The gifts

 

The streets were quiet this cold night in December. A lone figure of a man walked stooped over, carrying a sack which held who knows what? He seemed to be muttering to himself as if trying to remember something like a name or an address. I kept my distance not wanting to disturb him after all it was Christmas eve, and I was late getting home. Every so often the old man stopped in front of a house and scratching his long beard either he walked on, or he took something from his sack and seemed to hide it in bushes or in the crook of a tree. I let him get ahead and I stopped and looked under a bush he had stopped at. To my surprise I found a very weathered little ball. Its once bright color now faded and certainly not something a child would want. I replaced the ball under the bush and went on towards home and a hot meal. By the time I reached my front door, I had all but forgot about the old man who was probably a victim of the streets. To myself I wished him well.

Christmas morning was ushered in with a freshly fallen snow and children everywhere tearing open gifts to the delight of parents around the world. But some children woke up to a cold house, little food to eat and parents who felt sadness and shame because a sack of rice or loaf of bread was more important than a new toy or a pair of shoes not stuffed with paper. Paul was nine years old this Christmas, he always thought it was great his birthday fell on the same day Christmas did even if getting gifts only happened a few times that he could remember. Why should this day be any different than the other days?

Standing at the door getting ready to go find his friends, Paul looked down at a set of footprints leading to the bush in front of his house. To big for a dog or cat he said out loud. Lifting the branches, a little he looked in and saw a ball. It wasn’t his, he would have remembered that. It was an old ball with faded colors but, he liked it just the same. He thought to himself it was a birthday/Christmas gift that he wasn’t expecting. Smiling, he continued on his way bouncing the new ball whistling a Christmas song he remembered from years ago. Up ahead he saw two of his buddies waiting for him. What took ya? They both asked at the same time. Paul threw the ball at Mark who caught it then tossed it to Peter who looked it over. Aint new that’s for sure. The three boys passed that ball around for a long time just happy to have something to play with.

The boys met up with Harry in the alley behind the Chinese restaurant. He was busy filling his sack with thrown out food exclaiming that he had found a Christmas miracle. A whole tray of egg rolls burnt a little but still warm and edible. I’ve got enough he said to his friends, get in there and fill your sacks. It wasn’t even noon yet and already they had food to take home and a new ball to play with. It really was beginning to look a lot like Christmas. Back out in the street Paul saw his little sister Ruth looking into the bakery window. Her eyes were open wide, and she was licking her lips. Ruth, Paul called, why aren’t you at home? She told her brother mom was crying and dad left the house slamming the door behind him. She thought she had done something wrong, so she left to look for him.

Here, he said tossing the ball to his sister. Play with this while I look for more food. Ruth’s attention turned quickly from her empty stomach to the faded ball as Paul walked back into the alley. He was halfway into a dumpster when he saw what looked like a baby doll. He wiped food scraps off it and used his shirt sleeve to clean it as much as possible. He thought to himself some little girl got a new doll and just threw this one away. He put it in his sack and kept looking for anything he thought useful. Everyone seemed to have some holiday good fortune that day as they headed home with full sacks and smiling faces. Eventually the boys went their separate ways and Paul and Ruth walked in silence as they neared their house not knowing what they would find inside. Paul softly opened the door finding their mom at the kitchen table cleaning a few fish. Where did they come from, Paul asked her? It was the strangest thing she began. I was shaking a rug on the front stoop when I saw what looked like a rolled newspaper over by the old oak tree. It was in the lowest crook of the trunk just there. I took it down and opened it finding these beautiful fish that looked freshly caught. Paul thought to himself a ball a baby doll and fish. Oh, and plenty of egg rolls. Looked like the makings of a real Christmas. Just then the door flew open and dad came in carrying a Christmas tree. It wasn’t much of a tree as a lot of the branches were gone. He said he found it behind the department store where the tree had been on display since thanksgiving. It’s not much he said but, its ours.

Covered with torn and stained blankets the old man tried to keep warm. He had been out all-night delivering gifts to those who needed them the most. A faded ball that he had found in the park, a tray of egg rolls he made burn slightly as the cook chased him out of the restaurant calling him a bum. A baby doll left behind only to be replaced was found in the belongings of a homeless lady he visited once in awhile under the bridge where he and so many like him tried to keep warm when the shelters were full. As for the fish, over the years he had helped deliver fish to the market. It was a job he liked, and the boss treated him with respect. Time went on and the boss passed away leaving the business to his son who let him continue to work once in a while. Early on Christmas eve he helped out and the boss’s son gave him three nice fish wrapped in newspaper. The cold kept them fresh until they reached where they were going.

Before drifting off to sleep, the old man felt good inside. Christmas wasn’t just for those who could afford it, no, it was a special day that everybody should have to remember. For months he collected discarded things that would bring joy to someone. He walked for miles last night hiding old toys, worn clothing and shoes of various sizes and styles. There were tea kettles some with broken spouts but worked just the same. Baseball gloves and bats, and always bouncing balls. He never had much growing up, so he knew what children felt when there wasn’t enough for Christmas gifts under the tree. The old man drifted off to sleep knowing tomorrow he would begin his search for broken toys and tea pots once again. God willing.

Paul’s family decorated their tree with scraps of newspaper and pieces of colored yarn mom had hidden away hoping someday she would have enough to knit a warm scarf. The kitchen stove kept them warm as the fish and egg rolls filled the small house with wonderful smells. Paul opened his sack and gave Ruth the baby doll he found. She held it tightly and told it someday mommy would knit her a fancy dress. Digging further into his sack Paul pulled out a pair of pink slippers. The fuzzy had worn off but they were still free of any holes and he thought his mom would like them. She cried a little as she tried them on telling her son they were perfect and oh so warm. Lastly, he reached to the bottom of the bag pulling out a pocketknife with the small blade missing but the bigger blade was ok. He gave it to his dad who hugged him around his neck nodding his approval.

Years passed and Paul’s life took many turns, but he never forgot his childhood and the struggles his family endured. When he was sixteen years of age, he read in the newspaper of an old homeless man found frozen to death under a bridge. The article said He had a huge pile of what most would call junk all stacked in piles around him, like faded balls and broken teapots, just about anything he thought someone could use. Paul knew in his heart he was the poor mans Santa who gave him that faded ball so long ago. He spread the news of this to every kid who called the streets their home and on the day of his burial, dozens showed up at Potters field for what became an annual Christmas tradition. It has always been custom to leave a little something on the grave, a token of your love for the departed. This grave was no exception. Throughout the year kids left small almost whole toys, chipped colorful marbles, broken toy soldiers and just about anything they thought he would like. It was more than a grave, it was a memory for a man whose heart was as large as the piles of his treasures. Merry Christmas to everyone.

Mike

 

For You

 

His now nimble fingers barely allow him to play anymore but his need to hear the song one more time keeps him playing .He remembered writing it with her in mind as the melody sprang to life with each little thing he loved her for. She cried the first time he played it for her and every time after that as far as he remembered. He stopped for a moment looking back to their youth and the love they shared for so many years. He remembered getting the piano he now sat at on a whim and teaching himself to play while she stood and listened to what she called music of the angles.

He never learned how to read music, he played from his heart somehow just knowing what notes to play making beautiful sometimes haunting pieces that often brought him to tears. It was as if each song was a part of him that came out of the deepest parts of his being and shot through his fingertips onto the keys. When he wrote her song all his emotions were awaken and softly glided across the keyboard in a soft and soothing melody he named, “For you” When she passed, he found great solace while playing. He stopped writing music awhile back, but he remembered those that brought him the most pleasure and he would spend ours playing them again and again each one stirring up emotions and memories of time gone by.

Now it seems her song is the only one he can remember. It flows from his tired hands like honey down a jar, each beautiful note a testament of his love. He knows the day is coming when he wont play anymore. The old piano will sit gathering dust and he will join her where the angles do sing songs and some of them will be his own.

Mike

Strike three your out

 

The winds are relentless lashing at my small dwelling with such force I’m waiting to be blown across the county. I ask myself now if I should have gone to a shelter but the virus is there I know it and id rather be blown away and enjoy the ride rather than be put on a respirator and die alone. My faithful dog is lying at my feet shaking and scared. I gave him a huge handful of treats to take his mind off this, but he only managed to eat one and that’s worrisome. The creaking of the walls tells me the wind will eventually come in and the windows will break all at once leaving us momentarily sitting on the slab as everything explodes around us. I will hold onto his collar the best I can as we are lifted and begin either a fast death or one hell of a ride to who knows where?

I believe we are in the eye of a tornado as everything is dead quiet and it feels like the gravity ride at the state fair. It is just black air around us my dog whimpering and wondering why I brought him here. Now I feel myself falling not very fast and I believe I can handle a landing although I don’t know where that will be. The air is cleaner now as I’m beginning to see below me. There’s farmland which means I’ve traveled about ten miles or so and it's approaching me rather quickly. There’s a field of hay bales and if I’m lucky, BAM We landed. My dog ran off as I tried to catch my breath that was knocked out of me upon landing. I don’t feel like I broke anything, so I slowly got up and looked around.

My dog came back and tried to talk which he sometimes does, glad to see me I suppose but also yelling for me to never do that again. As I looked around, I saw a farmhouse and walked towards it hoping somebody was there and all right. The farmer came to the door and just stood there shaking his head. Never saw the likes of that before, he began. I’ve seen cars and trucks fly by but never saw a man and a dog-free fall onto a bale of hay. You aren’t hurt he asked? All good I answered. Where exactly are we? You’re in Pasco county friend. I did some quick math and shook my head in disbelief. That’s seventeen miles from my house I said out loud. Holy crap.

After resting up for a bit the farmer drove us back to whatever was left of my house. A slab was what we found. Damn, he said it’s all gone son. I got out of the truck and looked around for anything that might be mine, but the place was picked clean, the winds had carried everything including us to the four corners of the county. Fema came in with a brand new trailer and set it up on the slab. I had to start fresh again going to thrift stores for just about everything you’d need to live. It took some time but eventually, we were settled in and going on with life. Family and friends read about us in the papers and a lady from the local news came around to interview me about the experience of living through such a violent storm. Guess we were heroes for a while.

If you think that was the end of it, think again. Three years later almost to the date another superstorm was predicted. And it was heading my way. I didn’t want to test faith again so me and my dog headed for the shelter and joined the others who didn’t want to be victims’I heard the winds outside and the pounding rain that sounded like a barrage of bullets hitting the walls. Like most storms like these, it didn’t last long and soon the siren went off saying it was gone. I made my way back to my place and what I saw stays with me even today. The entire park was gone, blown away to who knows where, Everything but one lonely house, my house. It hadn’t been touched. I went inside and everything was just like I left it. No broken dishes or broken glass, nothing.

That lady from the news came around again and asked me what I thought about my house being the only one that wasn’t destroyed. I thought about that for a bit then told her I think you only go around once in this life and no matter what happens if it's your time then it is and if it’s not it's not. I told her I had been swallowed up by the monster and spit out, wasn’t my time. And I let God decide my fate this time too. Guess he figured Id had enough excitement for now and spared my house. Who can say really? So, for the next twelve years, the skies were quiet. No big storms or lashing winds, just a peaceful life in the park until one day in late August a supercell formed and headed my way. My dog was up in years as was I and riding out a monster like this one wasn’t something we wanted to do. We headed for the shelter but the roads were blocked with fallen trees and we couldn’t get there in time so, we drove through the back roads for quite a few miles until coming upon a huge hay field that looked familiar. I parked my truck in the field and held onto my old friend for what could be our final ride.

I felt the truck beginning to lift, first the back and then teetering like a kid’s see-saw. Slowly at first then WOOSH we were sucked into the storm and the quiet. My dog sat next to me seemingly ok with all this, I think he was just glad he was in the truck and not free falling like before. My gut told me not to expect a soft landing onto a bale of hay. It wasn’t very long until I felt us dropping at a pretty good clip. This is it I said to my dog, so long fella we’ve had a good run. He looked at me with his old eyes then laid his head on my lap ok with it. The next thing I remember is a loud thumping sound and an abrupt stop. It got quiet and the sun came out as I looked through the truck window and saw we weren’t on the ground but somewhere fairly high up.

Eventually, the fire department arrived below us. A fireman climbed a ladder to reach us and when he spoke what I heard blew my mind. Seems my truck landed on the steeple of a church. Somehow the needle of the steeple pierced the bed of my truck sparing us inside. It was like we were parked there way up high. The news lady came around again and just shook her head, again. She said I know it wasn’t your time, right? Just goes to show you I said, life is one hell of a ride and it will take you where you are meant to be. I really wanted to believe that but deep inside I was already making plans to move. We’re getting way too old for all this excitement.

Mike

Too young for such sorrow

 

The old house had been closed for years now. The old man passed away and all his children couldn’t care less about the run-down farmhouse that sat on bank-owned land. The oldest son recently received a letter from the bank stating the property was scheduled for demolition at the end of the month and if the family wanted anything from inside the buildings they had until then to do so. He and his dad were not ever close, well they were when he was just a kid. He decided to make the three-hour drive tomorrow just because.

It was crisp and sunny when he headed out for what was called the North country. where Fertile land and generations of farmers claimed to have the best fruits and vegetables anywhere else in the state. He grew up here eating as many apples as he wanted or roaming through rows and rows of corn snapping off a stalk and enjoying its sweetness that people drove for miles to purchase. His dad sold most of his crops to local restaurants and grocery stores while some were destined for the roadside stand, he built years ago. Every end of summer he would put on a fresh coat of paint and lay down a colored mat where he would display his produce. On a good weekend, he would make enough money to cover expenses and put some away for those frequent rainy days.

As he got closer to the homestead his childhood memories filled his head and the drive became less enjoyable. He arrived to find quite a few vehicles parked in the field next to the old barn that once was filled to the rafters with equipment and other needed farming tools. A couple of neighboring farmers were looking over a combine that had seen better days, he remembered his dad working on that thing late into the night cussing every nut and bolt as he fixed something else all too often. He saw people roaming around the house where the bank's employees kept them out until he had a chance to have a look around.

Walking inside the house he was slammed back to his youth before mom died and his dad became the town drunk. For a few good years, they were a family with a respectfully run farm who went to church on Sundays and had dinner together every night. Being the oldest he was expected to help

and help he did. He couldn’t count the times he missed school because his dad was passed out in the barn, an empty bottle next to him. He never did know why his old man took to the bottle, some said because he never left the war behind him, others said he was just like his own father who drank himself to an early death. He tried to keep the farm going but when mom passed, his dad got really bad and just gave up. Being the oldest he tried keeping everyone together but after a year or so the state stepped in and put the younger kids in the system. He packed a bag and never looked back. He was sixteen years old.

He roamed around the old house for awhile looking at pictures from happier times but not wanting any of them as old memories can sting. He stopped at the door going into the kitchen where mom in happier days spent a lot of her time cooking, baking bread and cookie, and always there to listen to us. The smells swirling through his head, he took in a deep breath then walked out of the house. Nothing he wanted he told the bank rep who stepped up to the portable podium and yelled over a bull horn the auction was about to begin. He stood next to his car and watched as items large and small went to the highest bidders, some hiding their eyes from him as if they had stolen something from his past. Little did they know, he could care less. By the end of the day, anything worth anything was sold and the bank guy shut it down.

Heading back home and to his life, he couldn’t help but remember his first sixteen years. Running through cornfields, playing hide and seek with his sisters, getting to drive the tractor all the way to the end of the dirt rod and back, sitting up straight telling himself this farm would be his someday. He could smell the clean clothes hanging on the line softly blowing dry on a summer day. He remembered going fishing with his dad on the pond next to his land. He clearly remembered county fairs and cookouts, how neighbors came from miles around when the barn caught fire helping dad rebuild it just because that’s what neighbors did. He remembered cutting the perfect Christmas tree and singing carols while they decorated it with their own hand made ornaments. He smiled as he remembered easter egg hunts that lasted for hours because there was a lot of hiding places on the farm. Birthday parties and fourth of July, baseball games, and wheelbarrow races. He can still smell the paint as he helped paint the roadside stand and how big he felt helping folks fill their baskets. Then he remembered the darkness and loss, the past due bills, and being cut off by suppliers. He remembered the girls needing shoes but there was no money for that. So, one night he broke into the dress shop in town and stole two pairs he hoped would fit. He never got caught but later he learned the store owner knew it was him but never said a word.

Things only got worse as time passed. The VA came when he was about fifteen and had a long talk with dad saying they would help him if he’d let them but by then he was too far into the bottle and that was that. Wasn’t long after and the girls were takin away leaving him to do what? Run the farm on his own? That’s when he packed a bag and as he was leaving, he looked into the barn and saw him hanging from a beam. He didn’t leave a note he just ended it and he walked away leaving him to swing. Sixteen years of happiness his only reminder of youth. Thanksgiving is coming soon, and he will have a gathering of friends at the table. He invites his sisters every year, but they never have come. Guess he is a part of their past that does not bring many good memories.  He nodded his head and understood.

Mike

Not today

 

An old and beyond healing house sat alone in a field of crops forgotten. Time and whether combined forces leaving it to decay until it could not stand on its own. But what tales it could tell if anyone cared to listen. He built it with his own two hands each nail hammered a testament of strength and determination.

Today the winds blow slapping overgrown weeds against its side like lashes from a bullwhip meant to cause even more pain than the house had already seen. Harsh winters and scorching summers all collided over time erasing the whitewash of its birth, leaving bare planks and rusty nails.

There were happy times in the small rooms that brought forth new lives and laid to rest those who served her well. A franklin stove sat quietly in a corner never again to brown biscuits or warm frozen hands. I wondered how many candlelit conversations took place around it.

Standing alone in the main room I felt the house take soft breaths as if each one would be its last. A final gust of wind sending it crashing to the ground, unnoticed, never heard. Not today though as the winds were calm and the old house would stay another day, another memory, another story to be told.

Black pan

 

He sat in a worn-out leather chair, his slippers he had too many years to count. Those plaid ones with yellowed fur. On the table next to him were his things he liked to call it. Hand-rolled cigarettes in a plastic soap holder, a lighter and a can of fluid, and one of those things that looked like a Pez dispenser but it held flints. A telephone crusted with grease and dust. Nobody called much anymore. There was one single picture in a gold wooden frame of all three kids who went their own ways years ago. That table was full of his things as he liked to call it.

By rights, the apartment should have been condemned by the health department a long time ago but he didn’t care about things like that. A slow leak that seeped into the carpets over time producing mold just about everywhere. The kitchen had two surfaces that weren’t cluttered, the stovetop where he did all his cooking in a black cast iron pan that he never washed he just wiped the grease out until the next meal. And the spot for the coffee pot which he emptied twice a day or more.

The bedroom was small and very neat. Clothes on hangers the bed made every day. The old school military still stuck with him. The bathroom was as clean as it could be except for the smell of urine as he more often than not missed the toilet. “You would too” he would say waving away anybody who brought it up. By ten in the morning, he was ready for a nip that he poured into his third cup of coffee settling into his old chair and waiting for the day to pass.

He enjoyed visitors even though he denied It. But the only ones he got were from his kids who stopped in to check on him and make sure he hadn’t burned he apartment to the ground. His life had once been full, but he drank it all away and blamed it on everything and anyone. I remember the good days and years and it's those memories that I like to remember but, I will never get the pictures out of my mind of greased pans and the smell of urine. He passed a decade or so ago and the old apartment building was torn down. I stopped in front of where it once stood on a recent visit. I walked into the empty lot and came across an old black pan still greasy and waiting to be used again. Yes, I took it with me I had to its all I have left of him.

True Love

 

Being alone has its perks most of which wear out over time, becoming less of a pleasure and more of a loss.

Mike

 

I knew love, true love once in my life. Un blemished, eager to learn, and lips that haunt me to this day. Looking back when two young lovers took on the word itself trying to give it wings so their love could be spread throughout time.

Each curve of her body took me to a place only I had gone as our journey together began, and all that were firsts belonged to only us. If it were possible to love someone more, I would have tried but I fear I would fail as history proved right.

Decades have passed by my window and with each sunset, I think of her, hear her laughter and taste her perfect lips. I go to sleep dreaming of her and tell my God its ok, I’m ready. I have suffered from this broken old heart long enough now.

She’s exactly how I remember her as my world is left behind and she leads me to a place where time never passed. Like two school kids we laugh and dance as free as the wind on a bird’s wings. That’s all I can tell you I hope you understand. True love happens only once, and it happened to me.

 

 

Standing in a country field, my memories take me back to the day the circus came to town. We knew the day they would come because they had plastered big signs all over the town telling of their arrival. I was eleven years old when the circus got into my blood and never left. The sound of the circus trains whistle was heard in the distance as town folk gathered in this very field to witness what would be the highlight of their day for some time to come.

The smell of the animals filled the air as the train slowed to a stop with screeching brakes and a few sharp blasts of the whistle announcing it had arrived. Not a second was wasted as the workers got busy unloading everything needed to erect the tents while others guided the cramped animals to a waiting field that had been fenced in prior to the train’s arrival. Further down the cars filled with circus people opened its doors and out they came dressed in costumes to colorful to imagine. Clowns in every shape and size greeted the crowd with honks from their horns as they passed out balloons to the kids. Wives in the crowd covered their husband’s eyes as the most beautiful women in the world wearing hardly anything, passed by waving and blowing kisses.

Soon they were all lined up and making their way to town in a parade that captured my attention and made me realize I belonged there with them not just as a spectator, but really with them. Times were hard back then. The great recession took away even the simplest of pleasure except for when the circus came to town. Moms hid away small coins in a soda tin far back in a cupboard never letting on to anybody where it was. She knew Dad would be angry but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, or her.

The first evening performance lit the night sky with lights of every color and the smell of cotton candy, peanuts and popcorn almost brought you to tears. Waiting in the ticket line I saw dad pull a piece of cloth out of his pocket that contained a few coins. After adding the cost for four tickets he realized he was short by a single dime. Mom smiled and opened her purse reaching inside and pulling out a handful of coins that she handed to dad who squeezed her arm and smiled as he bought our tickets. Back then the price of admission was all you needed to ride the rides, The games of chance each cost a nickel and we didn’t have many of those so, we would walk through the games and carefully choose the ones we thought were our best bet at winning something.

My sister thought the hoop throw was her ticket to a giant stuffed bear that she said would share her room with her forever and ever. She never did win one. I was a fair shot back then. My dad taught me to shoot and my first time hunting I got a turkey that was served that thanksgiving. The shooting gallery was my game for sure. My first shot was way off to the left, so I adjusted my sites and tried again. that time it was too far to the right. With only one shot left I adjusted my sites but this time I shot a little lower and a hair above center. Bullseye, I won. I had my choice of all sorts of neat things but eventually picked a wooden toy boat in a bottle. That prize stayed with me through my younger year and eventually was handed down to my son who treasured it as much as I did.

Our night at the circus was a family affair that we carried on for many years. The sights and smells remain with me and always will. In between graduating from high school and looking for a job, I joined up with the circus as a grunt which meant shoveling animal poop and any other nasty jobs, they told me to do. I didn’t mind the work and soon gained the respect of the other workers who became good friends. I had thought this was just temporary until something better came along but, one day I opened my eyes and I had been with the circus for eight years. I eventually became a barker wooing people into the various attractions and as it turned out, I was pretty good at it. I fell in love with the star of the main attraction an equestrian who could ride a horse like no one I had ever seen. She had a bond with her animals that was special to anyone who saw her perform. Eventually, we were married, and our first child was born in our wagon between shows. The second child came two years later, and we were officially a circus family. We saw good times and bad but all those years in the circus gave us more memories than one could hope for. It was during winter in Florida that both my wife and I decided our time was drawing to an end. The circus was hard. Two shows a day seven days a week can tear a body apart. Our children were grown each with their own acts and would not change it for the world. Saying goodbye was difficult but after settling down in a house without wheels we bid them and the circus Farwell. OH, we still go to the circus every time it comes even close to where we live. Walking up to the ticket counter I reach into my pocket and pay by credit card. A far cry from mom and dads’ pieces of cloth containing a few coins. My wife smiles as I take her hand and softly say, “WELCOME LADIES AND GENTLEMEN TO THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH”

Sunday Mornings

 

A quiet Sunday morning the sound of bacon sizzling, her soft voice humming a memory of days past. As I lay awake in our bed the cool autumn air coming through the window comforts me as I remember the countless Sunday mornings spent in this house. Waking up to a baby’s cry, her telling me it was my turn. Holding that small miracle until she fell back to sleep, I stayed with her until the sun came up and the long day began. It’s been said a quiet house is not a happy house I can tell you our house was happy. Three girls screaming, dancing, playing, hiding, and each trying to out-talk the other.

Three proms, three weddings, and six grandchildren all from within the walls of this house. Painted walls and replaced carpets. New plumbing, new roof, and young saplings that have become tall trees. Car washes and lemonade stands snowball fights and jumping into piles of raked leaves. Carved pumpkins and Christmas lights. Countless Halloween costumes and mom made costumes for school plays, talent competitions, and pageants. I can’t count the trips to schools and basketball games, soccer, and tennis they were all athletic. Easter baskets and egg hunts. Picking out the best Christmas tree that became a history book of home-made decorations.

Late night conversations when a curfew was broken and lady talk in whispers behind closed doors. First boyfriends and broken hearts. Tears and hugs happiness and sorrows all within the walls of this old house. Sunday mornings when I waited to be called to breakfast, a feast prepared by my four girls all talking at once as the batter was whipped and coffee perked. The smell of bacon sizzling and the feel of tears flowing down my face as I remember all the memories that made this house a home. She smiled at me as I entered the kitchen wiping the tears from my face. She didn’t need to speak as her own tears had dried and we ate in silence.

Mike

Winter walk

 

Leaves crunch beneath my boots, fallen reminders of warmth since past. The scent of pine from a distant fireplace filling my lungs with a cleansing like mixture of winters true wonders.

A light dusting of snow covers the ground as My journey takes me deeper into the forest. Tall white birch soldiers seemingly guard the entrance to an enchanted place stirring my memories of youth.

As I venture further into this magical place, the snow begins to fall harder filling my tracks and erasing them forever. Tiny balls of ice form on my beard like weighted crystal, my eyes tearing with each frozen blast whistling from within the trees.

Although dressed for the cold my bones ache from so many past winters walks yet I march on. I Go until time tells me to turn back as daylight gives up its fight for warmth and darkness blankets the cold forest floor.

I walk into the clearing leaving the darkened memories behind. The glow of a fireplace and a lamp in the window beckons me as does the smell of fresh-baked bread. My once slow and memory-filled steps replaced with a brisk pace pointing me home and into warming arms.

Some of my most vivid memories are those that took place in the forest. It truly is a magical place.

Mike

Simplicity

 

Closing my eyes and remembering my fingers dance across the keyboard. I’m back in time using an old school typewriter the sound of the keys banging and the bell ringing becoming more frequent as the words race out of my head and on to the virgin white paper. The noises of the city outside all but drowned out as my thoughts keep up with the rhythm of the streetcars.

She’s in another room putting the finishing touches on something already perfect. I loose thought for a split second as her scent crawls through the air traveling up my nose causing me to smile but never missing a stroke of the keys. She has always been the one for me since the first time I laid eyes on her sitting alone in a café. Life became “us” and every minute we had together created a lifetime of memories.

My thoughts raced and my fingers grew numb as I put the finishing touches on the holiday piece I was doing for the Post. Now, silence except for the noises outside and the soft music coming from the bedroom. I peer in seeing her roll up the stockings I bought for her in the alley off 52^nd street late last night. She had told me how she longed to feel the softness of silk on her legs again.

I’m happy I got the piece done and she’s smiling because she’s feeling beautiful so hand in hand dressed to the tees, we walk the fifteen blocks watching people in holiday spirits, to the café where we first met. A bite to eat then back out into the frozen night and twelve blocks to the dance hall where the music will soothe the soul and our love for each other will dance until dawn.

I awoke to the noises of the city, a pile of crumpled paper on the floor. The results of failed attempts to create something worth reading. I glanced at the closed door of her room, our room, and realized all I had left were the countless memories we created together in a time when simple things like walks in the cold, dinner at a small café and dancing the night away were more than I could have ever hoped for.

Sunday with Zeppelin

 

A Sunday morning like most others except for the chaos in the world. Un rest and pandemics fill the airwaves and social media with pictures of death and pain. Losses of human life like we’ve never seen and we pray it will end so beauty can shine again.

I listened to music from my youth today, Led zeppelin with their magical ability to transform me into memories of days and nights filled with emotions I have not felt since. The music ran through me like electric blood piercing through my veins until exploding in an ending that forced tears to flow freely and with great meaning. A mark had been left on my very soul.

My generation felt the music, it became a part of who you were and waiting for the next album was like a kid waiting for Christmas morning. Braving frigid temperatures waiting in line at the record store protecting it from the elements we’d race home, carefully opening the album eyes wide open as we looked at the artwork and read the lyrics while the virgin album began its journey into my head and my soul.

For weeks we would listen to the new songs some having favorites while others just couldn’t as each song touched them in some way. To this day when I hear Stairway to heaven, I am transported back in time where myself and good friends sat on the floor of an attic bedroom giving in to the magic that was Zeppelin. Decades have since passed but here I am on a Sunday afternoon giving my mask a rest, listening to the music of my youth remembering we were the first to hear these songs of change.

I’m much older now living in a time that time has all but forgot. But it was our time and we lived it to the fullest. The last song just finished and the needle from my old record player makes that scratching sound that reminds me even more that I was meant to be exactly where I was that rock will always live in my soul and that stairway to heaven is so much more than just a song title.

Mike

Once upon my time

Miles sometime separate us during these trying times. I want to go back to when all we feared was catching a nasty cold that although annoying, we managed to get through. Some chicken soup and cartoons maybe a day or two with no school and we were good to go. We had our childhood nasties like the chicken pox and the mumps but like most things back then the family doctor would stop by and get us feeling good leaving strict instructions for mom to follow. It seems we were just tougher once upon a time.

We played in the rain and the snow and mud puddles were there for one reason, to jump in. Many a day we would walk in the house looking like a frozen mud pie. Some of us brave souls played football in the street as soon as the ice melted enough to run on. We played in t-shirts that froze from sweat to ice in minutes. We ice skated on frozen ponds until the water formed on top telling us if we didn’t want to fall in, we better wait for the next freeze.

We played in the woods and all it had to offer. Hide and go seek is a whole different game when played in the forest. We explored the seasons each having their own special gift to give like white blankets of snow or lush meadows where wed catch fireflies in mason jars. Slow moving streams were perfect for our home made boats that wed watch disappear around a bend .Halloween meant creating a maze in the woods daring anyone to enter it as some of our older siblings would jump out sending the little ones running for home.

We made bikes out of spare parts we’d find in the dump or discarded in the woods. They were nothing to look at but we didn’t care because we knew eventually they would go over a cliff or into a pond while we tried to imitate evil Knievel. There was always something exciting and challenging to keep us occupied. We made sail boats for the streets by taking a piece of plywood and nailing on roller skates in every corner. A broom stick tied to another and an old sheet made the perfect sail. One at a time wed push it to the top of a hill and everyone except the rider pushed it as fast as they could until they couldn’t go any further. The rider sometimes caught some wind in the sail and sped ahead to the shouts and cheers of friends.

Staying inside on days to cold to go outside weren’t so bad. We would build things with Lincoln Logs or building blocks of all shapes and sizes. If you had an erector set countless hours could be spent building everything from cranes that worked to Ferris wheels. Comic books and Nancy drew mysteries captured our attention until mom asked if anybody wanted to bake cookies? We had a television set, but it was off limits unless mom or dad said it could be turned on. No color just black and white and usually not very clear until dad went up on the roof and adjusted the antenna. There were three channels, NBC, CBS and ABC. Saturday mornings meant our favorite shows, Sky King, Hop along Cassidy, The romper room, Captain kangaroo and more.

Presently stuck at home I take time to remember the good old days as well as the good days I have today. Talking to a friend or relative far away wondering as we all do what waits ahead for us? Times may have changed a lot for folks my age, but some things will always be the same. We have the love and support of family the trueness of friendship and the belief that as a nation we can overcome any adversaries if we work together for the greater good. One nation one purpose to see our country heal and move forward to a better tomorrow.

 

 

The old house

He had to duck his head now in the attic of his childhood home. When he was just a boy it was his bedroom as the house only had two. He stood hunched overlooking around the place where he feared shadow monsters and thunderstorms.  Pieces of string still attached to wooden beams lay still now but once were tied on to paper airplanes that blew in the breeze of an open window. His old bed still stood where it always had only the frame remained, but he remembered the comfort it gave him on cold winter nights or home from school with a fever. He could remember his mom climbing the creaking steps with a bowl of hot soup or a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

He spotted an old trunk covered with the dust of ages and made his way to it wondering what it may hold inside? Opening the trunk, he let out a sigh as he saw hundreds of photographs and notebook paper yellowed with age. This was his mom’s trunk he remembered it being in her bedroom and it seemed she was always adding something to it for safe keeping she would say. He sat down on the floor going through hundreds of black and white photos that opened the floodgates and stirred memories of days long gone.

The yellowed papers were stories he had written as a boy. His wild imagination was well known, and he liked nothing more than writing and giving the papers to his mom. You would have thought she would discard them after a bit but not his mom, she kept everything he and his sisters ever gave to her. It was almost dark outside when he closed the trunk and marked it with a piece of paper reading “Property of Mike” The movers would arrive tomorrow and everything not claimed by a family member would be carried off to a charity. Standing outside looking at his old family home brought a tear mixed with a smile as so many memories seemed to hit him all at once.

It was a good old house despite its size. It was filled with laughter and lessons learned, some sadness and loss but always love. Looking down he saw his young son looking at the house beside him. “Looks pretty small dad” he said, “where did you sleep? He pointed to a small octagon shaped window at the top of the house, “way up there” he pointed. “weren’t you scared up there” he asked?  ’NO’ he said, “it was where I was meant to be, and I wouldn’t have changed a single thing”

Mike

Fire works

The fireworks went off outside the home she lived in for sixty-two years now. Her memory took her back to forth of Julys past and the way he use to make such a big deal out of shooting off bottle rockets and black jack fire crackers to the delight of the children safely standing a distance away. She could still see his face as he lit one after the other running away from the fuse as fast as he could while the kids laughed and plugged their ears waiting for the big boom. She knew he went without so he could buy the fire works sometimes going without cigarettes for a week just so they would not be disappointed.

He was like that she thought to herself in all that he did. Family was everything and she loved him for that and many other reasons. Closing her eyes she could smell the hot dogs cooking over a small fire he made out of an old barrel. The kids helped him by gathering sticks from the field which he used as skewers. Each child roasted their own hot dog which they ate off their hand-picked sticks. Then came a real treat a bowel of marshmallows, two each and oh how they savored each bite.

He continued the fourth of July festivities well into his eighties. One of the older grandsons took over the duty of lighting the fire works and the old barrel was replaced with a fancy grill but the smile on his weathered face told her how happy he was. When he passed the kids and grandkids kept his tradition going never missing a year. She wiped her eyes and whispered she loved him to his picture she kept in a locket. Those kids would be here soon and she had to get a front row seat.

Mike

Tiny Shards

Shards of light dance across my room like tiny visitors bidding me hello. I believe they are the souls or spirits from another place here to tell me I’m not alone. At times I hear soft words I can’t make out but they’re soothing none the less. I don’t know how they get in as they seem to appear from nowhere Coming in large numbers flowing above me with the grace and elegance of a dance well-rehearsed. One by one they draw closer their tiny selves looking at me, through me to a place they’ve been before. I feel like they are inside of me for a split second then they leave in a soft blue blur back to where they came from. Gods little messengers maybe? Spirits of those gone before me gathering to read the map of my final journey?  I do not have answers, but They are so beautiful and with purpose and I am drawn to them like a moth to the flame.

Mike

Sons and daughters simply put

A son is a father’s pride and his joy. A little version of himself. Someone to teach how to fish and throw a ball. A friend in so many ways with an unconditional love that will always and forever make you smile. He will eventually take the lessons you taught and venture out into the world making his place somewhere with you in his thoughts as he remembers the life lessons learned. You see each other but not often enough as you age making those moments into perfect memories you can hold onto. He is a man and taller than you are. Guess its true you shrink as your journeys end is within reach. You have had your differences and the love between you is often only spoken in private whispers. Your proud of him with no reservations just an honest reality that has no ending.

A daughter is a father’s little blossom that never stops blooming. She was and is the love of your life. You created a special place in your heart for her and like time itself that love will never end. You sat with her and told her stories about magic ponies and fairy princesses as she held on to every word you spoke. Years later she told you she remembered those stories and the princess bed you bought her. You watched as she grew to be woman with a caring heart that she shares so unselfishly. There is no greater gift of love than a father’s love for a daughter. Now you are old, and she knows that. She stays in touch and worries about your health. She has you over for dinner on Sundays and makes sure you get time with your grandchildren. She wants them to know the kind of man you were and are. A father’s love for his daughter is more difficult to put into words but a warm embrace always speaks volumes. Time can never replace the feel of her tiny hand in your own or that special smile meant just for you.

Sons and daughters simply put.

 

My Masks

AS A KID I WAS ALWAYS WEARING A MASK OF SOME KIND. I WOULD SAVE MY HALLOWEEN MASKS FOR YEARS IN A BOX STORED IN THE GARAGE. WHEN I FELT LIKE BEING, MIGHTY MOUSE ID PULL DOWN THE BOX AND FIND MY MASK READY TO JOIN ME IN BACKYARD FANTASIES. THAT OLD BOX HELD PRECIOUS MEMORIES OF MY YOUTH, EACH MASK A PIECE OF WHO I WAS AT LEAST FOR A COUPLE OF HOURS.

MY MOM WOULD SMILE AND WAVE TO ME FROM THE KITCHEN WINDOW AS I BECAME THE SCARE CROW FROM THE WIZARD OF OZ OR POPEYE THE SAILOR. THERE WAS BATMAN, SUPERMAN, GI-JOE, ZORRO, A CRAZY CLOWN AND MANY MORE. I WOULD ENTERTAIN MYSELF RE-LIVING THE FIRST TIME I WORE EACH ONE AND THINKING ABOUT THE MOUNTAINS OF CANDY I RECEIVED WEARING THEM.

MANY OF THE STRAPS ON THE MASKS HAD BEEN BROKEN OFF BUT I USED OLD SHOELACES TO FASHION NEW ONES THAT WORKED EVEN BETTER THE ORIGINALS. LOOKING BACK, I REALIZED THOSE MASKS WERE AS MUCH A REASON FOR BEING WHO I AM THAN ANYTHING ELSE WAS.

NOW I WEAR A MASK ONCE MORE. NO, I AM NOT A BANK ROBBER OR A DOCTOR, NOT A NURSE OR A WORKER IN A CHEMICAL FACTORY. I’M JUST A MAN WHO WANTS TO DO HIS PART TO CRUSH A VIRUS THAT’S CRIPPLED OUR COUNTRY. I CANNOT FIND A LOGICAL REASON WHY EVERYBODY DOESN’T FEEL THEY NEED TO DO THE SAME? IS IT VANITY AND IF SO, GET OVER IT SOME OF YOU PROBABLY LOOK BETTER IN A MASK?

I’VE HEARD SOME SAY ITS THEIR CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHT NOT TO WEAR A MASK. WOW I GUESS ITS THEIR RIGHT TO DIE TOO. WE LIVE IN TROUBLED TIMES AND EVERY AMERICAN SHOULD HEED THE WORDS OF HEALTH PROFESSIONALS WHO’VE STUDIED THESE VIRUSES FOR DECADES. ITS THEIR WORDS AND WARNINGS WE SHOULD LISTEN TO NOT THE POLITICIANS WHO KNOW NOTHING ABOUT IT.  PEOPLE IN THIS COUNTRY ARE SUFFERING YET BECAUSE OF THE ALMIGHTY DOLLAR HUMAN LIVES COME IN SECOND TO THE LOVE OF MONEY.

WHAT’S THE ANSWER? CLOSE BUSINESSES THAT DON’T ADHERE TO THE RULES? YOU BET YA. FINE THOSE WHO DON’T FOLLOW THE GUIDELINES? YEP. DEMAND MASKS BE WORN OR BE FINED? YEP. INSTILL CURFEWS SO PEOPLE STAY OFF THE STREETS UNLESS THERE GOING TO WORK OR FOR FOOD AND MEDICINES? YEP. ITS NOT ROCKET SCIENCE ITS COMMON SENSE. OUR GOVERNMENT IS THE WEALTHIEST COUNTRY IN THE WORLD. IF IT TAKES A FEW MONTHS TO RID THIS DEADLY VIRUS THEN CLOSE THE COUNTRY FOR THAT LONG. ONCE ITS ALL CLEAR THEY WILL HAVE TO CASH IN MORE BONDS LIKE THEY DID FOR THE LAST STIMULUS WHICH BY THE WAY THEY SENT MONEY TO ALMOST A BILLION DEAD PEOPLE!

THIS TIME USE COMMON SENSE AND ISSUE TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS TO EVERY AMERICAN. THEY WILL BE ABLE TO SUSTAIN THEMSELVES FOR A FEW MONTHS AND HAVE SOME LEFT TO STIMULATE THE ECONOMY ONCE ITS ALL CLEAR AND THE VIRUS IS GONE. SOUNDS LIKE A LOT OF MONEY AND IT IS BUT ISN’T EVERY AMERICAN WORTHY OF A NEW START? WITHOUT SOMETHING LIKE THIS THE UNEMPLOYMENT WILL CONTINUE TO CLIMB IN THE MILLIONS, SMALL BUSINESSES WILL CLOSE FOR GOOD AND PEOPLE WILL BECOME EVEN MORE ANGRY AT THE GOVERNMENT. IF THE VIRUS IS AMONG US FRUSTRATION, ANGER, DEPRESSION AND STRESS WILL BECOME THE NORMAL OF OUR SOCIETY. AND WHAT WILL BECOME OF THE AMERICAN DREAM?

ILL KEEP WEARING MY MASK. ILL DO MY PART TO HELP STOP THE SPREAD AND I BELIEVE ILL REACH INTO THAT OLD BOX A FEW TIMES AND PRETEND EVERYTHING IS ALL RIGHT, THAT MY SUPERHEROES WILL SOMEHOW SAVE THE DAY ONE MORE TIME.

MIKE

 

 

 

Foot prints

He told them to walk ahead as he was in no hurry to get anywhere but they seemed to be. He smiled as they ran across the white sands chasing the birds and splashing in the cool waters of a late October day. The older kids held onto their shoes while the younger one much like himself hadn’t seen shoes this entire weekend. A free spirit she was, her long red hair a reminder whose genes she inherited. He smiled again whispering her name as he so often did since she passed on.

He spotted a piece of cobalt colored sea glass and stooped to pick it up cringing a bit as the old back was not as reliable as it once was. Continuing their walk, the kids all found a treasure to take home, a conch shell, a starfish and quite a collection of sea glass in assorted colors. He often wondered the stories the glass could tell.

The day was running low on light as they reached his cottage anxious to show off their treasures to mom and dad who he was sure enjoyed the past couple of hours alone. Hanging his straw hat on a hook he noticed his trousers were wet from the ankles down, so he rolled them up another notch, his daughter noticing it and smiled at him the same way her mom once did. Time fly’s so fast here she told him, and he nodded without words.

He watched them drive away into the night as her man preferred night driving, but he believed it was just an excuse to get back to his beloved city. Closing the door, he went outside and sat on the steps, looking and listening to the blackness of the sea. His now constant companion in a quiet life. Tomorrow he would rise with the sun and put on the old straw hat. He would walk for miles unknown or cared about to a destination he never knew. Treasures would fill his trousers until they bulged as the sea washed his feet with every step he took. This was his life, a life they both loved as they loved each other. It was perfect except for the missing footprints next to his.

 

I do not write much anymore, Guess the words have been written and thoughts grown distant. Shadows replace memories and creativity lies dormant. One thought that occurs to me is I usually wrote about nice things: love, kindness and hope. Happy memories I could let flow from mind to paper. Now the shadows chase the memories out of my mind replaced by current events and the sorrow that comes with it.

Unless you are a writer of news numb to all the sadness and loss, its difficult to express anything else. I see it as a dark vail slowly covering my mind that will soon encompass who I am now. And I do not want to be like that. Maybe I should stop watching the news and all the sorrow it reports every single day boring its way into my mind kicking out happy memories one news cast at a time.

My grandson asked me if I could go back to anyplace in time, where would it be? I had to think carefully about that but soon told him this: I would go back to the year 1959.I was six years old and spent my play time exploring the woods behind my house. I became my favorite comic book heroes saving the world with every slash of man old broom handle that was my sword. I climbed the apple tree in my yard and ate apples until I got sick. I waited for the afternoon train to pass by as I frantically waved my arms until the engineer blasted the mighty horn making my day complete.

My dad was my real hero and mom was someone I knew I would love forever. We ate dinner together every night, went to church on Sunday and drives in the country where an ice cream cone was guaranteed. Respect was mandatory and discipline expected when you strayed from the rules. It was a simple time of my life that held the countless memories I wrote about for so long. My grandson listened intently as I told him all of this, and when he spoke my eyes filled with tears, I proudly let flow. He said I was his hero because I was always there if he needed me. He told me he wished he could have climbed that apple tree with me and explored the woods looking for treasure.

I told him in a way he was with me because even way back then God had a plan for me just like he does for everyone. He knew I would grow up and begin a life of my own, just like he would someday. He knew who I would marry and that my kids would have kids and one of them was him. So, in a small way he was right beside of me as I climbed that apple tree and searched for treasure in my woods. He grinned that boyish look and I knew he was reliving what I had shared with him. Another tear ran down my weathered face which he wiped away with no words spoken.

Mike

 

 

 

He Stood in front of an empty lot remembering it seventy years ago. He was a young man with little sense and even less money back then. He had done a hitch in the Navy and came home to the place he so desperately tried to run from. He had saved enough to buy a Harley which is exactly what he did even before all the salt from the sea was out of his hair.

He couched jumped for awhile until he earned enough to get his own place by working as a carpenter’s helper. A job he got one day sitting in a bar overhearing a guy who was telling his buddy good help was hard to come by these days. After a month or so he started looking for a place and on this now empty lot with more weeds than value, he found it.

Answering an add in the paper he met up with the owner. A fat guy he remembered, with a stained t-shirt and remnants of his last meal in a scraggy beard. “isn’t much” he said but you get what you pay for. All he cared about was a place to sleep and shelter for his Harley. The structure was detached from the house. A kind of dilapidated Shedd. The street level area was wide open and probably years ago used as a carport or horse stable. Now it was filled with various piles of junk and pigeons roosting. He closed his eyes and remembered the musty and strong smells of years past. Some would say disgusting but, it was a part of his past he wanted to keep.

Up the creaky steps led to a door with cardboard for a window which the owner told him he would replace but never did. It was very small with only the bare necessities. A kitchen with a sink, stove and fridge and just enough room for a small table and two mis matched chairs. The only other room served as a living room/ bedroom big enough for a single bed and a worn green vinyl chair that had seen better days. He took the place knowing it was a beginning and having no regrets.

When the first snow fell, he stored his bike in the so-called garage carving out a space far in the back and covering it with an old tarp he found while moving junk around. It wasn’t so much to keep his bike protected from the snow but to protect it from all the pigeon poop that fell like snowflakes. In need of a winter driver He bought an old wreck of a car that was headed for the scrap yard putting his knowledge of engines to work getting it running again. It didn’t have any seats, so he found an orange crate and made a place to sit. There was no heat, so he took out the firewall so heat from the engine gave him some warmth on frigid days.

He laughed out loud as he remembered the countless times, he cheated death driving that pile of junk on icy roads usually after drinking a bunch of beers at his favorite taverns. This was his life back then. A twenty-year-old kid looking for his place in life but never worrying about it much as he had always let the chips fall where they fell. Besides, he told himself anything would be a step up from this. Looking back now a seventy-year-old man who survived the harsh winters living above a pigeon coup junk filled musty smelling excuse of an apartment, driving an accident waiting to happen wreck of a car dreaming of spring and the open roads. He closes his eyes and the roar of his Harley comes to life after a long winters nap. The open roads taking him on the first of many adventures they shared together.

He headed back to his car leaving those memories where they belong buried beneath a sea of weeds.

Mike

 

Author Mike OConnor: Living in memories.

Author Mike OConnor: Living in memories.: I see the world from memory the way I want it to be. In real time it is heart breaking, and tears flow to freely. We are a nation filled w...

Living in memories.

I see the world from memory the way I want it to be. In real time it is heart breaking, and tears flow to freely. We are a nation filled with good people who care about others before themselves, who do not want to be recognized for doing the right thing. They are the ones who come running when you are in need. The ones who risk their lives to try and save the lives of strangers. The silent heroes of today all but forgotten tomorrow.

Some say the media dictates the mood of the country well, then nothing should hit the airwaves but happy news, right? Babies saying their first words, children playing in the rain. Horses running free and dogs laying in your lap. People doing random acts of kindness and taking a minute out of the day to smile at someone you do not know.

Unfortunately, the world is not always happy. People are not always nice and those who do unspeakable acts upon their own draw universal attention from both sides. Why must there be two sides? Isn’t right, right and wrong, wrong? That is how I have always understood it to be. Just ask any veteran who served beside soldiers of all race and creeds. Brothers in arms who would die for you and never leave you behind.

We trained together, lived together and fought together only to return home and become divided by some invisible force we stopped seeing in the battlefields. I can say the same thing for doctors, nurses and all first responders. I can say the same for that kid who helps an elderly neighbor keep their lawn trimmed or the delivery person who asks if you need anything?

Our streets should be paved with the hopes and dreams of all people not stained with the blood of those perceived to be someone they are not. The invisible hatred that has no place in a world where kindness is so evident everywhere you look. It is true I choose to see the world through my memories. A safe place where lessons taught and held onto bring an occasional smile and hope for a better tomorrow.

Author Mike OConnor: Moonlight Dance.

Author Mike OConnor: Moonlight Dance.: He sat on her chair, the one she sat on when she needed some space. He could close his eyes and picture her fidgeting with her handkerchie...

Moonlight Dance.

He sat on her chair, the one she sat on when she needed some space. He could close his eyes and picture her fidgeting with her handkerchief wiping a tear from her eyes. He had yelled over something stupid, and his anger that should have been left inside spilled out to her. She was a gentle soul, one who never rose her voice in anger, a trait he wished he had.

Her scent was still in the room they shared for over fifty years. Just saying that made him realize how blessed he truly was. He didn’t deserve her, not for a minute. How many times did he tell her that he wondered? Probably not enough. She prepared for the day when their times together wouldn’t be as clear to them, so she made a photo album that portrayed their life together and brief descriptions of each memory.

He didn’t hear their daughter come into the room and sit next to him. He smiled at her, always amazed at how much she looked like her mother. Together they looked through his memories in the big red book, sometimes he faded away, but he came back. The last photo in the book was taken two months ago. They were dancing under the moonlight at the small outdoor band-shell  they had danced at for so many years. The caption read, “Our last dance until we meet again.”

He sometimes walks into town, having a seat at that old band-shell. He closes his eyes and hears the music playing all their favorite songs. Passer byes must surely think he’s crazy this old man dancing alone but looking like he was holding someone. He didn’t care what they thought, how could anyone understand?  He took a walk one day and was late getting home. His daughter worried but thought she knew where he might be. There he was on the band-shell stage, dancing his way across the floor, alone, of course, but not to him. She waited a few moments then gently put his arms around her as the music he heard continued.

‘Don’t you look beautiful tonight” he told her,”Have I told you that lately,” She nodded and let him guide her across the silence of a bright autumn moon.

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Author Mike OConnor: Dusty bottles

Author Mike OConnor: Dusty bottles: Empty whiskey bottles sat where they poured their last shot. Dusty glass reminders of a life thrown away. The runner on a rocking chair wa...

Dusty bottles

Empty whiskey bottles sat where they poured their last shot. Dusty glass reminders of a life thrown away. The runner on a rocking chair was split, but it didn’t stop him from rocking. His blank stare a reminder of nothing left to see. His tobacco stained shirt and trousers Hadn't seen a washing to far back to recall. It didn’t matter to him; nobody was ever going to see him anyway. He closed his place, going on three years he reckoned. Weren’t no customers come by after the factories closed up. He tried to make a go of it, putting out bologna sandwiches for free, but they still didn’t come back.

The town was all but empty, not just because of the shutdowns, but a sickness spread across the land that nobody saw coming. Killed thousands of folk across the nation, but he didn’t get called, no he was spared for reasons he drank about. He lived upstairs just like his daddy and mom did who ran the bar for near fifty years. He took over after daddy passed on, leaving his mom to die of a broken heart four months later. It was just a corner bar, nothing fancy: one pool table and a dartboard in the back room.

They had a  fish fry on Fridays that brought people in from miles around. It was mom's secret batter that made it so tasty. He’d asked her a thousand times what it was, but she kept him waiting until she was nearly gone—whispering in his ear, “molasses,”No more fish fry or games of pool. A silent jukebox with haunting memories of favorite songs. It’s all gone now, and it isn't coming back. Leastwise not for him. The booze was almost gone, maybe a bottle or two that he figured he’d leave behind for somebody to find, they could trade it for something badly needed. Lots of that going on now in this so-called new world.

He raised the bottle of vodka, leaning back in the rocker and tilting his head to accept the final swallow of sorrow and sadness. It happened fast that sound of wood snapping as the rocking chair splintered, his neck smashing down upon a jagged edge of a dusty bottle. Death was swift just the way he would have wanted it to be, I suppose. That place just stands there now waiting for a wrecking ball that’s working its way up the street heading for that nice little family bar that had a great fish fry.

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Author Mike OConnor: Leader of the band

Author Mike OConnor: Leader of the band: My mind plays a marching band of tunes as I journey down the road that is my life. Each turn in the way another note, a song taking sh...

Leader of the band

My mind plays a marching band of tunes as I journey down the road that is my life. Each turn in the way another note, a song taking shape, and a completed melody when that particular road ends. I had written those songs that have played so long, each note another part of who I was and who I am when time and experience will write the final verse.

We all write music. Some to be heard and shared while others remain a melody we keep to ourselves. We sing it out loud when alone with our thoughts, but mostly we quietly hum the words that remain secretly our own. We put our words into visions and our visions to the music that dwells in us all.

I believe all memories we call upon at different times in life have a song to accompany them. Just like music is a part of any movie. We are the leader of the band that is our life, and the music we hear starts with one note in our soul that grows as we grow allowing us to call upon it whenever we feel the need for the melodies of our life.

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Author Mike OConnor: He was a writer

Author Mike OConnor: He was a writer: I try to stay away from the words but, they call to me in anguish and longing. For too many days to remember, I have pulled so many memorie...

He was a writer

I try to stay away from the words but, they call to me in anguish and longing. For too many days to remember, I have pulled so many memories from my past, turning them into sentences and volumes I fear I won’t hear anymore.

I tell myself I can look the other way and ignore their haunting melodies of days gone by, but I’m weak, and they are so persistent. I needed the time away from them, especially those that have not yet happened.


Pushed to write again by voices whispering in my ears that only I can hear won’t stop, and I fear madness lurks around each corner of my life. I don’t want to relive pieces of my past, those times of sorrow and innocence that most forget but haunt me endlessly
.

I will write some day again.I will capture a moment remembered, and the words will once again flow. I will escape the awkwardness of the present and the feeling of uncertainty with a melody of sentences that will stir emotions in the hardest of souls
.

I will write until my memories, both good and bad, have been relived and forgotten until someone finds my work stored away in a box with no character.”He was a writer,” they’ll say……

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Author Mike OConnor: Memory or dreams?

Author Mike OConnor: Memory or dreams?: It's usually late at night when the memories of the day come out to say good night. I recall each one as if they were to be my last. I ...

Memory or dreams?

It's usually late at night when the memories of the day come out to say good night. I recall each one as if they were to be my last. I find myself smiling and sometimes holding back a tear as I sort through what I remember as the clock winds down and sleep is luring me closer and closer.

I sit quietly with no distractions except the steady breathing of my dog and an occasional car passing by. I am alone with slowly moving pictures in my mind of things I will never again experience in the same way. Life is like that isn’t it? A constant re-run of our daily lives mostly tucked away for safekeeping and forgotten until we either choose to remember them or, they reveal themselves to us uninvited with vivid detail.

There have been times when I had sat for hours fighting sleep and watched with eyes closed as complete stories unfolded for me to watch with awe and disbelief, wondering if it was memories or a dream? Some might say it was both, that I used my recalls of the day to create a story which was told to me with such clarity I assumed it to be real but was it? I believe the only way to be sure is to keep sitting here and see if I wake up.


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Author Mike OConnor: Words in question

Author Mike OConnor: Words in question: Words in question    I am often asked, “Where do the words come from”?   It’s a good question, one that I believe I can answer. We all ha...

Words in question

Words in question

   I am often asked, “Where do the words come from”?  It’s a good question, one that I believe I can answer. We all have hundreds of thoughts we keep neatly stored in our selves, surfacing when we call upon them, and other times all on their own. They are a part of who we are and the sum of our lives. All minds are a collection of words. Many are used while others lay hidden in the dark.

   As a writer, I have to un-lock vast amounts of memory to retrieve and construct from. Memories become stories and books and another form of words that I extracted from my mind and then using creativity, put them all together with hopefully good results. It becomes a game of word tug of war separating fact from fiction and making it all come together with a winning outcome.

   I believe all writers have a love affair with words. We are continually trying to match up one with another pairing words with other words using that creativity as if it were some magic potion. We spend countless hours digging and searching for words that can complement one another and leave lasting impressions on our readers. Words don’t come from just one place. They sometimes spill onto paper while other times they play hide and seek taunting us to find them.

   Some writers have extensive vocabularies taught to them at the highest levels of education, as well as some who have the gift. Some writers struggle with no mercy grabbing for the right words and phrases in the hope of creating a worthy piece to share with readers. Others like myself rely on being able to construct words we know and concepts we will learn from. For me, it's my memories. Over the decades, I have knocked on memories door so many times I wonder if I truly see those memories, or have I invented some of them? Probably so. I believe that’s why I describe my form of writing “Fiction with a dash of fact.”

   Wherever it is words come from, I'm glad I get to play in their fun-house.

   Mike

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Author Mike OConnor: Eternal flame

Author Mike OConnor: Eternal flame: The spark that hides within me has always glowed brightly, leading me to new places on my journey and still keeping me alive. That spark is...

Eternal flame

The spark that hides within me has always glowed brightly, leading me to new places on my journey and still keeping me alive. That spark is now fading to a dull orange quite the difference from the red and blue flame that drove me to heights I never thought id achieve.

I suppose all our flames burn out eventually, its sad that something once so vibrant and alive now sits in there waiting to be snuffed out in the last blink of an eye. I have thought of the flame as a soul. Everyone is born with one and we control the volume of the flame.

At its peak, the flame cannot be put out. It has a life of its own always one step ahead of us leading as we follow watching as it glows brighter than any star in the heavens. It's then we are at the pinnacle of our journey when everything that matters is with us and nothing can harm or destroy our goals that have been reached.

Then kind of without warning we notice the once-mighty flame is dimming We try to bring it up a notch or two but the effort isn’t within us like it once was when youth ruled. So we adjust and settle for the amber glow within us content with who we are. We marvel at the children whose flames are hot with years and years of fuel left to keep it burning. They don’t realize yet how numbing it is to watch as your glow reverts to a spark where it will remain until you close your eyes for the very last time releasing your eternal flame forever.

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Author Mike OConnor: Innocence lost and found

Author Mike OConnor: Innocence lost and found: He sat in a chair he found at a yard sale back in the day when he loved picking through other people's trash. There wasn’t anything wro...

Innocence lost and found

He sat in a chair he found at a yard sale back in the day when he loved picking through other people's trash. There wasn’t anything wrong with the chair, but in the beachside communities, people sometimes trashed things

because they got sick of it. Twenty-five years later, he's still sitting on it.

Alongside the chair was a small table that his son found somewhere in someones trash like father like son, he sanded it and painted it using a mixture of paints he found in the shed, Don’t exactly know what color it was, but he loved it just the same. Twenty-five years later, the little table keeps doing its job holding remotes and countless bottles of beer. There were burn spots pretty much all over it from the old guy falling asleep and dropping a lit cigarette on the top.

He doesn't get out much these days, but when he does, he rides an old bicycle he found in the trash. It took a bit of fixing but turned out ok. It was a girls' bike, and sometimes kids mocked him as he rode past, calling him names and jumping out in front of him trying to make him fall. On nice days he would pack a sandwich and ride his bike the eight miles to his sons' house. He never called him to tell him he was coming. He just figured if he was there ok, if not ok too. At least he got out of the house.

On days he was home, the old man had to hear a long talk about riding that old bike all that way and how after they had a visit, he would put the bike in his truck and drive him home. That was ok because he was pretty tired after eight miles on the old bike that sometimes required him to stop and tighten something and more than once fix a flat tire. Those rides home were mostly silent except for the routine questions like did he get enough to eat, and did he send out the bills for the month? He supposed that talk was ok, better than silence.

His son took the bike to the shed and came inside to say good-bye. The old man was already in his chair, smoking a cigarette. He rolled himself. “You're going to burn the place down one of these days, you know”? He smiled and thanked his son for the ride. Shaking his head the son closed the door behind him as the old man listened to the sound of his truck fade into the night. It's funny how a young boy who once picked trash and made him a gift he has kept for twenty-five years can somehow forget those moments. As for him, his heart melts a little bit more every time he looks at that cigarette and beer-stained gift that will someday be thrown in the trash, hopefully, to be rescued by a child whose innocence and love knew no boundaries.

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