A frozen new year

 He waited in his car, then, forgetting his manners, hurried to the door. Running, he slipped on the ice and fell face-first. He quickly stood as the door opened and she appeared, hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. He was often clumsy, the butt of jokes, but she loved him with all his quirks. Arm in arm, they carefully crossed the icy path, skaters in their own duet. Once in the car with the heater blowing as good as it got but better than out in the frigid temperatures, he looked at her and suggested that maybe tonight they should stay home. It's already been a circus, he said, and I for one don't want to chance sliding off the road into a ditch where nobody would find them until the plows went by and plowed them over. Well, she said, how about we dress a lot warmer and walk? He pondered that for a minute, asking himself what could possibly happen, and came up with several reasons: walking was a bad idea.

First, one of them could slip on the ice and break something, or both could slip and be left to freeze to death while waiting to be rescued. A car could veer off course and hit them, or a giant icecycle could fall from the power poles and hit their heads, knocking them unconscious. And besides, what was so important that they had to risk limbs and pain and even frostbite? But she ended the discussion as they dressed in cold-weather gear, looking like Michelin men on their way to the Arctic.

Slowly walking into the freezing wind, the cold sneaking in the cracks of their snow suits, they went forward. I can see their house she said as she took his hand in hers and finally reached it with no time to spare. You made it the lady at the door said, and look at you, giant frozen marshmallows. It took them a minute to get out of their gear, then they greeted the other guests, mainly from the neighborhood.

At the stroke of midnight, New Year toasts were made as the party went on until early morning, when they donned the Michelinmen suits and braved the walk home. I'm a little hungover, he said as he slipped on a chunk of ice and went face-first into a snow pile. She bent over to help him, and she too slipped on the ice, landing on top of him. Both lay laughing so hard that tears froze running down their faces. Just another New Year's party in Buffalo, where the chicken wings were plenty, and nothing would prevent you from an open bar and good friends.

Mike 2006               

                                                                   

One to remember

 He had all but convinced himself to stay home on New Year's Eve. He was getting too old to handle the noise and the crowds of revelers; he didn't even care for thunder, and at one time, he loved it. When Mrs. was with us, they'd dress up and go to the VFW who put on one hell of a party. They danced to a live band and rekindled old friendships, some of whom were men wanting to cut in, and no wonder she was a real beauty. His neighbor of fifty-some years told him he should go and could share their table, but he declined with thanks, saying he would be staying at home, and if he could stay awake long enough to watch the ball fall, well, that's what he'd do.

He had stopped at the corner store and bought a bottle of not-so-known champagne and some flowers, which probably wouldn't last one day. which he put on the table next to two glasses he was certain she would be a little upset about, as they were their wedding glasses, she had kept all those years.

As the time wore down and midnight fast approached, he opened the champagne and poured two glasses, hoping maybe she was watching over him. He closed his eyes and heard her laughter and saw her smile as they glided across the dance floor, never wanting the night to end.

He must have dozed off and awoke to fireworks outside his door, horns beeping, and people shouting a new year has arrived. He softly toasted her and gently clinked their glasses as he professed his love for her every day of the new year.

Mike 2006-almost

                                                          

Saying goodbye to Christmas

 The embers have stopped glowing in the fireplace, and stockings have been taken down and stored as another Christmas says goodbye. Once full tins of cookies are now just crumbs, and the fruitcake is still untouched. Presents are put away, and the ornaments from another perfect tree are boxed and stored in the attic. The furniture is placed back where it belongs, as the tree leaves a trail of needles from the house to the curb. You take a moment to stand in the cold, looking at it, bringing back recent memories and memories from the past, all leaving you with a smile and a shiver as you head back inside.

There's a certain kind of sadness as Christmas ends for another year, but we carry it in our hearts every time we see another tree being dragged to the street, lights taken down, and house after house deflated Christmas figures lie on the ground like fallen soldiers. Then comes New Year's Eve, when it's dress-up time to ring in the new year. Some will party with the crowds of revelers, while others spend the night at home sipping their beverage of choice, waiting for the ball to fall, dressed in their new pajamas received at Christmas.

New Year's Day and sleeping late. Football and more football and a sense of hope that even one New Year's wish comes true. Then it's back to school and work, exchanging stories of gifts received and slowly getting back to the grind of life after the holidays. I wish all of you a very happy and prosperous 2026, filled with hopes, dreams, and everything good that's coming your way.

Mike -2025-2026                                              

Surprise guest

 He walked into the bar with his guitar in hand. He was a tall man with a beard and long hair. No one seemed to notice him as he blended in with the crowd. He saw a few bikers throwing down shots and a couple playing pool. ZZ Top was on the jukebox, and the smell of cigarettes and stale beer behind the bar was all too common for him. He went to the bar and asked for the manager, and the guy behind the bar said he was the manager, the bartender, and the cook when he felt like cooking. Names Ben, he told the stranger. Well, Ben, I'm looking for a gig for a night or two and was told you might be interested. Ben wiped down the bar as a biker chick elbowed her way in and asked for three beers and three shots of whiskey. So what kind of music do you do Ben asked. Mainly my own songs, but I can play just about anything requested. Ben slung the bar towel across his shoulder and pointed to a cage around the small stage. You see that he asked the stranger thats to protect the entertainment from getting hit with beer bottles if the crowd didn't like his music. The stranger was silent for a minute, then asked for the chance to play that night. Well, if you're not what they like, I can't be responsible for any injuries you may sustain. Pays one hundred from nine to closing. One fifty, the stranger said, and we got a deal.

He had time to kill, so he found a diner and had a meal. As he ate, he looked through his notebook of songs he knew well and others he was still working on. He made a list he thought was worthy of any audience, and in the case of this bar, he knew he better play what they liked. His waitress brought him a piece of apple pie and said, "Anyone facing what you're about to face deserves a piece of pie." What gave me away, he asked. She pointed to his guitar case, smiled, and walked away. When he walked back into the bar, he noticed a lot more people than before. A dozen bikers who were clearly in charge and groups of rowdy drunks pushing their way through the bar, hoping somebody was brave enough to fight. A minor scuffle was happening by the pool table, and two bouncers threw them out onto the street with a stern warning not to come back in. There were scantily dressed biker chicks watched closely by their men, and one small pat on the but or groping them in any way would probably end up with those farm boys on a one-way trip in the meat wagon.

The stranger took the stage, and it took a few minutes to notice him as he tuned his guitar, looking over the crowd that kept growing until Ben put a guy at the door letting some in as others left. Day drinkers, he thought to himself. He spoke into the microphone as it squealed, so he distanced himself from it and introduced himself to the uncaring crowd. " What's going on he asked in a booming voice that drew some attention from the crowd. I go by the name John, and I'm here tonight to play for you. Oh yeah, asshole, well, quit talking and play. How about you start with some ZZ Top? I can do that, he replied. His fingers glided across the frets with such precision that the crowd went almost silent as John's booming voice rang out the song, "She's Got Legs."No bottles were thrown, just whistles of approval and a never-ending stack of requests. When he had finished his first set, John went to the bar, greeted with a huge smile by Ben, who said he had never seen anything like that. Not one bottle was thrown, and no fights either. He cut short his break as the crowd chanted his name over and over until he walked back on the stage to do his second set. Much like the first set, he was bombarded with requests, but one particular song was requested by dozens of people. The devil went down to Georgia. He knew the song well, and each time it was requested, the crowd knew it took a fiddle to make it sound right, and this was their chance to launch bottles when John blew it. What happened next is still talked about.

The song started out with John making his guitar sing as he sang the words to perfection.  When it was time for the devil to play, John worked his guitar magic with a slide and his extraordinary talent, playing what sounded like a fiddle. The crowd went crazy, and Ben just stared at him, wondering what planet he came from. As the night came to an end, John had exhausted his playlist and dozens of requests. Almost everyone wanted to buy him a beer, which he politely refused, as he hadn't touched a drop for five years. Ben paid him the one hundred fifty as agreed and also did something he'd never done in all his years running this place. He gave John half the tips, which meant another two hundred dollars. So you'll be back tomorrow he asked John. Deals a deal, see you tomorrow.

Outside and around a corner, John climbed into a limo. " How did it go his driver asked. Well, he said everything went well. The rest of the band will fly in tomorrow. He told John, "What are you going to do about playing here another night?"I'm going to give them a show they will never forget. The following night, as John was greeted with hoops and hollers welcoming him back, five other men followed, carrying guitars and other equipment. " What's all this Ben asked I can't afford all of you. On me, John said. They set up their equipment as customers watched, wondering what was happening. But they didn't have to wait long before they heard the guitars' screams and the drums' beat as the band tuned up. John grabbed the microphone and drew everyone's attention. Hello, friends he began. I'd like to thank you for hearing me play last night, but I got to thinking: if you liked just me doing my thing, then I knew I had to bring my entire band here to play for you. So, without further delay, may I introduce my real name, which is John Melecamp, and my band.

That old biker bar with all its charms became well known for the story of the John Meloncamp band.  Dozens of pictures lined the walls, and every time they were around those parts, he made a stop to visit Ben and some of the same bikers he had become friends with. It still smelled like cigarettes and stale beer, occasional fights, and everything else that inspired him to play music.

Mike 2025                                              He walked into the bar with his guitar in hand. He was a tall man with a beard and long hair. No one seemed to notice him as he blended in with the crowd. He saw a few bikers throwing down shots and a couple playing pool. ZZ Top was on the jukebox, and the smell of cigarettes and stale beer behind the bar was all too common for him. He went to the bar and asked for the manager, and the guy behind the bar said he was the manager, the bartender, and the cook when he felt like cooking. Names Ben, he told the stranger. Well, Ben, I'm looking for a gig for a night or two, and I was told you may be interested. Ben wiped down the bar as a biker chick elbowed her way in and asked for three beers and three shots of whiskey. So what kind of music do you do Ben asked. Mostly my own songs, but I can play just about anything requested. Ben slung the bar towel across his shoulder and pointed to a cage around the small stage. You see that he asked the stranger thats to protect the entertainment from getting hit with beer bottles if the crowd didn't like his music. The stranger was silent for a minute, then asked for the chance to play that night. Well, if you're not what they like, I can't be responsible for any injuries you may sustain. Pays one hundred from nine to closing. One fifty, the stranger said, and we got a deal.

He had time to kill, so he found a diner and had a meal. As he ate, he looked through his notebook of songs he knew well and others he was still working on. He made a list he thought was worthy of any audience, and in the case of this bar, he knew he better play what they liked. His waitress brought him a piece of apple pie and said, "Anyone facing what you're about to face deserves a piece of pie." What gave me away, he asked. She pointed to his guitar case, smiled, and walked away. When he walked back into the bar, he noticed a lot more people than before. A dozen bikers who were clearly in charge and groups of rowdy drunks pushing their way through the bar, hoping somebody was brave enough to fight. A small scuffle was happening by the pool table, and two bouncers threw them out onto the street with a stern warning not  to come back in. There were scantily dressed biker chicks watched closely by their men, and one small pat on the but or groping them in any way would probably end up with those farm boys on a one-way trip in the meat wagon.

The stranger took the stage, and it took a few minutes to notice him as he tuned his guitar, looking over the crowd that kept growing until Ben put a guy at the door letting some in as others left. Day drinkers, he thought to himself. He spoke into the microphone as it squealed, so he distanced himself from it and introduced himself to the uncaring crowd. " What's going on he asked in a booming voice that drew some attention from the crowd. I go by the name John, and I'm here tonight to play for you. Oh yeah, asshole, well, quit talking and play. How about you start with some ZZ Top? I can do that, he replied. His fingers glided across the frets with such precision that the crowd went almost silent as John's booming voice rang out the song, "She's Got Legs."No bottles were thrown, just whistles of approval and a never-ending stack of requests. When he had finished his first set, John went to the bar, greeted with a huge smile by Ben, who said he had never seen anything like that. Not one bottle was thrown, and no fights either. He cut short his break as the crowd chanted his name over and over until he walked back on the stage to do his second set. Much like the first set, he was bombarded with requests, but one particular song was requested by dozens of people. The devil went down to Georgia. He knew the song well, and each time it was requested, the crowd knew it took a fiddle to make it sound right, and this was their chance to launch bottles when John blew it. What happened next is still talked about.

The song started out with John making his guitar sing as he sang the words to perfection.  When it was time for the devil to play, John worked his guitar magic with a slide and his extraordinary talent, playing what sounded like a fiddle. The crowd went crazy, and Ben just stared at him, wondering what planet he came from. As the night came to an end, John had exhausted his playlist and dozens of requests. Almost everyone wanted to buy him a beer, which he politely refused, as he hadn't touched a drop for five years. Ben paid him the one hundred fifty as agreed and also did something he'd never done in all his years running this place. He gave John half the tips, which meant another two hundred dollars. So you'll be back tomorrow he asked John. Deals a deal, see you tomorrow.

Outside and around a corner, John climbed into a limo. " How did it go his driver asked. Well, he said everything went well. The rest of the band will fly in tomorrow. He told John, "What are you going to do about playing here another night?"I'm going to give them a show they will never forget. The following night, as John was greeted with hoops and hollers welcoming him back, he was followed by five other men carrying guitars and other equipment. " What's all this Ben asked I can't afford all of you. On me, John said. They set up their equipment as customers watched, wondering what was happening. But they didn't have to wait long before they heard the guitars' screams and the drums' beat as the band tuned up. John grabbed the microphone and drew everyone's attention. Hello, friends he began. I'd like to start by thanking you for hearing me play last night, but I got to thinking: if you liked just me doing my thing, then I knew I had to bring my entire band here to play for you. So, without further delay, may I introduce my real name, which is John Melecamp, and my band.

That old biker bar with all its charms became well known for the story of the John Meloncamp band.  Dozens of pictures lined the walls, and every time they were around those parts, he made a stop to visit Ben, and some of the same bikers he had become friends with.It still smelled like cigarettes and stale beer, occasional fights, and everything else that inspired him to play music.

Mike 2025                                     He walked into the bar with his guitar in hand. He was a tall man with a beard and long hair. No one seemed to notice him as he blended in with the crowd. He saw a few bikers throwing down shots and a couple playing pool. ZZ Top was on the jukebox, and the smell of cigarettes and stale beer behind the bar was all too common for him. He went to the bar and asked for the manager, and the guy behind the bar said he was the manager, the bartender, and the cook when he felt like cooking. Names Ben, he told the stranger. Well, Ben, I'm looking for a gig for a night or two, and I was told you may be interested. Ben wiped down the bar as a biker chick elbowed her way in and asked for three beers and three shots of whiskey. So what kind of music do you do Ben asked. Mostly my own songs, but I can play just about anything requested. Ben slung the bar towel across his shoulder and pointed to a cage around the small stage. You see that he asked the stranger thats to protect the entertainment from getting hit with beer bottles if the crowd didn't like his music. The stranger was silent for a minute, then asked for the chance to play that night. Well, if you're not what they like, I can't be responsible for any injuries you may sustain. Pays one hundred from nine to closing. One fifty, the stranger said, and we got a deal.

He had time to kill, so he found a diner and had a meal. As he ate, he looked through his notebook of songs he knew well and others he was still working on. He made a list he thought was worthy of any audience, and in the case of this bar, he knew he better play what they liked. His waitress brought him a piece of apple pie and said, "Anyone facing what you're about to face deserves a piece of pie." What gave me away, he asked. She pointed to his guitar case, smiled, and walked away. When he walked back into the bar, he noticed a lot more people than before. A dozen bikers who were clearly in charge and groups of rowdy drunks pushing their way through the bar, hoping somebody was brave enough to fight. A small scuffle was happening by the pool table, and two bouncers threw them out onto the street with a stern warning not  to come back in. There were scantily dressed biker chicks watched closely by their men, and one small pat on the but or groping them in any way would probably end up with those farm boys on a one-way trip in the meat wagon.

The stranger took the stage, and it took a few minutes to notice him as he tuned his guitar, looking over the crowd that kept growing until Ben put a guy at the door letting some in as others left. Day drinkers, he thought to himself. He spoke into the microphone as it squealed, so he distanced himself from it and introduced himself to the uncaring crowd. " What's going on he asked in a booming voice that drew some attention from the crowd. I go by the name John, and I'm here tonight to play for you. Oh yeah, asshole, well, quit talking and play. How about you start with some ZZ Top? I can do that, he replied. His fingers glided across the frets with such precision that the crowd went almost silent as John's booming voice rang out the song, "She's Got Legs."No bottles were thrown, just whistles of approval and a never-ending stack of requests. When he had finished his first set, John went to the bar, greeted with a huge smile by Ben, who said he had never seen anything like that. Not one bottle was thrown, and no fights either. He cut short his break as the crowd chanted his name over and over until he walked back on the stage to do his second set. Much like the first set, he was bombarded with requests, but one particular song was requested by dozens of people. The devil went down to Georgia. He knew the song well, and each time it was requested, the crowd knew it took a fiddle to make it sound right, and this was their chance to launch bottles when John blew it. What happened next is still talked about.

The song started out with John making his guitar sing as he sang the words to perfection.  When it was time for the devil to play, John worked his guitar magic with a slide and his extraordinary talent, playing what sounded like a fiddle. The crowd went crazy, and Ben just stared at him, wondering what planet he came from. As the night came to an end, John had exhausted his playlist and dozens of requests. Almost everyone wanted to buy him a beer, which he politely refused, as he hadn't touched a drop for five years. Ben paid him the one hundred fifty as agreed and also did something he'd never done in all his years running this place. He gave John half the tips, which meant another two hundred dollars. So you'll be back tomorrow he asked John. Deals a deal, see you tomorrow.

Outside and around a corner, John climbed into a limo. " How did it go his driver asked. Well, he said everything went well. The rest of the band will fly in tomorrow. He told John, "What are you going to do about playing here another night?"I'm going to give them a show they will never forget. The following night, as John was greeted with hoops and hollers welcoming him back, five other men followed, carrying guitars and other equipment. " What's all this Ben asked I can't afford all of you. On me, John said. They set up their equipment as customers watched, wondering what was happening. But they didn't have to wait long before they heard the guitars' screams and the drums' beat as the band tuned up. John grabbed the microphone and drew everyone's attention. Hello, friends he began. I'd like to start by thanking you for hearing me play last night, but I got to thinking: if you liked just me doing my thing, then I knew I had to bring my entire band here to play for you. So, without further delay, may I introduce my real name, which is John Melecamp, and my band.

That old biker bar with all its charms became well known for the story of the John Meloncamp band.  Dozens of pictures lined the walls, and every time they were around those parts, he made a stop to visit Ben, and some of the same bikers he had become friends with.It still smelled like cigarettes and stale beer, occasional fights, and everything else that inspired him to play music.

Mike 2025                                                     

Fishing with Grand Dad

 Going fishing with Grandpa is a memory I recall often. On mornings at the lake in a small boat, the sun would rise above the horizon, giving light and hope that the fish were biting. He taught me how to tie knots and how to cast correctly. What he enjoyed most, though, was the silence as he stared into the distance, which I believed was because he missed Grandma. I would ask him countless questions, not only about fishing but about whatever was on my young, curious mind.

Is it true I asked him that someday we'd see our loved ones who passed away and live in heaven. Is it true that those we lost can see us? Do we stay the same age when we pass, and does it never change? Grandpa would smile and try to answer my questions, telling me that when someone we love passes, our hearts are filled with sadness, but we remain strong for those left behind. Our hearts, although broken, will never really heal, but we do see them as we remember them, giving us hope that we will all be together again.

So Grandma is waiting for us, I asked. He smiled again, saying he'd be the first to see her again dressed like an angel with open arms. And she will always be with me, too, no matter how many years have passed, until it's my time to be welcomed with her open arms. When will you go, Grandpa I asked softly. That's not up to me, he said, and that's a long way off, so don't think about it, just cast that line like I showed you.

Grandpa got older overnight, and our fishing trips became fewer. He once told me that when the day comes when he can't get in and out of his boat, it will be the day he hands down all his gear to me. That day came some years back, and my heart was shattered. But the questions I had asked him as a young boy came flooding back as I waited for a sign that he was watching over me. Then, as if he heard me, I got a strike from what seemed to be a giant fish. I fought it for half an hour and finally landed it on the boat. I found myself yelling for him to help me, believing he heard me.

As I cleaned the fish, I could picture him laughing as I'd never seen him do. I gave thanks before we ate the monster of the deep and found myself telling my family about our fishing trips all those years ago. My grandson begged me to take him fishing in his great-grandfather's small boat, which had been turned upside down and covered with a tarp for many years. Before the sun could rise, we got the tarp off and hoped it hadn't sprung any leaks. I handed him my granddad's rods and reels, telling him to be careful as they meant a lot to me.

We floated around the lake, hoping for a nibble as the quiet engulfed us, and I recalled how my granddad enjoyed that part of fishing the most. But now it's my son asking the questions and me remembering his answers as if he were in the boat with us, and maybe he was. All I had to do was believe and picture granddad and grandma, who haven't aged one bit as they wait until it's time to greet me with open arms and angel's wings.         

Mike  2025

New years dance

 Her mom helped her get ready for her first New Year's Eve dance. Frantic, the young lady feared her dress wouldn't fit, but her mom assured her it hadn't shrunk overnight. Her big sister did her hair just the way she saw it in a magazine, like that famous movie star. The young woman thought about how elegant she looked as she did her makeup, starting over several times. Then her dad appeared at the door and silently looked at his baby girl, now all grown up. He whistled that cat call—you know the one—getting her to turn around and smile at him and shooing him away until she was ready to be seen.

The sound of the doorbell announced her boyfriend's arrival as Dad opened the door to a scared kid looking like he might pass out. He was wearing a tuxedo that didn't quite fit, but that was okay, her dad thought to himself. The young man reached out to shake her dad's hand, who stubbornly squeezed a bit too strongly, letting the kid know in no uncertain terms that he was going to have her back home by two am or else.

Poor kid, her dad thought to himself as he rekindled memories of his own first New Year's Eve dance. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he saw her walking down the stairs. She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen and pinched himself, making sure she was real. After a bunch of pictures and another stern warning from her dad, the young couple went outside, greeted by a limousine with its driver waiting to open the doors and let them inside.

Our gift to you, Mom said, we were a little worried that his car, held together with tape and paperclips, might not make it through the still icy streets. With shouts of thanks and a hug for her parents, the limo disappeared out of sight, and tears were wiped away. They arrived at their destination in the surprise limo, with a promise of a ride after the dance for a few close friends.

The school gymnasium was so beautiful, she thought to herself. Hundreds of balloons in a net above the dance floor that would be dropped at the clocks announcing the arrival of a new year. There were soft lights in purple and white, and a DJ who knew all the favorite songs. She smiled at the Baker twins, who were spiking the punch from flasks they borrowed from their dad. But got caught by a chaparome who happened to be their science teacher. He made the twins empty the punch bowl and refill it with a festive blend of Hawaiian fruit punch and ginger ale.

They danced the night away, holding each other close, her head resting on his shoulder, her perfume subtle and intoxicating. He did his best not to step on her feet and realized he should have let his Mom give him a few more lessons. But they didn't care too much about anything other than how happy they were. Midnight, the balloons were set free, filling the room with shouts of joy and noise makers. Toasts of fruit punch and tender kisses never to be forgotten.

As the janitor cleaned the room, they got back in the limo with a few close friends, drove around town for a while, then dropped them off at their cars, leaving them alone at last. They kissed as the memories of this night were etched in their minds forever. Promises were made in that limo; some came true while others remained a story to be told to kids and grandkids.

He had her back home at one forty-five, and seeing a light on inside, saw her dad asleep in his favorite chair with an open book on his lap. He walked her to the door and embraced her one last time that night, leaving them with memories that will live on. He turned around to look at her one more time. And he swore he saw her dad open one eye, look at his watch, and smile.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL!               

MIKE —-ALMOST 2026

Mountain man

 He was warm and fed, ready for one last walk through the forest. He dressed warmly and didn't look back as he closed his world behind him, becoming his own last memory. The cold took his breath away, and he soon grew numb, but he moved onward towards something that had been calling him like a moth to a flame. Was it his destiny, he wondered, was he meant to walk off into the trees and die a lonely death, or was he headed towards a fate much bigger than that?

She left him some years back, saying the rugged life wasn't for her as she closed the door behind her. He was sad, I guess you'd say, but his love for the mountains and forests was all the companionship he needed, and they never judged him or made him regret the life he had chosen. But they did speak to him in a language he understood, like how the leaves would fold themselves in half to catch the rain, or when the sudden stillness came, he knew a storm was approaching.

He listened to the winds and heard them moan when death was in the air. He heard it angry and othertimes as peaceful as a baby's sleep. He searched the sky for a guiding star to guide him when he found himself misplaced, but never lost, and he never let a shooting star get away without a wish, and he had seen a hundred rainbows but never the pot of gold.

Now older than some of the trees, he walked slowly, and his reflexes were not as good as they used to be, but he knew every square inch of his mountain and forest, rarely walking on the same path twice. Some who said they knew him really meant to say theyd heard of him, the old mountain man who spoke to the winds and talked to anything living in the trees, the caves, and even the beaver dams.The crazy one who danced naked in a meadow holding a mason jar filled with fireflies to light his way.

Should you ever venture onto his mountain, you may catch a glimpse of him splashing in a cold mountain stream and catching fish, which he would thank for giving up their lives so he could eat. Or maybe youd see him reaching his arms to the heavens in prayer as he often did. Whatever you may see him do, he does it not out of craziness but out of love for everything that surrounds him. A simple man with simple needs, a man of the mountains and trees.

Mike  2025                                   

Homeless for the holidays

 They hadn't always lived in their van. After suddenly losing everything months ago, it became their only home. Today, I saw them parked far from the Walmart, so the kids wouldn't hear the cruel taunts. It was never their fault; they had only a few cherished belongings in their battered backpacks—each item a distant memory.

They were once part of his congregation at St. Mary's church and were given temporary shelter when the air was freezing, and their van had no working heater. His heart ached for them, along with the masses of others finding themselves in the same situation. The youngest little girl was first to see me and ran to me with open arms. I embraced the child, which seemed to comfort her.

I looked in the van, seeing the teenage boy slumped down in his seat, begging his dad to leave as he saw a group of his school friends approaching with malicious intent to cause the family even more heartache. I recognized some of the kids from church, and as they approached, they recognized me as well and turned away. Thanks, Father the boy said as he quickly dried his tears.

I asked the grownups if they needed anything, and all they came up with was that some kind of kindness would find them, and their children could have one present to open on Christmas morning. I told them I'd see what I could do and left them lost in life, but never without faith, that something good would happen.

An elderly couple with a full cart approached the van and stopped. We thought you could use this the lady said. There's plenty of food, some blankets, and a box of Christmas cookies, bringing smiles to the family's faces and gratitude from the parents.

It wasn't long before a young man, maybe 20, stopped by the van and handed the dad an envelope. There are four gift cards in there, he said. I was going to give one to the Uber driver and another to my favorite pizza delivery girl. And the other two, he said, I was going to keep for an emergency, but see, they would do you the most good.

The kids were smiling for the first time in a long time, taking great pleasure in the kindness shown to them by perfect strangers. More shoppers stopped at the van, and one offered his help by providing a room for two nights at the motel he owned just outside town. It all seemed too good to be true, but I knew it was the hand of God reaching down to touch this family that had never asked for anything but an everyday life.

You'll be at the Christmas fest, won't you? I asked, and the kids quickly answered that they would come. But we will have to get ready Mom said. The motel owner handed her a key, telling her they were welcome to check in, have a hot shower, and change their clothes, somewhere buried in the boxes containing their life story.

They attended the festival mingling with the others, most of whom they didn't know, and the few good souls that had helped them bring a van full of dume to kids with smiling faces. Santa made an appearance, handing out presents to the boys and girls who all looked the same to him, with their hearts beating fast as they thanked him and made room for the little girl in the van.

Hello, Mary, Santa said. Don't you look just beautiful tonight? This year hasn't been what you were expecting, has it? Mary nodded, wiping away a tear. But good things happen to good people, and from what I've seen, you and your family have made many new friends here tonight. Santa reached into his big red sack and looked around in it for a minute, coming up with the most beautiful baby doll he could find. For me, Mary asked. Yes, child, for you. But Santa, how do you know my name?

Well, he began last year, you wished for this very same doll, and the elves worked very hard to make you the most beautiful doll any girl would love and take care of. But when I came to your house on Christmas Eve, the house was dark and empty. I saw it many times last year, so I put the doll back in my sack and hoped I'd somehow find you and give it back to you. And here you are!

The family who lived in a van counted their blessings every day, knowing that people are genuinely good and want to help each other. They found their way not long after and moved into a small house as soon as Dad took a job at Walmart loading trucks. Mom joined volunteer groups, helping anyone who requested it and some who initially rejected, until Mom told them our story. The kids flourished at their new school, making many friends and making it their mission to educate people about homelessness.

A cold winter night, a van, and four people who never lost their faith in man, and of course, Santa Claus.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!

Homelessness is an epidemic faced by thousands of people across the land. We tend to ignore them, shielding children from them as if they were outlaws. The reality is we don't know their stories and shouldn't pretend we do. It only takes one act of kindness to change someone's life. Be that person who cares enough to reach out.

                                                                        

Mall Christmas chaos

 

Just days before Christmas, a crowd of shoppers scrambles for the last gifts and discounts. I watch as kids run wild, trailed by older siblings who double as reluctant babysitters. Their mom waits at the wrapping booth, having gifts wrapped that couldn't be seen until Christmas morning.

A distraught young girl looks at jewelry prices she can't afford. As she leaves, she checks her phone, maybe texting her best friend for help. My hope is that she realizes the gift's size or cost doesn't matter; it will bring joy to her mom because it was given with love.

There's a young man at the food court guarding packages his wife left for him to watch, but his attention was more on the girls passing by. He sipped some coffee, smiling and remembering that he met his wife right here as she passed by, smiling at him, and little did he know at the time that she would become his wife.

I noticed an elderly gentleman slowly working his way through the crowd to a table where his lady of 60 years patiently waited for him to arrive with what was, by now, lukewarm coffee. She didn't care; she was grateful somebody didn't knock him over.

Then there was Santa Claus sitting on his throne, dressed better than most mall Santas. His beard was long and white, his hair long and clean. His boots looked handmade and nothing like any boots he'd ever seen. I stood not far away, so I heard some of the kids' wishes, which brought a smile as I remembered as a boy telling Santa my most favorite toy in the whole world was a GI Joe action figure and that I'd been good all year, well, mostly all year, and would he please bring that toy to me." " I'll see what I can do, Billy," he said, and gave me a wink.

I saw a kid holding onto his mom's hand as she moved faster than a brisk walk on a mission to grab the last video in stock, only to find the store was taking orders and that it would be in stock in two weeks. That wouldnt do. I admired her persistence as she approached the customer who snagged the last video, offering him double what he paid for it. He agreed, saying he thinks his grandson already has the video anyway.

One more time, I found myself in front of Santa, who had hung the sign he must be leaving, as tomorrow night he'd be on his way with a full sleigh and millions of miles to go. He turned to walk away, looked at me, and smiled a gentle smile, asking if I liked the GI Joe action figure. It was what you asked for, wasn't it, Billy?

I found my wife in the dwindling crowd, her arms full of packages, but all I could think of was how in the name of Rudolph did he know who I was? Oh well, its christmas and anything can happen, especially if you believe.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

Mike  2025

My ship

USS Koelsch. In 1971, at 17, my Mom signed the papers so I could enlist early. With peach fuzz and acne, I endured boot camp and A school, then became a signalman aboard the USS Koelsch DE-1049.

Life on a Destroyer escort was challenging. Mastering tasks and duty stations demanded precision. At sea, it was beautiful and often terrifying.

I made good friends aboard the ship. Close quarters meant you quickly got to know your bunkmates. It was a good life for a kid who left behind the wild days of craziness in exchange for becoming someone who could be counted on when the stakes were high.

I didn't appreciate how much of the world we saw, places like Spain, Italy, France, South Africa, Greece, Barcelona, and the Rock of Gibraltar, to name a few. At 18, my interests were mostly joining some shipmates, exploring the temptations of the flesh, and holding more liquor than anybody can handle.

I spent 3 years aboard the Koelsch, and I'll never forget one minute of it. I often find myself thinking back to those days and wish I could do it all again. Hell, I wish I could remember it all, but some things are best left forgotten.

Mike 2025                                     

The guitar man

 It started with an old hand-me-down guitar I found at a garage sale. If only it could talk—what stories would it tell? The house belonged to a little-known musician. Pictures and sheet music piqued my curiosity, so I asked the person in charge about him. She smiled, pleased by my interest, and began to share his story.

In 1960, my son fell in love with the music of those times. He attended Woodstock and taught himself to play the songs of Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Neil Young, Cat Stephens, and many others. He soon began writing his own songs and eventually performed in coffee shops and other small venues to gauge audience reactions, which were generally considered pretty good.

He was approached by a record producer at one such venue, who gave him his card and told him he should consider becoming a studio guitarist, as his playing was very good, and you never knew when someone with a say would offer him a contract. So his life as a studio guitarist grew, and over time, he found himself playing with some of the names he had grown up loving.

His talent followed him to cities across the land, where he played with Eric Clapton, Bruce Springsteen, and others who recognized his talent. It wasnt long before he had the opportunity to play his own songs as a solo artist, opening concerts for the headliners. His music was more than a story written on a tour bus; it was the sound of his heart, his soul, his very existence.

It sounds like he was meant to be who he was, playing with the most famous bands across the globe and getting his own music heard by the world. What happened to him he asked his Mom. She sat with his old guitar across her lap as she softly plucked the strings, and said, "I imagine in his heart he knew the music had stopped coming to him, that his words, although meaningful, didn't matter to him anymore." It was as if the well finally dried up, leaving him with melodies too difficult to compose and words too hard to write.

He quit touring and returned home, where he only played to himself and his Mom. When he developed arthritis in his hands, he put the guitar in the garage along with his sheet music and pictures of himself with the greatest musicians of all time. She hoped someone who might know of him would buy those things and keep his image alive for generations to come. It seemed to her that people with talent sometimes got overlooked but never overbooked.

I walked away with every piece of sheet music he composed and the pictures of the stars he played with, but left the guitar behind with his Mom. I later put together a book containing his written words and melodies, and, of course, a picture of the guitar he loved so very much on the cover. Not surprisingly, the book sold worldwide, and his music continued to live on. The title was simply The Guitar Man.

Mike 2025                                             

Mr. Bob versus bullies

 Mr. Bob was the store's Santa Claus for 10 years, but after dealing with unruly kids and increasingly impatient parents for several holiday seasons, he decided to quit. He was actually let go. He had grown used to being stuck with candy canes and the occasional wet diaper, but as the years went by, the atmosphere worsened—parents became less polite and focused only on getting their kids to the front of the line before their makeup melted under the bright lights. Many were on their phones while their kid stole candy canes from the helper elves or shoved another kid to the ground, bringing tears that ruined the make-up to other moms' delight. Then there was Roy, the store photographer tasked with the almost-impossible job. Moms and kids in front of a winter wonderland backdrop, literally screaming at the kids to quit messing with their hair and for the love of Saint Nick, leave the makeup alone. Roy always did his best, and after picture after picture, he always found the right one to present to the moms. The one where the kid was looking at the mom who was holding up a new cell phone, if she smiled her best smile for Mr. Roy. It worked every time.

But the straw that broke Bob's back was a kid named Leroy. An over-eater, a bully of all bullies, whose primary purpose in life was to prove to all the kids waiting to see Santa that he was a fake and not so good at being that. Their eyes met as Leroy made it to the front of the line, but not before letting the kids know Santa was a fake. When somebody tried to tell him he was wrong, he would stomp on their foot and steal their candy canes.

Slowly, Leroy sat on Santa's knee with enough force to cause Mr. Bob's excruciating pain. But Leroy wasn't done yet as he bounced up and down on the knee, and it was at that exact moment that Bob did what he had to do and sent Leroy flying off his knee, right into the Christmas tree, which came crashing down on an elf. He wasn't hurt. Shocked parents quickly gathered their screaming kids and left the store. Roy showed Bob the pictures he got, and both agreed his job here was over.

Funny how some things can go from worse to good, and that's what happened. The local newspaper, along with hundreds of online posts, reported that Santa threw a kid into a Christmas tree, with the headline reading, "What Santa does to bullies was the talk of the entire town." For Leroy, well, he moved away somewhere his face wouldn't be noticed, and Bob? Well, he hung up his Santa suit and worked as the Easter Bunny for the next ten years. After all, who doesn't believe in the easter bunny?

Mike 2025                                                   

Santas helpers

 When the store lights were turned off, the only thing left lit was the large Christmas display that captured the attention of children of all ages. The night air was cold. He was glad the Santa suit was warm as he slowly walked down the deserted main street toward his drafty apartment. He had been staying there since Thanksgiving and the first day of Santa's village, where he had worked for quite some time. Up ahead, he saw a young boy, maybe seven or eight, wearing tattered clothes and only very worn shoes. He was staring into a darkened store window, his face pressed to the glass, silently talking to himself as he approached. The boy started to walk away, but seeing Santa in the flesh got his curiosity going, so he stopped and held out his hand to shake.

Pleased to meet you, Santa, but shouldn't you be getting ready for Christmas Eve? Indeed, he replied, but my business here isn't quite done. I couldn't help but wonder what you were looking at through the window. Not many young boys like you look at baby cribs. Oh, well, you see my mom is going to have a baby real soon, and we live in a small room with little space. My baby sister sleeps with Mom, and I sleep on the floor next to them. There's no room for a crib, but if I had one, I'd figure out a way to make it fit in the room with us. I see the old man said that's a noble cause. I've been saving every penny and nickel, but I'm still short, he said, wiping a tear so Santa wouldn't see. I'll tell you what he said. How about you meet me here tomorrow night after I've had a nice chat with the real Santa? But aren't you Santa? He asked, Oh no, I'm just his helper like the other Santas in all the stores around the world. Hurry home, lad, and don't forget tomorrow.

The boy showed up early, giving him time to look in the windows at a beautiful red bicycle with streamers and a bell. It was the nicest bicycle he had ever seen, but he knew something so new and so nice would never be under the Christmas tree. " I had a talk with my boss, well, Santa that is, and he told me he'd do his best to deliver a crib for the baby. But don't be upset if he doesn't come through with it, as most of the presents are spoken for.

The boy hurried home to tell his mom what Santa said, as she looked at her son, who had to grow up way too soon. Don't be upset if he doesn't come through with it, after all, we can put the baby in a dresser drawer where it will be safe and warm right next to us. After all, didn't baby Jesus sleep in a manger? On Christmas Eve, the boy and his small family decorated a tree they had found at a closed tree lot, leaving the worst trees for pickup with the other trash. They cut out paper snowflakes to hang from the tree, and Mom pulled out of a box the three ornaments her mom had given to her a long time ago.

He went to bed that Christmas Eve, hoping and praying Santa had a few things left over, and his little sister would wake to find presents under the tree. Back in his drafty apartment, the old man looked at the new crib, a red bicycle, and something in a small box for Mom. His apartment was a stopping place for hundreds of gifts for the kids living close by. Anything a child could ever hope for was in this apartment that would soon be empty on Christmas. See, he was Santa's helper, after all.

Early Christmas morning, the boy and his sister woke to their mom shouting for them to wake up and see what Santa had brought.  They entered the room, and their mouths dropped open at the sight of the baby crib, a red bicycle, and the most beautiful doll his sister had ever seen. What's in the box he asked his Mom. It's got your name on it the boy said. Oh my, let's see, shall we? She opened the small box and found a key along with a note that read, This is the key to your new apartment. You'll surely enjoy the extra room, and don't worry about the rent, as there isn't any. Every Christmas, Santa picks out the most deserving family and gives them the apartment. This year it's you. Oh, and by the day after Christmas, the elves will clean and paint your new home.

As time passed, the little family did just fine, and the boy never missed a minute telling the story of Santa's helper. Some laughed at his unbelievable tale, while others claimed to have been visited by Santa's helper, bringing joy and happiness to what could have been a very un-merry Christmas. So, for those of us who have always believed in the magic of Christmas, don't be surprised if, on a cold December night, a child's wishes come true.

                                 MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!       

Mike 2025

down hill racer

 He found an old sled he’d made forty years ago, buried under junk. Inspired, he sanded, varnished, and sharpened the blades for speed. Pleased with the work, he went inside, where his wife of fifty years was baking his favorite holiday treats. "What have you been up to?" she asked. "You've been out in that workshop for hours."

"Do you remember the young kid who came every snowfall to shovel the walkway?" she asked, glancing toward the window.

"Yes, how could I forget?" he replied, smiling. "He always liked going to the workshop with you to learn how things were done right. I think you found a buddy."

She nodded, then said, "I heard he got a paper route and can be seen pulling his wagon of news around town. I remember the first time he made it up our road, knocked on our door, and asked if we'd like to subscribe to the paper. His face was beet red, tiny icicles hung from his hat—a young businessman on his way to success."

One December Saturday, with blizzard conditions forecast, they saw him trudging up the road. Blasts of snow must have felt like being sprayed with ice. He threw the paper on their porch. I opened the door and invited him in to warm up. His small body shook, but as he held a mug of hot cocoa, he began warming. He thanked us and said he had to finish his deliveries.

"Before you go, let me show you something in the shop," I said. He opened the door. The first thing the kid saw was an eight-foot red rocket sled. "Wouldn't it be easier and quicker to use the sled with the razor-sharp runners instead of the wheels that slow you down?" the man said. I had already rigged ropes to secure the load, leaving a spot for the kid to sit for the many hills ahead. "Go ahead, give it a try," the man said. The kid smiled, transferred the papers from the wagon to the sled, thanked his friend, and sat down. The man gave him a push. The rocket sled took off, just like its name.

The kid grew up and stopped delivering newspapers, but still showed up wherever a hill could be sledded, rocketing past every sled with laughter and shouts to move aside. Rumor says he married and had four kids, each with their own rocket sled, though none could ever beat their dad down the hills—he stayed a kid at heart, always on a mission.

Mike 2025           

                                      

Pink star opal

 She hinted she would like a pink star opal for her birthday. He smiled, squeezing her hand but saying nothing, as his plan was already in effect. Hed been doing part-time jobs around the neighborhood, like cutting lawns and raking leaves. He shoveled driveways with a shovel, not a plow, and he washed dishes at a 24-hour diner. And to add to that, going to school and seeing her whenever he could, he often found an excuse, like he had to help his dad with something or his mom had errands for him. He later learned that she knew all along what he was doing.

It started with a walk into town, looking in shop windows, especially the jewelry store, where a beautiful pink star opal ring slowly spun on a display case. She didn't say anything, but her eyes told the story. He had asked her to be his girl last Christmas when he gave her a promise ring, a symbol of his feelings for her. She cried like most girls did, holding her finger up to show off the fact that she was his girl.

A few days after seeing the pink opal, he put the ring on layaway and made weekly payments. Eleven months later, it was paid off and hidden away in his room until he would give it to her on her birthday. On October 17th, he took her to the best restaurant in the small town for dinner. She was striking in a red dress and he in the only suit he owned. Neither was old enough to drink yet, but they toasted her special day with fruit punch. After the desert, he took the jewelry box from his pocket and slowly handed it to her. Go ahead, open it, he told her. She didn't move for a second, smiling her best smile and accepting the box with the jeweler's name embossed in gold trim.

The tears flowed down her face as she slowly opened the box and saw the most beautiful pink opal ring she had ever seen. Put it on he whispered, and she did just that, holding her ringed finger to the sky for the world to see. He waved down their waitress, and she brought her a birthday cake as tears continued to flow.

They decided to walk home, as she lived nearby. It was a cool October night, and he held her close as they walked in silence as she raised her ring finger to the sky. Look how it shines, she said, " Can you see the star in the opal? she asked. He told her he'd take it out of its box at night, holding the ring under the lamp, looking at the star, and wishing on it to be on her finger until he could replace it with a diamond ring.

She wore the pink opal for years to come, and he was sent off to war, where every night he'd look to the sky, wondering if she was looking at the same ones holding up her ring, hoping he would see the smallest of stars surrounding the pink opal she cherished more than any of her possessions.

He didn't come home, and her heart was shattered. She cried until no more tears would flow, and she wore the pink opal until the day she passed on. The ring she loved so much was buried on her finger per her request, the small star pointing to the sky where she hoped it would guide her to him in the heavens, where she knew he'd be waiting with a diamond.

Mike 2025                                                           

The hustler

 His shadow kept him company as He stopped under a streetlight. Its static flicker warned of demise. He took a cigarette from an empty pack, balled the wrapper, and tossed it at a trash can, missing without care. Striking his last match, he cupped the flame, racing to see who would win: him or the flame.

His topcoat was out of style and beyond its use-by date. It wasn't a fashion statement; it was bought at the secondhand store and fit well, almost. His shoes were well-worn, covering a lot of miles as he walked to old haunts, playing some pool to whoever would take him on. He learned the game from a very fat man who owned this establishment and was well known for his skill. He was just a kid when he met him, asking for a job, any job, so he could keep watching the fat man win game after game.

The months turned to years, and the kid had learned the game and proved himself time and again with every win. He was a hustler and nothing else. He quit his job and, with the cash he had won, went out on his own to make his fortune, leaving behind the one man who told him there's more to the game than what he had taught him. Anybody can be taught how to hit a ball into a pocket, he explained, but it takes a confident man to realize when he is off his stride, to set the stick down, and to walk away.

More time passed, and he kept walking from bar to bar, challenging anyone who felt lucky. His winnings attracted the ladies, and seldom was he alone unless he lost, and the money went out the door on a perfumed cloud. The bartenders all knew him and never thought twice about starting him a tab, as he always made good on it, unless his streak was gone and the only things in his pockets were some loose coins and a small box of wooden matches.

And then it happened, one night, it just stopped. His aim was off, and his confidence was vanishing to some place he'd never been. He couldnt win a single game. He began to drink a lot, and more than once was shown the door, just another drunken hustler. He lost the crappy apartment, the nice clothes, and the jewelry he pawned, knowing if he could have just one more game, he'd be back to his old self.

On a cold winter night, as he sat at the bar sipping a beer, one of his old players and teachers came up to him, the man called Fat Man. Not doing so well, I see. He began. You've had a lot of wins under your belt over the years, but it wasn't fate that took the game from you, was it? It was the expectation of the win that got you. Learning how to be humble, whether from a win or especially a loss, is something it takes to be great.

He stood under the street light, cupping his hand around the flame, walking down the empty street, knowing what the answer would be.

Mike 2025                                                 

Lady on the hill

 The meadow had danced through its colors. Then, as dusk fell, the fireflies dimmed their lights. Next, dandelions were scattered by the wind to an unknown place. As autumn arrived, leaves brought color to the ground, joining the last few days before snow came to frolic in the meadow. This was the place she called home for years unknown.

She built her cottage high on a hill. There, she gazed at her meadow, which captured her spirit. She chose this life, distant from most, with only a few who understood peace and harmony  and were always welcome.

As winter arrived and her meadow was covered with a blanket of white, she sought the solitude and the quiet that the frozen months brought. With her snowshoes keeping her from sinking, she felt a kind of power as she walked on frozen water, so to speak, a silent conversation between herself and the spirits always nearby.

In the evening, sitting by the fire, she wrote in her journal, sharing what she did that day and wondering what tomorrow had in store. Would the snow keep falling, and did she need to chop more wood? Would she have to go into town, where her mere presence bothers the townspeople, thinking only of her as an old hippy who didn't leave the hill with the others whose visions faded?

She didn't worry about their faces or scowling looks as some held, memories of their trip up the hill decades ago. Some went on to become respected members of society, but never ventured too far from the hill.

She found everything she needed on her hill: a garden to feed her and spring water to quench her thirst. She made her own clothes and mended tattered material as nothing on the hill went to waste. She bathed in a horse trough sprinkled with wildflowers, and in the winter months she kept the trough inside, close to the fire, where she would boil water, basking in the warmth until the water grew cold and she smelled like the meadow on a spring day.

She thought of herself as a strong and peaceful woman. A child of nature who never gave up on her vision, as so many others did. She grew old on her hill and had to slow down a little, but she knew her limits as her body told her how hard to push herself. At eighty years of age, she still cut wood and walked the five miles to town. She mended worn-out clothes, ate from her garden, and never forgot to make entries in her journal.

Hikers found her on a sunny spring day. She had probably gotten too deep in the snow and fallen down with only her memories to keep her warm. Inside her cottage, her journal lay on the table with a note she had written. It read: "To whoever is reading this, please let my final resting place be here in my beautiful meadow." Sprinkle wildflowers on me and commit me to the earth as it was intended.

People still hike the hill and visit her grave as it has become a sort of shrine. The headstone read simply, The lady of the hill with no date of her birth and a guess of her age at death. If you pass by, you'll see a never-ending bunch of wildflowers surrounding the gravestone and a script that simply reads, "She lived her life on her terms, on her hill and found peace in a sun-kissed meadow."

Mike 2025                                         

                                                           

Moms wooden box

 My mom kept a small wooden box—likely a cigar box—on a high shelf I couldn't reach as a child. She would sometimes take it down to add another special memory. She also had a trunk for cherished keepsakes: my baby booties, homemade Halloween costumes, my sister's communion dress, and other items she couldn't discard. Dozens of family pictures in orange bindings, all black-and-white, were kept close to her heart. But the small box held memories that brought a few tears, and mostly smiles and sighs.

A photo shows me at six, outside the church, in a hat like Dad’s and a topcoat—it was a cold Easter. I gave her a chestnut to grow a tree, and we did. There’s a clipping of me winning the sixth-grade outstanding student award, and half of a heart-shaped necklace I gave her for her birthday. My half remains in my own wooden box.

As her passing drew near, I brought her the wooden box, and we looked at each memory. She held each keepsake, staring as if seeing it for the first time. I left the box, hoping its contents, cherished for decades, would bring her comfort.

When she passed, I  hoped those memories stayed with her. I took the box home and put it on a shelf next to my own, where I could look through everything too many times to count. It's amazing to me how we live our lives with hundreds, or even thousands, of thoughts and particular moments that we forget over time. But somehow we manage to fill a small box with the memories that touched us the most.

Mike 2025                                                   

Grandpas Christmas story

 He stopped at the foot of the hill as heavy snow fell. He put on his boots and began the long walk up to the old house, now a shadow of its former self. With every step came a memory—summer vacations, holidays —but Christmas stood out, when the house came alive with warmth, laughter, and a secret.

As the old house got closer, I pictured my Grama and Grandpa standing on the front porch, greeting the rest of my family and me as we jumped into their arms—a welcome only grandparents can give. Inside was what every child remembers: a beautifully decorated tree, the warmth of the fireplace, the crackle of the logs, and the smells of the holidays.

The table overflowed with cookies and homemade fudge, the same recipe handed down for years. At its centre stood a forbidden gingerbread house that Grama would keep a close eye on, and when it was time for us to leave, she would cut each of us a tinfoil-covered piece of the gingerbread house to take home. Funny thing, none of it ever made it home.

The house had many stories, and I remembered them clearly, sitting on Grandpa's knee as he told how Santa once got stuck in the chimney and needed his help before his suit caught fire. Did you help him, Grandpa? I asked. "See that broom?" he said, pointing. "That was the broom I used to poke Santa, sending him flying out of the chimney and on his way."

I made it to the house, half frozen but determined to accomplish what I had come for. It was empty except for a few old newspapers scattered about and an old plate I recognised as one of grandma's platters, the one she used to stack cookies on. I walked through the house, and I spotted it standing against a wall, the very same broom from Grandma's story.

Back home on Christmas Eve, I gathered my children for a story, but not from a book. It was a story they'd heard before, but this time with proof that Santa existed. I got the broom and told them to look very closely and tell me what they saw. The eldest said he saw burnt pieces of straw, probably from getting it too close to the fireplace, as grandma swept away the ashes. My middle child said he saw tiny pieces of red cloth that were probably pieces of a stocking that got pulled down by the cat and my youngest said she didnt need any proof that santa was real because she woke up that night to the sounds of grandpa huffing and puffin so she crept down the stairs just in time to see what she thought was grandpa poking Santa who with a echoing Ho Ho Ho santa flew up the chimney. Explain that away, she said, as for me, I'll always believe because it was grandpa who told her so.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL WHO BELIEVE!

Mike 2025                                                             

A Red Rider Christmas

 It was a snowy winter's night, the flakes gently falling from the sky. All was quiet as he walked through the small town, remembering his youth there, with many memories staying with him as he grew up, reminders of the good things and sometimes of things he'd just as soon leave behind,he stopped to look in the storefront windows  remembering how they were decorated for the holidays each competing for the grand prize for the best display. He recalled walking with his Mom when darkness set in, stopping to look at every window, their feet and hands frozen, but they didn't care as the magical displays lit up the night, each a contender for the prize.

As he snapped back to reality, all he saw were darkened windows, no displays of lights or sounds of holiday music, just empty storefronts whose time had passed, leaving behind for-sale signs in another small town in America. Halfway down the street, a glow coming from a store captured his attention as he picked up the pace, leaving footprints behind him that went from a stroll to an all-out run. He smiled as he looked in the window, seeing a magical display of Christmas like the ones he saw all those years ago.

Would you look at that, Mom? he said out loud, hoping she would hear him up there. It was a small display with all the same toys and decorations he remembered from his youth. He grinned, seeing the exact toys he had wished for, like a red bicycle and a quick silver sled. A GI Joe action figure and the one thing he wanted but never received, a Red Rider BB gun.

As he looked at all the memories, the shopkeeper came to the door, pointing to his watch, signaling it was time for him to close for the last time. He looked sad as he went from one display to another, turning off the lights and filling boxes he would store somewhere. He stood outside watching as the last boxes were packed and the for-sale sign hung, as the sorrow in the pit of his stomach turned to tears.

He began to walk away when the door opened, and the old man came out, handing him a wrapped present. No words were spoken as he went back inside his store, now just a memory of smiling faces pressed against the glass, looking at the toys they hoped would be under the tree come Christmas morning. He stood there gazing into the darkness and slowly opened the gift. A Red Rider BB gun, he said out loud. But how was it possible, he wondered. He knocked on the door, but the old man was gone along with the magical display.

Some things defy imagination, while others come to you if you just believe. He continued his walk, the red rider slung around his shoulder, and the sounds of sleigh bells coming from the store roof.No way he said out loud, just as the sleigh flew past him, the one person in the whole wide world who always wanted to believe. The old man waved to him as he vanished into the darkness, and he stood there, wondering how to explain this, but decided he would put the BB gun under the tree for his son, wondering if his Mom finally gave in and said it was okay after all these years, but with one exception that her grandson wouldn't shoot an eye out.

Mike 2025                                                   

Christmas in the forest

 It was quiet in the forest on a frigid winter's day. The sound of his footsteps was the only sound he heard. He pulled a sled behind him to gather a Christmas tree like he's done for three decades. But this year was special as his two kids and their kids were coming for the holidays. They hadn't been to see him since the cabin was completed, so they would know it wasn't just a one-room cabin. He sent them pictures showing the rather large house with a wrap-around porch, a second story with three bedrooms, and the ground floor with the master bedroom. The living room had a huge fireplace, big enough to warm every room. Massive timber beams added not just structure but also proved his worth as a master craftsman. He was especially proud of the kitchen, with a butcher-block island for food prep and steel hooks he forged to hang pots and pans from the ceiling. He searched high and low for a wood-burning oven and found one 30 miles away at an auction. He used the oven when cooking just for himself, but when guests were coming over, he cooked in the fireplace, where, using his skill as a metalworker, he designed a simple device to hold a heavy iron pot he used to cook stews and soups, letting them slow cook for hours.

He worked on the house for three years, each part of the process a labor of love. He didn't have any close neighbors, as his property covered 25 acres. His sanctuary, if you will, a place hunters dare not go, was clearly stated in the no trespassing signs scattered about his property. Anyone who ignored the signs and came to hunt would be met with a shotgun blast aimed at the sky as they ran away and off his land, never to return. He did have friends scattered across hundreds of acres who were always eager to help each other if needed. Trading was a huge part of life in the forest, and every autumn, when crops were harvested, fresh vegetables and fruits would be traded for help building shelters or running water lines from streams to the house, the lifeline of any homestead. There was an abundance of skilled workers who were always eager to help, so when it came time for the second story to be built, several men showed up to help.

He felt bad sometimes living so far into the forest. Although his kids were grown with kids of their own, he thought he was missing out on the things a grandpa does with his grandkids, so he tried very hard to fit a week into months of fun and learning the ways of the forests. This year, in his workshop, he built four wooden sleds with room for two and steel runners that would mean very fast sledding down a hill next to his house, which looked daunting to him. With the first sled done, he walked it up the hill where he could see for miles away. He positioned himself, and with a few fast steps, he jumped belly down and raced down the hill. Faster and faster the frigid cold slapping his face as tears froze his beard, and the sled went faster and faster until finally slowing down and reaching the bottom. He rolled off the sled, looking at the sky, wondering if he'd better make some smaller runners for safety's sake.  What would be the fun in that, he asked himself as he walked up the hill, ready to ride again.

With the kids arriving in two days, he had a lot to get done. He had found a Christmas tree which he set up in the living room, leaving the decorating to his daughter and, of course, the little ones. He went into the root cellar, picked out the vegetables and fruits he would need to prepare Christmas dinners, and spent a good amount of time chopping and cutting everything into bite-sized pieces. Tomorrow, he would stoke the fire and pour the vegetables, along with spring water, into the iron pot, where they would slowly cook for about 20 hours.    He checked the oil lamps for fuel and placed candles around the house, both creating a beautiful glow.

His daughter informed him she and the kids were vegetarians, so he put together a side dish of tofu turkey for them, but it was real turkey for the rest of them as fresh as fresh gets when you shoot one yourself. He made a couple of fruit pies from a recipe he got from a friend at the market in town, but saved baking cookies until the kids arrived.

Christmas Eve, and he was running late. He had to be at the main road to meet the train, which would only stop if people were gathered there. He got there in plenty of time to put some blankets on the floor of the trailer he pulled behind his snow ski. He hoped they were all dressed warm enough to make the ride to the homestead without freezing solid. The train stopped, and his family stepped off as he gathered their bags so the train could move on. There were hugs all around as they settled on the trailer, wrapped in blankets, and headed home. Coming to a stop in front of his house, everybody just stood there, mouths wide open. It's incredible, " his daughter said. You did all of this yourself? Well, most of it, he replied. I had neighbors' help for a lot of it. Let's go inside and warm up.

Entering the house felt like walking into a postcard of a winter wonderland.  He had decorated the railing leading upstairs with pine bows and a beautiful, undecorated Christmas tree, ready for the magical touch of children. The smell of the stew and pine filled the air as the grandkids explored the upstairs, claiming a bedroom. When the tree was decorated and the colored lights were turned on, everyone gathered around to see the beauty of the season and to enjoy a cup of hot chocolate, which he said he would make as soon as he stoked the fire in the kitchen stove.

The hour was late as the grandkids went off to bed, dreaming of tomorrow and wishes coming true. Downstairs, his kids opened a suitcase filled with presents they had packed, assuring the kids Santa would find them here, tucked away in the forest. His daughter put the presents under the tree, and after a long day, everyone but him went off to bed and got a good night's rest. He made his way to the woodshop, where he got the sleds and brought them inside to put under the tree. He didn't know for sure if the grandkids still believed, but just in case, he put out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for the jolly old man himself.

Christmas morning arrived, but everyone but him was still fast asleep. It must be the fresh air and comfortable beds, he thought as he brewed a pot of coffee and plugged in the tree, waiting for the mice to stir. Maybe it was the smell of the coffee or cinnamon rolls he just took out of the oven, but all of a sudden, the house was filled with joy as the grandkids shouted out that Santa did come way out here as they tore open their presents. His kids came into the living room in time to see the last gifts opened, and the magical looks on their children's faces as they looked over the sleds he had made for them. Can we try them out? The grandkids asked. Can we? First, some breakfast, she answered. I'm sure Grandpa has some oatmeal that will keep you warm inside. Will warm cinnamon rolls work? He asked.

After putting on their warmest clothes and heavy jackets, they went outside on a frigid morning. They pulled their new sleds up the hill until they looked like specs to those below. Be careful his daughter yelled as the kids raced down the hill at speeds she thought were way too fast. You see, he said they're having the time of their life. No crashes yet, " she answered him. His son finally came outside, saying he needed a second cup of coffee, but it was time to show them all what a real sled man can do. My old sled is still in the workshop, he asked his dad. It sure is he answered. He pulled it out from beneath years of who-knew-what and headed up the hill. Oh, be careful she said with genuine concern. The grandkids were shouting at him and offering support, anxious to see what he could do. So, with a mighty run, he jumped onto his sled and rocketed down the hill, flying past his kids to their surprise and delight. After several runs, everybody was frozen and as happy as anyone can be when their clothes are frozen to their skin, and icicles hung off their faces.

Back in the warmth of the house with a fire blazing and the stew done, they all sat at the table and gave thanks for the blessing of family and the true meaning of Christmas. But there was a feeling of sadness as everyone realized they would have to leave and go home, where the air doesn't smell like pine, and the warmth of a fire is just a vent blowing warm air. But memories were made in those few days, memories that will remain with all of them. When the time came, he hitched up the trailer and wrapped them in blankets, taking them to the main road where the Polar Express would stop to pick them up. Hugs and kisses all around, and hidden tears not wanted to be seen.  He stood there for a while watching the train pull away, and the faces of his family pressed against the windows, waving goodbye until next time. He walked up to the house and saw the four small sleds and one old, a bit larger, perched against the house. He put them all in the workshop, wiping away the tears, and headed inside for a bowl of stew.

Mike 2025