Grandads farm

 His kids would be coming by today with little ones in tow. They loved the farm and told him he must be the farmer in the book their Mom read to them before bedtime. But they asked why Grandad's name wasn't McDonald's?

He was ready for them with ice cream churned this morning and chocolate chip cookies still in the oven. But the real fun began with a tour of the barn and a carrot for Danny, the miniature donkey, some feed for the chickens, and most fun of all, jumping out of the hayloft into a wagon below stacked with hay.

Lunch was simple, consisting of ham sandwiches and ice-cold lemonade that he had made with real lemons. Afterward, it was time for driving lessons on the old tractor, the same one he had taught his kids to drive, and for the older boys, a turn at the combine they had been waiting for, what seemed like forever, to arrive.

He and his kids sat on the porch, watching as their children chased the chickens, played fetch with the dogs, and made short work of the plate of cookies. As the day went on and the kids grew tired, it was time for a bowl of ice cream, which was eaten on the porch in silence as every last scrap of the bowl was consumed. And now it was time to say good night.

Goodbyes were said, and hugs were given, with a reminder from Mom to thank Grandad for everything. He stood on the porch as the last little face pressed against the car window disappeared into the distance, then began the task of washing dishes that his daughter had offered to do, but he was pretty direct when telling her he'd do them.

As night arrived, he sat in his favorite chair, remembering the day and the happiness on the children's faces. He remembered the talks he had with his daughter and son, telling them he was considering selling the farm. But his daughter said he'd been saying that for ten years. He fell asleep with a half-eaten bowl of ice cream on his lap and a picture his granddaughter drew for him, featuring Danny the donkey and a title that read "Old McGrandad's Farm."

Mike 2025                                                   

The front porch swing

 He often finds himself slowly swinging on the wooden swing he made for her decades ago. It was a place where laughter and tears came together, a sanctuary from the rain, a spot for savoring iced tea in summer and steaming coffee to watch the winter sunrise.

The swing had secrets, and rightfully so, as it was the one place where emotions coupled with unspoken words seemed to soothe and relax to the sound of the squeaking swing.

Apologies were made, love professed, and holding hands in silence, the warmest feeling in the world.

She would sit there, slowly cutting off the ends of snap peas, looking out at the place she called home. The sights and smells of the farm, along with the rocking in the chair, brought her great comfort as she laughed a little, watching him kick the tractor that obviously wouldn't start.

Her entire world could be seen from the swing he made for her so long ago.

Now alone, he had no words to express how much he missed her and their times swinging together. A simple thing that told their life stories one chapter at a time. There are moments when he leans against the railing, looking at the empty swing, stopping for a minute to picture her there smiling and cutting snap peas, professing her love for him as he lets the tears flow and whispers I love you too.

Mike 2025                                                     

                              

Unforgetable moments

 The young man skipped rocks across the pond he had grown up by that seemed so small now. The trees he once climbed have lost their branches to age, and a frayed piece of rope, once a tire swing he would swing on, dropping into the cool waters of the pond, was now just a memory of his childhood.

He walked into the woods past the old bridge, where he had kissed his first girlfriend, who ran away afterward, he guessed, to tell her friends. He couldn't walk on it anymore as time had given it back to nature, but that couldn't stop the memories.

He scanned the tree line, looking for his old tree house, and finally spotted it a far cry from its beginnings, with a couple of boards still hanging by a thread as the rest had fallen to the ground, taking it with it the summer nights with his friends reading comic books with flashlights and scary stories that remained with them for quite a while.

His mind raced as he remembered the first fish he caught and a broken arm he got from falling out of that tree house. He remembered the smells of the woods and the night sounds that sent chills down his spine. He remembered Mom's apple pie and Dad's Captain Black pipe tobacco, which he could close his eyes and smell for a passing moment.

Fresh-cut wildflowers and fireflies in mason jars. Homemade kites and freshly churned ice cream on a hot summer night.

He emerged from the woods as the sun began to set, and the man in the moon lit his way home. I never thought a visit back home would bring back lost times so vividly, but they did, and I made a promise to myself to take the memories with me, no matter where my journey leads.

Mike 2025                                                

A writers life

 Growing older and writing can sometimes be a challenging combination. It's like a race to see who retains the most memory before the story comes to an end.

That never-ending search for the oftentimes elusive word or sentence screaming to get out and me screaming when it does.

Writing as a younger man had few distractions; a clear mind came easily, and the words followed.

How do I describe in detail what I want to say if I keep being interrupted by words begging me not to be left behind?

How do I pull back memories buried so deep inside of me that they stay locked up as if they never happened?

Writing is like many other crafts that flourish at the beginning but lose their brilliance over time. But we keep on trying, as quitting isn't who we are. We dig deeper and try to relive our past, grateful that we could and hopeful we still can.

This world we live in is a million stories waiting to be told. AI will write some, and those with average intelligence, like my own, will continue to reach into our hearts, minds, and souls to bring words to life in ways an algorithm cannot.

The life of a writer can be described as someone who sees with their eyes and their heart, writes with their emotions, and touches their readers with memories they had all but forgotten. I don't believe any computer can replace someone who can pluck a word from the depth of a soul and craft a story.

Mike 2025                                                

First kiss

 Everyone remembers their first love and their first kiss, which you can still taste if you close your eyes and remember.

Mine was at a Friday night football game. We were both fifteen and on our first date. After being scared to near death when meeting her Dad, we held hands and walked to the school stadium. I had never held a girl's hand, and I can honestly say it sent shivers up my spine. We found seats high in the bleachers and sat so close to each other that we barely needed two seats.

I didn't know what was happening with the game as all my attention was on her and her gloved hand holding mine. She said she was cold, so I wrapped my jacket around her, and in doing so, I just reacted and kissed her. She didn't pull away but returned my kiss, her warm lips and the taste of cherries pressed firmly against mine.

That first kiss was one of hundreds as our teenage love blossomed into a love like I've never known since. Today, decades later, I often think of her and our first kiss on those cold bleachers. Her hand in mine and the taste of cherry forever on my lips.

Mike 2025                                                     

Milk can stories

 Raindrops fell into an old milk can with something growing in it. I don't know what. I liked how it looked in the milk can, so I just let it do its thing. It reached a point where people who saw it commented on how unusual and pretty it was. When asked what it was, I told them it was a story plant. They would say, 'Very nice.

I spent many hours of my adult life writing stories about various things, and I usually wrote on the front porch, as it was a soothing place with views of the hills and endless forests, all of which were topics for the stories I loved to write.

I decided my porch needed more milk cans, so I found some at a farm that was no longer in operation and offered the farmer five dollars apiece, which he agreed was fair. I set them on the porch with the original can I've had for many years, giving them time to grow into something, and I didn't care what it was. It didn't take long, and sprouts began to show, trying to turn into something no one could put a name to. Some say they were weeds that sustained themselves on the dried milk inside the cans.

Others said they were air plants that didn't need soil to grow; that was interesting. In time, each milk can had blooms of all shapes and colors, and people kept coming to my porch to see these strange and beautiful plants.

Each plant told me a story about someone or something  I found interesting, and I ended up including them as a character in my writing. One after another, characters were born sitting on my porch, and stories were written. The milk can stories began with one milk can and dozens of people from all walks of life freely sharing their stories with me for reasons unknown. 

Maybe it was the way they just were, or perhaps the milk cans reminded them of something on their granddad's farm. I don't know. I do, however, know I was inspired to write more stories and buy more milk cans.

Mike 2025                                                      

Bank on it

 She walked slowly down the dirt driveway to the mailbox as the postal worker waved. She waved back and smiled a smile nobody would see. Junk mail and a utility bill were all for today, so she put them in the pocket of her apron and started the long walk back home. 

What would this day bring, she asked herself, looking up at the sky, which was turning gray. Maybe some rain, she said out loud. We can use a good soaking you can bank on that.

Back in her kitchen, she sat down with a mountain of snap peas that needed tending and a batch of biscuits that wouldn't make themselves. Her grandson was coming for dinner tonight, so she wanted to make all his favorites, something she had not done in a while.

With everything in the kitchen under control, she got herself ready, putting on that new dress she had splurged on a while back. Her granddaughter's christening, if she remembered right.

A quick bit of dusting and some fresh wildflowers put in her favorite vase, and she was ready.

He arrived right on time with a box of chocolate-covered cherries, her favorite. She hugged him, amazed at how he had grown since their last visit. They ate dinner, talking about his life in the city, but not much about her, as her life hadn't changed in too many years to count.

Time flew, and he said he had to get back home, thanking her for the dinner and all his favorites and, of course, the leftovers she packed for him.

She stood on the porch waving until he was out of sight, wondering how long it would take for him to eat another biscuit. She got started on the dishes, even though he offered to help more than once, but she told him it gave her something to do once he left.

Sometime late into the night, she awoke to rain pounding on the roof, a sound she had always liked. Maybe a good soaking, she said out loud. We do need it, and you can bank on that.

Mike 2025                                               

In a dream

 In a dream, I was walking down a long, dusty country road. On either side, fields of wildflowers stretched as far as the eye could see. Bees buzzed on a mission, and small swarms of butterflies gracefully danced across the air.

In the distance stood a once-proud house now beginning to crumble as its last days were numbered. I heard the voice of what could have been an angel singing softly, alone in her thoughts. I got closer, noticing she wore a white linen dress, and her hair was long and curly like Shirley Temple's all those years ago.

I stood firm on the dusty walkway, rubbing my eyes to see if she was real or just my imagination playing tricks on me. She was putting cut wildflowers on a worn-out trestle, aged and paintless like the rest of the small house. They're beautiful, I said as she continued to sing softly, taking a moment to smile at me, which found its way straight to my heart.

I didn't want to walk away, but my feet began to move, and she grew smaller until she was out of sight. Her song stayed with me throughout the darkness of the night, when everything was quiet until tomorrow came again.

Mike 2025                                                        

The treasure fence

 I see a lot of myself in my son, that long-legged whisp of a boy who stole my heart so many years ago. We used to walk the beach, collecting treasures from the sea and taking them home to what we called our treasure fence: discarded flip-flops, a child's scuba mask, frisbees, and chewed-up tennis balls. Colored pieces of glass worn smooth by the tides and lengths of a ship's rope so heavy it took both of us to drag it home. There were countless broken fishing poles and nets, coolers covered in barnacles, and sunglasses galore.

Over time, the fence evolved into an attraction, and people from the neighborhood brought us their beach finds, which we added to our treasure fence. One day, when he was in his teens, my son chose friends and skateboards over our walks on the beach. Although I was disappointed, I was happy to have had those times and even more proud of his accomplishments in life.

One day, as I was taking a ride through our old neighborhood, which I often did, I came upon our old house and saw a large pile of items at the curb waiting for the garbage truck. It was our treasure fence that was replaced with a metal one, which was cold and boring. I told my son what I had seen, and I believe I saw a look of sorrow on his face. It's okay, Dad he said. I still have fond memories of our walks and treasure-hunting, which I'll cherish for a long time.

I still walk the beach, although a lot slower, but it gives me plenty of time to look for treasures both in the sand and within my heart.

Mike 2025                                 

Zore Vally revisited

 The smell of the ground and the air takes me back to my youth when I became one with nature. The hills and valleys called me to a place so rich in beauty that it took my breath away. The smell of campfires and weed filled the valley with a veil of smoke that seemed to hang in the air and then disappeared into the colors of the sky.

Music surrounded me as guitars and flutes serenaded me as I walked from camp to camp, stopping every so often to accept a hit off a joint and share conversations. There was no anger in the valley, no tears of sadness, only tears of happiness, realizing I was free in body and mind among those like myself who traded the noise of the city for the music of the crickets and songbirds.

I can hear the roar of a waterfall and see people bathing under it naked, a place where nobody judged, nobody stared, and nobody cared if you were too skinny or too fat as long as you were you, and that was the beauty of it all.

Dozens like myself stayed in the valley all summer while others came for a weekend and then left for the comforts of four walls and running water. They sat in their houses passing a joint and telling each other they were true vally people. I'm not judging.

Zore Valley was a light show at night, as fireflies were placed in mason jars and carried around the valley like a string of tiny headlights. Cris crossed beams of light leading in circles as a dancer or two showed off their skills far away from the lights of Broadway.

Those times in Zore remain vivid and strong, as other memories have faded and names have been lost. I am too old to return, knowing these feeble legs couldn't scale the hills, and I don't want to give up my bed for a tent pitched on the hard ground. But those days and friends who shared the adventure of Zore Valley will understand why I want my ashes to be set free across the valley like a veil of smoke reaching for the colors of the sky with fireflies guiding the way.

Mike 2025                                        

Journey at sea

 Sailing on the endless sea, my legs must learn to walk again. Leaning like the tower of Pisa, each movement with the water soon becomes normal. No more sunscreen for this weathered face, as each wrinkle was a testament to my days at the helm, not to be forgotten.

As gulls pass by on their journey and the dolphins entertain me, I am content.

As nightfall creeps upon me, I'll find a secret cove where I'll anchor and stretch my sea legs with a walk on white sand sparkling with the sun's last beams of light. I'll build a small fire to cook the fish I caught trolling a line behind me, savoring the gift given by the sea.

I'll fall to sleep listening to the trees blowing softly and the mermaid's call, waiting for my return.

The morning sun warms my face as I awaken to blue skies and calm seas. My boat bobbing up and down, moored in the distance, awaiting my return, anxious to keep going toward my final journey. I swing my pack across my shoulders and wade into the cool water, walking softly so I won't scare up a skate.

Reaching my boat, I climb on board and make a cup of coffee, gently rocking, careful not to sip when a wave comes in. I attend to the rigging and pull anchor, slowly motoring further out into the channel, my roadway of water going where I tell her to go.

Weekenders pass me by on jet skis and power boats, pulling daredevils who jump the wake of larger vessels. A temporary distraction until  I reached the inlet and hoisted the sails, taking me out to sea in a vision of white cloth filled with salt air heading out once again on a journey that's eluded me until I realized my happiness was stronger and with more meaning when all I ever needed was a salted weathered face and winds in my sails.

Today, I test my skill as a sailor as I venture further out than I've ever been. The waves grew higher, and the gusts were enough to force me to hold on tightly, but there was no fear, no turning back, only the ride of a lifetime as sails tore and flew like a sideways flag off to battle.

My eyes stung, and breathing became difficult as Mother Nature threw me everything she had to offer.

The sun came out, and gray skies were replaced with a beautiful blue. The winds lay down, and the sea turned to glass and gentle sailing. I traveled further out, where most have never gone on a small boat, but something beckoned me, and I listened.

A pod of whales broke the silence, their young beside them, seeming not to care I was among them as they forged for food. A giant man of wars got close enough to touch as huge turtles bumped the boat. Seeing how I reacted, then swam away, realizing  I was no danger, just another sea creature traveling the open waters of a world not fully known.

Stories are told about the sailor who found true happiness on his small boat, which he sometimes moored and swam ashore to meet the people of the villages, some of whom had never had visitors until he arrived.

Some years later, a group of marine biologists came across a tattered sailing boat washed up on shore and broken. There were no hull numbers to identify the vessel, so they left it where it laid a refuge for birds when the sun bore down.

As for me, I walk the deserted shorelines each step closer to returning to sea, and the mermaids that never gave up Id someday return.

Mike 2025                                                 

The hat

 He proudly wore a now-tattered ball cap a young man returning home from the war had given him. He remembers the day well: sitting at the bar of the VFW, attending a Memorial Day gathering with others like himself who were lucky enough to march home, and remembering those who didn't. A young soldier pulled up a stool and glanced his way with a painted-on smile and hollow eyes. The soldier removed his ball cap and set it on the bar, staring at it deep in thought. This was my brother's hat. He said he wore it every day over there. The old veteran looked at the hat with its frayed edges and stains of war, wanting to say something, but words wouldn't come. I want you to have it he said, handing the hat to him and getting up to leave. Why me, he asked. The soldier stopped and turned to the old Vet. I've honored my brother every day just as we honor all who gave their life for our country on this day. I'm sure you lost brothers as well and think about them every day. Please honor them by wearing his hat, and when you see another vet who lost someone, no matter when or where, pass it along as a reminder that we will never forget them. The old Vet wore that hat proudly for several years, telling the story of how he got it and the day he gave it to another young soldier with a painted-on smile and hollow eyes.

Remembering all who paid the ultimate price of freedom on this Memorial Day and every day a soldier doesn't march home.

Mike 2025                                                        

Memorial Day 2025

 His beard was long, and his hair was silver. He wore a baseball hat that read, "Bring them all home," even though he knew that wouldn't happen.

As he prepared for the wall's arrival, he shined his boots this morning. He put on the same jacket he wore over there. It was old like him but a memory of all those years ago.

He sipped a cup of coffee, remembering his lost brothers, and proudly shed a tear. Today, he would lower the flag to half-staff as taps were played, and hundreds of veterans would begin the quest to find the names of loved ones, friends, and the thousands and thousands of brothers who never made it home.

When the wall came to town every year, it was a special day for him. He always ran into a couple of buddies he served with as they welcomed each other home, swapping stories of shattered hearts.

Those who found the names they searched for left hundreds of items on the ground. Flowers, coins, pictures, medals, poems, and more were put into a box and traveled with the wall to the next stop along the way. He wondered what happened to all of those things but never really found out.

The wall was a reminder of how many soldiers, airmen, sailors, and marines closed their eyes forever, giving their lives for their country and a nation that took decades to honor them. Now we are old, but we never forget. The music of those times filled the air, and lost friends were found among the sea of tattered and too-small uniforms. The sounds of helicopters from that era fly overhead, and another sound of war to try and forget again.

He was one of the last to leave as the wall was packed up and moved to the next town, where more boots were shined, and memories were laid on the ground—a simple gesture that meant so much.

But what about the one hundred thousand plus who have never been found, who leave behind friends and loved ones to wonder? He believes some stayed behind by choice and are scattered throughout the jungles, only wanting to be left alone with their demons. We honor them as brothers to the end.

Some gave some, and some gave all, but everyone gave a piece of themselves that will never be forgotten.

Welcome Home.

Memorial day 2025

Mike                                                     

Acceptance

 There are no more questions, just acceptance and patience as the hourglass nears the end of its sand. A trillion galaxies will have a beginning and an end, with questions being answered that have eluded us for a lifetime.

As the darkness gives way to brilliant light, our soul proclaims victory, having survived the journey of a trillion stars, each a small piece of eternity, a guiding light force, a pathway to happiness we earned through suffering, pain, and even doubt.

Instantly, you realize the meaning of your time on earth was leading to your final journey, leaving behind all of your lives, each another chance to live up to the expectations of eternity. There is no death until it's proclaimed, and trumpets sound the start of your run to the finish line.

Words will never be enough to explain heaven, nor will it ever allow you to understand it in all its glory.

You become one more soul in an endless place of beauty, joy, and not a pinch of doubt, which you now leave behind with your final breath. I'll see you there one day, all the souls who left me in this and every life I lived. I will embrace you and remember you as I become one more star to be gazed upon by my children's children and more.

Mike 2025                                                         

Hard times

 Little dust tornadoes popped up as drought claimed the crops again this year. Farming was all we knew on land; my great-grandpa settled long ago. Daddy did everything he knew how to do, and seeing him feel so low made me want to cry. There were four mouths to feed, and Momma did her best with what we had, mostly potatoes and small game if Daddy or Junior got lucky and shot something.

We sold off everything we could, usually at the market in town, which every first Saturday became an auction. I knew it bothered Daddy to part ways with his Daddy's tools, but he said they were just objects, and selling them meant more food on the table. Momma parted with a quilt she made, with my sister Mary's help, and she cried, wrapping it in old newspapers, hoping it would go to a good family.

I had nothing to give besides who would want a pair of worn-out shoes or a toy gun Grampa carved for me on my tenth birthday. I helped Daddy load up the old truck, pouring in the last of the petrol he had saved for a rainy day, and today was that day. Momma had made four potato pies, and Daddy's final donation was four beautiful wooden chairs he had made with his Daddy that lay under a tarp in the workshop, only to be sold when all else failed.

The market was packed with trucks lined up and goods displayed as the better-off folks walked around, occasionally finding something they liked and insulting the seller with a ridiculous offer. Momma's pies always sold quickly, fetching two dollars apiece, but the beautiful quilt went unsold as it was worth ten times the offers she was getting.

Daddy saw a well-dressed couple standing by the four chairs, and he went to them, explaining that all the beautiful details were like something they'd never seen anywhere else. They offered forty dollars for the chairs, and Daddy had no choice but to accept.

We had forty-eight dollars, enough for food and seeds he would plant in the spring. I would get a newer pair of shoes, which Momma found for three dollars, but I hated getting them. I told Momma I'd rather go barefoot, but she bought them anyway.

Daddy walked down the street to the petrol station, filling the can with enough gas to get us home and a little leftover for the tractor. As he was headed back, he saw Momma running towards him with a smile on her face. She told him she had sold the quilt for forty-five dollars. We had made a small fortune that day, and Daddy took us to the bakery, telling us to pick out one thing. My choice was a jelly-filled donut, and Mary chose a cream-filled one. We savored every bite as Momma and Daddy went without knowing every dollar was needed.

We sang songs on the way back home, each of us happy but sad. Family heirlooms had gone to other homes, but I'd always feel great pride knowing my parents' sacrifices gave us a better life. "You can't eat a chair, can you?" Dad asked. And you can't use a quilt for kindling, Mom chimed in.

The following year, the crops flourished, and Daddy sold almost ninety percent of his crop to the mill for more money than ever before. The bad times were gone, replaced with plenty of food and full pantries. Daddy and I painted the house and the barn, and he taught me to make chairs like his Dad taught him. Momma continued teaching Mary how to quilt, and I put a tarp over the four chairs, never knowing when I might have to sell them. But not today and not tomorrow, because to me, they are a constant reminder of the sacrifices my parents endured to give us the best possible life they could provide.

Mike 2025                                                        

When the pen runs dry

 There will come a time when my pen will run dry, with no tears shed. The thousands of words that found their way into my mind and heart will live on somewhere in a cloud, only to be retrieved by curious minds. 

Will my work be known as mediocre, or will it stand out from others, as I planned it to? Did my stories touch those who read them in a special way, my way? Did my readers become a part of my words, even momentarily, when everything came alive as they found themselves deep into the story's meaning?

If I had to choose one reason I write stories, it would be because I can. It is truly a gift from God that I don't take for granted. When people comment on my words, they tell me it takes them back to their youth, when life was simple, and everything that mattered was treasured. Some thank me, while others say the emotions they felt when reading brought a smile, a tear, and a peaceful feeling they longed for in today's hectic world.

If I made one person happy with a story, then I've accomplished my goal. I'll keep writing until the pen runs dry and my mind and heart bid farewell, giving way to a new generation of writers who use AI and Google to find the words needed to create something cold with little emotion that didn't come from the heart or the streets. Just an edited splash of words that could never compare to stories told and stories kept.

Mike 2025                                                    

Four friends forever

 It was 1963, and to us, fun was everywhere we could find it. Four of us were aged from the youngest at ten, and two at eleven, with our leader at twelve. I suppose we were like sheep following him to places our parents told us to stay away from, like the steep river banks and the rocky quarry where we'd wait until everyone was gone home, and we'd walk our bikes up to the top of a giant hill and speed downward, screaming at the top of our lungs. Usually, our leader made it down the hill while the rest of us faced plant and picked out chunks of gravel from torn-up knees.

I won't say life was boring without video games or countless movies. We didn't know any better, but someday, not so far away, we would wonder how we lived without all that technology. But way back when, we devised our adventures, like making the entire block go dark by landing the perfect kick on the light pole to cause it to go out for a few minutes before coming back on. Sometimes, we all connected at once, and the entire block went dark. It was all just fun and games until we saw the lights of a police car coming our way.

Life was full of adventures, and we weren't too shy to try any of them. Like seeing who could walk out the farthest on a frozen pond. Little did we know that at least one of us who went first would fall through while he laughed and laughed as we hurried home to thaw out.

1963 became 1967, and our bikes were left in the garage as we rejoiced at our new friend, our leader, who got his driver's license and a hunk of a junk car that always seemed to run out of gas. We'd pool our change, ending up with enough to put another dollar in the tank and another few hours of cruising down the boulevard, looking for girls who looked away and giggled.

The four of us grew up and went our separate ways. A couple off to college, another off to war, and I tell stories about my youth and four special friends who kept me laughing.

Mike 2025                                               

Mothers Day forever

 I see your face often, Mom, and it never seems to age. It could be because I'm looking at your senior yearbook picture from when you were just a child growing up too fast. I have it on my fridge door, along with a collage of family photos, some yellowed by time. It's as if all those pictures tell a story that I try to relive each time I open the fridge door.

Time stands still with every photo taken, as does my heart when I see your face, that beautiful face I looked up to from my first breath and every breath thereafter.

You were always the one who truly knew me for who I was, encouraging me to fulfill my dreams and never stop reaching for the stars. I never did stop reaching Mom and my memories of your words made many dreams come true.

Time has eased my broken heart, but I'm often reminded of you when I hear the first songs of a robin or smell the Jasmine in bloom. I hear your laughter and feel your gentle touch, which comforted me when my young life was hurting.

I miss you and will always think of you whenever I open my fridge and see your beautiful smile.

Happy Mother's Day in Heaven

Mike 2025                                                      

The ride man

 On any given summer evening, the sound of the ride man coming down your street meant begging Mom for a quarter, only to be told to ask your father. As he fumbled in his pocket, your anticipation grew, wondering what ride it would be: the whip, the Ferris wheel, or your favorite, the bumper cars.

As the music grew closer, a small crowd gathered, and suddenly, the bright blue truck appeared. "What genius thought of this?" Dad would say. "Is it a darn gold mine?" Another dad chimed in. To my disappointment, it wasn't the bumper cars this time, but the whip was more than good enough.

The ride man opened the gate and collected your quarter until the whip was full, then closed the gate. Pulling on a lever, he started the ride as kids screamed with excitement with every twist of the whip. One good thing was that the ride man let you ride for a long time while he talked to the parents, especially the Moms.

As the sun began to set, he turned on the colored lights, which made the ride even more fun. But like most things, the ride ended, and the ride man waved goodbye until the next time he came down your street. Those special moments on any given summer evening have stayed with me all these years as I look down the street for the bright blue truck that I wish would be the bumper cars.

Mike 2025                                            

The tracks

 As a kid, I often found myself alone. My best friend had moved away, and the only other kids I knew were from school who lived a bus ride away from my house in the country. I didn't mind it so much; it was like I was the only kid on earth with too many adventures to recall.

One of my favorites was long walks on the railroad tracks, often from first light to sunset. I'd pack a couple of PBJs and a canteen slung over my shoulder, which was filled with Kool-Aid.

At the tender age of eleven, I took my longest walk, which I guessed to be about twenty miles. The tracks ran for hundreds of miles, cutting through farmlands and thousands of acres of forests. Every so often, they ran through a whistle-stop of a small town where I'd step off the tracks and pay a visit to old Mr. Lang, who ran a country store. He had a cooler outside where, for a quarter, you could get an ice-cold Coke or a push-up ice cream, and if he was in a good mood, he'd invite me to sit and tell me stories of his life. One hot afternoon, he told me the story of a hobo who passed through there twice a year, once in the Spring heading North and once in the fall heading South. A down-on-his-luck kind of guy, I said, but Mr Lang shook his head, saying No, he was one of the happiest fellows he had ever known.

I continued my walk, waiting to hear the far-off sound of a train whistle approaching at a high rate of speed. It told me it was the twelve o'clock freight train bound for the big city. I put my ear to the track, growing louder with every passing second. Then, as I'd done a hundred times, I got off the tracks and waited to see the mighty engine closing in on me. Smoke filled the air as the black monster was feet away, the noise deafening as I held my hands over my ears. Each car sped past until the caboose, which was the last thing I saw, disappeared, and all was silent again.

When the day came for me to graduate high school, I had only one plan: I would ride the train to the end of the line, a place I'd never seen in my longest walks on the tracks. I packed up some food and a canteen of Kool-Aid, then hid in the bushes until a slower freight train drew near. I saw an open door and ran to it, hoisting my bag into the box car and jumping on board.

Words can't explain the feeling of sitting on the floor with my legs dangling out of the car, watching the scenery change with every mile. Sometimes, other men would jump on board, meaning me no harm as they fell asleep on their way to someplace I'm sure I'd never been.

I spent two years riding the rails, seeing beautiful scenery, and meeting new friends. Somewhere along the line, I became a hobo who wanted nothing more than to see where the tracks led.

On my way back home, I visited old Mr. Lang. We sat on his porch eating ice cream push-ups, and he begged me to share my adventures, which I did. His smile got bigger with every story I told.

I went home and continued my schooling, landing a job on the railroad, working my way up the ladder, and becoming an engineer on the freight line that took me past Mr. Lang's country store, where I'd blow the whistle, knowing he was smiling maybe because he knew his dream became mine and dreams do come true.

Mike 2025                                                    

When life was for the young

 Long ago but never forgotten, children played on the tire swing like he did when life was for the young. Endless summer days were spent by the creek, cooling off in the cold water and swinging on a rope somebody put up when life was for the young. 

Lemonaid stands by the foot of the driveway, yelling at every passing car, but few pass by, and interest is lost. Saturday afternoons at the roller rink and sometimes the movie theater for a marathon of favorite cartoons when life was for the young.

Rainy days reading comic books, wishing you were Superman, Batman, or any superhero as you wrapped a sheet around yourself, trying with all your might to fly as Dad yelled from downstairs to quit bouncing on your bed when life was for the young.

Walkey-talkies for you and your best friend next door talking past bedtime hidden under the sheets with a flashlight that showed bat wings on the ceiling, a mail-order light you saved up for that seemed like forever to arrive.

The absolute joy of the holidays when everything was magical and colorful, and I never wanted it to end, but it did, and life moved forward. No more lemonade stands or Saturday cartoons. No more Batman flashlights and walkie-talkies, all replaced with hanging out with friends, hoping that Maryann would say yes to be your prom date when life was for the young.

Playing Army in the backyard with sticks for rifles was replaced with basic training in a place you'd never heard of, and rifles took the place of sticks. You were sent off to war where life as you knew it was thousands of miles away as real bullets flew in all directions, and you prayed like never before that it would end.

Decades passed, and time caught up with you. Good and bad memories became constant reminders of moments that made you who you were when life was for the young.

Mike 2025                                               

Broken hearts

 He sat on the edge of the bed they shared for sixty-three years. In his hands, he held their wedding picture, now yellowed with age but still expressing the love they shared on that day and thousands more to come. He glanced at her vanity and dust-covered bottles filled with perfumes. Most were still full except for her favorite, which He couldn't bear to throw away, fearing he would never smell her scent again. He ran his hands across the quilt she made, feeling her presence in every stitch as another tear fell, joining countless others spilled in this room.

It's been decades since her passing, and not a single day passes that he doesn't come into this room and sit on the edge of their bed. He doesn't sleep in there anymore because he knows sleep will never come, so he wanders the halls until his memories go to sleep, and he lies his head down on the couch they sat on together, talking, maybe watching some TV but always together.

There are no words to explain a broken heart unless you've experienced one. It's a great void with no end in sight—darkness that doesn't let in the light and the never-ending times you still hear her voice, feel her touch, and smell her favorite perfume. A broken heart will remain broken until you're joined in a place where you're young, and life has just begun.

Mike 2025                                             

Kitchen window

 Standing at her kitchen window, she looked outside, remembering days and decades past when her children played, their voices still echoing in her ears. She stood alone, the quiet only broken as a flock of birds headed South to escape the coming cold of winter.

Her tulip bulbs were planted, each one receiving a word of encouragement as she felt the rich soil one last time until winter's harshness gave way to spring's rebirth.

She didn't mind being alone most of the time as she had her chores to keep herself busy and her memories to fill the emptiness and quiet. She sometimes thought she was being punished for something and her sentence was life alone, but those thoughts left quickly when the phone rang, and her eldest child called to say hello.

She stood at her kitchen window and wiped away a tear rolling down her weathered face, knowing that one day, another Mom would stand where she once did, watching her children play as a sudden feeling she couldn't explain came to rest upon her heart.

There will be no more kitchen windows, no more stirring memories, and no more being alone as she stands in a field of tulips surrounded by family and friends with open arms.

Mike 2025                                              

Where do I go today?

 Where do I go today? To whom do I think about and put into words? Where in this endless world of ideas will I stop and push pin the exact location where the story is born? What period will enter my mind? Will it be the twenties or thirties, maybe the seventies, when life was filled with colors and wildflowers? Everything is a story waiting to be written, like pairing lyrics with melodies.

Will I task my memories with choosing who, where, and when the story will begin and end? Or do I wing it and see what transpires? Where do I go today as my fingers await a command to start, and my mind and heart obey?

A story is nothing more than a fleet of ideas crowding my mind that could explode if not written and, even worse, forgotten forever. Telling stories to me is as personal as the words themselves jumping off the paper and speaking to me.

So where do I go today? I don't know yet, but I'll get there as the rhythm of the keys pounds out words that will join other words as a story emerges. And a huge smile crosses my face, knowing I know where I'm going today.

Mike 2025                                                

Patchouly

 Sitting on a bar stool alone with my thoughts, I was brought back to reality by the smell of Patchouly. It's been a while since I smelled that scent and even longer since I would drown myself in it. I remember back in the 70s, nine out of ten so-called hippies smelled like that magic oil. During those years, I was a free spirit who grew my hair and wore tie-dyed t-shirts. I had a fringed jacket and a small bottle of Patchouly in my pocket. My jeans were hardly ever washed, and showers were few, so every so often, a dash of the magic oil was dabbed on, and all was good.

As I scanned the bar, my eyes stopped on a lady sitting alone in a booth, and I knew I had to meet her. As I approached her, she smiled and softly said, "Yes, it's Patchouly." She wore a free-flowing dress with dozens of bracelets. Her long silver hair shone like moonlight, and her skin was tanned by many the summer suns.

She asked me to sit, asking the waitress for another glass. "How about a glass of Boons Farm?" she asked. "Goofy grape?" I asked. Strawberry Hill, she replied. We finished that bottle, and I felt like I was in a time warp, that all those years behind me had resurfaced right here in the booth.

I can picture you, she said, with long hair, tie-dyed shirts, probably jeans that needed washing, and, of course, a small bottle of patchouli tucked away in a pocket. Am I right? She asked. You are, I replied. And what about you? I began. I bet you live in a cottage with a beautiful garden tucked away in the woods, with the birds singing and the small creatures coming to you without fear. You make candles with the scent of lilacs, jasmine, and Patchouly that you sell at the farmers market. Am I right? I asked.

She said we're a dying breed. Many free spirits have left this earth, and those remaining try hard to hold onto the lifestyle we so loved. Homemade tye-dyed shirts and living in the woods all summer have been replaced with weekend trips to the markets and roadside stands where they point and laugh at the likes of me. But they have money to spend, so I smile and wish them peace.

We sat in that booth until closing, afraid this could be the last time we felt full again. Our memories of those happy times would someday leave us as we went our separate ways, leaving behind empty bottles of Boons Farm and the lingering smell of Patchouly.

Mike 2025                                            

Was I dreaming?

 She came to me in a dream, or so I thought. She was nothing more than a white light with no form or substance, just a voice without a face. I was sleeping yet wide awake as she told me it was all right and not to be afraid. I couldn't answer her even though I heard my voice saying I was not scared of dying.

A constant buzzing sound filled my room like a swarm of bees in quiet mode. It was relaxing and soothing to me in this confusing moment. Time was lost as seconds turned to minutes, and others joined us, each with the voice of a loved one soothing and peaceful in these unexplained moments.

Was I dead? Did I pass in my sleep? Or was it just a dream, a prelude to the real thing? Then I woke up, and my room was empty except for me and the occasional buzzing of a bee outside my window. I lay in my bed, remembering everything in detail. I felt like I was chosen to cast away all doubts of heaven and hell existing. How could I not believe it now?

My life continued, and I chalked it off as a powerful dream with images I couldn't stop seeing and voices that cut through silence without speaking.

Was it a dream? I don't think so. I want to believe they were here to give me a glance of time after death and to fear nothing as eternity awaits me, and I am okay with that. After all, the alternative is something I'd rather not see.

Mike 2025                                                  

Natures Symphony

 She sat on the porch alone, slowly rocking back and forth to the rhythm of a songbird. Where are you? she spoke, scanning the land she so loved. Where are you hiding? She wondered as the nature symphony played on.

She stopped rocking for a minute and then started again, this time to a faster rhythm. Soon, the sounds of the leaves blowing through the trees joined her, and the crickets chimed in. An owl began to hoot, and a distant clap of thunder kept the beat.

She enjoyed her nature symphony so much, a gift from God, she thought. Soon, rain began to fall, and the tin roof became its own band, drowning out everything else. Thunder could be heard in the distance as the last flash of lightning requested an encore.

She got up from her front-row seat, breathed the sweet air, and went inside. Closing the door behind her, she wondered if nature's symphony would be back this way anytime soon.

Mike 2025                                                  

Springtime splendor

 A springtime shower cleansed the remaining patches of dirty snow, leaving behind a pathway for new growth.

Windows are opened, saying goodbye to winter's recycled air and filling the house with the sweet smells of Spring.

Children jump in mud puddles as barking dogs join them, giving in and rolling in the puddles to the children's delight.

As the rain stopped and gave way to sunshine, the silence of winter was replaced with the sounds of birds singing and all the beautiful songs of Springtime in the valley.

Soon, tulips and wildflowers will bloom, and once frozen ponds will thaw. New life will be welcomed as proud mothers care for their young everywhere, from barns to forests.

Roller skates and bicycles replace ice skates and sleds as once-frozen fields turn green, and baseball takes center stage.

The splendor of Springtime is so short-lived. It is a time for rebirth, reflection, hope, and faith for what lies ahead as springtime shoots become the year's crops rooted deep into the nourished land.

I'll never grow tired of Spring, like an artist's pallet of colors splashing beauty across the land.

Mike 2025                                            

Easter memories

 My sisters were dressed in their Easter outfits, mini versions of moms, and me in a suit soon to be outgrown. A family picture with the Easter bunny will find its place in the photo album and other memories throughout the years. I remember once the picture was taken, Mom told us to hang up our Easter clothes as we'd be wearing them tomorrow for church.

On a springtime day in my youth, colored eggs were hidden, as were our baskets overflowing with colored foil goodies, jelly beans, and one larger-than-life chocolate bunny that Mom cut into chunks and froze for an occasional treat long past Easter.

As a family, we made our way up the stone steps of the church, careful to avoid the last remaining piles of snow that could ruin my sister's Easter shoes. 

The church was a splash of colored dresses and Easter bonnets. The smell of flowers mixed with perfumes and aftershave was almost too much to bear. People smiled at each other; some you knew, and others were just filled with the spirit of the day.

Even at a young age, my attention to the priest's words stayed with me throughout the day and beyond. While some gathered outside after the service to chat and catch up, I chose to wait in line to receive the priest's blessing. I told my mom it made me feel closer to God.

Back home, we changed our clothes as Mom made us brunch, and we emptied our baskets, trading different-colored jelly beans and other goodies buried in the fake grass.

Amped from eating too much candy, Dad told us to go outside and burn off the sugar we'd eaten. So, putting on warm clothes, we jumped on half-frozen puddles and made snowballs out of dirty snow, which would be the last snow we saw for a while.

Later, Easter dinner, which included a huge ham and all the trimmings that took up the entire table, was enjoyed along with laughter and another family memory in the making.

I hope your Easter is filled with new and old memories and a freezer full of chunks of chocolate to be saved for another day.

                                            HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE!

Mike 2025                             

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