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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                          

Grandma's table

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                         

Old wooden coaster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                              

Sailor games

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                         

Love story

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike  2025                                       

Swimming pool

 

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                                            

                        

Petting Zoo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                              

Mighty Niagara

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                                   

The neighborhood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                                           

Allans Bar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                           

Dirt roads

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                              

Wasaga Beach

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                                   

My orchard

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

Mike 2025

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                               

Seasons of my life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                               

Where do I go today?

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

Mike 2025

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                                

The stone fortress

 A dingy tavern nestled between stone walls is older than anyone alive. Soft guitar and flute music played as patrons spoke of world issues and comfort, knowing they couldn't be touched or harmed inside the stone fortress.

In the musty-smelling tavern, a lad and lass, all of eighteen years old, hold hands and whisper words of love while at the other end, old men whisper harshly, sometimes spitting out their thoughts as their woman folk urge them to settle a bit.

Candlelight dances as if keeping beat to the music, as the warm beer is served by a thick and friendly barmaid, another fixture in the fortress for too many years to know.

Seven days and nights passed, and the shelling finally stopped. The patrons walked up the stone stairs and slowly opened the steel door. The light blinded them at first, and all of them wished they had remained down those stairs, away from what would be embedded in their memories forever.

Today, many years later, the old stone tavern has become a tourist trap, just one more of many dotting the cobblestone streets of a land far away. Guided tours tell of patrons who held up in the tavern of stone walls, trying to drown out the noises of war above them.

Just over there, the tour guide said, sat two star-crossed lovers vowing to never leave each other. Down there, at the other end of the bar, was a small group of older men spitting out words of harshness as their wives begged them to settle a bit. And on the wall behind the bar, a picture of the barmaid holding up two large glasses of beer and a sign saying Welcome one and all.

As the tour ended and the stone tavern grew quiet, the fortress's spirits returned to claim their rightful places. The soft music of a flute and a guitar began to play as the two young lovers held hands, and the older men spit out their concerns that couldn't be heard behind the steel door of a stone fortress.

Mike 2025

                                                                      

Any given moment

 She walked slowly through the aisles of the thrift store, an almost permanent smile on her weathered face. Her granddaughter had brought her there, thinking it would jar her memory or show her that a good day was possible.

The old woman stopped occasionally and held something in her hand as if trying to remember it from days long past. Then, with a sigh, she moved on, seeking out just one piece of a life lived when things were simple.

She stopped in front of a beautiful old hutch filled with vintage dinnerware, holding her hand to her mouth in surprise. That's mine, she told her granddaughter. I've been looking for those plates and the stemware as well. I'll need them for the dinner party tonight.

I'm sure they can be delivered right on time, Grama. But before she could say anything more, the woman walked on, leaving the hutch and dinnerware behind her and forgotten.

They spent the better part of the afternoon slowly looking at hundreds of items, some of which she took great interest in and others that she liked at that moment. I'm tired, child, she said, and hungry, too. Can we have a bite to eat at the diner Grandpa and I loved so much? Of course, we can, let's go now. She held her arm and walked slowly to the car. It was only minutes before the old woman fell asleep, only to be awakened once they reached home.

Did you enjoy our day? she asked her grandma. The woman smiled and said she had a wonderful day. She especially loved the root beer float at the diner, which she and Grandpa liked so much. But now I need to rest for a bit, she said. You'll come again for a visit, won't you? The young woman covered her lap and stayed until her grandma fell asleep.

Memory loss affects many, and there is no cure. What we can do is embrace our elders and listen to their stories, even if they don't make much sense. They believe their words speak the truth at any given moment, and we owe it to them to listen.

Mike 2025                                              

As we age

 As we age, we have a chance to beat the odds every day. We are given the time to make good with our past and not dream too far into the future.

Getting older means we've had time to learn and absorb life to its fullest while realizing every day lived is one we will never have again.

I don't remember waking up one day, seeing myself in the mirror, and wondering how I had gotten here so quickly. Who was that person with silver hair and weathered wrinkles? Where did I go?

Aging means accepting the aches and pains, the loss of friends and family, and the realization that one day, tears will fall for you. It means you can get away with things a younger person can't and laugh inside knowing you have.

Growing old is as natural as the rebirth of Spring flowers, which blossom for a while but eventually turn back into the ground. If we've lived the life we were given to the fullest, we will realize that age is who we are from birth to death and everything in between, and it's up to us to fill in the gaps of stories written and those yet to be.

Mike 2025                                                   

Every waking day

 We were only kids when we met in a cellar bar off campus. She was sitting at a wooden barrel bar with two friends, but it was just her that made my heart skip a beat or two. A long-haired guy in a tie-dyed shirt and strands of beads around his neck with a large peace sign, Madallon, was playing songs he wrote and some he didn't.

The crowd was the usual crowd that hung out on Fridays and Saturdays, with Fridays being single nights and Saturdays being date nights. On that particular Friday, I was glad I was single; obviously, she was, too. I mingled around, saying hi to friends from college and never losing sight of her, who, in time, I would have had enough liquid courage to walk up and say hello.

I still believe fate brought her to the bar and stood next to me. Her perfume was a faint smell of lilac. For a microsecond, her arm touched mine as our eyes locked, and she smiled, a smile I still long for every waking day.

We talked well into the night about everything and anything, not wanting the night to end. At the last call, I asked if I could walk her back to her dorm, and she smiled that smile that said yes. The night air was cool, and I wrapped my jacket around her as we walked silently down the quiet streets, not wanting this night to end.

At her front door, I broke the silence and asked her for a date, and she asked when. "Is tomorrow too soon?" I asked, and she smiled that beautiful smile etched into my soul and nodded, saying tomorrow would be nice.

The rest is history. We both finished college and soon after, we became husband and wife. We traveled for a while in an old school bus turned camper, seeing faraway places that called us to visit: state forests, parks, beaches, and lakes where others like us traveled the roads less traveled. Nature at its best surrounded us with peace and harmony among our traveling brothers and sisters, some of whom were still friends decades later.

From a slight touch standing at a bar to a lifetime of love, we've parked the old bus in our yard next to the hen house. Now, our kids play inside, pretending to be on great adventures like the ones we shared with them. We sit around a campfire, where sometimes friends drop in. A friend with a guitar brings us back to a cellar bar, where he was dressed in a tie-dyed shirt with strands of beads and a peace symbol that hangs from his neck.

We lived a long and happy life together, a long-ago memory that turned into many beautiful smiles and a faint smell of lilac I awake to every waking day.

Mike 2025                                                 

My attic room

 Time has ushered in memories I thought were forgotten. Moments so special from my youth fighting their way to the top to help me relive even the most basic of people, places, and things I buried a long time ago.

I remember the first years of my life in a house so small that my room was in the attic. It was a dark, lonely place where my eyes were affixed to the ceiling, seeing watermarks and peeling paint. The wooden ladder that came down from the attic signaled to me that someone was approaching, and over time, I recognized whose footsteps were coming up to my room in the sky.

Anyone taller than my mom had to duck so they would not hit their head on the ceiling with exposed nails. Dad promised to take care of it, but it wasn't until my older sister came up and hit a nail that it got fixed. I believe she still carries that small scar to this day.

I grew to love my solitude in my attic room. It was a place where I could play with my imaginary heroes and act out their superpowers, sometimes with too much noise that prompted a hit on the floor from mom smacking her broom on the kitchen ceiling.

I was fourteen years old when my parents sold the little house and moved to a much larger place, where I had an actual bedroom to myself. Nobody had to duck or risk a nail in the head. It was a great room, but the one thing I remember missing the most was being alone to act out my fantasies with no prying eyes. I even missed Mom's broom banging on the kitchen ceiling, signaling me I was being too noisy.

We tend to forget those childhood memories no matter how important they were. I suppose to make room for the memories we built our life around.

I'm into my seventy-first year in this world, and I'd venture to say my memories of my youth are powerful and wonderful, all mashed together to surface and bring me back to the times I loved the most.

People often ask me how I dreamed up the characters I write about in my books and blogs. I tell them I reach back and pull out memories with meaning, then add a pinch of make-believe, leaving it to the reader to figure out what is what.

Mike 2025                                           

Peaceful forests

 I can find peace in a world of unrest, hatred, and violence as I walk deep into the forest, where the only sounds are the birds, squirrels, and the snapping of branches as I venture deeper. 

It's dark among the giant trees, but rays of light pierce that darkness, acting as my guide, and I follow.

The smells of the forest are like sedatives for me. The rich, damp scent of moss and the bark of the white birch fill me with calmness. The smell of a bubbling brook and wet rocks are all meant to soothe my mind and help me leave the noises and smells of the city at the foot of the forest.

As night begins to fall, I use the lights from the neon city to be my guide out of the forest, leaving behind a place of peace that will always be calling my name to come back.

Mike  2025                                                

Words

 When I take a moment to realize how blessed I am, the moment becomes much more. I can talk about all those I love and who love me in return, and I smile with every passing thought.

There are so many stories to share, and I must endure equal amounts of sadness that flow from my pen to a tear-stained paper. But it's not all sadness—far from it. As I reach into my memories and pull out countless times spent with family and friends, it brings me great pleasure, and thanks for the many memories that will stay with me as so many disappear into the light.

A long time ago, I knew my writing would have a purpose, and one day, it hit me that words were my tool to share my thoughts and express my feelings in a way that others couldn't. I felt blessed.

I've asked myself why I write what I do, and my conclusion was that words have to be spoken through song, speech, or expression. You can't keep words bottled up if you have been blessed with the ability to share them. What I wrote touched a nerve or two and brought a smile or a tear, but more importantly, I awoke a memory for the reader.

Books may have lost their appeal to some with the advancement of digital and audiobooks and a thousand publishing websites eager to tell you your work will make a great Netflix movie—all for just twelve hundred dollars. However, millions of people worldwide still enjoy curling up in their favorite chair and opening a new book, as the smell fills your senses like nothing else, well, maybe fresh-cut grass.

I'll always keep writing without concern about whether people will even read it. I write because I love to, and that's all that matters to me.

Mike 2025