Woodland friends

 The frozen ground crunched below his boots as he made his way deeper into the woods. The air was brisk, freezing his beard and numbing his fingers, but he pressed on. He was in his seventieth year, although he felt younger most of the time. As he ventured further, he got that familiar feeling that he was getting closer to his destination. There was a stillness surrounding him and a sense of peace that soothed his very soul. Soon, he felt eyes upon him as he sat on a fallen tree and took out a gunny sack filled with chunks of cheese, carrots, lettuce, and berries of assorted kinds. He carefully set all of it on the ground, then sat back and waited. First, the rabbits came, then a fox. Soon, a raccoon and a family of squirrels all found a treat and vanished into the woods. In his hand, he held a bunch of wild berries, waiting for his special guest to come out of hiding as he had for the past ten years. He was cold, and the sun was giving way to another frigid night when he saw her. He held out his hand so she could smell the berries, and with caution, she came closer until she was within reach of the most welcome treat. He spoke softly to her in a voice she had learned to trust, and when she felt safe, she got so close he could look into her eyes and feel her breath as she slowly took a few berries from his hand. He carefully stroked her head, which she allowed for a brief moment. He added that to his list of memorable times in his life. Then, with no warning, she was gone back into the woods, hopefully safe for another year. As he left the woods for the warmth of his cabin, he spoke to God, asking to keep her safe. He made three more trips into the woods with a gunny sack filled with treats, and each time, she appeared and gracefully allowed him to stroke her head for just a moment until the day he fell to the frozen ground. All around his lifeless body, the animals of the woods sat near him in silence as if mourning their loss. He wasn't a threat to them. He was their friend and would be missed. It was a bitter cold day as the young lad went deep into the woods. His grandfather had told him stories about his times in the woods and how the animals became his friends. On this day he found grandpas gunny sack and filled it with all the things he was told they liked. He sat on the same fallen tree and spread the treats around him, waiting for some movement that finally came as the animals of the woods began to come out of hiding slowly. But where was she, he wondered. He saw her as he was about to give up and go home. She remained hidden but showed her head and questioning eyes. He sat back down and offered her berries he held in his hand. Very slowly, she approached him but stopped short of being too close. He set the berries on the ground and then moved back until she felt safe. She took the treat and quickly ran back to the safety of the woods, looking back briefly as if saying I knew we'd see you again.

Mike

Age and wisdom

 The gray skies will soon give way to blackness as time in the hourglass slowly runs out. My words reflect my state of being, and some speak to me in no uncertain terms. I've learned that age and wisdom join together and speak the same language, hoping just one person hears them, gets something from the message, and takes away one thing they will never forget. Life is too hard to try and understand it all. Yet we spend our entire time here doing just that. When we see our reflections in the looking glass, it's a reminder that if we haven't left a good impression during our time here, we have to try harder before the sands in the glass stops moving.

Mike

Veteran pride

 Marines kept boots on the ground, serving beside soldiers, always happy to see them. While others flew above, protecting us from the unseen enemy. Some sailed the oceans, always diligent and ready at a given notice to let the lead fly and keep our boys safe. There was brass on hats and hats drawn on with markers creating peace symbols and the number of days left in country. There were missed targets, and the enemy got our supplies. It would be days before we saw them again. On the ships, the crew ate crackers and tins of tuna that made cats scream. But there was laughter and song among your brothers in arms as each one felt pride even though so many were welcomed home by being spat at. We learn from war and thank the lord; we know that any serviceman or woman willing to give up everything, including their life, deserves the loudest welcome home in every airport, train station, and bus station in America. I am as proud as my father, brother-in-law, and everyone I ever knew who wore the uniform. We are a nation of good people, honest people, and people who want to believe we will stand up and fight for what we believe in. In these troubled times, it's like a time bomb waiting to find a target, but rest assured, our military stands in front of us, beside us, and entirely around us to keep us safe. I don't know of one single Veteran who wouldn't stand tall once again, including myself. I don't know one Veteran who would walk away if called. The uniform may be tight, but what it symbolizes will always fit. I mourn my fallen fighters and honor the sacrifice of thousands who came home wounded, some to fight another day. A Veteran is like no other person on earth, and you can thank the lord for that.

MO

TRICK OR TREAT

 Little ghosts and goblins run from house to house as parents watch  them closely, making sure they say thank you for all the future cavities. It doesn't seem so long ago that I was running from door to door, putting goodies in a pillow case that got heavy with every doorbell rung. I yelled for my sisters to catch up as my mom stood nearby with a flashlight to guide our way. It's my grandkids I watch now, at least the little ones who grow so fast it won't be long, and they will answer the door for those ghosts and goblins. Now I sit by the window and, every so often, take my dentures out, scaring the heck out of the little monsters. You're never too old for trick or treats. HAPPY HALOWEEN!

MO

Loving Autumn

 It won't be long, and the colors of autumn will be replaced with a blanket of white. So take my hand and walk with me through the small town we call home as we show you God's work in all its splendor. Stop walking for a minute and look up at the maple trees lining the street, their leaves multi-colored, creating a picture once seen and never forgotten. Look down the side streets as children jump into piles of freshly raked leaves, their parents laughing, remembering when it was them who jumped. Autumn means bringing out the jackets and your favorite scarves and boots for those who can't wait. Autumn is apple cider, pumpkin pie, and giving thanks for the blessings we've received. It's family and friends together again, and the voices of children being children filling the house with laughter and love. Autumn is something so beautiful we hold onto it for as long as we can before those blankets of snow creep toward us, and we string colored lights to cover the white. All seasons have their beauty, but mine happens to be autumn, which is one masterpiece everyone can relate to.

MO

How I see it

 He walks alone, but he is not. Her hand still holds his; at least, he sees it that way. They laugh and walk through an autumn meadow where the colors take your breath away, as does her beauty. At least, he sees it that way. He talks out loud at times, not caring who may hear. After all, he spoke to her every day for sixty-seven years. Why stop now, or at least that's how he sees it? His daughter looks out the window and watches him slowly walk down the dirt road, waving his arms and laughing, sometimes stopping to make a point about one thing or another. He seems happy for those moments he has with her mom, and why should she or anybody take even a second away from him? At least, that's how she sees it.

MO

Transistor radio

 Clothes blow on the line in a summer breeze as the top ten hits play on a red, maybe light blue, transistor radio. He's coming home today, and you didn't want to look like Casper, the ghost, so you're lying on a blanket, the one your mother gave to you, and you couldn't bear to tell her how much you disliked it. But it serves you well for this task. As you leaf through the pages of Glamour magazine, your thoughts are with him and your thanks to God for his safe return. The taxi stopped in front of our house, and my legs grew weak as I watched him walk towards me, that huge smile I loved so much stretching across his beautiful face. I ran and jumped into his arms, our bodies together again, our desires too strong to ignore. Now, we lie together on a blanket as the wind blows the clothes on the line, and the top ten hits play softly in the distance on a light blue or maybe red transistor radio.

MO

Faded

 I wore a hat like my dad did almost every day. Mom said I had to let my scalp breathe or, by eighteen, I'd be bald. He wore his hats until they were threadbare and faded from the sun, while I had to replace mine more often as my head grew along with the rest of me. I would watch him take his hat off to wipe his face, then do the same thing, only to get salt in my eyes and a silent scream. I'd catch him looking at me with a smile as I did everything he did, only slower, as he wiped away more sweat or maybe just some salty tears. I'm grown now with a son, a shadow who tries to keep up with me and wears a faded old hat his grandpa gave him. He's lost in it right now, but he will grow into it one day, and the cycle will continue as well it should.

MO

Flow like honey

 I've wondered when my days of writing would come to an end. When the words stayed buried in my mind, stories forever untold. Like my body, my mind has slowed, and with it, gratitude for words written and words told to sleepy eyes in mother's arms or reading under the covers, the moon a flashlight guiding you to every word as monsters waited in the darkness of your room. I've wondered how many of my stories touched someone who knew the loss of love or loss in general. How many tears have fallen, and how many smiles have turned into glorious laughter echoing through the halls of life? I've wondered when the writing would end, but I've realized that even a slow pen is better than no pen. The words may only flow like honey, but inside of me, there is another story to be told, no matter how long it takes.

MO

Numbers game

 I can't see to the end of the road anymore, yet I know it's there somewhere between the rows of corn and fields of strawberries. I'll never grow tired of the smells out here where summer rains linger, and soft breezes move the hanging sheets like a chorus line in a faraway city. It's been a while since I counted my footsteps from the front porch to the mailbox that sits by the road, but they don't change much except maybe get a little slower. I reach and look inside, but the box is empty, which is typical because bills are paid online, and writing a letter with scented paper is long forgotten. I stand there for a bit in case Ray, the mailman, is running late, but that is just wishful thinking as he is the poster child of the mail service and never lets anything stop him from his appointed rounds. I turned and headed for the house where supper would be cooking, with the smells soon reaching my nose and grumbling stomach. Four hundred forty-six steps is what I counted as the screen door slammed behind me, and the only counting was the number of times I asked for more.

MO

Salty dogs

 This is where old sailors come to rest, where tides roll in and out. With no land in sight, just twelve knots forward and endless stars to guide you through the night. This is where the mermaids come to say hello and lead you to Neptunes' land, where you'll live with other salty dogs right where you belong. You'll hear the props of the boat above that brought you here now, heading back to shore. The dried teardrops of loved ones remembering you as the quiet takes center stage now and forever more. I swim with others and alone in spirit form, water rushing through my gills as I move like a dolphin with speed and hairpin moves through the cool water and the wonders yet to see. I am the salt of the sea right where I need to be. Farewell, my earthly sailors. You have many seas to sail. And when your time has come, and you can say you've rung more salt out of your socks than most have sailed on, we will watch crystal waters turn gray with ash as you're welcomed to Neptune and a sailors well deserved resting place.

MO

How often?

 How often had he opened the front door and closed it behind him? How often did he look at that door before unlocking it to enter again? And how often did he not enter but quietly backed off and disappeared into the darkness of a place where he wasn't judged or screamed at like a madman? Life is too short to keep wondering if you'll turn the key and walk inside or stay away until silence is the only thing to greet you.

MO

Bad raindrops

 Instead of vivid color everywhere, there's gray all around me. Like being stuck in the middle of a rain cloud, waiting my turn to plummet to earth below. Who in their right mind would want to be a raindrop in another life, not me. It is probably more fun to be the spot it landed on, like someone's head or hat, maybe on an expensive pair of shoes or a designer purse being held overhead to attract even more drops. Some drops are lucky and meet death in a community puddle where hundreds of drops fall and spend the following few hours dodging the footsteps of those running away from the billions of drops now falling with a fury. Soon, the gray disappeared, replaced with blue skies and puffy white clouds so proud of themselves it made me want to puke raindrops. Two can play this game, I said as the sky turned black, skipping right past gray and opening up, spilling more drops than could ever be counted. Don't fool with Mother Nature. She gets what she wants when she wants it, I said as I watched umbrellas in every color of the rainbow fly past me, leaving behind soaking-wet people who weren't laughing. Not one bit.

MO

All that's left..

 All that's left is time. I've used up my prayers, favors, and dreams over the years as my children got older and had to wonder sometimes who would outlast the other. I continue to pray it will be me. My steps are slow now, but once upon a time, I could run like the wind chasing my youngest's kite as the string slipped out of her small hands. I caught up to the wayward kite hanging onto a small branch just inches from the ground and heard my child's laughter as she clapped her hands and jumped up and down with delight. I was her hero, and when she grew up, she was mine. As we grow older, we are blessed with slowing down as it gives us more time to remember all we never want to forget of a full and busy life. Close your eyes and see the faces of those you love the most. Keep them closed as you see before you the houses turned into homes, and the family that made it all so. Smell the roast cooking for Sunday dinner as the family arrives to fill the home with smiles and never enough hugs to go around. It's all about time now, as my life winds further down to an almost full or empty hourglass, and I dare not ask for more, as that would truly be selfish. Isn't it wonderful all the magical things these tired eyes have seen? Isn't it worth telling about my adventures with the mermaids and King Neptune himself, making me a believer?

From the shores of Greece and Spain. Italy and Africa. And places whose names can neither be pronounced nor spoken. A grass hut with the secrets of opium at your request for twenty American dollars. Enough now, least I go on all day and night and then some as my book flows through me, coming to rest on stained parchment with ends burned from a carelessly placed oil lamp. Do you hear me now? Can you possibly understand that my life story is in the words I write,

and the stories read to those with an interest. The Sunday dinner is ready, and the table is filled with smiling faces, now too hungry to hear the ramblings of an old man who's closer and closer to joining his ocean family in the silence of the deep.

MO

Clarity

 I often wish you were here with me, walking in the park or at the shore, not needing to speak as actions speak volumes, don't they? It's been so long since I saw you, heard your voice, and never grew tired of having you next to me. I've re-lived hundreds of memories that, after so long, I struggle to remember, but your smile manages to come to me whenever I close my eyes, telling me it will all be good one day. That everything forgotten will be restored in clarity. And all those feelings that have remained with me for so long will spill out of my heart and into yours as we begin another lifetime together forever in love.

MO

Still here

 His boots made a tapping sound as he made his way to the small stage in a bar called No Name Tavern. The joint was crowded for a Wednesday night, mostly young folks who attended college a couple of blocks away. The tavern had been here for longer than he could remember, but he knew it was the first place that let him play a couple of sets, and if the crowd liked him, maybe more. That was forty-some years ago. He went by the name Matt, no last name, just Matt. His hair was snow white and just below his waist. Somebody told me he started growing it the day of his first gig and never stopped. The ladies liked it, and he had to laugh inside, wondering how they'd react if they saw him bald as a cue ball. He had to admit it was a bitch to keep up with, so a while ago, he hired a pro to take care of it, especially on nights he played. That would be Ruth, who stayed with him for thirty years. In a month, he was going out on tour with the Winters brothers, a well-known band from the seventies who still knew how to rock the house down. They mainly played smaller venues like beachfront taverns and college halls, just roaming from town to town on a pre-selected schedule that would keep the bus running well into the winter. It also paid him enough to live okay for a few months. In between gigs, he played at the tavern to the delight of those college girls who always wanted to touch his hair every chance they got. He still had some lead in the pencil, but the memories kept him young, and the looks of people passing by whispering something about his hair or his choice of clothes and jewelry always made him smile because he knew they could only ever wish. But he would continue rocking the roofs off anywhere the road wanted him to go, where the music called his name.

MO

Autumn fun

 As a young boy, I would lie on the cool autumn grass, looking up at all the colored leaves falling from what seemed like giant trees. I told myself I couldn't move no matter what as leaves of every size and color fell around me, beside me, and if I was really lucky, in my open mouth waiting. When I grew tired of that game, Id raked a pile of leaves, and with a running start, I landed in the middle, completely hiding myself from my mom's call to supper. In the evening, I would gather the best leaves tucked safely in my coat pockets and carefully place them between sheets of wax paper, which I would then take to school tomorrow to enter in the best leaf competition. I love Autumn and all it brings with it, like pumpkin patches and hayrides: Apple cider and candy corn. Trick-or-treaters and carved-out faces on pumpkins of every shape and size. It's too bad it doesn't last longer, but one thing is sure: Autumn will give up its splendor to make room for a winter wonderland and a year to think about next year and all it will bring.

MO

Winters voices

 His long white beard and shoulder-length hair of the same color were momentarily shelter from the blizzard around him. Ice crystals became projectiles, hitting him with a force he'd never known and the wind like a pissed-off reed section. A youngster holding his mom's hand for dear life screamed at his appearance, which resembled a headless monster but was, in reality, just him with winter's fury capturing his head in white. He saw a red light a few steps away and knew it must be his destination. Opening the door into a toasty bar, friends greeted him while he removed his coat and shook his head to the dislike of others close by. Closing time always came too soon as he and the other all-nighters put on the layers and said goodnight. The blizzard had passed, leaving a calm and quiet winter wonderland as the last song on the jukebox rang in his ears. He reached his apartment and slowly walked up the several steps. Then, turning the key in the lock, he opened the door and was greeted by his wife of thirty-some years holding a cup of hot cocoa and handing it to him with a smile on her still pretty face. Busy night, she asked. He shook his head no, saying the storm kept a lot of folks' home. But he did his sets and ended up with forty bucks in the tip jar. He finished his cocoa and sat in front of a window, capturing all the untouched snow soon to be destroyed by snowplows and children doing what children do after a storm. The only sounds now were an occasional hiss of the radiator or creaks of the wooden floors as his wife headed for bed. She put her hand on his shoulder as she walked past him, reminding him the grandkids were coming by later and she would make cupcakes. He smiled himself to sleep until the sun rose to greet him into one more day of being who he wanted to be, and right then, he wanted about three cupcakes and matching cups of coffee to keep up with the small people coming over to challenge the snow hills around back. Life was grand, and no amount of time would ever change, that he said to himself, kissing his wife and dressing in his warmest clothes just in time to hear the kids screaming his name to come out and play.

MO

Milk, Eggs, and a slice of pie

 It was hard for him to get up in the morning now that she passed away. He didn't have much reason, or at least any that made sense. But he'd go through the motions because that's all he knew how to do. As the coffee pot began to brew, he gathered eggs, some he'd keep and others he'd give to his neighbor who had many mouths to feed. He'd milk the cows, just two now that gave him the milk he wanted and a few quarts for his neighbor with all those kids. Back inside, the coffee was done, so he poured himself a cup while making some biscuits he'd eat with breakfast and give the rest to his neighbor who lost her husband overseas not long ago. After finishing the dishes, he decided it was a good day for fishing, so he grabbed a few poles from the shed and headed to the stream that ran across his property. He wasn't there long when he heard the giggles and whispers of children nearby. You boys want to fish he asked.

 You can't do it from behind those bushes, can you? He gave them both a pole, showed them how to hook the worm, and cast it out halfway across the stream. Those boys went home later on with enough fish to feed their family, giving him some memories, he'd never forget. The sun was setting as he lit his favorite pipe, the one she gave him for Christmas long ago. It took a minute, but he sat on one of the two rockers on the porch, where they would rock and talk and sometimes just enjoy the silence and each other's company. He was thinking about all those times and how much he missed her apple pie when his neighbor and her kids walked up to the porch. A little bug who claimed the name Martha slowly carried a covered plate she held out for him to take. He asked what do we have here? as he removed the cloth and saw a huge slice of apple pie. It's your wife's recipe, the mom said. She gave it to me years ago. It wasn't as hard to get up anymore as he had a few helpers around all the time who made him laugh, smile, and gather eggs. Little Martha became a pro at milking, and my two fishing buddies never came home empty-handed. I know she's looking down and happy I'm not alone. And we both smile, seeing those kids fight for a place on that once-empty rocking chair.

MO

Autumn love

 The trees of Autumn are showing their best colors as we walk hand in hand, smiling at each other, knowing words are nice, but sometimes silence is golden. Your hand rests in mine, and our steps are slow as we give silent thanks for all we have. Our love has withstood time, and we keep it new by sharing all that is beautiful around us. A simple walk by the river watching a new father teach his kid to fish. A proud grandpa as he steadies the new bicycle, and she's off to the races. Families having a picnic for no special reason, just time to be together. I look up and all around us as Autumn leaves fall, knowing only love can ever be so magically beautiful.

MO

Head of the table

 

His seat was always at the head of the table, he said he could look at everyone from there so that he could be in on many conversations at the same time. As a young boy, I remember the little folks would have their own small table a few feet away from the grown-ups, just out of earshot to know what was being said. I was always amazed at how smart he was, and I enjoyed listening to his stories of days past and the people in it, like Grandma, who passed away a while ago. If we were lucky, he would call all the children into the living room, where before a glowing fire, we'd sit on the floor around him and listen to stories we never wanted to end. Decades have passed, and now I sit at the head of that table, looking at everyone so I can hear their conversations at the same time. I look over to the small table where children sit happily in their own wonderful world, waiting patiently for me to tell them a story. What would life be without a head of the table, a storyteller, and someone with enough love to fill your heart forever?

MO

Normandy

 A lone figure of a man walks ahead of me on a cold December night, each gust of wind causing him to stumble a bit, but he quickly regains his mission that lies ahead. He was back in Normandy in 1944, and he was just eighteen years of age. What must he be thinking? I say to myself, a hot bowl of soup or a piece of chocolate cake. Little did I know the depth of his thoughts on this cold December night some sixty years later. The sounds of the eighty-eights were deafening as the rounds hit treetops, exploding in mid-air, sending wooden splinters deep into a soldier's now lifeless body face down so he couldn't know who it was. Another explosion and the man sharing his foxhole was cut in half, still conscious enough to scream out in pain. I wonder if he has a wife, a family probably all grown up with kids of their own, and a house he bought decades ago with the GI Bill for veterans. I wonder what his profession was. Maybe a carpenter or plumber, perhaps a newspaper writer or a cook. Whatever he did, I'm sure he did it well, and don't ask me why I think that; I just do. The old man reaches his small house and stops a moment before going inside. There's nothing waiting for him. There is no one to share his day with to make new memories with. Only thoughts of a battlefield littered with fallen soldiers and faces he will see has seen for all of his adult life. Maybe he was a preacher spreading the word and giving comfort or a medic doing his best to keep soldiers alive. The old man disappeared behind the closed door, and I went on my way, picking up the pace a little as tonight was Thursday, which meant Roast beef for dinner. I turned to look for some reason and saw him coming down the steps and walking the path he walked so many times in his head. This time, he talked out loud to his brothers-in-arms and didn't care who thought he was crazy. They were walking beside him because he needed them to, and that's all that mattered to him anymore.

MO

 As a boy, I would spend countless hours beside my dad, learning everything I could to be just like him. He taught me how to fix cars and repair a washing machine. He watched over me as I painted my first vehicle and gave me a once-in-a-blue-moon nudge of approval on a job well done. When other kids played baseball, I was under the house putting in new pipes and picking up cigarettes that had fallen from his pocket. At the supper table, he was quiet, and when I began to speak of what I had learned that day, he told me to hush because a real man doesn't need to brag about his work. I'm grown up now and was blessed to have a son I could teach as my dad taught me, but I told him to make room for baseball and enlighten us at the supper table, telling us about his day. I see a part of myself in my son, the part wanting to learn and be nudged for doing a good job. The difference between how I was raised is there will always be talk and laughter at the same supper table I helped him make a long time ago. And I've promised myself there will always be enough nudging to go around.

MO

Frigid cold

 I returned to my childhood house one last time, just sitting out front with the heater on. It was exceptionally cold, with the winds blowing so hard at times I couldn't see a thing. I saw a school bus approaching and stopping next to me as two kids got off, looking like two specs of color in a white world. They headed for my childhood house, and my heart skipped a beat. Their mom greeted them with a smile as they disappeared behind closed doors, and instantly, I was six years old again. After changing out of our school clothes, a snack was waiting as my sister and I sat at the table and did our homework. The blizzard was raging, killing any chance of going outside to play. So, with homework finished and no television until this evening when Dad watched Walter Cronkite and the evening news, board games were brought out to keep us busy. Time passed, and The blizzard was almost over as I returned to reality when the front door of my old house opened. Two kids in snowsuits jumped for joy as they did what kids do on a cold winter day. I put my car in gear and drove slowly down the street of my youth, trying to keep those memories alive for a while longer, at least long enough for two specs to disappear in my rear view.

MO

Camper on the mountain

 I sat quietly in the back seat of our 1957 Chevy station wagon. My older and younger sisters claimed the rear floor area where they could put their dolls and play tea party or some other girly game. No boys allowed. They took turns shouting at me. I preferred to look out of the window in silence as the scenery changed before my eyes, eventually ending at the foot of a giant hill secured with a metal fence and no trespassing signs. Dad opened it and got back in the car, asking if we were ready to climb up to the top. Mom was nervous, I could tell, but she knew better than to disagree with her husband;  that's not what good wives do. The tires slid on the frozen ground, but Dad was determined, so he kept on the gas until the wagon finally grabbed hold and climbed the hill. I smiled as I saw the small trailer sitting alone at the top of the mountain, waiting to be brought back to life. Back then, it was easy to fit all of us inside the little camper, but as I grew up and spent many times at the trailer on the mountain, I discovered how small it really was.

Nonetheless, I loved it there and was sad to hear Dad sold it as part of a divorce settlement. I doubt Mom lost sleep over it, but in later years, she would smile and say Good times whenever I brought it up. The camper on the mountain top is just one more story remembered with select parts forgotten as I look out the window of my 1957 Chevy alone by choice.

MO

The circus parade.

 He held his grandad's hand while walking alongside the greatest show on earth's parade. He had been waiting for weeks as the posters were hung, and the town got ready. The circus train would stop just outside the small town, and the parade of animals would begin there and end at the big empty field next to the firehouse. The town folk, mainly consisting of school kids and seniors, lined the main street waiting for the animals to be alongside them so they could be a part of the greatest moment of their lives. Grandad pulled up a couple of wooden crates he found alongside the firehouse, and they sat watching all the going on as they ate sandwiches Grandma made for them. With the help of men and elephants, the giant tents were pulled into place as both young and old held their breath at this magnificent sight. They had the best seats in the house to watch as the circus came alive as if a gust of happiness was spread across a once-abandoned field that no one seemed to care about. Grandad put the crates back where he found them, and the boy took his hand as they walked in silence, waiting to tell Grandma about their day.

MO

Just a room

 It's just on the other end of my trailer, but I call it my office. It's where the creative juices flow and memories flood back to me. The walls are covered with the past, all of which I need not think hard to summon. Each picture tells a story like someone's young life as a kid, joining the army and never coming home again. It tells a love story in the form of an obituary and a life that never ran its course. There was a picture that spoke to me when I purchased it from a garage sale, not knowing who it was, and even an old gold-painted frame empty of any memories it once framed and hung on a wall halfway up the stairway of a mansion in the South. As I look upward, a row of burlesque photographs banned when taken and now revered as an art form all but forgotten. It's just another room at the end of my trailer, but it's my room filled with stories yet to be written, tears yet to fall, and smiles to myself as I am the only reader.

MO

Kings court

 One pissed-off tempest churned towards me as I tried to gather my thoughts and not let fear absorb me before my work was done. Why is she so upset, and why unleash such power that can only mean certain death and despair? The winds begin to howl as it passes around the boat and escapes through cleats on its way to any place it chooses. I do my best to lash her down, but time is not on my side as one massive gust of wind catches me with no sea legs, throwing me into the darkness of King Neptune's court. I am incredibly calm as I sink lower and lower, with no help from topside, as everyone faces the worst nature can bring. My air is gone, and a rush of warmth fills me with everything I've dreamed of as two mermaids help me to the court to meet the king. He is massive and hard like granite, and he does not make a single move, but I hear him speaking to me as clearly as the ocean itself, saying to give me back. It's not my time. I gasped for air and was given life again as a lone fisherman helped me back to my boat, wanting only a shot of courage or two for his effort. I joined him, telling my tale of mermaids and granite kings as he listened eagerly, waiting to tell his stories to a sailor of the seas who will always believe.

MO

Love

 When you want something so badly it is all you think about because you've had it once and want more. It's something you've held, tasted, and chased until it gave up and let itself be caught. It's the perfect summer evening, the stillness of the first snow creeping up at midnight, and a kiss from nowhere at a sweet 16 birthday party. Love is every breath you take and every moment tucked away in memory books. It is your reason for everything, and above all, it's a gift straight from another heart that can never be taken back.

MO

The prey

 Standing in front of the house he grew up in brought a flood of memories attacking him all at once, so he slowly moved on. He only wanted to see the small three-room place he called home with his mom, dad, and twin sister one last time before the county knocked it down to make room for another cement city.. Decades ago, it stood in between a pine forest with a small stream running through the property, a perfect place to swim in the summer, skate in the winter and hunt in the autumn of the year. Eighty acres of beauty to be uprooted with the punishing blades and forks of the monster machines built for one thing and one thing only, destruction. Why the whole thing bothered him, he didn't know. It wasn't the happiest of homes, but that was the norm back then when fighting for food, work, and a sprig of happiness was all that mattered. Dad drank the food money, promising it was the last time, but it never was. His sister wore boys' clothes because he could hand them down to her as he grew too tall for them to fit. He told her one day he'd buy her a brand-new dress which he did in time. He turned to see the monster fire up, black smoke huffing and puffing, getting ready to charge an already dead prey. With every move, his house became a dust bowl of old timber and outdated appliances crushed into a cube to be taken to the scrap yard for a few dollars. What once was a place he slept and ate and called home was gone. Two dump trucks hauled the broken house to the dump, where it would rot until it became useful again and turned into mulch that would adorn someone's flower beds. Now he stood in front of nothing but his memories as the machines left on their way to another condemned house just a few tears away, where a man about his age stood watching the monster machines eat all his memories to the sounds of black puffing smoke and metal forks eating their prey.

MO

Black and White

 What was once a splendor of color fades to black and white. I don't hear the children  playing anymore, and someone finally silenced the ice cream truck. My bench is cold and empty as pigeons fight for the seeds that fall from my pocket, and the playground, once filled with screams of joy, is just glimpses of yesterday re-lived one last time. Through worn-out eyes, I can see shadows of people passing by, most keeping their stares hidden. I don't want their pity, as my life needs no apologies from anyone but me. Everyone grows old, and with it comes wisdom and confusion, all mixed in the same mind that plays one against the other. I believe tomorrow is Sunday, and I'll walk slowly to the church and kneel in front of the only one who can answer my questions. I will see clearly there, and colors will be vibrant until I walk back outside into the shadows of black and white.

MO

Four wheels of sorrow

 The gift we know as life is as precious as the word itself. We come silently into the world until we no longer feel the warmth and comfort of our mother's womb then we scream our disappointment for the world to hear. Then as if we never left, we find ourselves against her skin., taking nourishment and feeling loved. Time takes us away from those early days and her when all she ever wanted was a kiss on her cheek and a few minutes of your time. Looking back, I wonder what was so important when I skipped down the stairs and into four wheels of trouble, never turning around to see her face in the window waving goodbye. How could I have known her broken heart was my fault and I did nothing? How could I have known that only a mother's love can be overtaken by an emptiness only she can react to? How couldn't I know?

MO

The clock

 What once was a home filled with children's laughter and the smell of Sunday dinner cooking is now silent except for the old clock still keeping time. The walls leading upstairs are lined with pictures of times past and memories made throughout the years. She used to walk past them, but now she stops and studies each face making sure the names still came to her. In her bedroom, she sits in front of the looking glass and smiles the same smile she was told would break many hearts, but only one meant anything, and he was somewhere waiting. She brushed her long white hair, one hundred strokes humming a song she would sing to her children long ago. Time is a cruel thing, she thought out loud. One minute it's laughter and playful moments surrounding you with joy; the next is unwelcome silence. You gave your love completely and received it because that's what one does in a happy life. Then as if time left you behind to mind the store, you remember the clock needs winding, or does it?

MO

Pop cycle Bombs

        POPCYCLE STICKS

In the summer of 1961, I was a normal kid from a normal family living in a normal neighborhood in a normal town. Life as I knew it was just that, normal. Until it wasn't, I remember I was outside playing baseball with my buddies when I saw my uncle Larry walking towards the park. His tall figure was almost scary as he looked down at the ground and stood by the dugout, speaking with the coach, who signaled me to come off the field. Come on, slugger, let's have us a walk, he said. You were looking good out there he said as his arm draped my shoulders in a way I knew he was offering me comfort, but why? We were out of the park when he told me my dad had died in a car accident. The words went through me like a knife through butter as my mind tried to understand everything. Then the tears fell. The following days were a blur of people in black clothing and endless amounts of food. My mom didn't seem to move off the couch as family and friends tried to comfort her, but her heart was forever broken. I sat next to her, and she touched my hand, trying to smile, but it wasn't a smile, just her lips moving from side to side for a brief moment, and she was back looking like I'd never seen her look before and didn't want to ever again. We buried my dad next to his brother and sister, who lost their lives in the war, and his mother, who left us two years ago from a fall at her house that left her brain dead.

I remember seeing my dad cry for the first time in my life the day he had to decide to pull the plug and let her go. Now he rests beside her and his siblings at peace and waiting for us to join him one day a long time from now. Living in a small town, traditions are looked upon as sacred. Things passed down from generation to generation, like the funeral wagon. It was made in the city decades ago by a craftsman who created a mix of grandeur and class like his ancestors before him. It had glass windows on both sides, large enough to see the casket inside. It was ornate with carved angels and cherubs entwined within the wooden pillars in front and the back of the stately wagon. I had always wondered how they made the paint shine a deep black that almost looked wet but wasn't. In later years, someone explained to me it was a varnish that created the look. Two beautiful horses pulled the wagon, and the funeral director's son sat on top and steered the horses. He wore a black suit and a stovetop hat with white gloves. Not everybody asked for a procession with the black wagon except the families that had settled here over one hundred years ago.

Nevertheless, it was a time-honored tradition my family insisted on. The two horses belonged to Mr. Oshay, who took good care of them at his farm just outside of town. They were popular with the kids who brought them carrots and apples they fed through the fence. On my dad's funeral day, the procession left the church with six pallbearers carefully putting his casket into the shiny wagon. Then everyone walked behind it to the cemetery, where the service continued. As the shiny wagon returned to the city, everyone gathered at our house, where a few of my aunts and cousins had prepared lunch with food from all over town. I stayed behind a little while to say goodbye; as it turned out, it wasn't easy. I had held back my tears until then when it hit me. I'd never see my dad again. So I took some pop cycle sticks I had in my jacket pocket and began to put them together to make a stick bomb my dad had taught me to make a while ago. Most kids know what they do but let me explain for those who don't. You need five sticks that you intertwine, creating a web. You have to be very gentle as you get the middle stick over the top of the other sticks and gently join the top and bottom together, like a spring trap. If you can run fast, throw it at someone and watch as it explodes in harmless fun. I put one last pop cycle bomb together and placed it on my dad's grave. He would have liked that. So, I said to myself as I took the long walk home to more black clothes and endless dishes of food.

Remembering Granma

                                                           Remembering Granma

 

The table in her small kitchen was red with white squares, and the chairs had chrome legs and soft red cushions. It was where I sat sometimes after school waiting for my mom to get home from work.  Granma lived alone in a small cottage where grand kid after grand kid came to visit when parents worked late or needed a night out. It was where her grown children came to talk about the fairness of life, or the injustice, take your pick. She was a good listener and during her lifetime I bet she mended more than socks, but many hearts with her gentle ways. I remember walking with her to her place of work that you could smell a mile away. it was the smell of ice-cream cones being made. It was a sweet smell like cooked sugar that grew stronger with each step we took. Back then a kid could walk all around town without any worries about much of anything. Doors were always open, and the only rule was to be home in time for supper. My walks with Granma were filled with stories about her life and questions about mine. She would tell me about the time she worked in the circus, where she met my grandpa who I never got to meet. He was a band leader and she a tight rope walker. They eventually married and had four children, leaving the circus, and starting what she called a somewhat normal life. My mom told me that her dad was a drinking man who liked to gamble his paycheck away leaving my Granma to fend for herself usually by cleaning someone’s toilets and watching their kids all for some money for food. Grandpa wasn’t a nice guy when he drank, and grama was who he took it out on blaming her for having to many kids to feed. He died a few years before I was born from liver disease, and it couldn’t have happened to soon. Forgive me God.  I have so many wonderful memories of her, the way she smelled of white shoulders perfume and her long white hair she braided on top of her head. I remember her talking to me in her gentle voice, always trying to tell me more stories of her past so I would know where my roots came from. It was long before any DNA tests, so it was her relying on her memories that she shared with me. She’s been gone a long time now, as are her children but her memory burns deep inside of me and brings a smile to my face every time I smell peanut butter cookies baking, a hot apple pie cooling on the window sill, and especially when I walk down the street to the now abandoned ice-cream cone factory where the sweet smell of sugar cooking fills me with happiness that she was a part of my life I will cherish forever. I wish she could have met my children but sometimes I see her in one of their faces when they smile her smile or ask me questions about her. They sit memorized as I share her stories of circus life, leaving out the parts her heart was broken. Id show them pictures of her dressed in her costumes looking so beautiful and graceful as she walked the tight rope with a smile on her face. I know someday we will meet again because she told me we would, and Granma never once lied to me. Until that day, I will think of her often and listen to her gentle voice as I drift off to sleep with a smile on my face and the sweet smell of ice-cream cones forever etched in my memories of my Granma.

Mike 2023

BLANK EYES

                                                                        BLANK EYES:

 

I’m often asked why I write, and where I get my inspiration. I don’t speak for other writers, only myself when I say every sound, every smell, and every footstep I take further into the known and the unknown inspires me to reach deep into parts of my imagination and retrieve the ideas from which I write. The characters I write about are like versions of people I’ve known or just passed by on the streets of the world, and sometimes just everyday people who have affected my life in some way. Much like the writers of words, the writers of music are a marriage of words and sounds coming together to leave the writer wondering how that all happened. I often think about the great writers of the past and wonder how they were inspired, and it occurs to me that no amount of time can change the inner self of one who reaches into his imagination, pulls out something beautiful, and shares it with whoever will read or listen. I wake every morning wondering what will appear on my screen or paper as I sit down and piece together words that come alive and begin the journey of a future story. It’s not a challenge for me, but rather a blank slate beckoning me to come closer and be sucked into my own world where characters come alive, and every word has its own place and part to play. I love to write and I’m thankful I have been given all this time to put pen to paper and make people think, cry, laugh, and stare with blank eyes as they go back to chapter one and read it again.

Mike 2023

Moth-balls

                                                                    Mothballs

 

He believed in being frugal when it came to most of the things in his life. If his eyeglasses broke, he’d get out the cure-all known as black electrical tape. It didn’t bother or concern him if people laughed. It did bother mom however and even with the tenderness of her voice trying to show him not everything can be fixed with black electrical tape, it didn’t faze dad one little bit. He wore the same pair of shoes for decades, taking them to the shoe repair man whom dad grew to know very well over the years. He put new heels on them and soles if needed. He would put in new laces and give them a good shine all for Ten dollars. In his eighty years on earth, the man owned only three pairs of shoes. It was the same with his trousers that mom pressed with a hot iron and wet cloth, steaming a crease so straight it was amazing. He had several pairs of trousers, one pair for work, one for doing chores around the house, a pair for going to church, and one for a backup just in case he ripped or tore anything. This only meant one day of substitution as mom would break out her sewing kit and mend what needed mending very quickly. Dad was a creature of habit and didn’t like to stray too far from his comfort zone. I remember one very cold winter when he took his winter coat out of the cedar chest where he kept it along with a couple of sweaters and warm wool socks. I could smell him coming from a distance and mom begged him to let her air it out, but he believed the smell would go away eventually. It did however make for mixed feelings among the people on the bus, some plugging their noses trying to shut out the smell of cedar. Smells like my grandma’s closet, one guy said. You afraid of getting moths mister, another one asked. Dad wasn’t concerned with sly remarks and buried his head in the morning newspaper concentrating on world problems and certainly not the smell of his winter coat. The smell was pretty much gone about the time he didn’t need the coat anymore as spring had sprung. That’s when he kept his rubber boots and an old gray umbrella close by in case the forecast called for rain. Again, the people on the bus laughed at him wearing rubber boots on sunny days, his umbrella at his side and ready. Go ahead and laugh he thought to himself, the boots will protect my shoes and who wants to buy new shoes? When dad worked in the yard, cutting the grass and trimming bushes better than the people who made all those amazing animal carvings at Disney land, he’d wear his yard trousers and a white t-shirt. Years ago, he even wore a pair of garden shoes he made out of a pair of unclaimed shoes he purchased from his friend the cobbler. He told dad sometimes someone passes away before they could claim their shoes and he usually sold them very cheaply and that’s all dad needed to know. The fact they were a pair of spats didn’t bother him as most things didn’t. Growing up in my house, you just got used to dads’ ways and went with it. What always seemed strange to me was all of us including mom, never went without nice things. New school clothes every year, new shoes every few months, and no access to cedar chests as every year we got new winter coats and boots. Mom got her hair done every other week while dad cut his own hair using a set of clippers, he bought at a thrift store. Personally, I saved up and bought an old car to moms delight who said never riding another bus was fine with her. Sure, it was strange living with a man who went without what others believed to be important but after his death, as a simple pine box was lowered into the ground, the truth about my dad was revealed. Not long after the funeral, an envelope was given to mom by a man claiming to be dad’s attorney. None of us knew he even had one. The letter simply said, I choose a simple life and wasn’t concerned with personal belongings. My shoes protected my feet no matter how they looked. My boots protected my shoes and my trousers always looked good thanks to your mom. It’s okay that you thought I was crazy, but I knew you loved me no matter how eccentric I may have appeared to be. Hopefully, I’m someplace now where the only cedar I smell is from the giant cedar tree forests. I can throw out my supply of black electrical tape because nobody here needs glasses. I always knew I wouldn’t ever be able to give you all the things I wanted to give but hopefully, this will show you that going without, so others don’t have to isn’t all that difficult. I love all of you and someday with any good luck, we will meet again. In the meantime, have a happy life for me. Inside that envelope was a check for five million dollars in a bag of mothballs.

Mike 2023

Author Mike OConnor: Remembering, or not

Author Mike OConnor: Remembering, or not:                                                                    Remembering, or trying to   Seventeen years old and finding myself on...

Can you hear me?

                                                                     Can you hear me?

When I die and I’m stopped in mid-air, able to look up at the brightness, and down at the dark, will I be granted entry before the heat rises and scorches my soul? Will I have to confess my sins one last time and ask forgiveness or will I have to pray nonstop remaining halfway between the gates with memories of everything I did playing over and over until it’s determined I’m ready or I’m not to go either way? I won’t find peace of any kind stuck between two worlds. I pray and ask forgiveness every day so I can be heard well before my judgment day arrives along with my fate. I have sinned too many times to count but I’ve also practiced what is right and tried to live my life accordingly. I have been able to walk away from addictions even though a couple will follow me to judgment. Their power over me can only be taken away by a power much stronger than me. The devil has control even when I pray, he lets go and allows me to rest in eternal peace. My faith has taught me many things even though I don’t always understand the reasons some things are so hard to accept. Those things bothered me for a long time until one day I felt a kind of calm, realizing that everything has a reason, and some are not meant for me to understand, but to just believe that my questions will all be answered one day. I don’t know why I stopped going to church a long time ago maybe it was the crowd, I don’t like crowds. Maybe it was the routine of standing, sitting, kneeling, and repeating, that I didn’t like. Or maybe I didn’t believe God was listening to me because he couldn’t hear me through all the other voices speaking to him. I began to stop by the empty church where I could light a candle and hear the silence as I spoke and prayed, and I confessed. I’d sit in the very back of the church where my presence wasn’t known. I’d watch as a priest would go about his duties, happy it seemed to be living his chosen lifestyle. I mentioned him in my next prayer in case he was in need of forgiveness. I love everything about the silent church, the smells of incense and wood polish, the creaking of a kneeler as some other hopeful soul prayed for forgiveness for themselves or someone they know. It was usually elderly women with scarves on their heads and rosary beads in their hands that frequented the emptiness as I do, alone with God. I often pray that one day I would join those who went before me. That I'd be able to visit with grandparents and parents, friends and faces without names. I pictured the beautiful meadows and mountains where the trees were so tall you couldn’t see the tops, and crystal-clear lakes I could drink from even though I doubted Id ever be thirsty. Millions of wildflowers all around me and other magical things I could see then leave to see another in a single blink of an eye. I feel like I’m getting close to my judgment day, and it doesn’t scare me although it probably should. I can picture St. Peter waiting for me at the gates of heaven, his arms crossed and not yet welcoming me. And with that, I am in between the two gates waiting to be forgiven by one and condemned by the other. I can’t cry any tears as I brought myself here and no one else. My time on earth was mostly about myself although my children and grandchildren kept me on the right path most of the time, or so it seemed to me. My love for my family is real even if we didn’t always see eye to eye. I suppose I have regrets, who doesn’t? but I will continue to step into the empty church and speak to God. I will pray and I will talk then listen for the smallest sign I’m being heard, and I will always believe I am being heard.

Mike 2023