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