With age

 With age comes wisdom and questions about what lies ahead for us. We ask ourselves if we did everything we set out to accomplish or at least gave it our best effort. Did we pass on to our children values and traditions that were years in the making? Did we make more memories than we could ever remember, and did we know true love at least once?

With age, it seems we become targets for ridicule we don't deserve, but we take it with a grain of salt because we realize one day it will all be forgotten, replaced with apologies.

Age is both a curse and a blessing, which we must accept as the cards we were dealt. Looking back, I know in my heart I tried to live a good life, but like most, I stumbled along the way and spent the rest of my life making amends.

I tried to give more than I took, realizing that a lot went unnoticed. But I wasn't looking for recognition, but peace in my heart and the love I could share. With age comes tears, knowing you are getting closer to the path's end, and you are not ready to accept that, but also tears of joy and happiness because you lived your best life or tried to.

With age comes a feeling of fulfillment that you and you alone made happen, and it is time to reflect on your victories and failures.

My dream has always been to live out my days aboard a boat, returning to the many ports of call I sailed to, each holding memories like the smell of salt air and the gentle rocking of the boat anchored in a faraway place alone with my thoughts. It's like being rocked to sleep as a child without caring for anything but loving arms.

With age, we can lose thoughts that once were crystal clear and somehow were cast out, leaving a blank spot you'll never be able to fill again. But we smile more than we did in our younger days because we have more memories than most and are not ashamed to share them even to deaf ears.

With age comes age spots, sore joints, wrinkled skin, and slower walks in the park. There are also fewer phone calls from loved ones and final goodbyes to lifelong friends.

Most importantly, age is coming to all of us. Nobody escapes it, so my advice is to keep on going until you can't. Keep smiling, caring, and loving for as long as life allows. 

We of old age are not finished. We just take things a little slower to enjoy them more.

Mike 2025                                                    

Uncertain times

 I live in my father's footprints in many but not all steps. I remember him for the smiles we shared and the stolen moments between us that young boys need with their dads. 

I remember him teaching me little things that meant a lot at the time, but looking back, I see that it wasn't so much the moments as the time we shared that really meant something.

Time had its way, as it does, and hundreds of miles came between us. He lived his life and grew old while I lived mine, occasionally remembering a time or place we had together, causing me to pause and pick up the phone.

Now I'm old, and he's gone, and memories fade each day. I try to remember him before I forget that nothing is left but uncertain time. And lessons learned.

Mike 2025                                     

Will I see you?

 Will I see you when I'm gone? Will I feel the same way you do, alone and brokenhearted? Will I stay in spirit, give you comfort, and gently kiss away your tears? Will I softly hum your favorite song as your breathing slows and you fall asleep? Will you dream about me as I will dream of you for all eternity?

Will I feel your skin and taste your lips? Only in my final memories, I fear, as death is sometimes kind to let you relive your most treasured thoughts one last time before the rest are scattered to the wind.

Will I see you when I'm gone? Will you see me?

Mike 2025                                               

                      

My babies baby

 I watched from a bench as my youngest child held onto her own. The Carousel went round and round, each passing a wave and smile from me. The music, sounds, and smells of the small park were another reminder of years gone by too soon.

My baby's smile and her child's smile capture a perfect snapshot, which I will keep in my memory book to revisit one day, like so many others I hold dear. I remember her first trip to the beach, sitting in the sand with plastic buckets and tools, a kiddie pool in the backyard on hot summer days, and a miniature rake to help me with the autumn leaves.

I remember her first, everything as a father should, even when I couldn't be there. She was always in my mind and heart as I kissed her forehead, whispered, "I love you," and closed her door late into the night.

Looking at her now with her child, I see myself holding her tight as the Carousel went round and round, her smile capturing life at that moment when her heart took mine forever. Her first taste of cotton candy, holding my hand as she saw new things that made her smile and look up at me, her eyes doing the talking, telling me everything I needed to know.

As the day draws to a close, my baby girl holds onto my arm as I carry a sleeping grandchild to the car and leave the lights and sounds of the small park behind us. Until the next time.

Mike 2025                                          

Some call me OG

 Some call me OG or old guy; I take both as compliments.

I was raised by books and street smarts, taught by men and women who had to be rough around the edges to survive. My Mom taught me to be kind to others and to never let go of my faith, as it would carry me through troubled times. She taught me to try to understand my feelings and how to overcome those that brought me sorrow. Because of her, I knew what it was like to love and be loved and how to treat others as you would want to be treated.

My dad taught me how to throw a punch, take one, and never start a fight, but be the one who finishes it. He taught me it was all right for a man to cry and that it didn't make him any less of a warrior. He taught me to take pride in my work and never give up trying to be a better man. He taught me that family was the breath of life and my duty was to protect my own no matter what.

My life lessons were passed on to me by my elders and by me to my children, who I hope will keep them close to their hearts. I'm sure some will stick, while others will be forgotten, like the words of an old song. But if I did my job, my children would grow up with kindness and maybe a dash of warrior in the mix.

I look back at seventy-one years of age and realize I accomplished a lot. My kids fill me with pride in knowing they achieved their dreams, and although the journey had a few speed bumps, they put their heads down and horns out until they succeeded.

Being called OG means Old gangster or old guy, and that's just fine with me. It tells me I did okay and don't have to say "sorry," just "thank you for listening and learning some OG life lessons.

Mike  2025                                               

Questioning Eyes

 Today, I walked through the forest as light snow fell on frozen ground. As it fell much heavier, the footprints disappeared into the deep powder, giving me little hope of finding a deer on this day. 

I began my long walk back towards my cabin, stopping along the way to sit on a fallen tree and have a bite to eat. I felt my strength weakening from the difficult walking in the knee-high snow, so I unwrapped some cheese, a hunk of bread I baked yesterday, and a flask of wine.

As I sat eating, I couldn't help but notice I was being watched. I scanned the area around where I sat, but saw nothing except a squirrel raising its voice to the forest. The quiet always amazed me when the animals grew silent and listened to the wind running through the tall trees like a song sung, especially for them.

I finished my lunch and began packing away the leftovers when I saw her. A beautiful doe was just feet away from me, her eyes questioning but not fearful. Was she hungry? I asked myself. Slowly, I tossed some cheese toward her, but she stood her ground, never moving. I threw some bread, but she still didn't move. I reached deep into my backpack and found an apple that I think was in there for a while. I sliced it into small pieces and then tossed them in her direction.

Very slowly, she inched towards the apple slices, eating them while never taking her eyes off me.

To this day, I believe she grew not to fear me because I had no gun and, therefore, wasn't a threat to her. I left when she did, both going in different directions: her to find a place to bed down and me to my cabin to look at the pictures I took. The last few clicks of my camera were just random shots of the forest, but one stood out. It was the doe concealed in the trees watching me, and I couldn't help but notice she had no questioning eyes.

Mike 2025                                      

Through the eyes of a writer

 It has been a wild ride that has taken me places most can only imagine. Ten countries, each a place of its own, steeped in traditions and memories of which I was fortunate to be a part.

My youth was a happy time filled with the love of my parents, siblings, and others who inspired me to take the path I chose decades ago. I've been blessed with the ability to remember even the most minor details and bring them back to life in stories that need to be told.

To date, I've written three books and over eight hundred blog posts, each a story I wrote about people I've known over the years, mixed with a dose of fiction and imagination. I couldn't understand why, when I began writing, I couldn't stop and found myself banging away at the keys to see where it took me at that moment in time.

Some days, I sit at my desk and watch the silent keys, trying to get a mental picture of the day's blog and how I'll begin writing it. All I needed was a jump start brought on by a single thought, a memory, or a picture in my head that needed a place in the story.

Many of my blogs take place in different periods, from the 1940s  to the fifties and sixties and others. I find myself writing as if it were all happening today, and I was there in a gangster suit with a Tommy gun and a flapper girlfriend or a three-day outdoor concert—all so real as the visions leaped out of my mind onto the paper or, in my case, the screen.

It's hard to explain how my mind works when I write. It's not just the words I see but the entire landscape surrounding the story, like the way people were dressed or the cars they drove. I smell the scents of corner hotdog carts and diesel from large trucks, making my eyes water. I hear people talking about next week's dinner party. And did you pick up the dry cleaning? It's an entire moving picture show in my mind, and I am a part of that scene, at least for the moment.

This part of my story may be difficult to understand because I have difficulty doing so myself. Someone once said that everything you see, touch, smell, and feel is a story waiting to be written. When I write something, I get help from a distant source. Call me crazy, but I believe writers, poets, songwriters, and other influencers become a part of what I'm writing. It's called channeling, and I believe it to be true.

My question would have to be, why me? Have I been chosen out of millions of writers to write stories that only a few have ever read and will surface many decades from now, found in a trunk in an attic or storage shed in boxes damp with moisture? Will strangers pour through my work and be able to go back in time to places that could only be seen through my eyes?

My hope is that my family will read my stories and be able to pick out the pieces about my feelings towards them and the love I felt with every word written. I find myself thinking that my craft has lost its appeal to many, but I also want to believe our world still wants to curl up and listen to the stories of a dreamer who wrote with one purpose: to entertain through the eyes of a man who saw the world a little differently than most.

Mike 2025                                                   

Peace in the valley

 He returned to the valley where he spent the summers of his youth, mostly to relive them one last time. It was a beautiful place nestled between two mountains, as far North as you could go before the border.

It was 1969, and the world was changing. Protests became the norm, and rebellion against the establishment created a culture never before seen when young men were drafted and sent to a faraway place to fight for something many didn't believe in or even understand.

Back in the States and abroad, a new culture was brewing, with tens of thousands of young people letting their hair grow and succumbing to the temptations of weed and mind-altering drugs to escape the realities of a changing world. The flower children, hippies, and other labels like freaks and long hairs were given to those who wanted nothing more than to live in peace, play their music, and be left alone in places like this valley.

He looked into the valley from a hill, his mind traveling back to when hundreds of young people gathered there in early summer, staying until the leaves turned color. And sleeping on the ground was not an option.

Rows and rows of campsites circled the valley where, at any given time, the sounds of guitars, flutes, and smells of weed filled your senses.

But the most intense high was through mind-altering drugs like acid, mushrooms, and hash, which were used to enter a different place in your mind that usually ended well, except for a few occasions when paranoia set in, and coming down from the trip was not a good thing.

The valley was a place of beauty and peace. A place where you could catch fireflies at night in mason jars or sit at a stranger's camp offering some weed for some acid. There were no inhibitions at play, and if you wanted sex, you just asked for it from someone you found attractive and willing.

We weren't dirty hippies, as most thought. We bathed in mountain springs and often sat under a waterfall to stay cool in the summer heat. We sang songs, walked in the forest, and picked wild berries. We became one with nature and always left it looking better than when we found it.

Then, one August day, word spread that a giant outdoor concert was being held on farmland just a few miles from the valley. Old school buses and other forms of transportation were filled up and headed for the farm. Traffic was snarled for miles approaching the farm as people left their vehicles and walked on a dirt road, some for miles.

I'll never forget the size of the stage, which could be seen from a half-mile away. The speakers were as big as five washers stacked on top of each other. The prechecks were deafening. We got as close to the stage as possible, found a space, and sat down to wait. It was a couple of hours before the first band began to play. Carlos Santana played his heart out as throngs of fans danced and sang along, giving him the fuel to put on a great show. Thousands of people had found their way to the music, which I later learned could be heard miles away.

Joe Cocker, Jimmy Hendrix, Fleetwood Mac, the Who, Cat Stevens, Carly Simon, Janice Joplin, and more played throughout the night as clouds of weed filled the air and good and bad trips were seen everywhere you looked.

Then the rain came, and the once grassy fields became mud holes. The hard rain lasted for hours, creating what looked like a pig pen without pigs. The mood changed, and some gathered their stuff and headed back down the country road to the shelter of their cars and trucks. Others partied so as not to let some rain spoil the concert.

It was a memory I've carried with me for decades, a time in my life when  I tried new things and luckily made it through to talk about it today.'I still wear my hair long and occasionally wear a tie-dye shirt. I listen to rock and folk classics and keep them all protected in a safe place that someday my grandchildren will inherit and hopefully enjoy them as I did so long ago.

The era may be gone, but when I pass another long-haired person on the street, I flash the peace sign that's usually returned as I remember peace and love, the unforgettable time of my life in the valley, and a farmer's field of dreams.

Mike 2025                                                     

Growing older

 As we age, the simplest things bring a song to our hearts: the laughter of children at play, carefree days with nothing to do except smile at the beauty surrounding us, and timeless days and nights resting in our memory until called upon.

Time has more meaning as we age, so we should use it wisely and not miss a second. We see life differently after we accept that most of the good years are already lived, leaving us with hundreds of memories that 

we share with ourselves and others who played such an essential role in our earthly visit

Age is a blessing that some never see, but all hope to achieve. We get to hold newborn babies with our names and rock toddlers to sleep, covered with a blanket an elder made with loving hands.

Age is wisdom that older folks pass to future generations, hoping that something will stick and traditions will be carried on.

Old age slows you down and allows you to reflect on the good and the bad, all of which belong to you and you alone. Old people smile a lot because they have so many reasons to, but you will also see them sad, knowing the thousands of memories they've created are fading and will one day be forgotten.

Aging means hearts filled with love and an endless sense of fulfillment, which we will take with us when the candle burns out and our soul rises to a place well deserved.

Mike 2025                                        

Paper Boy

 The whiteout came out of nowhere as he struggled to move forward in the frigid afternoon. He was a paper boy, a job boys longed for, but few could say they succeeded. It was a time when the evening paper was read by thousands, mostly with stories of local happenings and worldwide news that people depended on every day. And it was he they depended on, no matter the weather conditions.

The summer months were the easiest as he could strap on his newspaper bag and ride his bike throughout his route, chucking papers onto lawns and driveways. He was always done in time for dinner, with plenty of daylight left to play with his friends. On Saturdays, he collected the weekly charge from all his customers, which was paid in coins that he put in what he called his clicker. There were slots for quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies, and the clicker was clipped to his belt.

Most people paid on time and were given a small ticket of that week's color as a receipt. For those who didn't pay, the ticket was left in his ledger to be collected next week. This simple method worked perfectly. With seventy-five customers, he collected what he paid for the newspaper itself, and the leftover was his to keep, usually about ten dollars a week. Not too shabby for a twelve-year-old kid.

Autumn brought cooler temperatures and a light jacket as he increased his customer base by ten new subscribers, giving him a chance at winning the year with the most subscriptions. The prize was a brand-new bicycle larger than the one he'd had for years, but always faithful until it got stolen right out of his front yard. My dad reported it stolen, and within one day, it was recovered at a kid's house who had a record for similar thefts. I hoped I would get it back before my afternoon delivery, but no such luck, so I put the bag over my shoulder and began walking, or briskly walking, to complete the day. It was well after dinner, and darkness set in as I walked into the kitchen, dropped my bag, and ate the dinner Mom had kept warm for me.

Springtime meant rain and a lot of it. I wore a raincoat, hat, and rubber boots that always seemed to get wet no matter what I did. Once, I bent the fork of my bike as I rode through what I thought was a puddle, but it turned out to be a deep pothole, and I had to walk the rest of my route with my broken bike. Dad helped me straighten the fork, and I was ready to go the next day. A bit more about winter.

Winter was cruel and in control. I had to walk or beg my Mom or Dad for a ride, but those were few and far between. My dad believed the weather made me stronger, but he surprised me once in a while and took me in the warm car. Most days, I dressed like the Michelin tire guy, completely covered except for my eyes so I could see through the blizzards we often had. Some customers made me step inside to thaw out, even gave me a hot chocolate, and sent me on my way.

Overall, I enjoyed my days as a paperboy, even in the worst weather. It made me appreciate no matter what you do for a living, you never stop going forward, even against sixty MPH winds.

Mike 2025                                              

Night visions

 As a child, he would tell his parents about his dreams and the people in them. They passed it off for a while as cute stories until one morning, he came to the breakfast table looking like he hadn't slept much. "More dreams," his dad asked, sipping his coffee with a grin. The boy nodded and sat silently for what seemed a long time.

Tell me about your dream, sweetheart, his mom asked. There was a pause, and then he started. Grandpa came to visit me, he said. We talked and talked in my room about his youth and the adventures he had. I didn't like the smell of his cigar, but he said it was a part of who he was, and I'd get used to it. Tell me more, his mom said. Well, he walked funny, but I didn't say anything.

By now, the dad was looking at his son with great interest, as his son had never met his grandpa. He was a strict man who walked with a limp from an injury when he was very young. He also smoked cigars he had hand-rolled at a town tobacco store. Dad had lost all interest in the newspaper he was reading and asked his son what else they had talked about throughout the night.

The boy thought for a while and then softly told them they spoke of olden times when people were friendlier than they are today. Neighbors helped out whenever there was a need, and life was quieter than today. He told his grandson that he has hundreds of relatives in a faraway place and that someday, a long time from now, he will meet them, and they will welcome and teach him all they know. He said our talk last night was just a sample of what awaits you, Dad, Mom, and everybody we know.

Today, that boy is an old man with countless stories about his relatives, who visit him at night, not in dreams but in their likeness. They sit at the foot of his bed and tell stories, some centuries old, some yet to happen.

He couldn't explain why this had happened to him, and those who knew kept it quiet so people wouldn't think him nuts.

The old man passed in his sleep, his empty room smelling of cigars, not the ending but the beginning of a new story.

Mike 2025                                                

Looking back

 As he looked back on his life, he tried to remember when the colors became black and white, when the sounds of children's laughter were silenced with age, and when memories once so vivid were too far buried to remember.

Looking back, he admitted he was a good man and acknowledged that to be true somewhere along the line. He wasn't the perfect husband or father, and few could call him a friend, but he strived to be there no matter what, whenever he was needed, and in his book, that was important.

Looking back on a life filled with good and evil, he liked to think he did his best but knew there were times when the good angel wasn't strong enough to win. He accepted those moments, but through prayer, he knew he was forgiven.

Looking back on a life filled with ups and downs, he is at peace with his decisions, and his heart is whole. As he looks at his image in the mirror, he sees the age that crept on him with wrinkles, worry lines, and decades of staring at that image, hoping it would smile back.

Mike 2025                                   

 A sailor doesn't just fall in love with the sea; the sea allows it, especially when they are hundreds of miles out, with nothing in sight but the silhouettes of other ships on the endless horizon.

The sea beckons you to go further into the unknown, never knowing what to expect but always being vigilant as you steam forward.

There is no other place on earth where you can witness pods of whales and countless dolphins playing with hundreds of tons of steel as they speed right past you, letting you know your presence is welcome in their world.

Giant turtles and manta rays, some as big as a small car, come alongside the mighty warship that slows to a crawl to witness nature's best and sometimes its worst.

The sea is Mother Nature's kindness. Its glassy water and gentle breezes put you in a state of calm and wonder. But her wrath can be quick and furious, as waves as tall as a ten-story building crash down on the warship, leaving it to bob around like a cork, defenseless and at her mercy.

Sacrifices are few, but men overboard occur more than we care to count as another sailor is pulled into the depths of Neptune's realm. It's been said that some go smiling as their dream of becoming one with the sea is a reality.

Back on land, a sailor counts the days to sail again to unknown parts of the sea and the wonders that await him. He's taken this journey many times and wouldn't change a thing. The smell of the sea and salt hits your face as you look at that endless horizon around you.

I was born to be a sailor and always will be as long as there's a sea to sail and respect to give to the guardians of the deep.

Mike 2025                                          

Grandma's table

 As a young boy, I often stayed at my grandma's house. Usually, after school, I would walk a couple of miles to the smallest house on the block. It was more like a cottage, and everything about it was just like her. She didn't have much of anything new, but having anything at all was good enough for her. She kept the little house spic and span washing her floors on her knees and always a clean cloth in her apron pocket to fend off any dust that tried to get inside.

She loved plants, and every windowsill was adorned with one kind or another that she sang to as she watered. Somehow, I believed they heard her. She had a small kitchen with a red table and chairs with silver legs where we sat as she cut off the tips of green beans. Other times, we'd talk as cookies baked in the oven, making my mouth water.

Later, I learned that her life was hard, and although she was not old at the time, she seemed so to me. I would walk with her to her job in an ice cream cone factory, which filled the air with a sweetness I'll never forget. She held my hand, and we talked about everything, including my biggest wish to ride on the train that passed right in the back of her house.

On my eleventh birthday, she surprised me with two tickets on the Beeliner passenger train. It would be a six-hour ride from Buffalo to Niagara Falls and back. She packed us lunch because the club car was expensive, but I didn't care; I was busy looking out the window at miles and miles of beautiful scenery.

We often spoke at that red table about our adventures and the importance of always learning and exploring. I believe she was my best friend, and to this day, I can hear her singing to her plants and the smell of her perfume as she dusted everything in sight. I could taste her chocolate chip cookies and feel her hand holding mine as we walked to the ice cream cone factory, talking about everything my young mind could think of, and she always seemed to have just the right answers.

Mike 2025                                         

Old wooden coaster

 He stood next to the sign saying, "You must be this high to ride the mighty coaster." Maybe next year, his Mom said, taking his hand and heading for the kiddie park where everybody rode. 

The following year, he did everything he could to grow three inches. He stretched, did pull-ups, ate vegetables, and passed with an inch to spare when the day came to stand by the sign.

Waiting in line to get your turn on the coaster gave you plenty of time to think of a reason to run away as the wooosh of a car raced past you. The sounds of both happy and terrified passengers repeated again and again until the squeaking brakes brought the coaster to the end of the ride.

The moment of truth was when you were strapped in alongside a perfect stranger who would laugh with you, scream with you, and hold on to you for dear life as you raced around the wooden monster's breakneck turns, dips, and overall terror.

For years, you had watched from the ground as seasoned riders raised their hands above their heads, defying gravity and some soiling their pants. You didn't want to raise your arms to the sky, but your new friend beside you made it easy. She grabbed hold of your arm and held it tight, raising both hers and your arms high above your heads, and certain death, or so you thought the first time.

Racing around the track, arms raised, feet lifting off the floor, you felt sick and frightened, yet you couldn't wait for your next ride. You rode the coaster five times that day, each time less terrifying as you reached for the sky around one complete loop. However, the operator told you that you had to keep your arms in the car or be banned from riding again.

As years passed, I must have ridden that thing a hundred times and became known as the coaster king. My picture hung on a signpost where everybody could read my accomplishments. Fast forward to the day my son made the height cut, and the two of us strapped in, waiting for the chain clanking as the first car began the slow climb upward with seconds before the car dove down the track, building speed as it went. I knew every curve, every loop, and every chance to raise my arms and be lifted enough to say a prayer to keep me safe.

It was a sad day when the park announced it would be closing for good. The rides were dismantled, and many were sold to other parks across the country, some as far away as Miami.

But what about the monster coaster? Where would it end up? Once completely dismantled, the massive number of wooden planks and the machinery to operate them were loaded into box cars, the destination unknown. As it turned out, the coaster was sold to Coney Island Amusements, just fifty miles away. Construction took a year to complete, but on the day it opened, my son and I were first in line. Would it be the same as they remembered it being? 

As the coaster climbed to the top of the first hill, he noticed guard rails had been installed around every sharp turn and loop. He didn't understand until he realized this coaster was ten times faster than the first one. Tears rushed across your face, and your skin was pulled back like a crazy cartoon character. To be truthful, I was scared, as was my son, who held onto me as tightly as he could, and even after the ride came to a stop, I had to gently pry his hands off of my arm.

My age prevents me from riding the old wooden coaster anymore, but I take my grandchildren whenever I can. I cheer them on as the chain begins to pull the cars to the top. The voices and screams of excited riders fill the air, taking me back to my youth, standing next to a wooden sign and wishing for three more inches.

Mike 2025                                              

Sailor games

 The ship rolled and pitched its mighty propellers, fighting to make headway in the vast Atlantic Ocean. For three days and nights, even the most seasoned sailors strapped themselves in their racks with no chance of eating, as the galley was a war zone with flying pots and pans, making cooking impossible. But we were an American ship of war, and duty stations had to be manned, even if it meant securing your body to the ship with a rope.

Being hundreds of miles from the nearest port, with sixty-foot waves pounding the ship, was as close to hell as I've ever been. After the end of the second day, the seas settled down a little, but the old salts said it was just a lull and more would come even worse than the first.

With spirits low, an old salt said we should play the blanket ride, which meant sprinkling baby powder along the deck for fifty feet or so and folding a blanket just big enough to sit on. Then, you wait for the ship to climb to the top of a giant wave, holding on for dear life. As it went nose-first over the massive wave, you'd let go and race at a high rate of speed down the fifty feet of the deck like a kid at an amusement park.

It was a lot of fun and took your mind off the severity outside. That is until I was racing down the passageway at breakneck speed, a hatch door opened, and the captain stepped out. I knocked his legs out from under him, and my life passed before my eyes.

He stood there looking at me for what seemed a lifetime, then reached for my blanket, asking me if I thought we had invented that game. The captain rode the blanket game alongside us for the next few minutes, laughing like we'd never heard him laugh.

The seas calmed at the end of the third day, and the storm had passed. The ship sustained minor damage, but we returned to sea after four days in port.

The ocean can be a brutal lady if she wants to, and the things you go through are sometimes biblical. But once you've rung more saltwater out of your socks than most ever will, you may understand why a sailor is always a sailor who listens for the winds to blow and the blankets and baby powder to come out to play.

Mike 2025                                         

Love story

 The stars dropped tears on my heart the day you left my side.

The leaves on the trees quietly fall to the ground, joining you as the sun rises and the moon disappears on another empty day.

Life's colors fade without your love, but memories appear to comfort me and guide me with a whisper on the wind I know is you.

Books have been written about love stories and hearts broken, but I never thought they were real until you were gone, and my heart shattered into a million pieces of sand scattered to the wind and coming to rest on your favorite beach.

I'll grow older without you, something we agreed to do together, but sometimes sorrow steps in, leaving one behind broken with so much more to give. I will move on with baby steps and the belief that we will meet again. I will tend your garden, remember you with every colorful bloom I pick, and put them in a vase to remind me of you.

At first, I thought, how would I ever go on living without you? But every day finds me a little less broken as my sorrow begins to fade. The countless memories fill my heart with joy as I give thanks for all we shared and for the perfect love story ever written.

Mike  2025                                       

Swimming pool

 

    We were one of the first families in our neighborhood to get the latest product for our backyard: an above-ground swimming pool. It was the early sixties, and being middle class meant never being outdone by a neighbor. My uncles owned a toy store in town and worked out a deal with the pool manufacturer to provide them with three pools of different sizes that they assembled in the back of the store. Once filled with water and the filter system running, they put an ad in the local newspaper with pictures of the pools and an invitation to come and have a swim. People came by the dozens to try out the pools while my uncles took orders that surpassed their wildest dreams.

Soon, neighborhoods all over the town were dotted with pools, and summer fun had a whole new meaning. Kids who didn't have a pool went to friends who did. Moms became lifeguards, and each day, the sound of Marco Polo filled the air, leaving a scar in my ears that I carry with me to every pool and waterpark. Dad proclaimed Sunday family day in the pool as we swam and played while Kids watched from behind the fence, looking like lost puppies, but Dad stuck to his guns.

I remember Mom and Dad swimming late at night, talking in whispers, enjoying the pool without kids, and that obnoxious sound of Marco Polo. As summer came to a close, the pools were partially drained and covered with a tarp until late spring, when the fun began again, but with one exception. Pool Decks. People started building wooden decks with plenty of room for lounges, tables, and spacious areas to lie on a towel and soak up the sun. Every deck was more lavish than the others and soon became like a cruise boat deck. It was out of control.

However, as kids grew up and moved away, the backyard pools were replaced with public pools where dozens of kids could swim and meet new friends. Those backyard pools were hardly used in most cases, and some were destroyed by winter weather, taken down, and trashed.

I loved our pool and the fun it brought for many summers, but if I never hear another Marco Polo again, that's fine with me.

Mike 2025                                                            

                        

Petting Zoo

 A whiff of lilac washed over him in the air, bringing back a memory of long ago. It was a springtime day, and rebirth had begun. Wildflowers bloomed in the meadows into a rainbow of colors while trees dressed themselves in leaves, and the cry of a newborn calf as a mother's love echoed throughout the barn and fields.

They built the farm together as newlyweds with great hopes and visions of what would come. He toiled the soil, and she made a house a home, working together as they always had. Their favorite time of year was spring, and every evening, they sat on the porch holding hands like young lovers, smelling the air as the lilacs bloomed and washed over them like a gentle goodnight.

They were never blessed with children, but the farm had become a place where school kids came to learn about the animals and soon became known as the farmers petting zoo. It wasn't something they had planned. It just took shape over time and brought them great joy and happiness.

He remembers how good she was with the children. She showed them how to feed the baby goats from a milk bottle and brush the horses, all with love and tenderness. He could see her this springtime day, letting the kids reach into a pail of chicken feed as the hungry chicks chased them around and around for their morning meal.

When the school bus left, the children waved goodbye until they were out of sight, and she joined him on the porch with a smile as big as Texas. I feel so blessed, she told him as she held him close, the scent of lilacs in her hair along with a few strands of wheat that made her more beautiful in his eyes.

We've been very blessed to have hundreds of children at the farm, some sending thank you cards that she treasured all of her days. When she passed, he couldn't imagine the farm without her, but he kept the petting zoo alive until the work became too much for a man of his age.

Nowadays, he still sits on the porch, looking out at the empty barns and hoping for a whiff of lilac and the sounds and smells of spring, which were all a part of their life working together as they always had.

Mike 2025                                              

Mighty Niagara

 The mighty Niagara River flowed through my hometown on its way to Niagara Falls. As kids, we played on and in the river far enough from the falls, but we were always careful to stay diligent, as many people lost their lives as the rapids swept them up and over the mighty waterfall.

         I was about ten years old when I saw my first boat race. It was a weekend event when speedboats nationwide came to the Niagara River to compete. These powerful boats with over one hundred fifty mph speeds made my heart race and my imagination right alongside it. I was determined to build my speed boat, and with the help of a couple of buddies, we did just that in my garage. Using discarded wood from the city dump and an outboard motor that I found in my grandpa's garage, who said he doubted it would run, but to go ahead and try, we worked on that motor for days until one Saturday, my dad offered to help. He worked on it, telling us he built a speedboat when he was about our age, but back then, motors weren't as powerful, and he barely got it over ten mph.

We finally finished the boat using old and new parts, put it on another garage-made trailer, and headed for the river. Dad came with us in case we needed help, and I'll admit I was glad he came along.

We intended to launch a good mile above the rapids in case the motor died, giving me time to paddle back to shore or jump out and swim. Once in the river, I started the motor, which roared to life and was ready to go. I started off slow to be sure we had no leaks, then gradually throttled down, and the small craft leaped forward with a roar of the motor, making me sure I was going to pee myself.

I was already half a mile from the falls when the motor sputtered and quit running. I frantically tried starting it but with no success. All I could imagine was going over the falls. About then, I heard my dad calling me from shore, holding a rope he tossed to me, which I missed several times, still getting closer and closer to the rapids and certain death. It hit its mark on the fourth throw, and I grabbed hold until my hands were raw.

Dad pulled me to shore, where I caught my breath and smiled. I told him and my buddies that it really went fast and that I couldn't wait to try it again.

When Mom found out, there were no more rides. She didn't speak to Dad for a week, and every time she walked past me, she rubbed my hair, claiming she thought she'd never see me again. But you can't keep a man determined to speed across the water stuck on land. At Seventeen years of age, I built another boat. But this time, I built it in the wood shop at school with help from my shop teacher and my mechanic's teacher. It took all winter to complete just in time to race my first race as soon as the ice broke free and spilled over the falls.

What a day it was when six other boats and mine competed for the trophy and five hundred dollars for first place. The horn sounded as dozens of people watched the boats shoot forward, and the race was on. Around the course, we raced neck and neck with four boats stalling out of the race, leaving me and two other racers to see whose boat was the best.

One more lap around the course, and it was down to me and one more boat. I gave my motor one last burst of speed, and the boat sped across the finish line as the crowd cheered, with my dad's voice being the loudest. That first race led to many others, as my need for speed stayed with me well into adulthood. Eventually, I got a sponsor and drove some of the fastest boats ever built. I won most of the races I competed in and finally retired early to be with my wife and kids.

That mighty Niagara River didn't claim me, but I wasn't going to chance it ever again. Well, almost never. My son and I built his first speed boat in my dad's garage, who sat with us, offering tips on how to avoid the mighty Niagara.

Mike 2025                                                   

The neighborhood

 The woman slowly went about her business, cleaning away yesterday's dirt and dust. Truthfully, you could eat off her floors anytime and come up with a clean mouth. She was old school and then some, a mother, a grandmother, and a wife whose husband left her when the wrinkles became too noticeable.

Like many women in the old neighborhood, she started her day early, sweeping the front walk and the three steps leading to the front door. She smiled at her neighbors and waved to the milkman, who would pick up her empty bottles and replace them with fresh milk, which she mainly used for cooking.

Today was Saturday, and the sounds of husbands mowing grass or fixing a car would soon fill the air. The smells of breakfast would be gone, only to be replaced with the smells of dinner already being prepared. She missed those days that time took from her, but she had her memories to join her for dinner, and she was thankful.

She loved summer nights when the windows were open, and a slight breeze came through her house, carrying the voices of neighbors playing a game of cards or singing some favorite songs. Two doors down, the newlyweds, dancing to the music they loved and holding each other close, brought tears to her eyes as she remembered her happiness from a long time ago.

Tomorrow, she would attend mass at the Holy Name of Mary a few blocks away, where she would walk, stopping along the way to chat with a friend and share the news of the neighborhood. Eventually, she would climb the steps into the church she was married in, where her children were baptized and made their first holy communion. A place where she came to pray with others and when the church was empty as she thought God would hear her better.

On the third Sunday of every month, her children and grandchildren gathered at her house for dinner. It felt so good to have a lively house again, with children's laughter and adults catching up on life, mostly about things she had no clue about. But they were all there sitting around the family table, which was all she ever wanted or needed. Her daughters offered to help her clean up, but she refused, saying she liked doing it, and they should gather up their kids and head for home, a good one-hour drive away.

The house returned to quiet as she finished cleaning the last plate. Exhausted, She reached into a cupboard and took down a half-drunk bottle of whiskey. She poured three fingers from the bottle and drank it, wincing at the taste but welcoming the peaceful feeling it gave her. Tomorrow, she would clean the floors and sweep the steps, saying hello to her neighbors and waving to the milkman, who she sometimes wished would stay just a little longer. Maybe another time, she said to herself, maybe.

Mike 2025                                                           

Allans Bar

 The old bar sign was faded and hanging from rusted chains. The glass windows were yellowed and cracked, like the old man going through his everyday tasks behind the bar his father built decades ago in a once-thriving lumber port. His name was Allan, as was the bar that once filled the place with hardworking men who would stop in on their way home for a cold mug of beer and conversation. Today, like most others, the place is empty except for old Rudy, Allan's best friend of sixty years, if you can imagine that. Rudy would be dropped off by a friend who gave him rides here and there, reminding him he'd be back at six o'clock to take him back to the place he was forced to live so his children didn't have to take care of him.

Rudy and Allan didn't speak much anymore. After all, what could be said that hasn't already been said?

Allan was eighty-seven years old, and let it be known, he had no intentions of retiring and selling the bar. He had several offers, but he waved them away, telling them the bar was his home and, in his case it was as he had an apartment upstairs that he had lived in for sixty years. He stumbled up those stairs back in the day more times than he could remember after a night of fun among his many patrons and friends.

Walking into Allans Bar, the first thing you encountered was the smell of old wood and stale beer. The walls were filled with pictures of the olden days, showing workers at the lumber plant as hardworking men who made a decent wage enough to spend a few dollars at their favorite establishment.

When I started going to Allan's place, I was drawn in by the history of the building itself, an actual work of art built by some of the best woodworkers of their time. Carved railings and the bar itself, a forty-foot piece of red maple sanded a dozen times and varnished to perfection, were the highlights. The wall in the back of the bar contained small wooden pigeon holes that each held a bottle of booze lit up with soft lighting. There was a brass foot rail that Allan polished every day and twenty-four wooden stools, with many having to be replaced over time as some were thrown in anger at someone who disagreed with the day's politics and others that just wore out.

My dad would sometimes bring me with him after a Saturday haircut, sitting me on a stool so I couldn't touch the floor and getting me an orange crush that would keep me busy for a few minutes. I loved talking to the old guys, who always had a story to tell me, and slipping me a quarter to play the old jukebox Allan had put in at the request of many customers. As I became a man and could leagaly drink Id go to the bar and help out by changing taps and putting the empty kegs in the back to be picked up by the brewery. Sometimes, I tended the bar and let Allan have a well-deserved rest while he and Rudy did a couple of shots and tried to think of something to say.

One time, I went to the bar. A sign was on the door saying the bar would be closed in memory of Rudy, who passed away sitting on his favorite stool with his lifelong friend Allan by his side. Allan changed after that like a lost puppy. He went on with daily chores and made sure the brass rail was polished and the woodwork shined, but his heart wasn't in it anymore. And one year to the day, Allan fell asleep in his upstairs apartment and never woke up.

The bar he loved so much went up for auction, attracting people from miles around to bid on the contents he had saved for almost seventy years. Nearly everything was bought in the end, leaving the bar empty and cold. I drove past the old place and saw a for-sale sign had been put up, so I called the broker, who told me the place needed a lot of work and could be purchased fairly cheaply. It didn't take me long to buy it.

I honored Allan by refurbishing, not tearing down, and did this with the help of the old woodworkers' sons, who learned the trade from their fathers and grandfathers. When completed, it was like walking into Allan's bar on the first day he opened so many years ago.

Well, as for me, I live upstairs now and sometimes swear I hear his voice thanking me for saving the bar he loved so much. Today, it's a busy place most days, and it's me telling the stories of Allans Bar to tourists and locals, all curious about its history. The story I love to tell revolves around the two stools roped off so nobody can sit in them. They were the stools Allan and Rudy had sat in for sixty years, talking about everything under the sun like best friends do.

Mike 2025                                           

Dirt roads

 As a young boy, I was fascinated with heavy machinery, such as tractors, bulldozers, excavators, and big trucks, to name a few of my favorites. On the side of our house, Mom told me I could play with my machines but not dig too many holes, as that's where She would be planting her tulip bulbs as soon as the first frost arrived.

I used the dozer for hours to clear my little patch of land, smoothing the dirt and piling it into a fair-sized hill. I wanted to make a culvert from one side of my road to the other because I knew if it rained, I'd be washed out and couldn't get to the other side.

I found a soda can in the trash and carefully cut off both ends to make the pipe my excavator would position in the river bank, diverting the water so the road wouldn't be destroyed. It was hard work, and when Mom called me in for lunch, I got out of my dirty coveralls and saw her smiling as she asked me how things were going on my land. I've had a few problems with my machinery, but I fixed them, and the work was right on schedule.

I dug and dug, hoping maybe I'd find gold, but when I hit a water line, I filled the hole with dirt from my hill and moved on to dig somewhere else. Sometimes, a neighborhood kid would stop by asking if they could play with me and my machines. Although I was hesitant at first, they usually got the hang of things, and my patch of land grew bigger and bigger until I had made roads and laid culverts as well as stockpiled small mountains of dirt.

It was nearing supper time, and Mom called me inside to get washed up. Dad would be home soon, and I couldn't wait to show him my project. The three of us went outside to see what had taken me all day, and both Mom and Dad's jaws dropped at the sight before them. I had built a replica of a project I saw on the television and somehow remembered it and recreated it right down to the soda can culverts and winding roads, all perfectly cleared and ready for the big trucks to haul it to the waiting piles of dirt.

Dad asked, " What are those holes?" I looked at my mom and told her they were the holes in which she could plant her tulip bulbs perfectly spaced apart. On the first day of frost, Mom, with her bulbs and me, with my dozer, carefully filled the holes and smoothed out the dirt. 

Springtime arrived, and the tulips came out in the colors of a rainbow, which made Mom smile and softly say they would not have been possible without me and my machines.

I played with my machines until one day when I expected them to be gone. I put them away in the garage in a box labeled Mike's machines, hoping that one day, my son would find them and start his own dirt roads using my old dozers and machinery that now looked so small to me.

Mike 2025                                              

Wasaga Beach

 As a child, I dreamed about summer vacation. It was a time when the whole family jumped into a fully packed station wagon and headed for a week-long adventure. One of my favorites was a place called Wasaga Beach in Canada. It was a mile-long beach where you could wade out a hundred yards or more and have water to your knees. It was a parent's paradise because we couldn't pass the red markers into deeper water. I remember my dad would carry me on his shoulders, venturing past the markers into the depths of the lake I feared to go. Once the water reached his shoulders, he launched me into the air, leaving me on my own to swim back to the markers and the safety of the sandy bottom. His way of teaching me to swim.

Wasaga Beach had an old boardwalk built long before I was born, and I remember it always looking like it needed a paint job. There was an arcade filled with games of chance and pinball machines that all took quarters to play. I had to be careful because Dad gave each of us a twenty-dollar bill that had to last the week. I was usually broke on the second day.

There was a horse barn where you could take a trail ride. The guy giving the tour told everyone to duck their heads when reaching the barn, as the horses knew there was food and water waiting for them, and they took off running to get there. Now, I can't explain why I didn't duck my head. I thought I was small enough in the saddle to avoid the barn doors. I was wrong. I spent the rest of that day in the motel with ice bags on my head and no desire to take any more trail rides.

As years passed and I welcomed my teenage years, trips to the beach became more of a place to meet girls and show off my diving skills. There were bonfires where kids would gather around to get to know one another, and if I were lucky, I'd meet someone with whom I'd spend almost all my time stealing kisses under the boardwalk by the moon's light. But like all good things, the day would come when our week was over, and saying goodbye with a promise to write and hopefully see each other next year. That rarely happened.

My memories of Wasaga Beach have always stayed with me. I have a postcard hanging on a wall with a picture of the boardwalk and the arcade welcoming you to the best beach on the lake. I have to agree.

Mike 2025                                                   

My orchard

 Back in the days of youthful wonder, I reached deep into my bank of memories and recalled a world when the small things that brought joy stayed with me until they were put on paper for everyone to see.

Mike 2025

I had my own orchard growing up. Juicy plums and red apples, pears, and crabapples nobody cared much for. Rows of trees I would climb to check out the progress but never hurrying it as the reward was in the waiting and just the right moment when I heard a slight thud as the first ripe plum hit the ground. I'd climb down and wipe the plum on an already dirty t-shirt until the deep purple fruit shined like a new Chevy.

The seasons played an essential part in my orchard. The winter months meant bare trees and no fruit. Springtime brought apple blossoms and rain to nourish the bounty that waited just a few weeks ahead. The summer months meant my favorite plums and pears, which I ate until my stomach hurt, and Autumn gave me the most delicious apples mom used for apple pies and turnovers and the best applesauce in the world.

As decades passed, I grew older, as did the trees in my orchard. Eventually, I moved away but returned as a man to visit that old house I grew up in and the rows of fruit trees that now stand old and tired, much like myself. They don't bear fruit anymore and will soon be nothing more than a memory that one winter storm will knock to the ground from which they came.

I took one last walk through the rows of trees, smelling the fruits that were there only in memory, saying goodbye to a young boy's quest for a purple plum he would polish on his T-shirt until it shined like a new Chevy, and above all, a young boy's adventures watched by his mom, looking out at her son collecting fruit in a dirty T-shirt filled with the fruits of his love.

Mike 2025                                               

Seasons of my life

 The first days of Springtime mean opening windows to let out winter's stale warmth as the embers in the fireplace smolder until gone for another few months. The spring flowers awaken under the last patches of snow, echoing children's laughter of one more sled ride down the hill with small patches of snow remaining as the champions of snowball wars claim victory until next winter.

Springtime brings showers that cleanse the earth and wake nature from her winter nap. Before our eyes, the magic happens as Leafless trees bloom a million buds, exploding into life, sheltering us from the summer heat and giving sanctuary to the birds and small animals of the woods.

Like most good things, Springtime is short-lived, giving way to summer heat, backyard cookouts, and patched-up swimming pools we hope will last one last summer. 

It's evening strolls, ice cream cones you eat too fast, and brain freeze that bring laughter to those around you. It's the ride man cruising the neighborhoods in his homemade Ferris wheel that cost a quarter well spent.

Summer is the beach, the park, and the millions of stars in the sky you try to count sitting on your roof. It passes too fast as the cool nights of autumn rush in, and a visit to the pumpkin patch to score the perfect one is a family affair. Autumn is Halloween when corn husks adore doors. It's apple cider, pumpkin pie, and warmer jackets. It's giving thanks for a bountiful harvest and praying for a gentle winter.

Winter can surprise us as we wake up to a blanket of white we did not see coming, creating a mad rush to put on our warmest clothes and rubber boots, trying desperately to be the first bootprints of winter to set foot outside. It was sledding down the biggest hill, ice skating on the pond Dad made, and laughing at one of your siblings whose snot froze onto his mittens.

Every season had its own meaning, and speaking for myself, it was very hard to decide which I liked more. But to this day, even though I traded the seasons for one long summer, I'll always remember the times spent when the seasons changed and dazzled me with all the joy my heart could hold.

Mike 2025                                               

Where do I go today?

 I like to believe that there's a memory behind every wrinkle. The deeper the wrinkles, the clearer the memory.

Mike 2025

Where do I go today? Old age has caught up with me, and most of my travels are done in the comfort of my home. The glorious thing about memories is that you can call upon them anytime to come out to play. Just close your eyes and feel yourself soaring high into the sky on your backyard swing. No fear as the poles come out of the ground, and you give it one last push and become one with the sky.

Where do I go today? Into the belly of the destroyer, where I lost my childhood and charged head-first into manhood. I went to ports of call where history books I had read just a few weeks ago became real, and when I found myself so far from home, I wondered if I'd ever see American soil again.

Where do I go today? Maybe to my wedding day, if I can remember it through the blood-stained eyes of last night's bachelor party, which left no stone unturned. Throughout the years, I stopped and smiled as another memory came out to play with an old man who never grew too old to imagine.

Where do I go today when so many memories compete for a place at today's table? How do I quiet them down, those memories trying to outdo the others for my attention? That answer comes with sleep as I doze off for the third time today, choosing just one memory to dwell on.

Where do I travel in my dreams when so many places are yet to be revisited? I go home, where the best memories of all wait for me, as family and friends beckon me to follow them into my most profound memory of them all.

Mike 2025