THIS TIME
OF NIGHT AND DON WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN SO I ASSUMED HE WAS IN THE BACK
SOMEWHERE TAKING A SNOOZE.GUESS HE KNEW LORI COULD HANDLE THINGS.THERE WAS NO
SMALL TALK JUST A FEW PEOPLE DRINKING COFFEE AND EATING PIE. DONS WAS AS MUCH A
PART OF MY ROUTINE AS WALKING AROUND TOWN. I PAID MY TAB AND NODDED TO LORI AS
I WENT BACK OUT INTO THE COLD NIGHT AND BEGAN THE SECOND PART OF MY WALK.
MY NEXT STOP WAS THE LITTLE MOM AND POP GROCERY STORE THAT
WASN’T OPEN YET BUT THE NEWSPAPER TRUCK WAS THERE EVERY NIGHT RIGHT ON TIME. I
NODDED TO THE DRIVER WHO HANDED ME A PAPER THEN STUCK THE FIFTY CENTS I HANDED
TO HIM IN HIS OVERALL POCKET.I ROLLED THE PAPER UP IN A TIGHT ROLL LIKE I USE
TO DO WHEN I HAD A PAPER ROUTE AS A KID. THEN PUT IT UNDER MY ARM AND WALKED
ON.THE SNOW WAS FALLING FASTER NOW SO I WALKED A LITTLE FASTER MY BOOTS
SOUNDING LIKE A MILITARY CADENCE.
AS I OPENED THE DOOR TO MY HOUSE, THE SMELL OF BACON FILLED
MY SENSES MY WIFES SOFT VOICE GREETING ME WITH A KISS ON THE CHEEK. “NICE WALK”
SHE ASKED. I NODDED AS I SAT DOWN AT THE TABLE OPENING THE NEWSPAPER, PATIENTLY
WAITING FOR MY NEXT WALK.
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Saturday, November 30, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: SNOWBALL WAR
Author Mike OConnor: SNOWBALL WAR: THE SOUNDS OF SNOW CRUNCHING BENEATH THE TIRES, THE PERFECT SNOWBALL READY TO BE THROWN. THE CAR TURNS INTO YOUR DRIVEWAY AS YOU STAY HI...
SNOWBALL WAR
THE SOUNDS OF SNOW CRUNCHING BENEATH THE TIRES, THE PERFECT
SNOWBALL READY TO BE THROWN. THE CAR TURNS INTO YOUR DRIVEWAY AS YOU STAY
HIDDEN BESIDE THE GIANT PINE.THE DOOR OPENS, AND YOUR DAD GETS OUT OF THE CAR .
YOU LET THAT SNOWBALL GO AND WITH PINPOINT ACCURACY, BAM! DIRECT HIT TO THE
CHEST.
FOR A SPLIT SECOND YOU STAND FROZEN TO THE ICY GROUND AS DAD
DROPS HIS BRIEFCASE AND IN RECORD TIME SNATCHES UP SOME SNOW AND IN WHAT SEEMED
LIKE JUST ONE MOTION, HE LETS LOOSE AND A MISSILE DISGUISED AS A SNOWBALL HITS
YOU DEAD ON YOUR CHEEK.
IT WAS ALL OUT WAR NOW, AND YOU CAME OUT OF HIDING TO GET A
BETTER SHOT, SCOOPING UP SNOW AND MAKING TWO AT A TIME AS YOU INCHED CLOSER AND
CLOSER TO CERTAIN SHOTS TO THE BODY. DAD WAS WITHOUT MERCY AS HE LAUNCHED ONE
AFTER THE OTHER EACH HITTING ITS MARK.
WITH ONE LAST HARD HIT TO THE CHEST DAD PUT HIS HANDS UP AND
CALLED IT QUITS. DROPPING YOUR LAST SNOWBALL THE TWO OF YOU WALKED TOGETHER
INTO THE HOUSE WHERE MOM WAS STANDING AT THE DOOR SHAKING HER HEAD AND TELLING
DAD HE SHOULD NO BETTER THAT ONE OF YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN HURT. HE HIT ME ON
THE SHOULDER AS I HEADED UPSTAIRS TO GET OUT OF MY NOW MELTED CLOTHES WITH A
SMILE ON MY FACE AND A MEMORY I WOULD KEEP FOREVER.
Monday, November 25, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: The sands of time
Author Mike OConnor: The sands of time: The sand was cold on my feet as I walked by the light of a full moon, stars showed brightly in the December sky as the sound of waves cr...
The sands of time
As I walked, my thoughts went back to a time when Christmas
meant shoveling snow on the front walk so guests wouldn’t slip and fall.I
recall When a fire burned in the fireplace and the smell of pine mixed with the
other holiday scents. Now I inhale a deep breath of the sea and let the smell
of the ocean relax and comfort me on my walk.
Up ahead of me I see two young lovers holding hands as they
spend their holiday promising eternity with each other letting the full moon light
their way and their hearts. For some reason I thought him to be a soldier home
on leave and their time together limited as he must return to duty all too
soon.It took me back once more when it was me home on leave and walking in the
park on a cold December night with the one I thought I would spend eternity.
My walk was nearing its end as I stooped to pick up a piece
of sea glass that had been illuminated by the moonlight. It was aqua in color
and smooth to the touch. A gift to the new king, I thought as I put it in my
pocket and wished the world a happy holiday. So many memories, both old and new,
with each step I took on the cold sands of time.
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Coming into his own
Author Mike OConnor: Coming into his own: He's coming into his own now, just a couple of years on this earth and already someone with a purpose.How well I remember him as a b...
Coming into his own
He is coming into his own now that young man all grown up at
eighteen years old. He wanted to serve his country and explore frontiers un
charted knowing he could make a difference. He would write to me often during
those years, telling me about his adventures and remembering the stories I use
to tell him of my own.
He's found his purpose in life as I proudly watch from a
galaxy far, far away. I've been told he will have a place with me and others he
said good-by to but not for years to come. His purpose in life was something he
knew at a very young age, and he still had work to do.
It wasn’t until I entered the gates of eternity did I
realize that I could talk to him. It's not for me to tell you how,but know that
those voices you hear in your head are as real as life itself.I speak to him
when troubles or pain enter his life telling him to believe in himself and to
keep his faith strong. I know he hears me as a smile appears on his sleeping
face.
Many decades have passed as my special young man struggles
to breathe his final breaths.It won't be long now until he joins us in a place
where all of his pain will vanish, and he will be at eternal peace. As his soul
leaves his body the transition will take less than a second and his real
purpose will be explained.
He stands beside me now that beautiful soul that always had
a purpose. His smile is bigger than ever especially when he discovered his
wings.He doesn’t stay beside me for very long as he hurries from one place to
another, whispering in the heads of
those he left behind, assuring them their seat beside him someday.
My father and mother, grandparents, and generations before
them all stand together waiting for more to join us, knowing that my special
little man will one day serve God in ways only his adventurous mind could have foreseen.
Monday, November 11, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Going home
Author Mike OConnor: Going home: I went back to my birthplace awhile ago; it hadn't changed much over what seems like an endless period.Small towns do that if the peopl...
Going home
I went back to my birthplace awhile ago; it hadn't changed much over what seems like an endless period.Small towns do that if the people who call it home make certain things remain instead of being replaced. I walked the streets of town looking into the windows of a high-end coffee shop and hair salon that used to be a mom and pop diner and a hardware store. I smelled the coffee, but my mind took me back to the smell of freshly ground beans served piping hot in a mug that said “Just like moms”
The buildings along main street remained the same from a building standpoint and I could name almost all of them as I slowly made my way down memory lane. The jewelry store where I bought my first friendship ring for my highschool sweetheart, the soda fountain that made the best chocolate malts anywhere. A men's clothing store where my dad took me for the first suit that I wore for my first communion. On one corner was what I thought at the time to be the biggest store in the world, it had three floors and an elevator.
A lady's dress shop where my mom took my sisters to shop for easter dresses while dad and I visited the Knights of Columbus for a soda and a beer.I can close my eyes and smell the cigars and cigarettes while frank Sinatra played on the Wurlitzer jukebox. A bit further down main street was a shoe store where sales clerks measured your foot and helped you tie the new shoes I would be wearing along with that first suit.
I stopped in front of a particular storefront that was now a pet store with several cute little puppies pawing at the glass hoping for a new home, but I remember it as the recruiting station where I went at seventeen years of age and joined the navy. My mind raced back in time to those days aboard a ship sailing around the vast oceans every day an adventure.I remember writing so many letters to the folks back home who I missed telling them of my visits to exotic ports and that I couldn’t wait to come back home.
I continued my walk, zipping up my coat as night had arrived along with some light snow. It took me back to when all the stores decorated their windows with the most beautiful holiday decorations, all made by the hands of the store owners. We would spend hours stopping in front of every display putting us in the mood to put up our decorations starting tomorrow.Before going home, we would stop in the soda fountain for some hot chocolate and family conversation. That’s the part I miss the most.
I left my hometown after my visit heading back to the life I chose so many years ago. I left with some fresh memories, a few tears, and a promise to come back sooner, which I knew I would because every kid needs to go back home.
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Wednesday, November 6, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Love and patience
Author Mike OConnor: Love and patience: He laid in bed a little longer this morning, guessing yesterday's workload was more then he realized. Eventually, he got up and star...
Love and patience
He laid in bed a little longer this morning, guessing yesterday's workload was more then he realized. Eventually, he got up and started a pot of coffee to jump-start the morning and pick up where he stopped yesterday. Sitting at the old table he had refinished awhile back he recalled finding it at the curb waiting for the trash collector, but he saw potential in it and rescued it from certain death at the landfill.
He loved working with his hands and discovered he was pretty good at it.His dad had taught him how to work with wood, patiently showing him how to cut and sand and above all to put himself into every piece he worked on.Many nights and weekends, they would spend in the workshop a father teaching his son and a son trying his best to make his dad proud.
When the war began he joined up like so many other young men, leaving behind families and girlfriends to travel thousands of miles away to fight for the country they all so dearly loved.He was one of the lucky ones and returned home unharmed, at least physically.He didn’t sleep very well and spent a lot of time in the workshop making furniture and selling it to local stores who always praised his craftsmanship and attention to detail. It was at one such store he met the girl of his dreams, and they married six months later.
Years passed, and they built a life together making and selling furniture that eventually became well known and in demand across the country.His workshop was five times the size of his dads who passed away only seven years after he returned from the war.He used his dad's tools to build the way he was taught making sure each finished piece was one he was proud to sell. He often wondered how many goodnight stories and warm summer nights sipping ice tea were done sitting in something he built?
Now he is alone in the workshop, his wife and best friend went on to the lord a few years back. Things were never the same, and he was tired.It didn’t take long to sell the business to an eager buyer with his own big dreams, and financially he guessed he could do whatever he wanted to do.It was hard for him to say goodbye to the home they had built and his beloved workshop but that day did come, and he settled into a small cabin on a peaceful stream where he built a small workshop
His bones ached most days, and it was common to find him sleeping mid day in one of the chairs he built. He still used his dads' tools that always reminded him of his youth and his dads' love and patience. Tomorrow his great-grandson would stop by to learn the family trade. He would learn with the same tools and be guided by the same love and patience as his great, great grandpa once used.But it wasn’t all about making chairs; it was sitting with each other at an old table that was once thrown away by one and brought back to life by another. It was his favorite place in the whole world.
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Monday, November 4, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Let them be heard
Author Mike OConnor: Let them be heard: There are always stories to tell, yarns to spin always words to share but, what if there weren't? I can and do usually write some...
Let them be heard
There are always
stories to tell, yarns to spin always words to share but, what if there
weren't? I can and do usually write something every day. I am drawn to the
paper like a moth to a flame, never doubting my ability to come up with
something uniquely compelling.
I believe sharing
words is as natural as a conversation with another person the only difference
is when you write you are having that conversation alone.I also think that when
I have a terrible day the stress I feel stops me from writing anything worthy
of sharing.Those are the times I write something dark and toss it after reading
it back to myself, usually.
I am not ashamed
to admit my life is kept in balance through the use of prescription drugs. I
suffered silently for years before I spoke to a VA doctor who enlightened me on
a couple of issues I had that could be greatly helped with the right balance of
medication.Its been a long time now and the meds are a part of my daily routine
that I take without even thinking about it.
Recently I somehow
let my prescription laps, and within a few days, I was back into the darkness I
had escaped from so long ago. Fear was the star of my show accompanied by
anxiety. I couldn’t face crowds of people or be surrounded by loud noises. I
didn’t want to be around anyone preferring my own company to that of anyone
even the people I loved the most.
During this time, I
wrote about the dark side, and many of those snippets ended up being published
in one of my books.After getting back on schedule with my meds I re-read those
pieces and was amazed at just how sinister and troubled my mind was. It's scary
seeing a side of the mind that presents itself when darkness is set free.
However, I am still
of mind that all people retain that dark side somewhere buried deep in their
mind and will never set it free. Is that a good thing? I don’t have an answer
for that, but in some way I think if I hadn't traveled to that world then maybe
I would have never written some of my best work.Someone once said that if not for
the darkness we would never be able to walk into the light. Wait, I wrote that.
Writing is a gift
that defines you as a dreamer, a storyteller, and someone not afraid to march
to a different drummer. Above all, to be a writer is someone who can call out
to the voices of the unknown inviting them to speak to the one who lets them be
heard.
Mike
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Spirit talk
Author Mike OConnor: Spirit talk: The rain came in the night as I enjoyed a sound sleep. Its been a while since any spiritual visits woke me in a second of fright. I k...
Spirit talk
Many years ago, as
a young boy, I had an experience that left my dad with an open mouth, and my
mom staring at me with fright on her
face. I came into the kitchen a happy lad about to dig into another of mom's
great breakfasts when I was asked how I slept?
Shrugging my
shoulders as I poured on the maple syrup, I answered that I had a visit from
grandpa.Nothing odd about that as kids often dreamed about grandparents. The
only thing strange was my grandpa had been dead fifteen years before I was
born,
Holding on to the
mixing bowl slowly stirring the pancake batter, mom asked what we talked about?
Again I shrugged my shoulders and told her he was checking in on me and that he
often came to see me. By this time my dad had set the morning newspaper down
and was looking at mom in a strange kind of way.
What did grandpa
look like? My dad asked me. He was tall, and he had a cigar in his mouth, I
replied. Anything else ? dad asked. Well, I continued, he walked funny.There
was complete silence in the kitchen now as mom set the mixing bowl on the
counter and just stared at me while I finished off three pancakes.
My life went on,
and the visits from grandpa continued off and on for years to come. We didn’t
talk about it much after the first time, but later my mom told me that grandpa
was a towering figure of a man who smoked cigars and walked with a pronounced
limp because of a birth defect.
She told me that
she sometimes believed those who go before us feel a kind of obligation to
watch over those they never got a chance to do in life, so they come to visit
us so we may get to know them and create a spot in our memory for them.
Whatever the reason
for these spiritual visits, I have had many throughout my life. There never was
any fear on my part even though a few I wanted to forget. Case in point, I
remember a minimum of ten times when I was wakened by my mattress being pulled
out from under me. Never entirely off the frame but very close to that.Nothing
logical could explain it, so I accepted it, and eventually it stopped.
My point is I
believe the spirits that visit me know I find them to be just restless souls
looking for a laugh or two at my expense. I don’t welcome them, but I don’t
shout them away either. It is merely another part of my being that makes up who
I am.
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Thursday, September 26, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Dreams questioned
Author Mike OConnor: Dreams questioned: I thought it was just another dream I often had of her. Quick snapshots of our time together as teenagers. We were in love, and nobody w...
Dreams questioned
I dreamed about her
for many years until one night; I realized it wasn't pictured books flashing
through my mind as I slept; it was her with me in spirit. I know you think I'm
crazy and maybe I am, but I know, and I accept her being there with me just
like we promised we would be together forever.
When she visits my
body lays in bed and can't move, but my spirit self rises to meet her as we
hold hands and walk backward in time to a place we both loved. We soar above
the clouds looking down at ourselves in years gone by laughing at our clothes
and hairstyles.
When we soar high
above, our bodies can't feel one another, but our spirits are connected, and
that is a thousand times better than human touch. I remember everything, every
detail about her and my love for her is as timeless as our midnight flights
back in time.
When I feel myself
trying to wake up, I try to fight it as her hand pulls away from mine and shes
gone. I lay in my bed for a few minutes my eyes wide open, leaving me to wonder
if it was a dream, or was she here with me again?Whatever the answer I get out
of bed and kiss her picture as I face another lonely day without her.
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Empty memories
Author Mike OConnor: Empty memories: Walking down a quiet country road, the dirt kicking up with each step a reminder that rain hasn't come along in a while. The corn...
Empty memories
Walking down a
quiet country road, the dirt kicking up with each step a reminder that rain
hasn't come along in a while. The corn isn't as high as it should be, and
another bad crop will probably be the end of the farm.
I can see my dad
and mom sitting on the front porch, and I can imagine their talk isn't about
love and such but what their going to do if the worst happens? It has to be a
huge burden for them
I was just
seventeen when I got the calling and joined up, now six years later I'm coming
home with scars unseen and nightmares most every night. The meds help some, but
what keeps me going is the fact that I won't let them lose the farm, I won't.
It was mom who saw
me first, nearly falling out of her chair and running towards me as fast as her
legs would go. I dropped my bag and braced myself for that momma bear hug I
knew was coming. Dad tapped out his pipe and waited on the porch until we made
it there. Welcome home son he said offering me his hand which I took in mine
pumping a few times then looking away.
The rains finally
came, and we got the crop in and a few after that. Dad got hurt when a jack
fell on his leg, and he had to stop farming, leaving it to me and my mom to
keep things going. Then mom got sick with a cancer which took her from us way
too soon.
I never did like
farming all that much, and dad wasn’t much good at anything those days since
mom passed. The bank called in our loan and auctioned off the machinery and
stuff from the house then sold it off to the highest bidder who came in with
the winning bid of just twelve thousand dollars. Not much for a piece of land
that we worked for so long.
Dad ended up in a
mobile home in the desert where he drank himself to death, and as for me well,
I took a job at a factory that made cardboard boxes. It was a mindless job that
didn’t take much skill, but it kept the voices quiet, and it was only a few
miles from the old farm. I still walk down that dusty old country road
sometimes looking at the old house that’s been painted, and the fences mended.
I'm only
twenty-seven tears old, and my life is nothing but some memories that someone
much older than me should be having.
Author Mike OConnor: The last sale
Author Mike OConnor: The last sale: She walked slowly throughout the house she called home for over fifty years. The furniture was taken away this morning going to a s...
The last sale
Her gaze fell upon
darkened shadows of pictures taken down and given to family members who wanted
proof of their youth. She had selected a few that she would hang in her new
room but, It was hard to choose which ones to take as she loved them all
dearly.
Her children held
an estate sale last week, and hundreds of strangers fought over things she
never knew held such value. In her day people kept stuff if it were broken her
husband would fix it good as new. She was amused when two ladies of someplace
else fought over a set of pots and pans she remembered getting for Christmas
1947.
It was a bit
unsettling watching strangers paw through her life with no concern for her
feelings, only who could get something for way less than its actual value. She
didn’t enjoy this sale in any way and left early to let her children play
carnival barkers.
Nobody noticed her
gone as she went into her backyard and sat on a bench her “Herbert” had made
for her some forty years ago. It was a place she often sat when life threw her
a curve, a place where she did some thinking or just relaxed and looked at her
flowers.
The sun was setting
when her daughter found her on the bench. She sat next to her and told her it
was over and almost everything had been sold. It was like showing her life did
have a price. “Do you think there's room in the truck for this bench?” she
asked her daughter? ‘Of course mom” she replied as they walked back into her
empty house where her life story just seemed to have vanished into the night.
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Thursday, September 19, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Last song
Author Mike OConnor: Last song: We use to be invincible when youth was on our side. We never backed down or gave in we marched forward to the sounds of our hearts be...
Last song
We stretched the
boundaries in all we did, but fear was never in the picture only a shadow
taunting us. Now we sit in comfortable chairs looking at old photographs
remembering all we can before that once beautiful carefree mind slow dances to
the last song of the night.
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Monday, September 16, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: The mirror
Author Mike OConnor: The mirror: Age is sometimes just a word that pertains to those who couldn’t muster the strength and belief that they could hold their own for more ...
The mirror
Age is sometimes just a word that pertains to those who
couldn’t muster the strength and belief that they could hold their own for more
than expected time. Age is looking in the mirror and smiling back at yourself,
knowing you wear the battle scars of someone whos walked the walk.
I can keep up with
those much younger than me and sometimes it's them who quit as I keep going
because I told myself over and over that I could, I will, I must. I believe
inner strength has to come out of the prison some people trap themselves in
Everyone will
succumb to death sooner or later. Some will age waiting for it to come calling
and others understand that someday they will have to finally stop but not until
the last adventure and the final walk on the endless beaches have been
completed.
I love this life
filled with thousands of stories, some of which I wrote both on paper and in
doing. I was a sailor of the vast oceans finding love in every port.I was a
product of a generation who wasn’t afraid to experiment. I longed to learn all
I could welcoming the conversations of the ancient ones who shared their times
that sometimes became my times eager to share with ears of all ages willing and
wanting to listen.
Age isn't something
to fear or dread, it’s a lifestyle to be thankful for, but you must accept that
some things can now be only memories. As I look into that mirror, I smile that
same smile I wore as a child even though the wrinkles of time have altered its
state a wee bit. I see a man who lived a life filled with good and evil,
someone who suffered the pain of loss and the emptiness of being alone. But I
think the most meaningful thing I see is it's still me looking back at me, and
somehow I still manage to smile back with a twinkle in my bloodshot eyes
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Wednesday, September 11, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: He wrote stories
Author Mike OConnor: He wrote stories: Often I sit down with a blank page and wait for a word or a memory to work its way towards me. Then I take it and run as fast as my min...
He wrote stories
Often I sit down
with a blank page and wait for a word or a memory to work its way towards me. Then
I take it and run as fast as my mind can spit out sentences and stories. The
amazing thing to me is I don’t know where I'm going with it, like how are the
characters going to evolve? Will it have a happy ending, or will a thousand
tears fall?
It's so quiet here
in the back room where I write and dream and realize who I am and my purpose
for being here. There is one noise, my elderly neighbor doesn’t believe in air
conditioning, so the sound from her TV softly enters my cracked door. It has
become a part of my silence.
Some writers will
tell you they are inspired by this or that, and they find building a story can
take years off your life. They say sometimes it just flows without end and
other times they don’t write for weeks even months. That’s not true for me. I
write something every day. It may be a paragraph about a thought or a complete
page filled with one-liners I keep writing down. Writing for me is a drug, it’s
the booze I don’t drink anymore or the joint I wish I had. Its food for my soul
and water to quench the thirst for a story.
Writing is the very
lifeblood of who I am, and as I grow in age, the importance of it grows with
me. Once it was for the fun of doing something others wish they could.Now, its
because I want to leave behind a part of me that made up who I was. For reasons
only I know its important that my children and grandchildren will be able to
read a book I wrote where they could see the funny part of me, or browse
through stacks of my work where they will wonder if the stories are real?
Painters create
great works of art that will adorn the walls of those they left behind. Writers
work will gather dust until a broken heart needs comfort or dreaming about
adventure comes alive in written words. I want my stories to be a comfort and
an escape into my private world full of who I truly am. I want my great-great
grandchildren to read and be proud of the guy who wrote the stories.
Saturday, September 7, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Ashen gray
Author Mike OConnor: Ashen gray: The sound of coins in my pocket has been replaced with the silence of cotton. The fullness in my heart now a dark hole of despair, and...
Ashen gray
The sound of coins
in my pocket has been replaced with the silence of cotton. The fullness in my
heart now a dark hole of despair, and the clarity of my memories an ashen gray.
Time hasn't been
all too kind, yet my tattered boots keep heading forward.Hope is a powerful
potion combined with beliefs in one's self and its all I have left other than
my name that is sometimes softly spoken by someone who once loved me.
Thursday, September 5, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Clean your mind
Author Mike OConnor: Clean your mind: Sometimes I have to stop the thoughts racing through my mind, to let go of all that is my life. It's not easy to create a quiet spa...
Clean your mind
Sometimes I have to
stop the thoughts racing through my mind, to let go of all that is my life. It's
not easy to create a quiet space when the noises are pounding at the door of
emotions.
I have discovered
that if I leave some of the noise inside like specific memories or thoughts of
someone or something dear to me, it makes it easier to quiet the voices.
We need to do that,
and we need the brightness of life to dim on occasion and even grow dark and
without meaning.How else will we rid ourselves of the unwanted commotions?
I think of it as
spring cleaning for the mind, getting rid of useless thoughts and opening the
windows of the soul, letting in a breeze of freshness to take away the stagnant
thoughts.
Wednesday, August 28, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Small scraps
Author Mike OConnor: Small scraps: Small scraps of paper lay strewn across my desk each a thought dismissed. A story started but no end, a poem without love. It goes this ...
Small scraps
The soft glow of a
candle lights my words as they dance across the pages to a beautiful melody. It
becomes a place of make-believe where words collide with words and paragraphs
jump out at your hungry eyes filling you with strange and marvelous tales.
Oh and the
characters who are born in front of me running and skipping across the pages
each growing with every passing chapter. Some live while others die but each
buried deep in my mind for all eternity.
Writing is a
circus, a broadway show, or a school musical. It is the impossible becoming so,
and it is beauty, love, and sorrow all wrapped up in my mind shouting to be set
free. Writing is laughter and surprises with twists and turns that carry you
away and even into sleep. And when you awake you realize it wasn’t a dream but
a book that lays open on your blanket.
To write is the
most magical, thrilling thing a person could ever do and for those of you who
never put pen to paper, well, try it sometime. Open your mind and dream,
imagine, and dream.
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Sunday, August 18, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Just walking
Author Mike OConnor: Just walking: The forests were his sanctuary, his peace, and the only place on earth where the voices and defining noise didn’t exist. He had no wo...
Just walking
He walked the walk
of a man trying never to get anywhere but his mind needed for him to walk, just
walk, and so he did. From the first light of day until the sunset he stepped
lightly and without a sound except when an occasional fallen branch met the
soul of his boot causing him to stop abruptly listening but only hearing the
birds frightened right alongside him.
He came back a
different man someone he didn’t know or understand — someone who couldn’t fit
in anymore although he tried so very hard to do so. His family prayed for him,
wept for him, and tried to understand why he just walked away one day. It was
the last time they would ever see him.
The forest to him
was like a dream where he was the only person invited in to roam and become as
one with all it could offer him. He lost track of time as months turned to
years as he kept walking and trying to silence the voices and the noises that
buried themselves into his very soul.
No one understood
how he survived the harsh winters and the relentless rain and storms, and no
one except me ever looked for him. He was a memory to those he left behind — a
story at the supper table shedding tears onto food. I tried to find him
spending weekends walking deep into the forest looking for signs he had passed
through one way or another, but my efforts became less and less as time past
and eventually I made peace with myself and let him go.
I think about him
often and wonder if he's still out there waiting to find himself or giving in
to the realization he is who he became and will never walk out of the trees
that protect him from his life he can't forget. I pray he is free from the
pain, and he has become one with the silence.
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Thursday, August 15, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: My back yard
Author Mike OConnor: My back yard: Yesterday comes back to me when dreams are awakened. I'm six years old, and I move without direction, only curiosity. My worl...
My back yard
Yesterday comes
back to me when dreams are awakened. I'm six years old, and I move without
direction, only curiosity.
My world is a patch
of green sprinkled with fruit trees onto which I climb and reach for the sweet
food above.
I've ventured from
the back door to the end of my patch only to be stopped by something I can't
see through. Quite the milestone, I believe. Yet even at this distance, I hear
my moms' voice calling me in for supper.
I will begin my
journey again tomorrow, and tonight, I will dream about new discoveries and
endless moments in my back yard.
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Wednesday, August 14, 2019
Salted breath
In a side-ally bar
in a no-name port sat an old sailor of the seas. He perched himself on a wooden
stool, same stool sailors before him sat and spun their yarns.
Looking out of a
porthole window, he looked upon the row of landlocked vessels resting in wooden
cradles. All but forgotten now except for the sailors who sailed them. He
served on several of these once fine ladies whose colors are faded and planks
doomed to rot.
He
takes a final swallow of swill then a slow, unsteady walk down the alley into
the shadows of his destiny. To a place among the giants of yesterday where he
will draw his final salted breath.
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Monday, August 12, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Graveyard shift
Author Mike OConnor: Graveyard shift: He worked the midnight shift at the box factory, has for nineteen years. The world to him was different, quieter, and almost at times...
Graveyard shift
He lived alone in a small apartment over a
hardware store his day beginning around six pm eating breakfast when most were
preparing dinner and settling into the night. He had a bit below average IQ but
prided himself on keeping up to date on current affairs that were often the
talk in the break room.
He didn’t own a car, never did see the need
when the factory was only six blocks from his apartment and he shopped for
anything he may need at Wallmart just five blocks away. At three blocks was a
small bar/pool hall that he frequented on payday to cash his checks and have
just enough to drink that he found himself smiling on his walk home.
His was a simple life, a lonely life living
in his self inflicted prison of six city blocks and working the graveyard
shift.
I worked third shift at a box factory when I
was discharged from the service. I was twenty-two years young and discovered
that life was only partly there because the rest of the world was fast asleep
while I tried to carve out a living. It was lonely and felt like a punishment,
not a job. I didn’t last very long at that factory and went on to secure employment
in the sunlight.
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Saturday, August 10, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: The cabin
Author Mike OConnor: The cabin: The first and second fingers of his right hand were stained yellow from the many cigarettes he smoked over his lifetime. He had some ...
The cabin
The first and
second fingers of his right hand were stained yellow from the many cigarettes
he smoked over his lifetime. He had some store-bought teeth, but he only put
them in on occasions like a funeral which was about all his social life
consisted of. He had been alone for so long he couldn’t remember when he
wasn’t.
He lived in the
mountains in a small hunting cabin he and his son built some thirty years ago. After
his beloved Beth passed on, he didn’t see any reason to wander the halls of the
house they shared for decades. He sold it, giving the proceeds to their son but
keeping just enough to outfit his cabin, so he'd never have to come down off the
mountain.
He loved the place
he called home. The quiet and solitude became a dream come true after years of
city noises and the ever-increasing sounds of first responders. He had heard
enough and seen enough of hatred and unrest. There was no television or radio
out there, no internet of wi-fi he had banished all of it in return for peace
and memories.
On frigid winter
days, he drank coffee, smoked cigarettes and stared into the fireplace going
back in time to pieces of his life that brought him great joy and happiness.No
need for pictures hanging on the walls no reason for knickknacks cluttering the
place. All he had to do was invite the quiet and sink back into time where he
saw the faces of those he loved and those he didn’t.
His son found him
one spring day. He had a feeling the older man was gone just one of those gut-wrenching
feelings you sometimes get when you know.He found the cabin door open, and the
fireplace had long since burned out. A tin plate stacked high with cigarettes
and an empty cup was all that was on the table.
His heavy coat and
boots were on the hook, and his dad's favorite rifle was gone. There was a note
nailed on the wall that read…Probably you son who will read this hoped you
would have found your way back here for a visit, but it's of no matter now. A
few weeks back a damn trap got me and chewed up my ankle pretty bad. I got my
self home and doctored it the best I could, but it got the gangrene, and I
pretty much knew what was next.
I made my peace
with my maker and brewed a hot pot of Joe grabbed my rifle and headed out to my
favorite spot on the mountain; you know the place. I will try to hold on for a
bit in the hope that you might show up but if you don’t, know I love you, and I'm
with your mother now in eternal peace.
He came across that
particular place and stopped in his tracks as he made out the shape of a man
slumped against a tall pine. His rifle stood beside him, and a pile of cigarettes
was carefully crushed out beneath his boots. It was in this exact spot many
years ago he listened to the old man tell him how one day they would build a
cabin and come there often together. He began to cry, realizing how few those
times were.
He comes to the
small cabin with his son now. They hunt and fish, and he tells him about his
grandpa and how he loved this place. Every so often they go to their special
place where a rusted rifle leans against a tree, and the memories fill the
quiet of the mountain
Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Author Mike OConnor: Awaking dreams
Author Mike OConnor: Awaking dreams: As I age, my dreams and visions seem to become more childlike. The tin man and cowardly lion appear to me in living color and clari...
Awaking dreams
Onboard the pirate's
ship I stow away below decks as captain jack shouts out orders to his crew of
scary pirates as I build the courage to let myself be seen. They were to make
me walk the plank until captain jack took me under his wing and taught me the
ways of the sea.
The dreams of
children are unspoiled and filled with the imagination only a child could see,
but I feel these same things, and although it is me having the adventures, I am
but a child in a grown man's body. Eventually, I will wake up and smile as I
remember the fun sleep gave me.
Playing hopscotch
on the sidewalk, shooting marbles with a gang of ten-year-old boys and riding
our bicycles with baseball cards in the spokes, so we sounded like an invasion
of hardcore bikers. These were the realities of my youth so long misplaced far
back in my memories but brought to life again in an old man's dreams.
I get to experience
once again the feeling of climbing the tallest tree in the woods and looking
out as far as the eye could see, swaying with the breeze of autumn chill my boyish
face a shade of red and a spec of fear that made my heart beat faster. In years
past the simple joys of youth would be tucked away for me to remember as I look
at wrinkled hands and feeble movements.
Oh to be so young
again, to relive those childhood adventures all coming to life when I close my
eyes and feel every emotion I felt back then. I suppose my dreams will slowly
go away as my memories begin to elude me, but until then, I will look forward
to sleep and all the magic and wonder of it all.
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Author Mike OConnor: All in a days work
Author Mike OConnor: All in a days work: Working like a mule for days that seem never to end. The pieces of meat once my muscles are living in their private hell. Hundreds a...
All in a days work
Sitting on the
tailgate of my truck, I slowly eat a sandwich and wash it down with Gatorade
and a smoke. It's during those small breaks I ask myself how much longer will I
pretend to be decades younger? When will I accept that my time for all of this
has expired and I'm working on fumes in an empty tank?
At the end of
another day when everything hurts, and I look at the progress I only think of
tomorrow and maybe the finish line of yet another project. I half-heartedly tell
myself that this was the last job, time to act my age and slow it down.
The phone rings as
I'm soaking my aching feet in Epson salts trying to decide if an hour was long
enough? Its a potential customer who says a friend recommended me and he'd like
me to stop by tomorrow to give a quote.Sure, why not?
Morning came with
soreness that had no mercy, but the coffee was waiting and the day was nothing
but blue skies and opportunity. I go Working like a mule for days that seem never to end. The pieces of meat once my muscles are living in their private hell. Hundreds and hundreds of bending overs have unhinged something that needs oil. My feet absorb my weight all day and cry for a seat that won't come quickly.
Sitting on the tailgate of my truck, I slowly eat a sandwich and wash it down with Gatorade and a smoke. It's during those small breaks I ask myself how much longer will I pretend to be decades younger? When will I accept that my time for all of this has expired and I'm working on fumes in an empty tank?
At the end of another day when everything hurts, and I look at the progress I only think of tomorrow and maybe the finish line of yet another project. I half-heartedly tell myself that this was the last job, time to act my age and slow it down.
The phone rings as I'm soaking my aching feet in Epson salts trying to decide if an hour was long enough? Its a potential customer who says a friend recommended me and he'd like me to stop by tomorrow to give a quote.Sure, why not?
Morning came with soreness that had no mercy, but the coffee was waiting and the day was nothing but blue skies and opportunity. I got the job and would start tomorrow. Not enough time to recover t the job and would start tomorrow. Not
enough time to recover from the last one but, bills didn’t pay themselves and
food didn’t magically appear in the fridge.
My two-person crew
showed up at first light looking tired and sore, but with smiles on their faces
because I had told them more than once I was decades older than them and if I
could get it done, well they should try and keep up.
Life throws us lemons and age is one of them, but how we
perceive time is what separates the go-getters from the want to relax type. I
believe that as long as I can grease the wheels and dominate the pain, I will
continue to rise with the sun and put in a hard day's work. Just got to quit
climbing those damn ladders.
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