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