Through the eyes of a writer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                                   

Peace in the valley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                                     

Growing older

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                        

Paper Boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                              

Night visions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025                                                

Looking back

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

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

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

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

Mike 2025