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

   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 clarity. I dance a lively step or two with scarecrow and the brightness of Dorothy's ruby slippers blind me with the hope she finds her way home.

   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

   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 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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Author Mike OConnor: Remembering

Author Mike OConnor: Remembering:    My first memory of my dad was him sitting at the kitchen table, the sleeves on the tee-shirt he wore were rolled up, and one contained...

Remembering

   My first memory of my dad was him sitting at the kitchen table, the sleeves on the tee-shirt he wore were rolled up, and one contained a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. His hair was greased down with something I later knew as Brylcream hair goo. He was drinking a bottle of Carlings black label beer he never let get warm.

   I would sit with him rolling my sleeves up and puffing on an unlit smoke he rolled across the table to me. Rock and roll was coming from the small green radio sitting on the window sill to get better reception, but he often got up and searched for a Saturday ball game or some news about the war.

  He had served in the Army a few years back and got hurt making it, so they discharged him early which kind of made him angry and restless. He couldn’t hold down a job for too long as he always seemed to get in trouble of one sort or another. When my mom tried to talk to him about losing work, he brushed her away and opened one of many beers he would drink until passing out on the couch

   He was always sorry the next morning kissing my mom and messing up my hair promising me he would never get that drunk again, and I shouldn’t worry because he heard they were hiring down at the docks and he had a buddy that could probably get him on there. It didn’t happen.

   My dad lived the next forty-something years, drinking away the pain and unhappiness. Mom stayed with him, although I never really understood why she did? I guess back then vows meant something. She passed away one night alone in their bed while he slept it off on the couch, and I cried for both of them.

   Sometimes I close my eyes and see the man who was my dad with sleeves rolled up and a pack of lucky strikes in one of them. His hair greased back, and a cold bottle of beer never too far from his reach. I could smell his aqua Velva and hear his laugh that rarely presented itself. He wasn’t a great man, nor was he bad. He was fighting demons his entire life and always seemed to lose. I loved him, and I hope he knew that? Mom said he did, and that would have to do.

   I sense that one day we will meet again and he will be the way I remember him only he will laugh a lot more and not have to carry the burdens that were his life. He will leave behind a smell of aqua Velva and a son who loved him dearly.

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Author Mike OConnor: The writer

Author Mike OConnor: The writer:    Love can only be measured by the times it's been broken. Much like life that can only be experienced if you live it. Both of these ...

The writer

   Love can only be measured by the times it's been broken. Much like life that can only be experienced if you live it. Both of these sentiments describe the one who calls himself a writer. That somebody, nobody who finds different paths to walk, the one who takes those steps with only his memories to lead the way.

   The writers among us are not so easily identified unless you know how to look. They are the ones walking with the crowds on a busy walkway or looking out of windows on buses and trains. Theirs is a constant search for a story, a yarn, or a poem. They become one with the things they see with open hearts and minds, leaving the rest to pass them by for the writer behind him.

   Being a writer can justify the strangeness that is a compliment to tellers of tales. Is it at all strange to create meaningful stories in your head then slam those words onto a blank page coming up with the magic of the written word? I don't think it strange at all. I see it as a gift to one's self that can either be thrown into the trash bin or shared with hungry eyes of strangers.

   It is magical in so many ways like being able to write a complete story by the time a single cigarette burns out. It can capture the imagination of a child, or the need for a hopeless romantic. It is the fuel of anger or the tears of sadness. Mere words are coming from somewhere that leaves the reader at a loss for words, and the writer with some leftover.

   There is not a more noble profession as that of a writer. He can entice you with his wit and captivate you with simple words that hit like a runaway train. He can take you on a journey that allows you to become one with the characters. Its quite easy to write if you follow one simple rule, just learn to listen to the world around you because every breath taken is a story waiting to be born.

Mike

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Author Mike OConnor: The final step

Author Mike OConnor: The final step:    He had to hold the railing tighter these days and look where he was going as the old eyes were growing weary along with the rest of him...

The final step

   He had to hold the railing tighter these days and look where he was going as the old eyes were growing weary along with the rest of him. He knew the old house and the scars of age like the bottom stair that creaked and the back screen door that slammed shut quicker than he could get his entire self in.

   He took one step at a time moving past the pictures that were his life then and now but mostly then. Snapshots of he and his wife dancing the night away the day they wed, and there's Bobby their firstborn on his first day in school. He remembered she cried but what mother doesn’t? His tears flowed freely as he walked down the steps capturing and reliving his life in pictures.

   He paused at the bottom step above the one that would tell them Bobby was trying to sneak in after curfew, or Ginny their baby girl would sit for hours playing with her dolls saying it was her favorite seat in the whole house.

   It was the step they would sit on when something important needed to be said, where tears would flow and smiles would shine. Guess it was the family step that held their stories. He took the last step listening for that so familiar squeak that he never grew tired of hearing.

   The moving van came today, and soon, this old house would be filled with the laughter of children once again. It was just him now, and he didn’t need all this space. He moved into a nice room at Bobby's house where life would be a bit easier for him.

   He handed over the keys and all of his memories to a family, much like his own so long ago. Seeing their love and laughter gave him peace, knowing the old place would continue to create memories. New pictures would line the walk of the stairway, and hopefully, that last step would continue to squeak to all that would listen.

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Author Mike OConnor: Tin cans

Author Mike OConnor: Tin cans:    Mornings warmth will soon give way to scorching heat that fills you with a vision of hell. Birds grow silent, and stray dogs and cats ...

Tin cans

   Mornings warmth will soon give way to scorching heat that fills you with a vision of hell. Birds grow silent, and stray dogs and cats seek out a cooler place beneath the houses scattered along this forgotten stretch of desert road.

   I never could figure out why that first mobile home was set down slab dab in the middle of a treeless burning spot from hell? And others followed creating an entire community of people dwelling in oversized tin cans

   Lined up row after row the metal capsules all looking the same, just sat there absorbing heat and daring anyone to touch them. No outside chairs or tables. No gardens with flowers, just a few fake daisies that were probably stolen from the makeshift graveyard down the road a piece.

   Cars sat silent the desert dust hiding their true colors. Some were sleeping on flat tires that would wait to be changed when things got cooler and activity stirred inside the park. And, the dust continued to build

   Held prisoners inside a ten by 30 space, to some a mansion compared to the jail cells they more often than not called home. What occupied their time? You could tell the cans that received outside information by the massive antennas bolted down to the roofs allowing for hours, days, weeks, and months of game shows and soap operas.

   But what about the others, what did they do all day and night for vast amounts of time? How many puzzles can you build, how long will that knitted blanket be? You hear music coming from some  that keeps playing hour after hour, the same old songs from singers long ago forgotten

   It won't be long now, and the intense heat will give way to cooler days and cold nights. The doors will open, and they will cautiously step outside looking to the sky as if making sure nothing had changed since they last saw it.

   The cars will be dusted off, and tires changed for the journey into town to stock up on refreshments and new puzzles. Maybe a haircut or quick visit with the post office to be sure no checks were left undelivered.

   The tin can community slab dab in the middle of hell on earth is a special place and not for the faint of heart. It takes guts to live here, and few survive more than one summer. Your welcome to try as there's always a vacancy for those who want a preview of eternal damnation

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Author Mike OConnor: Time awakened

Author Mike OConnor: Time awakened:    There are times when I travel so far back into my memories; I doubt the reality of it. People and places seem so alive as if standing in...

Time awakened

   There are times when I travel so far back into my memories; I doubt the reality of it. People and places seem so alive as if standing in front of me, yet so many have passed decades ago.

   The smells and the feeling of winters cold on my skin leave me touching my face. Smelling the air, I labor to breathe in the scent of a homemade meal waiting for me in the warmth of our house or the slightest whisper of her favorite perfume that I try and hold onto because her memory will fade once more after its gone.

   It is as if I am truly living those moments over again as if I was there right now at this very moment in time. Could it be possible that I am back in time, somehow sent or called to be there? Could those souls that have passed on somehow beckoned me to fill the same emptiness that they feel?

   I have always thought that I have a gift of memory, and I'm able to reach deep inside, a place that most can never reach. A gift? Maybe. A curse? I'm not certain. What is crystal clear is I travel back to people I love and assure them and myself that my journey has a meaning, a door to be unlocked.

   I have on more than one occasion woke from what I thought to be a dream and found myself catching the very faint smell of her favorite perfume. I hold onto it until all I can sense is how it use to be. Or I will close my eyes and try to bring her back, but the volume of emptiness tells me she's gone

   Somewhere in my memories is a long treelined street with houses I remember growing up. The air is crisp and the quite overwhelming. A figure of a young lady stands at the far end of this road. All I can see is something like a shadow, and she's waving to me. I try to walk faster, but as I do, she goes further away. My conscious memory tells me, I'm, not ready for that encounter yet.

   I can't explain all of this, nor do I pretend I can. I accept it as it’s a part of who I am and for now that’s good enough for me.


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