Author Mike OConnor: County road 34

Author Mike OConnor: County road 34:       He stopped for a moment to get the pebbles out of his boots, guess they got inside from the holes in the bottom. He forgot how many m...

County road 34

     He stopped for a moment to get the pebbles out of his boots, guess they got inside from the holes in the bottom. He forgot how many miles he had on these boots, but he knew there were a lot. He loved to walk always did. As a kid his mom would tell him to take a walk and get some fresh air. He soon found out walking was a way to learn about the ground and the sky and a wide variety of creatures large and small that shared his passion for walking. He lived in the country where miles and miles of dirt roads were common and an open invitation to walk.

     When school was out for the summer he would wake early, do his chores then pack a sandwich putting it in his backpack along with some water. He promised his mom he would be home for supper then walked down the long driveway to county road 34. It had rained the night before and the dirt road was packed down with no dust blowing his way. Perfect walking conditions. He sometimes found a walking stick which he used to draw lines and other pieces of artwork on the road for anybody else walking to see. He remembered the time he took a stick and wrote “WHO IS READING THIS” and the following day he came upon the spot and somebody had answered his question with the words “Its John Biggins a farmer whose tractor broke down” He found this amazing and began to leave messages for everyone who passed by to see and hopefully answer like John did.

     When he got hungry and his boots began to hurt a little, he found a shady spot under a train trestle and ate his lunch. He always took his boots off during his lunch break, letting his feet breath and the boots turned upside down to shake out any tiny pebbles that got in through those darn holes. He told his mom he would really like a new pair of boots someday but for now he could put up with having to shake them out. After lunch he started back out on county road 34 hoping to reach the paper factory in about an hour. That was his halfway point and where he would turn around and head home not wanting to be late for supper. The paper mill sat on a huge piece of property. There was a very large basin of water at the back of the property that no one could see from the factory and the perfect place to take a swim on a hot summer day.

     Now cooled off and ready to walk, he headed back towards home and what would probably be another delicious meal his mom was making. Looking down he spotted something shiny that his boot had stirred up. He picked it up and cleaned it off with his t-shirt revealing a silver coin. But not just any silver coin, it had a picture of an eagle stamped onto it and was dated 1822.He smiled at his good fortune, put it deep into his pocket and hurried along with determined steps to get home and show off what he had found. At the supper table sitting alongside of his sister and parents, he pulled out the silver coin and placed it on the table. ‘I found this today on County road 34” he told everyone. His dad picked it up giving it a serious going over. He got up from the table and took a book off the bookshelf. Paging through the book he stopped, and a big smile appeared on his face. “Looks like you found something very special son” He explained the origin of the coin and its importance to the history of our great nation.

     His dad went on to tell him the value of the coin could be anywhere from one to four hundred dollars should he decide to sell it.” I’ll tell you what: he said. You could sell it and get those new boots you’ve been wanting.: Or: he went on. : You could keep it and save it for a rainy day and wait for those boots to find you in other ways: He thought about that for a few minutes and gave the coin to his mom who had a knack for saving money. Two months later and sixty more walks on County road 34 it was his birthday. His gift, the exact pair of boots he had been wanting from the sporting goods store. He was glad he decided to keep the coin but even more excited with the new boots that would take him on endless walks maybe even venturing further than county road 34

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com.

Author Mike OConnor: Emptiness

Author Mike OConnor: Emptiness: I must really concentrate on quieting my mind. At any given moment, I fear the words that want to become stories will collide, and my min...

Emptiness

I must really concentrate on quieting my mind. At any given moment, I fear the words that want to become stories will collide, and my mind will say goodbye. Is there such a thing as too much memory? I believe all of us like the memories we have stored away, bringing them to life when we are feeling low or sad, or when we think of people once in our lives who are now gone forever. We use our memories to go back to happy times that will never again be real. The bad memories must surface now and again just to remind us that life is full of both bad and good. It is so difficult for me to stop all of them as they have grown to be in the hundreds, maybe more.

     I have noticed that some of my memories are becoming fuzzy as of late. What was once bright and vivid, now run around in there, making it difficult for me to catch them and re-live the moments. It scares me to know that the day will come when I may forget all the memories. The words won't come, and the pages I once filled with stories, will remain blank. I will weep that day, the day the stories die.  I have hundreds and hundreds of pages filled with wit, humor, compassion, and love. I will take the time I need to read all those pages once more before taking off my reading glasses and sinking into the darkness of a writer who once was.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: After the flood

Author Mike OConnor: After the flood: A pair of old work boots where they were left almost three years ago. A sun-bleached hat on a hook. Tattered rain gear draped over the r...

After the flood

A pair of old work boots where they were left almost three years ago. A sun-bleached hat on a hook. Tattered rain gear draped over the railing Most folks called it "mudroom" a place to take off anything that would track into the house. Coming in after a long day in the fields, they would start the undressing ritual as the smells from the kitchen filled their senses with anticipation of something great.

This day there was no work in the fields, and the work clothes were like fallen soldiers with no place to ever be used again. The flood came through three years ago, taking almost everything from them. The entire crop was destroyed, the barn washed away. All the equipment was totaled, and most weren't insured because of their age. It hurt them badly as was the story for many farms in this once vibrant and fertile land. The house was set up high on a hill overlooking the land, and it survived the wrath.

The ground was filled with chemical waste and would never produce anything of value, so they now looked down at a dry, but destroyed farm. Their tears and anger subsided eventually, and they tried to get by growing vegetables in a greenhouse they built mostly from garbage left behind after the waters receded. They built a large greenhouse on the hill next to the house. Every day they tended to it bringing in soil from nearby counties that weren't affected. In time they had a huge crop that they used for personal consumption and sold at a roadside stand again built with scrap lumber found.

Word got out across the county of a beautiful market filled with a big assortment of vegetables, and the people began to come. They came from the towns and the city buying the best produce to be found anywhere. They eventually built a "Mudroom" going into the greenhouse, where old work boots were once again covered with mud and faded hats were taken off and put on a hook. It wasn't really needed this "Mudroom," but it gave a tiny bit of order to a place that had been stripped of it. Things would never be the same again, but they were still farmers and lived life accordingly.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Dishes can wait

Author Mike OConnor: Dishes can wait:       He hadn’t had reason to cook for a group in a long time. He lived alone in a small mobile home with his dog and his way of life. Ea...

Dishes can wait

     He hadn’t had reason to cook for a group in a long time. He lived alone in a small mobile home with his dog and his way of life. Each meal he prepared was just enough for him, and the leftovers went into the dog’s bowl. His kids didn’t come by very often, they had lives that reminded him of his own many years ago. But tonight, all of them would come for dinner which he looked so forward to. He had to make room in his small home, hoping the youngest of his grandkids wouldn't break anything as their nervous energy made them want to touch everything that wasn't glued down.

     He rose early to go shopping for the ingredients he needed to cook his daughters favorite, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, sweet peas, and applesauce. Of course, he got kids drinks, cookies, ice-cream, and puddings in all flavors. He hid them so his desert concoction would be a surprise. Lovingly he peeled potatoes, made the meatloaf and set placings for six around what would be a full table. They wouldn't notice all the work and endless piles of dishes required to prepare this feast, but that was ok with him.

     The arrived a bit late, but he kept things warm until the laughter and screams of childhood rang the bell. He greeted them with smiles and a deep-felt love knowing times like this are as special as all of them are to him. Dinner was a huge success, and the bowls of ice-cream covered with pudding and a cookie stuck in the top were enjoyed by all. His dog got so many sneak handouts below the table, he crawled off to his quiet place and went to sleep. He was offered help to clean up the colossal mess but declined telling his kids he wanted to hear all about their lives, dishes could wait.

     The evening ended, and with doggie bags in hand, they all hugged him and expressed their thanks and love. He watched as they piled into their cars and drove away back into their own lives 'You and me again fella" as his dog sat by his side probably wondering what the hell was all of that? The house seemed so quiet now, and the mountain of pots and pans waited for him. It was late by the time his small house looked like it did almost every day. He sat in his recliner, scratching behind his best friends' ears, falling asleep and dreaming about what to prepare the next time. 

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: A journey

Author Mike OConnor: A journey:       I like to close my eyes every so often, blocking out the light and finding myself in a daydream. The house is quiet, and the memory...

A journey

     I like to close my eyes every so often, blocking out the light and finding myself in a daydream. The house is quiet, and the memory highway is open. There are beautiful places I see, places I have traveled and places only I can find again. I go both backward and forwards but rarely to the present. Having only recall doesn't count. I ride the memory highway back many decades when friends were real and good times a way of life. Camping in the forests with the sweet smells of weed and patchouli as music filled the air beckoning all to come, have a seat by the fire and get lost in the moment.

     Further down my highway I am a young boy just discovering who I was and who I would never be. Time changed some of those visions, but I always kept dreaming interrupted by the closing of a door and bags being set down on the kitchen counter. I smell her patchouli and hear her flowing skirt approach me.” having a journey” she whispers in my ear I pulled her on top of me and held her tightly. "I was waiting for you," I said. "Let’s go for a ride."

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com 

Author Mike OConnor: The visit

Author Mike OConnor: The visit:       Rain fell onto the tin roof, in a house nestled in a holler far from anyone and anything. The long front porch needed paint as did ...

The visit

     Rain fell onto the tin roof, in a house nestled in a holler far from anyone and anything. The long front porch needed paint as did the rest of the place, but painting wasn’t considered to necessary as it didn’t provide a service. There were two rusted out broken and stripped of parts trucks in the side yard. One still sitting below an old oak tree with a rope tied around a sturdy branch. That’s where the engine was pulled out some twenty years ago, I suppose. The other truck had turned into a flowerbox of sorts, not by choice mind you, but mother nature saw fit to put some wildflowers there and different kinds of vines and such. Momma said it was beautiful and peaceful so it will sit there at least until she passes on but probably a lot longer.

     Back in the early years of my life, my folks would take the eight-hour drive to go visit Granma and papa, arriving in time for breakfast which grams made from scratch. Eggs from her chickens, milk from her cow. Bacon from a butchered pig and grits with lots of butter. There were several different homemade jams and always a big bowl of fresh fruits. With full bellies, we would walk around their property, which took a couple of hours to see. The old tobacco barn still stood, but a good storm would probably see the last of it in pieces. There were a few other sheds that once were filled with farming equipment, but they were all sold at the auction a few years back.

     The land grew back what nature had put there after decades of farming, all that remained were a few old run-down buildings that are mostly hidden with growth of all kinds and memories of sweat filled days and star filled nights. The old dirt road that once took moonshiners to their destinations was all grown over with one unlucky truck sitting at the bottom of a hill and left there to rust and be forgotten. So much history in these hills. I never grow tired of coming here and walking among the spirits who called it home and listening to the story’s grandpa shared on the front porch with an ice-cold sweet tea and family.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: The skinny old guy

Author Mike OConnor: The skinny old guy:      As a boy, I was fascinated by the old man who walked past our house towards the woods at the end of the road. He was tall and skinny ...

The skinny old guy

     As a boy, I was fascinated by the old man who walked past our house towards the woods at the end of the road. He was tall and skinny with weathered skin and loose-fitting clothes. He reminded me of a tree in a strange sort of way. He never looked at me, or anybody for that matter, he hung his head low as if watching his feet walk. The talk around town was he once had a family but lost his wife to cancer and his only son was killed in a war far away. They say he kind of went crazy after that and just stuck to himself taking long walks deep into the woods.

     When I was twelve years old, we had a gang called the mighty men. All of us were hooked on comic books and were divided on the names Mighty Mouse and Superman, so we settled on mighty men. The woods were a favorite place for us to go exploring and have campouts. We would build campfires and cook hotdogs on sticks and tell ghost stories that sometimes got one or more of us running home half scared to death. More than once somebody would tell a story about the old skinny guy and how he grabbed up boys their age cutting them up with a huge knife and scattering the pieces all through the woods for the wild animals to eat.

     One late morning in October, our gang was getting ready for a campout. The nights were colder now, and we had to bring an ax to cut firewood. We packed up everything we thought we would need and headed out to the woods. We went deeper than we had ever gone before, into the darkest parts of the woods where daytime became twilight and night became a dark, black, scary place to be. We set up camp collecting branches for cooking our hotdogs and splitting small fallen trees for the fire. I had ventured quite a ways from camp looking for dead branches when I noticed something just ahead of me. I stopped dead in my tracks and watched as a figure of a man appeared out of the darkness of the woods and stood twenty feet in front of me. It was the old skinny guy who walked past my house.

     Neither of us moved or spoke, and it seemed like hours before he turned around and walked back into the darkness. I had dropped all of the branches I was holding and really didn’t care at that point as I turned and ran as fast as my wobbly legs would carry me. Out of breath and speaking really fast, I told the guys what I had seen. “What if he comes and kills us in the night” one said. “Let’s go follow him," said another. We decided, in the end, to have one guy stand watch as we slept, taking turns every two hours. There were no ghost stories that night, all we could think of was him. Morning came, and we laughed it off, well almost. We laughed at ourselves all the way home, but in the back of our minds, we were scared shitless and probably would have been forever if we hadn’t learned the truth about the skinny guy.

     You’ll remember I told you how he lost his family? Well, it seems that all those years ago when he and his wife were young, they would walk deep into the woods to be together and enjoy all that the woods had to offer. It was their favorite place in the world. Their son was conceived in the woods on a blanket of soft moss, under the thousands of stars on a chilly October night. The old skinny guy made a sort of shrine out there on the exact spot they had laid together so much in love and now so alone. He went there every day until his own death a few years past my fifteenth birthday. There was something about the old skinny guy that touched me in a way that's hard to explain, but I walked into those dark woods every day until I went off to college. I stopped about twenty feet from where I came upon him that cool October night way back then. I guess just to somehow let him know I understood. He wasn’t a scary old man who looked like a tree, he was a man who loved deeply and wept on a blanket of soft moss. 

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Oceans edge

Author Mike OConnor: Oceans edge:       Standing at lands end and the oceans beginning puts me closer to where I need to be. With each small incoming end of a wave, I inch...

Oceans edge

     Standing at lands end and the oceans beginning puts me closer to where I need to be. With each small incoming end of a wave, I inch a bit further towards my final resting place. Some of my happiest times were spent sailing the oceans of the world. The sheer vastness of the waters a beckoning from the deep to be a part of for eternity. There is peace upon the blue waters of the sea as all visions of land are swallowed up by hundreds of miles of a different world. The air is pure and fills your lungs with a life-changing cleanse that can’t be found anywhere else.

     Night on the water gives you the undisputed best light show there ever could be. Stars by the thousands seem to reach out for your touch and dazzle you with shooting pieces of light faster than you could possibly imagine. If you are lucky, you will see dolphins covered with phosphorus jetting through the water like taillights at rush hour. The mysteries of the deep never die but repeat themselves to all new sailors, listening to the old salts tell of Davy Jones locker and the cries of mermaids as they search for love. You are born to be at sea because you heard the cries and felt the presence of sailors buried in the deep.

     Now my sea legs teeter between sand and saltwater as I stand looking out to the wonder of all the lady has given to me. Someday soon she will call me home, and I will swim with the mermaids and play with the dolphins. I will be the tale of an old salt and the hero of a young sailor. I will be home.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Did I ?

Author Mike OConnor: Did I ?:      Thoughts race through my mind as I try and get some sleep. What didn't I get done today? What did I get done? Are the bills paid...

Did I ?

     Thoughts race through my mind as I try and get some sleep. What didn't I get done today? What did I get done? Are the bills paid, are they going to shut off my water? No, I'm sure I took care of that. Did I? I toss and turn, trying to get my earned escape from the thing called life. But it won’t come. I get up and roam the house making sure I took my evening meds; damn can’t take them twice if I forgot. Did I forget? A new magazine came in the mail today, so if I can find my glasses, I'll sit down and read it. Where are my damn glasses?

     Maybe I'll have a sandwich, do I have any bread? Was I supposed to get bread? I find my way back to my bedroom and climb in. Pulling the covers under my chin, my eyes wide open, I say out loud "O.k. I'm done" Did I say my prayers? Should I repeat them? I believe I will say them again, and this time include a prayer that I can remember more than the moment I'm in.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com 

Author Mike OConnor: Old school

Author Mike OConnor: Old school:       The old gentleman slowly walked the streets of his city. A sheepish grin upon his weathered face. People passing by, he tipped a ma...

Old school

     The old gentleman slowly walked the streets of his city. A sheepish grin upon his weathered face. People passing by, he tipped a make-believe hat to the ladies and smiled that grin to the want to be gangsters. He stepped to the beat in his mind, his spats clean and polished. His suit was tailor-made, his tie red silk. He carried a closed umbrella that some select few discovered its hidden secret. He was a man with a past, an illustrious history that time had all but forgotten. No more wanted posters on telephone poles, no more fear of being noticed. He was just an old man who knew how to dress walking the city streets that he had once paved with blood. No more Tommy guns blazing as he stood on the running board of a black sedan. No more secret hideouts, no more hiding, just an old gentleman enjoying a mid-day stroll past five banks that kept him in the lifestyle he had grown to love.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Silent guards

Author Mike OConnor: Silent guards:       A dense fog danced through the birch trees like a wrapping of sorts. It crept around the mighty trees as if trying to squeeze deep ...

Silent guards

     A dense fog danced through the birch trees like a wrapping of sorts. It crept around the mighty trees as if trying to squeeze deep and hidden secrets. The trees stood tall and silent. The ages of time did tell stories of battles and chase. The mighty trees seeing all and speaking nothing. It wasn’t their place to spin yarns for all to know. The forest was a sanctuary where everything that happened remained there never leaving not even on the whispers of the wind.

     Like torture of sorts, the birch trees were frozen with winters rage, and some were sacrificed with the flames of fire, but none ever spoke. The fallen scattered about the forests floor were a tribute to their strength and their promise of silence. If one were to walk deep into the realm of the deepest woods, they would see these giant soldiers, keepers of words and deeds standing tall and forever proud, even as the dense fog keeps trying to squeeze from them the secrets, they keep.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Happy Fathers day

Author Mike OConnor: Happy Fathers day:      He taught me how to do things and how to be a man. He sometimes had to scold me but with a loving hand. I never saw him crying he h...

Happy Fathers day

     He taught me how to do things and how to be a man. He sometimes had to scold me but with a loving hand.

I never saw him crying he held it deep inside except the day his brother died, and tears flowed from his eyes

He taught me how to cut a board and hammer in the nails. He showed me how to mow the lawn and clean the garbage pails.

He read me bedtime stories until I felt too old then hed sit beside me until my eyes were closed.

He taught me how to catch a ball and how to play for fun. He showed me how to tackle and how fast that I could run.

He got me my first haircut and taught me how to shave. I didn’t know at that time my razor had no blade.

I grew up, and he got old, so many lessons learned. Now all I have are memories of a man whose heart was gold.

I think of him whenever I see a boy at play and wish to God, I had him back if only for a day.

Happy Father's Day, dad.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: The Palace

Author Mike OConnor: The Palace:      The music of the forties came through the radio on a warm night in the city. The songs were seventy years old, but to him, it seemed...

The Palace

     The music of the forties came through the radio on a warm night in the city. The songs were seventy years old, but to him, it seemed like yesterday. The "Palace" was the place where the big bands performed to an audience of dancers. Dressed in their most elegant evening attire couples forgot their troubles leaving them at the doorstep as they held each other and moved to the songs of the times. The booze flowed, and cigarette smoke filled the dancefloor as the hours flew past.

     Dancing made you forget as the tunes grabbed hold and fed your desire to glide across the floor with grace and confidence. Young and old together in one big dance as new loves were born and old ones rekindled. Babysitters waited as happy couples bid them goodnight, checked the sleeping children, and giggling softly leaving a trail of clothing ending at their bed. Morning would bring screaming kids and headaches and life went on at least until next month when the Palace would have a new band, and it all began again

     His granddaughter came into the room just about to comment on the song playing when the old man took her hand and whisked her around the kitchen floor. His smile as big as she had ever seen, and his stocking feet were sure and steady. He told her that was her grandmothers and his song. That he had requested it be played every time they went dancing at the old Palace. The song ended, and he sat back down the smile gone, and a small piece of him left on the kitchen floor. It seemed like it was only yesterday he said softly. His stocking feet moving ever so lightly beneath the table.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Guitar man

Author Mike OConnor: Guitar man:       He walked to the stage his guitar waiting for him. A small spotlight the only thing he saw. It had always been his dream to sing hi...

Guitar man

     He walked to the stage his guitar waiting for him. A small spotlight the only thing he saw. It had always been his dream to sing his songs, simple and heartfelt melodies he wrote when the world was asleep. A tall and lanky kid growing up alone by choice. He often thought he wasn’t normal, others thought so as well. His mom would tell him to keep playing, keep writing, and above all else, keep his love for music close to his heart. The stage was getting closer as superstars stood for him and a once loud crowd became silent as he strapped on his old guitar and prepared to sing his farewell song.

     He stood there for a moment as if reaching inside of himself to find within the strength to sing. One deep breath and he began to strum the guitar, a beautiful melody that sounded like a chorus of angels playing on harps, but it was his old guitar that the sound came from, deep and smooth reaching out to the back of the theatre with a  force that cant be explained, only felt. His fingers found the frets and chords by themselves as he believed they were as one and born to perform.

     He wrote this farewell song late last night when the rest of the world was sleeping. He thought of his mother and the love she had for him. Her belief in him and her constant encouragement when others doubted him. He thought about the countless times he played for packed houses, and the times he played for himself. He grew old with his music, each song a part of his journey that told a story. The old guitar was the only one he had ever owned. A gift from his mom that held within it a lifetime of song.

     His voice was a bit rough this night of his farewell performance, but his words were stronger than ever, and the emotions were felt by all. He finished his song, and the audience showed their love and respect for the old man by clapping until he left the building. As he headed for home, his driver of many years softly told him how much he was loved as the applause faded and another song came to him like all of them had, from his heart. 

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: He didnt care

Author Mike OConnor: He didnt care:       Another crumpled pack of cigarettes adds to the pile that's been growing for a while now. The trash can overflowed weeks ago, and...

He didnt care

     Another crumpled pack of cigarettes adds to the pile that's been growing for a while now. The trash can overflowed weeks ago, and he didn't feel like doing anything about it. Dishes in the sink were unwashed and flowing over to all available countertop space. The ants found them a while back and continued their feast for as far as the eye could see. The fridge door was open, and whatever food was left in there was truly not fit for consumption, and he didn't care.

     His dirty t-shirt had as many stains as a babies bib and his bare feet were the colors of falling food from his mouth as he ate without knowing he was getting more on himself than in his mouth His yellow nicotine stained fingers found a wooden match and lit a cigarette that he would hold onto until it burned his fingers causing him to throw it on the floor or countertop or wherever the damn thing ended up, and he didn't care.

     When nature called sometimes, he would make his way to the bathroom down a hall stacked to the ceiling with old newspapers and boxes of junk containing everything from plastic ice cube holders to hummingbird feeders in a multitude of colors. The bathroom was the third door down the hall, he knew that because the first two rooms were so full of his stuff, the doors wouldn't open anymore. Someday he would force his way in and see what was in there. Most of the time he just did his business in a giant size mayonnaise jar in the corner next to the cats’ litterbox.

     He didn't remember when the last time he took a bath or shower, and he didn't care. He wasn't going anywhere. The superstore delivered his food once a month when his check came, sometimes it sat on the front steps for days before he made it down the hall to the front door. Hell, they just rang the bell and left. You see the store just took the money every month from his bank account just like the power company did. Every day he asked himself how much longer it would be before his dead body smelled so bad a neighbor or someone walking past would call somebody, and he didn’t care.

     Somewhere back in time his world crumbled. Carefree days of thrift stores and yard sales always finding treasures that he took home and put on display. He was raised in a family that had nothing, so everything was appreciated and kept. “Waste not want not” his father would say. His love and passion for “Stuff” grew with each passing year until one day he found himself a prisoner of a treasure only worth anything to him. And he didn’t care.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: The house on Mulberry street

Author Mike OConnor: The house on Mulberry street:       Empty bottles others half full scattered around the house on Mulberry Street. A trail of clothing leading to a bedroom where two st...

The house on Mulberry street

     Empty bottles others half full scattered around the house on Mulberry Street. A trail of clothing leading to a bedroom where two strangers ended up. Morning light and sounds from outside where ordinary people are living their day wake a woman who looks around the room and who is sleeping next to her. He is snoring and by all accounts just a guy. She takes a moment and allows herself to feel bad, but that passes quickly as her main objective is to find her clothes and leave.

     He woke to the sound of a vacuum cleaner and his college buddy singing to a song on the radio. Slowly he began to move putting his feet on the floor and scratching a three days growth of beard. She left, that's good, he thought to himself. He wasn’t anything special, so it seemed he usually ended up with someone the same. Pouring a cup of hours old coffee, he lit a smoke and wondered what today would bring? There were still a few hours of daylight left, maybe he would go to the park and shoot some hoops?

     The house on Mulberry Street was older than anyone could remember. It was donated to the fraternity by a wealthy benefactor way back in the 1940s. It looked the same as it did all those years ago. It was made with brick that never required a coat of paint. Not correct for the trim which peeled off decades ago, but nobody cared. It was a party house and will continue to be for who knows how long? The fraternity wasn’t one of the popular ones it was kind of known as the losers’ house. But where there looser, more losers will come to party.

     Years after college was in the rearview and most of the residents of Mulberry street had lives, some would meet for coffee and remanence of the good old days when nothing else mattered but getting wasted and laid. Yes, those were the days one of them said as he calculated 10 percent of the tab and paid with a hidden ten-dollar bill, he kept for emergencies. He gave his buddies a kind of high five and got the attention of other patrons, one yelling that he was probably a guy from Mulberry street

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Faded red toolbox

Author Mike OConnor: Faded red toolbox:      The red paint had long been faded on the toolbox kept in his shop. The tools inside showed much usage and care. “We made things to la...

Faded red toolbox

     The red paint had long been faded on the toolbox kept in his shop. The tools inside showed much usage and care. “We made things to last back then” he would tell me. “Not like the junk you see today.” He was always there when we needed him, his toolbox getting a little heavy now, but he didn't mind, he was still happy to help. He was a carpenter by trade, a lost art he would say, kids, didn't want to learn how to make something from nothing, too lazy he would say.

     I went to check on him every so often and usually found him in his workshop making or repairing something from somebody. He didn’t charge anymore, said he had all he needed. But he did take baked goods only if they were homemade. 'Nothing like a piece of apple pie and a glass of cold milk” he would tell me offering me a slice. What seemed like hundreds of tools hung from the ceiling most from hooks he made from scrap wood. I never got tired of watching as his now nimble hands transformed a block of wood into a beautiful table that he was making for his granddaughters’ birthday. He figured she would like it some.

     Generations of his work were scattered across the country each piece a testimony of his love and caring. He once spent an entire winter in his shop building eight church pews for a small church he sometimes attended. A fire had destroyed the old, and the congregation was using metal fold up chairs, and that didn't set right with him. There was a lot of pictures on the walls of his shop. Photos of people he had met that hired him to make them something special which he always managed to do. I was in one of those pictures. He was a lot younger, and I was just a boy of ten years. He asked me what I would like for my next birthday, and I told him I wanted a boat. I wasn't disappointed. He built that boat, and the day he gave it to me changed me in ways only years to come would show.

     My boat was only six feet long and seated, just one person. The lines of the boat were flawless and as seaworthy as any vessel out on the lake. It had two oars that scooped the water so effortlessly it was like racing across the water on a cloud. My body outgrew the small boat, but my son got a few good years out of it as did his son. Today the little craft sits in my yard on its side in need of a fresh coat of paint before the next generation puts her back on the lake. He was like that always making something that would last, tell a story and keep his craftsmanship alive. I wish he were coming by today or any day for that matter. I miss the old guy and his faded red toolbox. 

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Shadow things

Author Mike OConnor: Shadow things:       Shadows danced across the wall under the covers with a superman flashlight lighting the way. Six years old and the whole world belong...

Shadow things

     Shadows danced across the wall under the covers with a superman flashlight lighting the way. Six years old and the whole world belonged to your imagination. The small flashlight fits in your mouth freeing your hands that created shapes only you could make out to be. A giant bird, a stick man holding an umbrella. Slowly you twisted and turned your hands laughing at all the magic you and your superman light created. The laughter brought dad into your room peeking under the tent blanket, asking how it was going?

     He told you how he had made shadow people when he was your age and offered to share some with you. There wasn't much room in the blanket tent, but he squeezed in and with great fanfare introduced the mighty screaming eagle. It was the best shadow thing you had ever seen. Then in the blink of an eye and a few turns of his hands, there appeared a soldier wearing a helmet and carrying a rifle. He crawled out of the blanket tent and wished you a good night leaving you both amazed and proud.

     There were many more nights under the blanket tent with Superman lighting your way, each shadow thing better than the ones before. But eventually, Superman went dark, and the tent seemed a bit smaller. Shadow things went away, replaced with a small light on your bed stand that you read comic books by when you should have been sleeping. You loved that boyhood room with all its superhero toys and a drawer full of comics. You loved the way it fit you and the countless hours in the darkness when heroes came alive, and imagination went wild.

     Now when you feel depressed or concerned with the craziness of adulthood, you just close your eyes and put a small flashlight in your mouth,pull the covers over your head and the magical world of shadow things come to life and for a few minutes your back in your room with your dad making magic on dark walls. 

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: The house

Author Mike OConnor: The house:       The house was large and in need of paint. Broken shutters banged against the walls and fragments of glass littered the front porch. T...

The house

     The house was large and in need of paint. Broken shutters banged against the walls and fragments of glass littered the front porch. The front door looked more prominent than it should be, but that was of little concern. I entered the darkness of the wood and a musty smell that lived in the curtains of yellow. The dust had settled everywhere, leaving my footprints behind me on the wood floors.

     A giant chandelier hung in the entranceway with hundreds of crystals appearing like falling ice. The stairway leading to the second floor beckoned me to climb them each one singing a creaking melody. There were dark spots on the wall of the stairs telling me stories of photographs that once hung there, but now only imagination can tell me of who?

     Inside a bedroom of a child, an old crib sat in a corner with a tattered blanket and one-eyed baby doll. The room had a smell like powder and warm milk. It made me feel nervous. Another room was larger than the others with many windows and a dressing partition. I imagined a lady behind the partition, throwing her clothes on top of it as she dressed for dinner.

     There was a third room that had a door with a lock I couldn’t open. I made a mental note to ask the seller of its contents. Back downstairs to the parlor where I saw lavish party guests roaming the halls a glass of Champaign and laughter all around. Now it was quiet, too quiet, and I moved on. The kitchen was huge, with a butcher block island where I imagined many sumptuous meals were prepared by servants. There were still two cast iron skillets hanging from the wrack above the island retired from service.

     I spent hours looking in rooms knowing I had walked past several secret hatches and doors that someday I hoped to explore. True it was much too large for just one person but being a writer, I believed it to be just the ticket for the beginning of a new book. The title you ask. It's titled "Are we truly ever alone"?

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: The madam

Author Mike OConnor: The madam:       The room was draped in red velvet. Gold tassels moved slightly in the soft breeze of a bayou spring. Dark wooden couches and high bac...

The madam

     The room was draped in red velvet. Gold tassels moved slightly in the soft breeze of a bayou spring. Dark wooden couches and high back chairs would soon be filled with men who came in the darkness to satisfy their needs. The liquor flowed freely, and cigar smoke left dying clouds of smoke, a sweet sickening smell mixed with sweat and no concern.

     The ladies of the night lined the wall waiting to be chosen for a few minutes of disgust and a few paper bills that the madam took for safe keeping. She loved her girls, each one hand-picked from a slave boat that visited once a year with promises made but never kept.

     She taught them how to please a man while thinking of their freedom that would never come. She could be seen walking the halls listening to groans of pleasure from pot-bellied men making sure no harm came to her pretty young things. This was the way it was, night after night, her bosom growing larger with paper bills.

     The early morning opened shutters, and windows clearing the room of smoke and smells of drunken men with the scent of her girls following them home to plain wives and a daytime life. It wasn't the life she chose, but it was a needed position that she filled with grace and sometimes anger. She walked the silent halls of the morning, blowing out candles and pulling piles of paper bills from her bosom half smiling, half angered at the amount earned. 

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: A sailor

Author Mike OConnor: A sailor:       Life of a sailor can only be understood by one who has sailed the vast oceans of the world. The sights and smells of saltwater cling ...

A sailor

     Life of a sailor can only be understood by one who has sailed the vast oceans of the world. The sights and smells of saltwater cling to your bones a constant reminder of who you are. Night watches on a dark ship the moonlight guiding you too far away lands. The crashing of waves against the hull can put you to sleep, but pots of coffee keep you alert for unseen dangers that lurk in the darkness.

     Daylight and the smell of bacon from the mess hall waits for watch change and quick steps to fill the emptiness of the past six hours. Its rack time for you now but you go topside to see the sunrise and breath in the clean salt air. Nothing but open sea for as far as the eye can see

     A few hours of sleep and your up and doing jobs required. The signal shack needs a coat of paint, the flag bag as well. The deck always needs cleaning ridding it of salt that gathers with every lash of spray. The one constant that you have are moments to yourself when everything surrounding you is captured in your memory bank to see again when the sea leaves you behind on dry land. That won’t happen for a while yet, but you still dread the day.

     Many voyages and ports of call that filled you with knowledge and back ally moments never to be spoken of but forever remembered. Drunken sailors with money to burn, a familiar sight to the locals whose mission was to relieve us of all we had. So many times, we walked back to port our pockets empty, our hearts bursting with happiness.

     The life of a sailor can only be understood by those who have rung more salt out of their socks than others have sailed on. It's a calling from the deep that can't go unanswered. A challenge of body, mind, and spirit. Only a real sailors heartbeat is in unison with the crashing of waves against the hull.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com 

Author Mike OConnor: The forest

Author Mike OConnor: The forest: I sat high atop a mountain looking down at all the wonder and glory of Gods creation. Majestic trees that withstood time and elements t...

The forest

I sat high atop a mountain looking down at all the wonder and glory of Gods creation. Majestic trees that withstood time and elements to reign over a domain of creatures both big and small. They were invisible to me at this height, but I heard their feet rustling through the brush maybe trying to avoid the blast of a hunter’s gun. The soothing sound of birds singing filled my ears as I watched them hover above the trees searching for food escaping that dreaded blast.

     I see a disturbance in the trees as something leaps from branch to branch its voice screeching alarm to others nearby. 'Run for your life" it screams as the boughs bend and guide them to safety. All is quiet for a while as the giant ball of light sinks into the forest, waking the creatures of the night. The voices are louder now, and the fear of a hunter’s gun is replaced with the silence of protection.

     I stood atop the mountain for a few more minutes until the snapping of a branch was all the warning needed as I made my way to the cabin and continued to listen behind closed doors.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Salty tears

Author Mike OConnor: Salty tears:       What is this tiny salted drop that begins a journey down my face? What is this feeling of wanting to cry that takes hold of me and is...

Salty tears

     What is this tiny salted drop that begins a journey down my face? What is this feeling of wanting to cry that takes hold of me and is crushed with my determination not to? It happens to me often and in the most awkward situations. I am watching a Childs goodbye to a favorite teacher or a coach that made him believe in himself. I hear a song that I dedicated to my daughter and the floodgates open spuing forth rivers of tears and once held back emotion that now flows freely down my cheeks as my daughter wraps her arms around my shoulders with a loving squeeze.

     Why do these moments in time go so above and beyond now that my years are many? Is it because with age comes the uncontrolled desire to express with no fear or embarrassment every emotion, we are capable of without concern for appearance?

     I watch videos of people, average people who do incredible things with there voices, bringing shivers to my soul. I weep at the senseless violence in the world, and I grieve openly a product of my emotions. I wonder if its God guiding me to what he endures every day, preparing me to stand at his side and cry. 

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author

www.michaeloconnorwriter.com

Author Mike OConnor: Darkness and silence

Author Mike OConnor: Darkness and silence:       When silence speaks, and we listen with our own voice echoing the words, that's when the deepest part of your being speaks only...

Darkness and silence

     When silence speaks, and we listen with our own voice echoing the words, that's when the deepest part of your being speaks only truth.

As children we fall asleep to the soothing voice of our mothers, all cares cast away while softly spoken words lull us to peaceful sleep

Laying in darkness we process the day's events wondering if we did our best, were we kind, did we help anyone? The darkness a background soothing our minds and hearts.

Darkness and silence can be a peaceful place you can go to be alone with every or any thoughts that need to be replayed.

To fear darkness is to not know its magic and to hate silence is an opportunity to speak volumes.

When I lay my head on the pillow, I turn off the light and pray in the darkness. I do this because it makes me feel closer to the heavens that are lighted by the stars in a silent sky.

www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com