Key strokes

 Sometimes, the right words just won't come. When I think back to my younger days, writing on a manual typewriter, the tapping of each keystroke created a symphony of words spilling onto the paper. Then, silence would fall as I searched for precisely the right words. Piles of crumpled paper would litter the room, their distance from me reflecting my level of frustration. 

As time went on and computers replaced typewriters, my struggles remained the same; it was just easier to hit "delete" than to crumple up sheets of paper. Yet, I do miss tossing those crumpled balls and seeing how far they could go, hoping for a three-pointer in the trash can. 

Now, I find myself staring at a screen instead of a wall when my mind goes blank. But I smile when inspiration strikes, and the words flow with each silent stroke of the keys. One of these days, I'm going to dust off my old typewriter and try writing the old-school way again. I bet I'll find myself wondering what it would have been like to use an ink pen and parchment paper to search for exactly the right words. 

— Mike, 2025                                             

Winter walk

 I long for the days when snow fell gently from the heavens onto quiet streets, where the only sounds were the crunch of my boots and the occasional car making its way home. I walk alone, reminiscing about my youth—sledding down a snow-covered hill on a piece of cardboard and ice skating on a pond we used to fish in during the summer. 

I stroll deep into the night when the houses are dark, and dreams are being made. As children sleep, they awaken to a snow day filled with building snowmen and engaging in snowball fights. When the day comes to an end, there are countless footprints and patches of nearly green grass where we rolled the snowman pieces. My mom would wonder where all the carrots went and about Dad's scarf he received last Christmas. 

As night falls and darkness descends, a fresh blanket of white silently covers everything, like a chalkboard ready to start anew. While I walk through the darkness, surrounded by a million snowflakes that coat me from head to toe, my thoughts drift back to the simple pleasures of life, when my biggest worry was whether there would be a warm bowl of soup waiting for me after the long, cold walk home from school.

Now, as I wander among the snowflakes and darkened houses, my beard dusted with tiny ice crystals, I feel the chill of Mother Nature urging me to return home, hoping that a bowl of hot soup is waiting for me at the table. After I remove my boots and layers of clothing, my wife asks how my walk was. I quickly kiss her cheek, my frozen beard brushing against her, and tell her it was everything I remembered. 

Mike 2025                                                  

The engineer

 It would be his last train ride on the old 98. He arrived at the station earlier than most so he could take a few moments to remember it in all its glory. The year was 1905 and the Wild West was beginning to tame. Small towns were growing, and the lawlessness of the past had become the stuff of newspapers. Gone were the shootouts on main streets, and those who tried to cause trouble were dealt with an iron fist by sheriffs who wouldn’t bend the law but instead enforced it.

The railroads had brought significant growth and wealth to enterprising men and women who left the big cities in search of adventure in the once dusty streets of a taming West. He was sixteen when he first learned to drive the old steam engine. Like his father and grandfather, both engineers, his love for the iron horse was in his blood, and he never imagined himself doing anything else.

He had seen more of the land than most would in a lifetime as he traversed cut forests and mountain tunnels carved out by workers, mostly Chinese laborers who were brought in by the railroads. Unfortunately, enslaved people was a more accurate term for their situation. 

He felt at home in the engineer's seat, rolling into stations to unload everything from furniture to building supplies. He transported soon-to-be brides of men who answered newspaper advertisements for wives, as well as people of many different races seeking a better life. In his third year as an engineer, he was stopped and robbed by masked men who had guns and weren't afraid to use them. They made off with an army payroll and a bag of jewelry from the passengers, but no one was hurt, and with shaky hands, he continued to the next stop.

Over the years, he met many people in various towns, each encounter a fond memory of his days on the rails. After thirty years, the old 98 was set to be replaced by a new breed of engines—faster and capable of pulling ten times the weight. He glanced at his pocket watch and realized it was time to board. Gathering his bag, he climbed into the engineer's seat, savoring the sights, smells, and sounds of the old 98 one last time.

"All aboard!" the conductor yelled as he waved him on. Slowly, the old 98 moved out of the station, gaining speed as more coal was shoveled into the furnace. He took it through the forests and carved tunnels one last time. Although she was still doing what he wanted, she moved a little slower than before, and that was okay with him.

At the final destination, he shut down the old 98 and waited until the steam dissipated, listening to the aches and pains of a long journey. It was rumored that the old 98 would be scrapped, but he later learned it would become part of a railroad museum, where it would rest for eternity on silent rails. He spent his remaining years as an engineer at an amusement park, guiding passengers through forests and man-made tunnels. Although it wasn’t the same as the old 98 it was a way to stay on the rails and live the life of an engineer.

Mike 2025                                                              

Sunday drives

 Soon, the colors of autumn will surround you, and nature will put on a show that is matched by few. Picture Sunday drives in the countryside, roadside pumpkin stands, and cool autumn breezes. Apples will be plentiful, and corn stalks will become decorations as kids ponder what to be for Halloween.

Imagine a place where you can stop and wander through the woods, with fallen leaves cushioning your steps and vibrant colors filling your view, while the scents of nature awaken your senses. 

Afterwards, you'll be back on the road, heading home with a jug of apple cider and a pumpkin for each child, ready to carve faces together later. Your tree-lined street, alive with brilliant hues from the giant trees, will soon be filled with laughter as children leap into piles of leaves, creating a scene like crashing into a rainbow.

Autumn is fleeting, as winter's chill will soon arrive, covering the colors beneath a blanket of snow. The leaves of autumn will rest below, gradually disappearing into the ground, leaving behind memories to relive whenever you close your eyes and visualize the wonders of those Sunday drives in the countryside. 

Mike, 2025                                               

Timeless Love

 He lay beside her just as he had done for sixty years, and each year was memorable in its own way. After returning from the nightmares of war, he courted her for a year; her understanding and kindness filled his heart with a deep love he never thought possible.

On the night of their wedding, after the guests had left, they lay together, their bodies igniting with pleasure. Sleep found them embraced, just as they would remain for decades to come.

They raised three children, and as the years passed by, they fell deeper in love. Life took their youth, but it did not diminish their passion for each other. Once again, sleep found them together.

Time softened their memories of youth, but throughout the years, their love never wavered. It grew stronger until the day God took her away in her sleep. Her last feeling was a peaceful one, wrapped in his arms.

Now, he sleeps alone on his side of the bed, reaching for her, but she is only present in his dreams and in the beautiful memories they shared for so long. When he goes to join her, he knows she will be waiting, holding up the covers for him to climb under in their eternal embrace and timeless love.

Mike 2025                                              

Brotherly love

 The cold rain slapped his face as he rode through a mountain pass, alert to every turn, his nerves shaky, but he knew no fear, only excitement. Any day now, the snow will come. It may even arrive today if the temperature drops a few degrees, as he prefers not to ride on snow-covered roads. He did that once and still remembered sliding, hoping he wouldn't wreck.

He'd been in the saddle for hours now, wanting to reach his destination before dark because darkness and slick roads could be a disaster in the making.

Finally, after six hours of riding, he pulled up to a house deep off the main road that looked empty. No lights were on as he got off his bike and slowly walked up to the front porch and knocked on the door. He cupped his eyes, looking inside, but couldn't see anything but darkness. He walked around the house and saw light coming from a shed. He opened the door to see his brother listening to hard rock music, knee-deep into a complete rebuild of his 46 Harley.

He tapped his shoulder, and his brother jumped up, ready for a fight, but seeing him, he smiled and fist bumped his baby brother. You got it he asked. Sure, " he replied, handing him the box he'd brought across the state, containing a rare 46 Harley carburetor that took months to find. That's it, brother, the last piece of the puzzle to get this old girl running again.

The bike belonged to their grandfather, who bought it brand new in 46 after returning from war. When he passed away in '66, it was left to their dad, who taught them how to ride and instilled in both of them a never-ending desire to ride. Dad passed away in '89, and the bike was covered up and tucked away in the shed, where it remained until the brothers decided to restore it to its original glory. Seeing that his baby brother did all the work, they decided to pass the bike along to him.

One week later, it was completed. Although the roads were dry, the chances of snow were now very good, so they wasted no time getting it on the road for a test run. Side by side, the two brothers rode through the mountain roads, and the old 46 was reborn. Looking good, little brother, he said. Gramps would be proud. They made it back to the shed, where a few minor adjustments were made, and the bike was covered until Spring arrived with no icy roads and frigid cold wind slapping their faces.

He kept his bike in the shed during the winter months, trading it for his '56 Chevy pickup truck, which was stored in the shed all summer until riding season arrived. He bought the truck from an old farmer who was a friend of their dad, who had passed away. The widow was left to sell his truck, but it didn't take long for him to buy it. A minor restoration was all it needed, as the farmer had taken great care of it. The paint was almost gone, but he didn't care since he planned to repaint it flat black. The engine ran, but he wanted more power, so he swapped the motor for a Chevy big block and a new four-speed transmission. With some new tires, she was ready to go.

His time was winding down, and he had to get back to work. The next day, he said goodbye to his baby brother, telling him they'd meet up come Spring to give the 46 a long road trip to someplace unknown.

Some brothers do things together, like building houses or cabins in the woods, but these brothers brought back memories of their gramps and their dad's love for motorcycles, with one foot in the grave, screaming to be reborn and hitting the roads together like rolling thunder.

Mike 2025                                                         

                         

Blind date

 He wasn't sure if she would show up. Blind dates were something he had never attempted before, and to be candid, he never wanted to. It was his sister who arranged everything, telling him that his date was named Elizabeth but preferred to be called Liz. She worked with his sister at the factory, which had once been one of the largest automobile manufacturers in the country. However, since the war, it had been repurposed to make tanks for the army.

He was a veteran of the war, having received a Purple Heart after being shot and saving the lives of four fellow soldiers. He would give anything to be back in action, but his fighting days were over. Now he sold war bonds and volunteered at the USO, doing what he could to serve.

As he waited to see if she would arrive, he sipped on a beer and reflected on memories he would soon forget. Yet, memories don’t always fade when you want them to. "David?" he heard a distant voice call. Startled, he jumped up, almost knocking over the table, causing a fork to clatter to the floor. Regaining his composure, he smiled and nodded. "Liz?" he asked.

She was beautiful, with shoulder-length hair and skin that he imagined would be as soft as a rose petal. Her green eyes sparkled like flawless rubies, and her lips were as red as cherries. At first, he was at a loss for words, but that feeling vanished as soon as they sat down and conversation began to flow with an ease he had never experienced before.

A piano man played favorite tunes, and they danced to almost every song, not caring if their food got cold or if the dim lights brightened, signaling that the restaurant would close in thirty minutes. Neither of them wanted the night to end. He offered to hail her a cab, but she preferred that he walk her home.

The night was quiet, except for the occasional passing cab and the hum of power lines, as they held hands and exchanged few words. She felt like a perfect fit, he thought, as she squeezed his hand as if she could hear his thoughts. When they reached her door, both wondered if a goodnight kiss was appropriate, considering it was their first date. Before either could answer the unspoken question, he kissed her cherry lips, and the taste and sweetness enveloped him completely.

They went on several more dates, and exactly eight months after their first, he proposed to her on bended knee in the same restaurant, at the same table, dancing to the tunes of the same piano man until the lights grew brighter.                                                                    

Mike 2025

Tye dyed shirts and flowers

 They called us the dreamers, the free spirits, the beloved flower children. It seemed their eyes couldn't quite capture the essence of who we truly were, perhaps because they were clouded by conventions that stifled change. They missed the beautiful light we carried in our hearts, a radiant, glowing warmth fueled by love and peace.

Our music was often misunderstood; they claimed it was the work of the devil, overtaking our souls. And yet, how could that same music create such profound connections? Artists like Joni Mitchell, Seals and Croft, and Cat Stevens touched hearts and inspired us to feel deeply, even among those who disregarded our sounds as sinful.

As free spirits, we embraced life with open arms, burning incense and adorning ourselves with flowers in our long hair and vibrant tie-dyed shirts. Our gatherings in parks and forests were filled with laughter, music, poetry, and the joyous proclamation that we would not conform to a herd mentality. We traveled in colorful vans and vintage school buses, seeking out kindred souls to unite in a celebration of peace and love.

Everywhere we went, we came with open hearts, unfazed by the disapproving stares and harsh words from the previous generations. Their judgment simply rolled off our backs as we embraced our true selves. We expressed our identities freely, never resorting to hate; instead, we shared affection and warmth with everyone who crossed our paths. Some thought we were just a passing phase, convinced we would inevitably trade our flowers for polyester shirts and mundane lives. But we stood firm, with girls still twirling in floral sundresses and poets still weaving words of beauty.

Decades have gone by, and while our numbers may have diminished, our spirits remain undiminished. We still hold dear the power of nature and the freedom to express ourselves authentically in a world that sometimes struggles to accept differences.

I’ve kept my long hair, and my trusty VW bus is parked in my backyard, a comforting reminder of the wonderful moments spent with friends who often went by names like Stardust or Moonbeam, names inspired by the beauty of the universe. Occasionally, I indulge in a little nostalgia by sparking up a joint, revisiting those vibrant sensations from years gone by. However, I've learned to steer clear of stronger mind-altering substances like LSD or mescaline, as I wish to remain grounded in who I truly am.

Just recently, I stumbled upon a delightful store filled with hippie clothing. There were racks of tie-dyed shirts, fringed jeans, love beads, and peace sign necklaces, all available for just thirty dollars each! The young woman at the counter, barely nineteen, didn’t quite grasp the spirit of who we are or what we continue to cherish. Yet, she greeted me with a warm smile as I explored her enchanting store. My hair, mostly white now, flowed long as I wore a tie-dyed shirt I’d crafted myself, the outcome absolutely an adventure. I picked up some wonderful incense, inhaling the familiar, comforting scents that transported me back to cherished memories.

It fills me with joy to see the essence of our culture still alive in small ways, reminding us that though the world may change around us, the spirit of love and peace we embraced will always resonate in our hearts. Here’s to the journey that continues to unfold, a celebration of differences and the vibrant connections that persist through time. 

With love, 

Mike 2025                                            

Christmas dinner in the forest

 He lay in bed a little longer today, pulling the quilt under his chin, which hadn't seen a razor in years. He mentally went over whether he had taken care of all his chores from yesterday and remembered he had one more thing to finish. He woke up quickly as soon as his feet hit the cold floor. He put on a pair of socks and slipped his feet into a pair of slippers his daughter had given him last Christmas.

He added a few pieces of wood to the stove's embers and fanned them until the wood caught fire, knowing warmth would soon arrive, just as the bitter cold had during the night. He wasn't much of a coffee drinker; he preferred teas made from the abundance of plants he found in the forest. He heated some water and, while waiting, placed a few strips of bacon into a cast-iron skillet handed down to him by his mom long ago. She had told him that if he kept the skillet greased and never washed it with soap, it would last both their lifetimes and beyond.

He had always enjoyed breakfast and insisted on making it, even if it was just for him and the scraps for his little friends in the forest. When the bacon was cooked to his liking, he drained the grease into a jar, leaving a coating to fry up three eggs. He removed the cloth cover from the remaining biscuits he had made the day before and warmed them on the stove until the butter melted.

With his tea brewed and everything ready, he said a blessing and dove into his favorite meal of the day. Once finished, he cleaned the skillet and hung it on the wall next to other pots and pans. He spread out the cloth, filling it with a single biscuit left uneaten and a couple of strips of bacon he couldn't finish. He dressed warmly, put the cloth sack into his pocket, and headed outside into the harshness of a winter's day.

His trail was covered with fresh snow, but he knew his way around the forest and the sixteen acres of land he had bought nearly thirty years ago. After trudging through the swaying pines and white birch trees, he came to a fallen tree, where he sat down. He reached into his pocket, retrieved the cloth filled with goodies, and set it next to him to wait.

A squirrel was the first to arrive, followed by a smaller-than-normal red fox. They approached him slowly until they were close enough to take the morsels from his hand. With a gesture of song, they disappeared back into the forest to share their bounty with others. But he remained sitting for a while, knowing one more creature would present herself when she was ready, not until then.

He took an apple from his pocket and, with his knife, began slicing the juicy fruit into strips while watching for any movement behind the safety of the forest. It didn't take long, and she showed herself to him, slowly making her way toward his outstretched hand, holding the strips of juicy apple. With the grace of a ballerina, she took the offering from him, but she didn’t run off immediately; she stood inches from him, gazing into his eyes for what seemed like a long time before retreating to her place among the others.

Once back at his cabin, he went into the root cellar and filled the cloth bag with a dozen apples and as many carrots. He gathered other treats, such as nuts and stalks of celery, until the bag was full. Then, he set it aside until tomorrow, when something special would occur.

He rose early the next day and checked the calendar hanging on the wall to confirm he had the right day. He did; it was Christmas Day. He hurried that morning, skipping his tea and eating only a single biscuit as he headed back to the fallen tree.

Before long, the wonders of nature crept silently towards him, in numbers that surprised him: a dozen squirrels, a family of red foxes, some rabbits, and even a porcupine with her babies. But the sight that amazed him most was the doe who had her two fawns with her. She nudged them forward until he could touch their velvet noses while handing them some treats.

By his count, there were over two dozen animals from the forest who came to Christmas dinner that day and every Christmas thereafter. Oh, and that last chore he needed to do was open the box of sugar cubes that each little one would receive as a gift, while the mothers watched and met his gaze in a gesture of thanks and friendship. 

Mike 2025                                                   

TLC

 There was a time when my Harley was everything to me. I invested nearly every dollar I had into making it a showstopper, but I soon realized I needed a place to stay. After searching for affordable accommodations, I found an ad for a lived-in apartment that needed some work.

I hopped on my bike and followed the directions. The place was a charming but slightly worn house. An elderly lady answered my knock with a warm smile. “I’m here about the apartment,” I said. “It’s out back,” she replied, handing me a rusty key from her apron. “Just watch out for the pigeons.”

As I approached the back, disbelief hit me. The “apartment” was a small, lopsided shack on dock pilings, with a chicken-wire cage of cooing pigeons underneath. I climbed the rickety steps and unlocked the door, but something blocked it. With a shove, it opened, revealing a bizarre interior: a tilted kitchen, cramped bedroom, tiny bathroom, and a sitting area. I felt like I was in a funhouse; a pencil I set on the table shot off in a blink.

During that sweltering summer, I doubted the heater would even work come winter. Rust stained the sinks, and the bathroom offered only a small shower with a torn curtain. An old fan sat next to the stove, grease-coated and ominous. The linoleum was ripped and sticky, making every step a challenge. Yet, at seventy-five dollars a month, I was desperate enough to take it, forgoing a lease as the place felt like a ticking time bomb.

After long workdays, I returned to clean, hauling junk to the dump while making space for my bike under the stairs, carefully covered to avoid pigeon droppings.

Winter brought brutal cold, with snow sneaking through unsealed windows. The heater blew only warm air, and sleep was a struggle beneath five heavy blankets. When spring arrived, I told the old lady I was leaving. She shrugged and closed the door without another word.

One week later, after cleaning pigeon mess off my bike, I packed my saddle bags and said goodbye to the lopsided shack, hoping that the roar of my Harley wouldn’t bring it crashing down. 

Mike 2025                                               

First apartment

 I was twenty-one when I finished my time in the Navy. I used some of my savings to rent an apartment in my hometown. I can still picture every part of that place.

My apartment was on the second floor of an old two-story house built around 1900. The twelve narrow wooden steps made getting furniture upstairs difficult. When I opened the door, I admired the beautiful woodwork everywhere. The floors, walls, and ceiling were all made from handcrafted wood, and I wondered how long the craftsmen took to create such beauty.

Like many homes from that time, the house had many windows that allowed natural light to fill each room. The living room had a cluster of six windows. that were opened with a rope and pulley system. Every room had a radiator for heating, and I could hear the steam hissing on cold winter days.

The bathroom was small, featuring an eagle claw tub that was big enough for me to relax in, with a beveled mirror above the sink. Besides the kitchen, it was the only room with black and white square tiles on the floor.

I had one bedroom, which was all I needed. If I had guests, I'd turn the couch into a bed, but it wasn't very comfortable since some springs were broken.

The kitchen was small, accommodating only a small fridge, a gas stove, and a sink. There were no microwaves back then, so I used the stove and oven every day. They also provided heat on cold days when the radiators couldn't keep up. My favorite room, though, was the living room.

The living room was larger than the other rooms, almost as if the builders wanted to show off their skills. It had a high ceiling and a wood-burning fireplace as the main feature. The fireplace had fieldstones from the area and an oak mantel where I displayed family photos and souvenirs from my Navy travels. The six windows let in plenty of light, and every sunset through those windows filled the room with bright orange and pink colors, creating a perfect end to the day.

I had very little furniture: a bed, a dresser, an easy chair, and that uncomfortable couch. I found an old coffee table on the curb, saved it from being thrown away, and repaired a broken leg. I decided to turn it into a candle table, placing a new candle on top of the old one as each burned out. Over time, a pile of wax grew on the table. The light from the candles and the fire in the fireplace created lovely shadows in the room.

During that time, I wrote a lot. The beautiful woodwork and shadows inspired ideas for my stories. The smell of burning wood and the sound of crackling fire filled my senses, and words flowed from my pen easily.

I loved everything about my first apartment. I believe that it was there that I discovered my path to becoming a storyteller. Years later, during a visit home, I drove by the old house. To my surprise, it was still standing, though it looked worn down. As I sat there, a young couple with a baby came out of the apartment. I smiled, wondering if they felt the same wonder I had felt, surrounded by the beautiful woodwork, six windows, and eagle claw bathtub. I thought about whether they sat by the fireplace on cold nights, listening to the steam from the radiators. Or maybe to them, it was just an apartment with twelve hard stairs to climb slowly, trying not to wake the baby.

As I drove away, I took every piece of that old house with me. It will always be a part of who I was and who I wanted to be—a storyteller.  

Mike 2025                                             

Full circle

 Kids grow up at the speed of sound, leaving you to wonder how fast time passed. One minute they're hanging onto your pants leg, begging for a cookie, then they've figured out the secret hiding place of the cookie jar.

One minute, they're filling your memories so quickly with funny faces and putting on magic shows for their friends. And then the cardboard boxes filled with outgrown toys are stashed away in the garage, waiting for the next child to rescue.

As a parent, we keep tabs on their whereabouts until we catch them in a lie, swearing they didn't go into town by themselves or they spent the night at a school friends studying, only to be caught by dad sitting in the living room with the lights off until they quietly close the door and the lights went on.

It's a well-known fact that kids will test your patience in ways they've researched, and in the blink of an eye, they develop a language of their own with words you've never heard of, let alone understand.

You somehow get through the teenage years, wondering if it's a good idea to move them into the basement, but then mom says no, and the show continues.

They continue to grow and question everything they can, laughing silently as they keep us on our last nerve and ready to blow a gasket. Then out of nowhere, a new child emerges from the depths of somewhere only they know, and they dress nicely and do chores without throwing a temper tantrum. They hold intelligent conversations at the dinner table, offering to do the dishes as mom grabs her chest, and dad's mouth remains open as small pieces of food fall out of his mouth.

Now, after years of blowing up mailboxes, joyriding in Dad's car while he slept, sneaking girls or boys into their bedroom, and finding out how many drinks it takes before they puke, they've transformed from a cocoon to a butterfly, and life is looking good.

But you never stop worrying about them, or at least not so much as you wait for it to all come full circle. You're up there in age now, and they're grown-ups who visit to clean your house, do your laundry, and handle your shopping, as it's hard for you to move around quickly and risk falling, or so they think. Not that you couldn't do those things, and probably better than they can. But payback is a real thing, and at your age, laughter is the best medicine.

Mike 2025                                             

Radio flyer

 I made it to the top of the hill, towing my new sled behind me. An original Radio Flyer sled was every kid's Christmas wish, and this was my year. A fresh snowfall in the night brought five inches of snow, turning the landscape bright white and ready for the neighborhood kids to climb the hill with their new sleds, while others brought saucers, all anxious to tackle the highest hill for miles.

It was well known that not everyone could reach the top, so a portion of the hill was reserved for little kids who dreamed of the day they'd conquer the giant. Until then, they stayed clear of the sleds racing past them at breakneck speeds.

As I stood at the top looking down, I felt a lump in my throat, and my heart was pounding as a couple of my buddies joined me, out of breath but eager to take their first run down the hill, which now looked like a toy village with tiny figures and small houses scattered about at the bottom.

It was time for me to suck it up and get ready. I laid down on my stomach, carefully placing my hands on the wooden steering bars, gripping them as tightly as I could. However, deep inside, I knew they wouldn’t do much as the sled transformed into a rocket ship, veering down the hill so fast that tears froze on my cheeks. I pushed myself forward to the edge, and with a nudge, I was speeding down the hill faster and faster, praying I wouldn't crash into a tree or, worse yet, another kid.

When I reached the bottom and came to a stop, I rolled off my Radio Flyer and looked up the hill to see my buddies jumping up and down, applauding a job well done. I don’t know how many times I tackled the hill that day and in the days that followed, but my trusty sled never let me down.

As winter passed, the hill seemed smaller, and my legs began to hang over the sled, but I kept climbing the once-scary hill. Eventually, the lump in my throat went away. I loved that hill, I loved my Radio Flyer, but mostly, I loved conquering my fear as I sped toward the toy village below. 

— Mike, 2025                                     

Silent angel

 I wasn't quite old enough to ride a bicycle yet, but I had the next best thing. For Christmas when I was five years old, Santa brought me an orange pedal tractor. Back then, it was made from steel and could withstand anything I put it through, which was a lot. It had a small hitch on the back that I used to haul away branches, just like Grandpa did with his tractor. I felt like a farmer in the making.

Mom would later say that she could hardly get me out of it. I would ask her to bring me and Grandpa our lunches so we could eat on our tractors, as there was always a lot left to do before the day was over. 

On the side of my tractor was a small bar that served no real purpose. It was something my imagination turned into a lever, like the ones Grandpa used to go forward or backward. The only problem was that if I wanted to go backward, I'd have to get out, lift it, and turn it around to go in the same direction that Grandpa was going.

At the end of a long day, I would park my tractor on the front porch, anxiously awaiting the next day when I could climb back in and head out to do my chores. Then one day, the unthinkable happened. I opened the door, and my tractor was gone. I screamed for my mom, who thought something horrible had happened as she tried to make sense of my frantic cries. "It's gone," I said through crocodile tears. "My tractor is gone!"

After assuring me that we would find it, we searched for over five blocks. Then I saw my orange tractor sitting on someone else's porch. Mom recognized the family who lived there, and she said there was a little girl older than me whom she described as a special little angel. She explained that "special kids don't always know what they're doing is wrong." "I'm sure she didn't mean to take your tractor," she said as we knocked on the door.

Another mom answered, smiling warmly and asking what we needed. When she saw me sitting in my tractor, she understood immediately. She called for her daughter and asked if she had taken my tractor, but the girl hesitated at first. Then she admitted that she wanted it, so she brought it home.

The mom apologized, and the little girl ran back into the house crying. On our way home, as Mom walked in silence, I had an idea. I asked her if it would be okay for me to play with the girl sometime. I wanted to take my tractor over and let her ride it while I pushed her alongside on my scooter so that she wouldn’t go too far. Mom thought that was a great idea and arranged it with the girl’s mom.

About eight years later, my orange tractor had become too small for me to sit in, and it ended up in the garage along with countless other toys I had accumulated over time. One day, I dusted it off and pushed it to the little girl's house. She was sitting on her porch, playing silently until she saw me coming up the path with my tractor. 

“Mine,” she exclaimed, “my tractor!” Her mom came out, wondering what was going on until she saw me and the orange tractor. “Yes,” I said, “it’s your tractor now.”

Some years later, as I passed by her house, I would see my old tractor in a corner, surrounded by stuffed animals and other toys. She might have grown too big to sit in it, but she never lost the love she felt for it. As for me, I have a big tractor now that once belonged to Grandpa, and every so often, I look around to see if my little orange tractor is following me, pushed by a silent angel. 

Mike 2025                                                        

Roads traveled

 He shuffled his feet, feeling tiny pebbles through the worn soles of his boots, a testament to a man well-traveled on the streets. The pockets of his pants were filled with lint and a few coins, likely found on the ground, as no one was paying him for anything. In the silence of early morning, he could hear the sound of liquid splashing around in the half-full bottle in his jacket pocket—a treat for later, if he could hold on for a while.

He reached behind his ear and retrieved half of a cigarette—a lady’s, he guessed, because it was smeared with lipstick and tasted good. He considered lighting it but decided to wait, hoping he would stumble upon a camp with coffee brewing and be offered a cup. However, he didn’t hold out much hope for that.

Many years had passed since he took to the trails, rails, and paths well-traveled by those like him who had lost faith in life. The man who once gave his best efforts was mostly gone now; the importance of success had vanished along with his desire to be part of the rat race he left behind.

Crouching in the bushes, he waited for a slow-moving freight train to pass by before he jumped on board an empty boxcar and settled in for the long ride. He had no idea where he would get off, but it had to be better than where he had already been. Soon, the hypnotic sound of the train, punctuated by occasional blasts of the horn, lulled him to sleep—a peaceful sleep where dreams came alive and life reminded him of better times.

The screeching brakes jolted him awake, leaving him uncertain whether it was early morning or late at night. He jumped off and vanished into the woods and trails ahead. Soon, he came upon a small camp, where the smell of brewing coffee filled the air, and he was welcomed. He asked for half a cup as he took the half-filled bottle from his pocket and topped it off while lighting the lipstick-stained cigarette. Life felt good at that moment, and he smiled for the first time in a long while. 

— Mike, 2025                                                

Summer vacation

 I can close my eyes and feel the wind on my face as I lean out the window of our 1957 Ford station wagon. It was summertime, and we were headed to a motel with a pool. Dad had two weeks of Army Reserve training near the motel, which he left us at for the first week. Then he joined us to embark on one adventure or another. He loved surprising us and never revealed his plans until we arrived at our destination.

Money was tight for a family of five, but Dad always managed to find a motel that was clean enough for Mom; having a kitchen and a pool was a must. My sisters and I spent all day in the pool, only coming out for lunch or if there was a thunderstorm, which scared Mom like nothing else. At the first rumble of thunder, she would make us come inside and amuse ourselves until she was sure the threat had passed, and only then were we allowed back in the pool.

One day, while we were indoors, a loud cracking sound and a flash of lightning struck the pool's filter station. The manager visited every room, instructing everyone to stay out of the pool until further notice. He warned that the water could be electrified, which was enough to prompt Mom to phone Dad. He came to the motel, loaded up the car, and drove us to another motel.

Two days later, he joined us, and we set out for a surprise destination a couple of hundred miles away. This time, we found ourselves in an authentic Wild West town where we stayed in a log cabin and watched staged gunfights between outlaws and the sheriff. We got to ride horses, take a hayride into the forest under the stars, and yes, swim in a small lake.

My memories of those summer adventures have always stayed with me, especially when I hear thunder and see lightning on a hot summer’s day. 

— Mike, 2025                                         

Her hand in mine

 I remember when I held her small hand as we walked along the beach. Every shell was a treasure, and the waves made a joyful sound. We would guess how long until the sun set, making way for stars in the night sky. She would stand in my footprints and laugh at how tiny her feet were compared to mine.

Another time, I held her hand as she cried over her first breakup. She asked if that’s what a broken heart felt like. I squeezed her hand to show support, without needing to say anything.

Then, I held her hand as I walked her down the aisle. I gave her hand away, trying to hold back tears so she wouldn’t notice.

As the years went by, she started a family of her own. I was left with memories of our walks, late-night talks, and moments spent holding her hand simply out of love.

Now, she holds my weathered hand and asks if I remember our walks. This time, tears come easily as I picture her as my little girl. Her small hand is in mine again, and the waves still make their familiar song. Every shell is still a treasure, and every moment holding her hand is a blessing I will always cherish.  

— Mike, 2025                                 

There comes a time

 There comes a time when even the best storytellers fall silent. When sentences blur together, and silence envelops your mind. 

There comes a moment when memories that were once easy to recall seem lost forever, and faces grow faded. 

There was a time when your pen flowed with grace and elegance, and you never questioned the final result, as you were a storyteller with endless tales waiting to be told. 

There was a time when words came together effortlessly, all seeming so natural for a writer with the abundant gift of memories. 

Now, there is a time when that pen lies idle on a blank sheet of paper, hesitant to be picked up. Beginnings no longer come easily, and endings feel light-years away. 

There is a time for all things, and all things must come to an end. Your life as a storyteller will eventually fade into the past, along with everything else you hold dear. 

But until that time comes, you will delve deep into your memories, waiting for the words to reappear and a story to emerge on that blank sheet of paper that has never failed you before. 

Mike, 2025                                       

Shoeless

 I can walk barefoot if I please on the worn-down dirt road my father walked. He took away my shoes at an early age, encouraging me to feel the dirt on my bare feet, which gave me a sense of belonging to the earth. I would catch him laughing as I jumped up and down, stepping on a small stone or a hardened piece of cow dung. "You'll get used to it, son," he’d say. "You have to toughen those feet up."

My entire family walked barefoot while doing chores that didn’t require machinery, and I have to admit it was soothing on my feet. Mom would always remind us to wash off the dirt before coming inside, so we’d find a mud puddle and rinse it all away.

On Sundays, we went to church, where we were made to wear shoes that felt tight and cumbersome. When the service was over, we would take off our shoes and sling them over our shoulders as we ran barefoot all the way back to the farm.

I remember one time when Dad put a match to his foot while we watched in horror, believing he would burn himself. But his feet, hardened by years of going shoeless, felt nothing. Mom always said that if she caught any of us doing what Dad did, we’d be in serious trouble.

I guess I can say I come from a long line of people who are often seen as crazy, especially when they're shoeless. But unless you’ve tried it, you’ll never understand the feeling of the dirt between your toes and how it connects you to the earth in a small way. Now my kids run barefoot through the cornfields or a valley of wildflowers, letting the energy of the ground embrace them from head to toe, while a pile of boots and shoes remains on the porch, waiting to be called. 

Mike 2025                                               

Whispers

 Whispers in my dreams are filled with thoughts of you and the love that still lingers. I go to sleep with you on my mind and in my heart, and somewhere in the shadows of the night, I speak your name, a soft whisper in my dreams expressing words of love meant for you to hear no matter where you are.

                                                                

Are you resting on a cloud or soaring through the heavens? Can you see me and my tears that never seem to dry? Will you greet me when I arrive at wherever you may be? Will the whispers in my dreams call out your name loud enough for you to hear as you guide me through the heavens to your side?

Mike 2025

The dance

 I first saw her with some friends, sharing laughs and beers as the music played from the jukebox. It was hard not to notice her; her long black hair flowed down her back, shining like a moonlit ocean. I caught her eye for a brief moment, and she smiled before quickly turning back to her friends. A moment of giggles erupted among them, which either meant she found me amusing or that she thought I was cute. Either way, I grabbed a beer and walked toward her. Luck was on my side as a slow song began to play, and I softly asked her to dance. She smiled and said she'd love to.

As we danced, she was in my arms, her hair smelling like a field of lavender. Our movements were in sync, and we held each other close, with no words necessary. When the song ended, I thanked her for the dance and walked her back to her friends, who giggled some more. I was left wondering if she thought I had two left feet or if that dance was one of the nicest she'd ever experienced. Regardless, I made my way to the bar and took a seat, still trying to calm my nerves.

I watched her dance with several guys, her long hair swaying to the music. As she got closer, the scent of lavender brushed past me, and she asked if I was going to ask her to dance again. I jumped off the stool, tapped the guy on the shoulder, and asked if I could cut in. He reluctantly agreed, and she was in my arms once more.

We danced and danced until the clock struck two, and last call was announced. I asked for her phone number and walked her to a car filled with her still-giggling friends. She didn’t join in their laughter, though, as the moment between us was sweet, much like her lips, I thought. She kissed my cheek, and then she was gone, leaving behind the scent of lavender that I would carry with me until it blended into the night.

As time went on, we dated until life intervened and took me away. I wrote to her every day until I could see her again, but life had different plans. All that remained were my memories of dancing to a jukebox with her long black hair moving with the music and the feelings I would always keep alive, along with the smell of lavender brushing past me in the night.

Mike 2025                                             

Stingrays and grape jelly

 As a kid, I couldn't wait for summer vacation. When that last bell rang and the school doors flew open, we felt our freedom return, while teachers breathed a sigh of relief. The year was 1963, a time when kids had bicycles and endless adventures awaited us at every corner of our world. Armed with bags of peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches, we would finish our morning chores and then all meet up, eager to explore the forgotten roads and trails winding through the woods that surrounded us for miles.

Our bicycles were our horses, our race cars, and anything else we imagined them to be. Most of us rode Stingrays with banana seats and ape-hanger handlebars, which were all the rage back then. Typically, girls weren’t included, but a couple of them had the girl version of a Stingray, and we let them tag along if they could keep up with us.

We had no real sense of time, but our stomachs signaled when it was time for lunch, and when the sun began to set, it meant we needed to start heading home for supper. I remember my mom saying, “Hold on right there, young man! Look at yourself. Go clean up before you sit at my table.” Looking in the mirror, I would laugh at my grape jelly-covered shirt and mud-stained pants, my once white sneakers now brown. After a quick shower and clean clothes, I would sit down at the table as Dad peered over his evening newspaper with a grin.

Dinner at my house was always a feast because my mom believed it was the most important meal of the day, providing all the food groups necessary for growing strong and healthy. Each supper varied, usually consisting of pot roast with mashed potatoes, a garden salad, and bread and butter, or pork chops with boiled potatoes, and, of course, a garden salad along with celery and carrots. My favorite meal was spaghetti and meatballs, which my mom would simmer all day. With warm Italian bread and, yes, a garden salad, she was a fantastic cook, and my friends could hardly wait to be invited over for supper. This made me incredibly proud that my mom was the best cook in the neighborhood.

Not only could she cook, but her baked goods were also among my favorites, including pies and cakes. One of my favorites was her jelly roll, made using scraps of dough left over from pie crust, filled with grape jelly, rolled up, and baked to a golden brown. I can also still recall the glorious smell of bread baking on a cold winter day, greeting me at the door with a slice covered in butter, waiting for me at the table.

Summer vacation meant swimming in the river or creek, gathering worms at night by wetting the grass, and using a flashlight to grab them as they surfaced. We’d go fishing down by the canals, sometimes catching a fish or two to bring home for Mom to fry up.

There were no Game Boys or social media, no flat screens or computers. The only time we watched television was Saturday morning for cartoons and maybe one family night watching a black-and-white show, especially during Christmas, when several shows aired on the only three stations we had.

I remember each season and what they brought, but summer vacation in particular allowed us to explore our world on the coolest bikes around. We knew each day would end with a great supper and a bowl of hot popcorn while watching something on television as a family. These are memories that have become deeply embedded in my heart, remaining a part of who I grew up to be and the wonderful memories I cherish.

Mike 2025                                                 

Why I write

 I've often been asked where I find the ideas for my stories. Much of what I write comes from memories, enriched with a touch of fiction, half-truths, and dreams. I believe I have a remarkable memory—perhaps not completely perfect, but I can recall vivid glimpses from my youth and different stages of my life that linger long enough to inspire a story.

Sometimes, these memories feel so real, like a dream that leaves you pondering whether it truly happened. Years ago, when my life was consumed by work and the fast-paced lifestyle, I didn't write as much as I do now. I could have written more, but I kept my words locked inside, brewing like a pot of coffee, until the urge to write finally overwhelmed me.

For me, writing is essential for my sanity. Without it, it's like trying to breathe with a bag over my head. Stories must be told and recorded for future generations, which is why I started my blog eight years ago. Over that time, I've shared more than eight hundred very short stories. My hope is that anyone who reads them will walk away with a smile or perhaps a tear, but always with some sort of emotion.

Memories are precious gifts that connect us to those who came before us. As writers, it's our responsibility to keep those memories alive through the power of the written word.

Mike 2025                                           

Sea legs

 He was born with sea legs and called the sea his home. His face, weathered by salt spray, made him look older than he was, and the countless storms he faced wreaked havoc on his body, tossing him around like a ragdoll. 

They called him a sea dog, an old salt, and other names all of which were compliments, as they were true. The sea was his home, his lover, and his reason for living. He often heard the mermaids' calls and told himself that someday he’d see one when his time came to be offered to the sea and Davy Jones's Locker, where sailors' tales came to dwell.

His tattoos told his story, each marking representing a chapter of his life, with a girl in every port and a drink in every pub. He didn’t shy away from a good fight, which always ended with a shared drink and a handshake. He was a sailor, a deckhand, a squid; each title was true, and all he ever wanted to be.

On board, he had brothers for life who always had his back, just as he had theirs. They fought side by side until they won their battles, and the calls of victory rang out as the enemy ship sank from sight, destined for the bottom of the sea.

He was a sailor who traversed the seven seas and lived to tell many tales. Some were embellished for entertainment, but most were true. Now, on any given night in a faraway pub, he was just an old salt, his hair turned white and his beard stained with tobacco. His sea legs may be gone, but he was always ready, if called upon, to defend the flag. He was a sailor who navigated the seas with pride and a love he could never replace.

Mike 2025                                                

Special days

 The convertible top was down on my mom's 1949 Plymouth. Just a car back then, but how I wish I had it today. It was just me and her on that warm summer day as we drove to get me some school clothes; I was outgrowing everything I had. Patsy Cline was playing on the radio, and her scarf blew in the breeze as she sang along.

With three kids close in age, it was rare to have alone time with her, but when we did, it was always special to me. Going into town was a treat in itself. I got to look in store windows as we walked together, holding hands and pointing out things we liked, but money was tight, so we headed for the men’s and boys’ store. Back then, the store clerks, as we called them, were helpful in ways not often seen today. Mr. Klein owned the store for over thirty years and knew just about everybody in town, calling them by name. He had a yellow measuring tape draped around his shoulder to ensure we had the correct sizes. When it came to pants, he made sure there was plenty of length sewn in so Mom could let them down as I continued to grow.

With some shirts, socks, and underwear, we were all set and said goodbye to Mr. Klein, heading to our favorite soda fountain for a chocolate shake and an egg salad sandwich that I still think about. In the basement of a big department store was the shoe department. Once again, a friendly clerk measured your feet while you stood up and placed your foot into a silver contraption that looked like a giant shoe, allowing the clerk to adjust the width and size. Mom picked out a pair of brown tie shoes, asking me if I liked them. I said yes; what kid wouldn’t want new shoes? Besides, there were only brown or black to choose from. Next came a pair of sneakers for gym class, and again, I had a choice of red or white high-tops, better known as red ball jets.

Once shopping was completed, we carried the bags to the car, where Mom locked them in the trunk. Then we walked to the river and sat on a bench, watching boats pass by as the day wound down. I picked a flower from the grass a weed, really but she smiled a big smile when I handed it to her. She held onto it the whole way to the car, placing it on the dashboard when we got there.

We pulled into our driveway, where my dad and sisters greeted us, asking if we had gotten lost. At supper, we told everyone about our day, with my sisters asking when it would be their turn to go shopping with Mom. Dad chimed in, saying he needed to make some money first before we spent it all.

I’ll never forget the days I spent with Mom, as well as the other times with my parents. Going to the barber shop on Saturdays with Dad, grocery shopping with Mom to help with the bags, and shooting hoops with Dad before supper were all cherished moments. I learned how to wash and wax the car, cut the grass, and shovel snow properly, along with Dad teaching me how to shine my shoes and comb my hair.

My memories of my youth and my love for both Mom and Dad have shaped me into who I am today in many ways. If you were to look in my closet, you’d find one pair of brown shoes, one pair of black shoes, and a pair of red ball jets. 

Mike, 2025                                                    

Grandmas table

 I miss sitting at my grandma's red and white checked table. It was where I'd listen to her stories about growing up in a time without all the luxuries of today. She attended school for five years before quitting to help her mother, who had six children, with her being the oldest. I'd trace the squares with my finger as she went on to tell me how happy they were as a family and how their faith got them through hard times. She talked and I listened to her as her memories spilled out, each as precious to her as the last.

I can close my eyes and smell the small kitchen where a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of cold milk sat on the table, and her telling me not to eat them all. It took me a while to learn she had put just enough on the plate, with the rest going into a cookie jar out of my reach.

Sometimes she was quiet as I played with my toy soldiers using the squares on the table to make a battlefield between red and white. I'm not quite sure when that table became just a table, but it meant a lot to me back then and remains a reminder to me of my grandma's stories and how she seemed so wise.

I came across a table at a yard sale that was exactly like the one I remembered, and I instantly bought it. I discarded my table and replaced it with the red and white checked table that my grandkids now sit at, playing with their toy soldiers and listening to my stories of growing up. My life came full circle as I put a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table, telling them to save some for later, but little did they know I'd put some in the cookie jar my grandma gave to me many years ago.

Mike 2025