What do you see?

 What do you see when looking at me? Is it just my old age, or do you see beyond that to the soul of wisdom and knowledge earned over time? Do you wonder what and why I seem to be lost in thought when, in reality, I'm remembering and praying silently, as God is familiar with my voice.

What do you see other than old age that time has brought with it: wrinkles, white hair, and one who listens more than he speaks. Do you see a person with years of teaching and wisdom shared with eager ears?

Old age doesn't come easily, as steps grow slower with the years. Having walked a thousand miles in search of knowledge, I wish to find more.

What do you see before you as you remember me from my younger years, when my steps were fast and my words meant something to all who listened? Do you envision yourself growing old, looking into the mirror, and wondering who that person is? I no longer wonder; I accept it and smile a hidden smile, knowing my life meant something, and the scars show it.

Mike 2025                                             

Her room

 She loved her bedroom growing up—it was her own space to retreat to when she was happy, sad, or simply wanted to be creative. Boxes of crayons and sheets of blank paper awaited her inspiration, ready for another masterpiece to join the others in Mom's treasure chest.

As she transitioned from cartoons to rock stars, and from classmates to crushes, the walls of her room changed to reflect her interests. Above the mirror hung a simple wooden cross, a reminder that God was good. The white pearl rosary beads dangling from the corner of her dresser brought her peace when she held them, allowing her to say a few prayers to start her day or end her night.

Her bedroom was her sanctuary, a place where Mom would come to comfort her when she needed it, always checking in to say hello and reassure her that she was nearby.

She tried on her prom dress in her room, staring into the mirror and twirling around to make sure it was perfect as Mom helped with her hair and makeup. They were two giddy girls filled with excitement, while for Mom, it was a moment so deep that tears fell, going unnoticed at least for now.

As time passed, the little girl who cherished her bedroom grew into a young woman preparing to marry her high school boyfriend. Her heart swelled with love as she packed a few boxes from her past, filled with treasured pictures, along with the wooden cross and rosary beads that had once given her such peace.

With a box under her arm, she stood at the door, looking back at the place where she had grown up, trying to recall every second, every smile, and every tear. She remembered the late-night phone calls and slumber parties. Her room would soon be transformed into something else—perhaps a home office or a guest room—but for her, it would forever remain a time capsule, a reflection of who she was. 

—Mike, 2025                                                    

Age wins

 What will I miss in my golden years? Will I ever know what it feels like to caress a woman again or dance to a love song? Will my words be clear, and my voice still be able to carry a tune? Will there be someone in my life to love me back, or will I watch the sunrise and sunset by myself as the seasons change and time runs out?

What will happen to my youthful memories when time felt endless and there was so much of it ahead? Will those memories fade, replaced by a constant search for the right words to speak?

Some might say that old age is a blessing, and perhaps it can be if you're one of the lucky ones who has cheated death for years, only to find yourself one day finding it hard to recall a memory as you watch the sand in the hourglass running out.

Being old, being young, and being able present many challenges in a fast-paced world where there’s little time to sit and reflect on life while trying to create as many memories as possible.

I remember seeing elderly folks talking to themselves and joking that someday that could be me; little did we know how quickly that day would come. It’s not that I'm talking to myself; I’m merely trying to keep the conversation going before there’s nothing left to say—at least about the things I can still remember. We all eventually face that moment when we look in the mirror and don't recognize the person staring back, with a wrinkled face and lines etched by long days lived. We look at that face and refuse to accept the years so clearly visible, asking ourselves how this could happen to us.

If I could capture one of my fondest memories, it would be my first dance with my first love in a musty school gym, the smell of her hair, the feel of her hand in mine as we danced into the night. I would remember her laugh and how both of us were nervous, knowing our lips were about to meet in a kiss that felt like heaven. The taste of her cherry red lips staying on mine, a reminder of her long after going to sleep, dreaming of only her and me, and a love that had a beginning but no end.

Truth be told, being old is just a collection of numbers that label you, but inside that person gazing back at you is just an older version who has not yet accepted that the day has finally arrived when age wins, youth says goodbye, and the last grain of sand is gone.

Mike 2025                                                                           

                                    

Clares Carousel

 Deep in the forest, where time has forgotten, an old carousel rests quietly as the land reclaims what once belonged to it. This was once a magical place filled with the laughter of children, but now, it is overgrown with climbing vines and wildflowers that obscure the beautifully carved animals scattered around the field.

Legend has it that a wealthy man commissioned the carousel for his only child, a girl named Clare. Sheltered by the forest and distant from the city, Clare would ride the magical ponies and horses with flared nostrils, going round and round to the enchanting sound of the music box. Children from the village, watching from beyond the fence, often wondered why she had this marvelous toy while all they had were sticks and stones.

As time went on, Clare grew into a proper lady with no time for childhood toys. The carousel fell silent, its music box becoming a nest for birds. The once-magnificent horses, faded and weathered by the seasons, broke free from their positions, crumbling to the ground and fading into memory.

Occasionally, Clare returned to her beloved carousel to reminisce about the carefree days of laughter and endless rides. She gazed at the spot where the fence once stood, remembering the village children who watched her, wishing for a carousel of their own. Clare eventually granted their wish by removing the fence and inviting them to ride with her.

Clare's carousel became well-known among the village children, who came every day to choose a horse to ride. Their laughter filled her heart with joy, a true gift of giving. When Clare passed away, she left behind a legacy of laughter and joy that spanned generations. The carousel, now decades old, gradually crumbled back into the earth and was forgotten. It is said that hundreds of children rode the carousel, creating wonderful memories in a valley now overgrown with wildflowers and vines, and the kindness of a lady named Clare.

Mike 2025                                                

House on William Street

 There are days when all I do is think about my yesterdays and the people who were once in my life. It's far from being sad as I reminisce about my childhood and the house my mom made a home. I clearly see my attic bedroom, with one window that allows me to see all around as if I were close to the stars. I'd watch as each car passing by pulled into a driveway, and dads got out, some with their briefcases and others with metal lunch boxes. When I saw my dad pulling in, I ran downstairs to greet him, jumping into his waiting arms. Then, as if she didn't already know, I'd shout to Mom, 'Dad was home.'

That small home on William Street was the place where I could play outside, gathering fallen fruit from our fruit trees and eating an apple straight from the tree with each bite, making my mouth pucker. And finding out they were baking apples and not as sweet as the others. I'd climb a plum tree, reaching out, trying not to fall, as I picked the perfect one and ate it standing on a sturdy branch, waving to my mom, who looked out at me and made gestures for me to come down to earth.

I was an explorer who liked nothing better than digging holes around the back yard behind the garage, where my digging wasn't seen. Guess I wasn't smart enough to realize my dad saw everything. Truth be told, I did find treasures buried there. Several Indian arrowheads made my young mind wonder if a great Indian tribe of warriors once fought here, or maybe it was a hunting ground where they hunted for food.

I unearthed a clay jug in perfect condition with no cracks or broken handle, making it a great treasure to find. I even buried some of my old toys, hoping that a future kid would dig them up and find their own buried treasures.

I recently drove by that house that looked so small and instantly started having memories of family picnics, drowned out by the passing trains, making snowmen, and having snowball fights with my sisters. Climbing fruit trees now gone with age, but I still tasted the plums and apples. That house was where the best years of my life came alive once more, as I let my memories fight over which would be first. As I sat in my car, finishing a cup of coffee, I took a minute to see the faces of those I loved all around me, and the small attic window, now boarded up with the others, as the wrecking ball took everything but my memories and a few teardrops.

Mike 2025                                                           

Ocean junkie

 The setting sun and warm ocean breeze create an irresistible feeling, one that lingers long after you have experienced it. The craving is genuine as you fill your lungs with salty air and savor the warmth of each footprint you leave in the sand. Could part of the wonder be the realization that your next step might uncover a long-buried treasure, forgotten until this very moment?

As I stand at the ocean's edge, gazing out into the vastness, I am struck by a profound sense of solitude, accompanied only by the birds and a fleeting glimpse of a dolphin passing by on its journey. With nightfall approaching, there are no people on the sand, just countless footprints, soon to be washed away and sent back to the sea.

The full moon illuminates my path as I wander aimlessly, taking in the surroundings. My eye catches a glowing object, reflecting the moonlight—a piece of bluish glass, worn smooth by the ocean's relentless waves, tumbling across the sea floor. "That's a keeper," I tell myself, sliding the treasure into my pocket along with a few others.

The addiction to the ocean is as real as it gets. The smell of sea air, the rhythms of the surf, and the anticipation of finding treasures at low tide keep you coming back every day. Even when the sky is dark and the water is littered with seaweed, you can't skip a day, or your craving will go unsatisfied.

Some might see me sitting on the sand, raindrops bouncing off my head, and a stiff breeze blowing sand onto my face. When I jump up and race to the edge to retrieve a gold coin, shouting in excitement, they may think I’ve found the mother lode. Yet, all they see is a man jumping around and yelling in the rain, sand blowing against his weathered face, while they instruct their children not to stare because it’s impolite. Just another Ocean junkie.

Mike 2025                                               

  

For the love of the game

 I was just seven years old, too young to play baseball with my older brother and his friends, but I would sit on the porch and watch, dreaming of the day I could join them on the field—a patch of grass worn down by years of play. Sometimes, Dad would pitch a few balls to me and show me how to hold the bat while my little sister chased down the balls and returned them to Dad.

When I was eleven, I tried out for the summer city youth team and made it. We practiced at the high school field every day except Sundays, with games on Saturdays under the lights. I remember Mom, Dad, and my sisters sitting in the bleachers, cheering me on as I took my position in left field. The coach believed I would excel there because I was fast and had a strong throw.

The thing about being an outfielder was that everything looked so small from out there. I was often alone, keeping my eyes wide open to hear the crack of the bat. When I heard it, I sprang into action, shielding my eyes from the lights as I rushed to meet the ball as it hit the ground just a few feet away. Without thinking, I threw the ball to the first baseman at record-breaking speed. He caught it and tagged the runner out. I saw the crowd stand and cheer, and I knew my family was among them, even though they were far away.

When it was time for me to bat, I kicked up a little dust as I prepared myself for a fastball, which the pitcher was known for. He took his stance, looking at the catcher who signaled him, and before I could take a breath, he released the ball. I swung almost simultaneously. The crack of the bat stung my hands a bit as I sprinted toward first base, running faster than ever before.

I miss those days of summer leagues and everything that went along with them: the uniforms we wore, the hotdog vendor, and the peanuts in a paper bag, all under the lights. Out there, I was on my own, ready for anything coming my way. Now I take my grandkids out on the homemade diamond and show them how to bat and throw, just as my dad taught me. I wonder how many kids ran those bases, how many went on to become real players on real teams. and those who loved the game just as much as I did.

Mike 2025                                                      

Grandpas shop

 As a young kid, I loved tinkering in my grandpa's garage. Everywhere you looked, there were tools of all kinds, glass jars filled with nuts and bolts, and an assortment of odds and ends he had accumulated over the years. I soon learned that everything had its place, and he seemed to know instinctively where everything was located. Grandma said it was his sanctuary, and she could count on one hand the number of times she had entered it. My dad's garage had some nice tools, but they were new and shiny, and some had never even made it out of the box.

Grandpa's tools were mostly made of wood, which he shaped by hand; each one was a labor of love. He did purchase the axe heads and saw blades, but probably would have made them if he had a forge. I loved the smell of his shop, a mix of fresh-cut wood and cigar smoke. During the cold months, he would build a fire in an old stove he had found, keeping the garage warm and cozy as he taught me how to carve handles for hammers or make screwdrivers, which required patience that I sometimes struggled to maintain.

As time passed, my skills improved to the point where he entrusted me with restoring the wooden Christmas figures he had made long ago, which were in need of some care and attention. One by one, I hand-sanded the reindeer and sleigh to achieve a smooth finish, then repainted them in their original colors. I gave my undivided attention to detail for the angels, the lambs, the wise men, and both Mary and Joseph. However, my most challenging task was reconstructing the manger that had somehow been crushed. I had to build a new one from scratch. Once completed, Grandpa looked it over and smiled, sharing a moment of approval from teacher to student.

Grandpa passed away a few years later, leaving everything in his shop to me. I would go there almost every day, fixing or building something new, all with the tools he had made. When Grandma left us, I bought the house and continued to work in the shop, teaching kids the trade I had learned. While some called it a lost art, I saw it differently. I witnessed lost kids transforming into artisans seeking ways to express themselves. Grandpa would be proud. 

Mike, 2025                                                    

Autumn gatherings

 It's one of those crisp autumn mornings when the sunlight filters through the colorful leaves, melting the thin layer of frost on the pumpkins. You stand outside in your bathrobe but soon realize the chilly weather calls for a jacket. As you sip your morning coffee, you take in the beauty surrounding you.

Later, friends and family will come over to watch football and enjoy the snacks you prepared last night to avoid any last-minute rushing. You can already envision some of them dressed in face paint, masks, and jerseys sporting their favorite player’s number.

Dishes filled with candy corn and freshly baked cookies will be set out, supervised by moms and dads who are trying to limit the kids' sugar intake. However, their vigilance doesn’t last long, as the focus quickly shifts to the game.

Cousin Mark is tapping a keg, and others join him for a lively game of beer pong. The doorbell rings nonstop as more guests arrive, bringing covered dishes of their favorite football foods, soon filling the table.

As the game progresses and your team is getting thrashed, you find yourself engaged in conversations about the upcoming holidays and who will host Christmas dinner this year. The men are discussing Gary’s buck, which he bagged last week, and debating who they think will make the playoffs. Uncle Bill looks anxious as he put some money on this game; it’s clear he won't be cashing in.

A few guests leave before the game ends, wanting to avoid a long drive home in the disappointing outcome. Others stick it out to the end, saying their goodbyes and leaving behind a mountain of dishes to wash. When Aunt Marie offers to stay and help, you insist you’ve got it covered, and just like that, the big day comes to a close.

The house falls eerily quiet as you tidy up, recalling the conversations about the upcoming holidays, with no decision yet on who will host Christmas dinner. You wouldn't mind taking it on; it’s your favorite time of year when family and friends gather around the table, with moms keeping watch over sneaky little fingers reaching for cookies and pieces of Grandma’s Christmas fudge.

Tomorrow, while standing on the porch sipping your morning coffee, wrapped in your winter coat, you’ll start making plans and call your sisters to declare that you’ll be hosting Christmas dinner. But someone else will have to take on Thanksgiving—yeah, right. 

Mike 2025                                                           

Route 58

 He pulled up to the Silver Streak Diner as he had done for countless years. Located alone on Route 58, it served as an oasis for weary and hungry travelers. He recalled the day he towed it to its resting place: a forty-foot-long Airstream he had purchased from an old-timer who hadn't used it enough to justify keeping it. For the next two years, he gutted it and transformed it into a comfortable spot to grab a bite to eat. Over the following four decades, the diner became well known for its stacks of flapjacks and strong coffee, served by Blanch, who in her prime was a stunning redhead with legs that seemed to reach the sky. He married her, and together they have run the diner to this day.

When Blanch passed away, he lost a part of himself and couldn't even consider replacing her. So, he hung the "Closed" sign in the window along with a "For Sale" sign mounted on a post outside. He packed a few belongings into a box, including her name tag and apron, which still carried the scent of her perfume; a hand-painted plaque that read, "A good day begins with a smile"; and dozens of pictures taken with her and the travelers who caught her fancy.

It didn’t take long to sell the diner—just one week. A couple from a neighboring county wanted to start a new chapter in their lives. As it turned out, they shared that her parents had frequented the diner when it first opened and pointed out a Polaroid picture of them with Blanch, along with many others who had stopped by over the years.

They kept the diner looking the same, with the exception of a jukebox they added and a fresh coat of paint to cover years of grease stains and cigarette-smoked ceilings. Like him and Blanch, the man did the cooking while his wife served the customers, always keeping mugs filled with hot coffee strong enough to keep you going, along with stacks of their famous flapjacks drenched in butter and maple syrup. 

On this particular day, he stopped by, took a seat at the counter, and was greeted by the owners with smiles and the promise of endless cups of coffee and a complimentary stack of pancakes.

He passed away a short time later and was laid to rest beside his bride, Blanch, where together they could once again reflect on the diner on Route 58 and a life filled with the joy of happy customers. Every so often, a flash from a camera would illuminate the memories as Blanch added another picture to her collection.

As for the diner, it changed hands many times before being deemed too old and ultimately torn down. A new diner was constructed to resemble an Airstream, but it lacked the charm of the original as it became part of a chain called the Silver Streak Diner. Some things should be left alone, particularly in the eyes of those who understood the significance of a cup of strong coffee and a short stack, sending them on their way to somewhere down Route 58.

Mike 2025                                                           

Long walk home

 I watched from my window as a little boy kicked a can down the street, his hands buried in his pockets, lost in thoughts of childhood. What was he thinking? I wondered aloud. Was he contemplating what was for dinner or trying to come up with an excuse for the D he got on his math test? He stopped kicking the can when it landed in Mrs. Lane's rose bushes, and he was certainly not going near those. 

He sat on the curb, using every last minute he could before heading home, which was usually the happiest part of his day. When he arrived, his mom greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, along with warm cookies and a glass of milk. But he doubted that would happen today.

He picked up a stick he had found and began drawing pictures in the loose gravel, pondering what she would say after he told her about his math grade. What about Dad, he wondered; he didn't want to think about that. I continued to watch him, his baseball cap crooked on his head, his dirty pants, and a stained shirt—thanks to his friend Billy, who had thrown a half carton of chocolate milk at him and, for once, hit his target.

As he disappeared from my sight, dragging the stick behind him, my heart went out to him. Perhaps we were both thinking the same thing. Poor little man, I thought, and closed the curtains.  

Mike 2025                                                     

If you believe

 There's a carousel in the valley if you choose to believe in it. Just over the hill, there's a peaceful lake, and ahead lies an endless apple orchard, all waiting if you choose to believe. A child swings on a tire swing, and there’s a baseball field of dreams where boys become legends, but only if you believe. The scents of the seasons fill your senses, even from afar, but if you close your eyes and choose to believe, anything is possible.

There’s also an abandoned amusement park where the vines of time have taken hold, and once-brilliant colors have succumbed to rust. The laughter and screams of joy have fallen silent, but if you choose to believe, the music will resume, and the lights will shine as games of chance, filled with weathered stuffed animals, come alive. A child pleads with her dad to win her the giant bear.

Life is a series of moments where everything you dream of is happiness and possible if you choose to believe.  

Mike 2025                                                        

Snow flakes

 Each snowflake that silently falls from the heavens has a purpose. Perhaps one is destined to land on a child's tongue, upturned towards the sky, during the first snowfall of the year. Or it could rest on a dog's nose as he joyfully frolics in the cold, with more flakes continuing to fall around him.

Every snowflake is different, although that can be hard to believe—just like we are unique individuals. So why not embrace that belief? Each snowflake has a destiny to fulfill, whether it lands on the ground or accumulates on window sills; every single flake has its own place to go.

Millions of flakes can blanket the ground while we sleep, and we awaken to a masterpiece that any artist would dream of capturing. Gazing through a frosted window, we try to take in all the wonder and beauty of untouched snow before the footprints and angel wings of countless children transform it.

Each snowflake is unique, and every moment we take to acknowledge that they are gifts in many ways allows us to experience genuine awe. 

Mike 2025                                            

The reunion

 We met just after the war ended, during a time when the country seemed to be one big party in the streets. Soldiers, sailors, pilots, and grunts came together to celebrate victory while also remembering those who didn’t make it home. There was shouting and singing among strangers as glasses were raised and a million toasts were made. I was lost in the moment when I gazed across the crowd and saw the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her face lit up with a smile that melted my heart as I moved closer to her. When we were just a few feet apart, she noticed me and didn’t turn away. Instead, she stared into my eyes as if she had been waiting for me to come home. The crowd was large, and within seconds, she was engulfed by the throng of people. I managed to find a taxi, jumping onto the roof to scan the crowd in all directions, but she was nowhere to be seen.

As time went by, I often found myself thinking about her, the one that got away. I wondered where she was now and what kind of life she was living. Was she married? Did she have any children? Or was she like me, someone who had never married or had kids, hoping that we would somehow meet again and start a life together? With each passing year, that hope turned to sorrow.

By chance, I was browsing in a thrift store when I stumbled upon a box of old black-and-white photographs. Most were taken on V-Day, as the streets filled with soldiers, sailors, pilots, and grunts shouting and toasting their victory. Then I saw her—just a speck in the photo, but I would recognize that face and that smile anywhere. I turned the photo over and saw a name and an address just a few miles from where I lived. My hands began to shake; could it be that I had found her? The ink was smudged, but I could make out her name: Cathleen.

It took me a couple of days to gather the courage to reach out. Wanting to look my best, I bought a new suit and paid a visit to the barber. I picked some flowers—wildflowers, figuring they would be a safe choice—then, almost as if in a dream, I found myself standing at her door. I knocked softly, since the screen door was open, and there was no need to knock louder. I heard footsteps approaching, and my throat grew dry; beads of sweat rolled down my back. And then she appeared.

“May I help you?” she asked, her smile that I had dreamed about now right in front of me, her green eyes looking straight into my heart. “It’s you,” she said as I nodded; it was indeed me. “But how did you find me?” she asked, astonished after all these years. There was an awkward moment of silence until I offered her the wildflowers and softly said, “These are for you, Cathleen. And my name is Mark.”

She invited me inside and offered me some cool lemonade as we both wondered what to say next. “It seems like yesterday, doesn’t it?” she said, and my gaze fell upon a family picture on the wall. “Your family?” I asked, confirming what I already knew. “Yes,” she said, “that’s my late husband, my eldest son, who makes me proud as a dentist, and my daughter, who’s a housewife living a thousand miles away. And what about you, Mark? Do you have a family?”

“No, I don’t,” I replied. I had never quite found the one that got away.

We sat for what seemed like hours, reminiscing about that day and the strong attraction between us that had vanished into the crowd. As it grew late, I said, “It has been my pleasure to finally meet you, Cathleen. I had almost given up hope of ever doing so.” We exchanged phone numbers, and as she looked into my eyes, I suggested we should stay in touch.

Weeks passed until one day, my phone rang. It was her voice I heard. “I’ve been waiting for you to call,” she said. “Is it that too much time has passed, and you don’t see me the way I was when we were so young?” There was silence on the line for a moment until I began to speak, telling her how I had never married because I was still in love with her, and that feeling had carried me through the years.

At sixty years old, I married her in a small chapel surrounded by friends and her children. For our honeymoon, we revisited the city where my eyes first met hers, and her smile captured my love like no other ever could.

Mike 2025                                                  

Dragon slayers

 He sat in the old rocking chair he had crafted many years ago, a cherished reminder of a gift he had given his wife on their sixty-fifth anniversary. The grandkids were coming for a visit today, and he wanted to be prepared for them. He gathered some old newspapers from the wood box next to the fireplace, used as starter paper, but today, they would become a magical flying dragon. He had learned this ancient art from an elderly Chinese man he had befriended while stationed in China a lifetime ago.

The man had taught him how to lay out the pieces of paper and fold them in ways that connected each piece, creating a labor of love. Every new piece of paper acted as the skin of the mighty dragon. There were at least ten strings attached to the soon-to-be flying creature, each one allowing for controlled movement, making it appear as though the beast was flying, dive-bombing, turning left or right, and even swooping down as if to try and eat the one holding the strings.

The final task was to paint the dragon in vibrant colors, with each dragon maker selecting colors and designs that would be consistent across all their creations. 

With all the supplies ready, he waited to hear the car horn and the laughter of his grandkids as they arrived to make their very own flying dragons. After hugs and kisses all around, they went to work. He instructed them on how to fold each piece exactly as he had shown them, emphasizing that there could be no mistakes or they would have to start over until it was perfect. Time flew by, and the dragons began to take shape, much to the delight of the young ones, who felt a sense of accomplishment. Tying the strings in the proper order proved challenging, but they persevered. Then came the moment for painting. One grandkid chose bright yellow and orange with red eyes, another opted for purple and white with black eyes, while the youngest decided on all red.

They carefully set up their dragons in the vast open fields as instructed, running like the wind until they caught a current, where the real fun began. They started pulling on various strings as the dragons reacted and came to life. Up and down, side by side, it became a battle in the sky, with each flyer determined to win. Suddenly, he noticed the little red dragon dive-bombing straight into the path of the larger ones in a heated battle. The flyer pulled a string, and the mighty jaws of the red dragon opened, attacking the others, devouring them, and claiming victory!

The older man smiled on the way home, listening to the kids’ excited voices asking when they could come back to make more dragons. He answered, "As soon as I collect more newspapers."

Mike 2025                                                           

Un forgettable vacation

 As a boy about ten, I would sometimes spend a week in the country with my Aunt and uncle and their son, a few years older than me

. My uncle was a plumber and also a mortician, with the building next door being the morgue. It was the early 1960s, and life in a whistle-stop town didn't offer much in the way of entertainment unless you called picking up dead bodies a good time. When someone passed away, my uncle got the call to pick them up, and if he was on a plumbing job, my cousin went in his place. I remember going with him and helping him load the corpse into a van, and once back, unloading the body where it would stay until my uncle did what he did, as well as seeing a hairdresser or barber who came to do the hair and makeup. If I were lucky, nobody would die during my stay.

In the springtime, the streams would begin to flow, and that meant sucker fishing. My cousin outfitted me in hip waders, a three-pronged pole, and a lantern, as nighttime was the only time the fish appeared. The object was to carefully navigate the streams, waiting for the fish to bump into your wader when you'd spear them and put them in a gunny sack. They weren't good to eat, but made excellent fertilizer. On one such night when the outside temperature was in the forties, we headed out for another night of sucker fishing. Everything was going well until I accidentally speared my waders, and ice-cold water poured in. My cousin was several yards ahead of me and didn't hear my pleas for help as I quickly sank deeper into the cold water. Finally, I saw the light from his lantern as he reached me and began to laugh. Nice going, kid he said, pulling me to the bank of the stream and helping me out of the now useless waders. No big deal, he said his waders had been patched many times as well. Back at his truck, he gave me a blanket and started the engine to get some heat inside so I wouldn't literally freeze to death. Once back home, he told the story to my Aunt and uncle, who had a big laugh about everything, as I just smiled and chalked it up to country living.

Both my Aunt and uncle loved their martinis, and when we went to the shooting club for dinner, it wasn't uncommon to see each of them drink four or five martinis before, during, and after dinner. My cousin would drive home down dirt roads in their big oldsmobile convertible at speeds that scared me to death while both his parents slept in the back seat. They were the reason I never liked a martini to this day.

If I visited in early Summer, they would take me to the county fair, about thirty miles away, with my uncle breaking speed records, which I later learned was just country driving. I can tell you that my legs almost gave out as I got out of the car. But all was forgotten as I got to go on as many rides as I wanted, mostly with my cousin, but sometimes with my Aunt, who loved the Ferris wheel as much as I did. My uncle found the beer tent, and after giving me a twenty-dollar bill and telling me to meet him at the tent in one hour, I ran off, where I played every midway game of chance, sometimes winning a small stuffed animal that one time my cousin threw out the car window, and getting a slap alongside his head by my Aunt.

All in all, my visits were memorable, some more than others, like picking up dead people, but there was also swinging down from the hayloft into a hay wagon. My cousin showed me his hideout in the back of the barn, where he kept his Playboys, which didn't do much for me at ten years old. But he told me he'd hurt me bad if I told on him. Wader fishing and county fairs. Breaking the land speed record on dirt roads and hoping I'd be back next year

Mike 2025                                                    

Looking glass

 When I stand before a mirror and look at someone I don't recognize, it occurs to me that I've lived a full life. Every wrinkle and line, every vein, and skin that sags is a testament to a life long lived.

As I look into my eyes, once brilliant but now dim and blurry, I see myself as I like to remember: a young man with hopes, dreams, and visions of success.

The man looking back at me has grown tired and wonders where the time went and all that it contained. He remembers family and friends who have passed away before him, and he finds himself thinking about them more often than not.

I don't dislike the person in the mirror, after all; it's who I've become after many transitions and tests of time. How many sunsets have I seen, how many raindrops falling on the tin roof, and how many kisses have my lips tasted? Do I sometimes wish that I had done things differently, and have I asked for forgiveness for the wrongs?

That person in the looking glass is me with all my faults and accomplishments, all my joys and sorrows, all rolled up into someone who will never look back, no matter how many miles I've traveled.

Mike 2025                                                                 

Reel-Fun

 Since an early age, I have always been infatuated with older boats. The handcrafted wooden hull cruisers, to be more precise. Living next to the mighty Niagara River, boating was a seasonal pastime for many other boat lovers who spent their late spring to the end of summer cruising both the river and the Erie Canal. On any given weekend, the waterways resembled a thoroughfare that had to be navigated with excellent knowledge of channels, as even a slight miscalculation could result in a hefty tow charge back to the dock. The impending cold weather meant pulling a wooden-hulled boat out of the water and covering it with a tarp, or, if you were lucky enough to have a boat house or a covered storage facility, where you could work on major repairs. Some chose to use a heater system that prevented ice from forming on the hull, but the cost of electricity was prohibitive for most skippers, who instead pulled the boats out and safely onto shore.

My youth was spent mainly at the marina, where my Dad kept his twenty-eight-foot Trojan cabin cruiser. It was a labor of love for him, a transformation of a tired vessel into a sleek and powerful boat that caught the attention of many. My role was far from easy, involving endless sanding until the wooden hull was down to bare wood, revealing small areas of rot that had to be fixed to Dad's satisfaction before any bottom paint could be applied. He taught me the art of applying varnish until it gleamed like glass, a result that could only be achieved through hours of light sanding and numerous coats of varnish. The sense of accomplishment when we finally saw the boat restored to its former glory was genuinely inspiring. 

We worked side by side with him, the teacher, and me, the student, with a thirst for knowledge that grew right along beside me.

There was a harbor master who ran the marina, an old salt who knew all the ins and outs of boats of any kind, but his passion was also the old wooden hull cruisers. He had a name, but everybody called him Captain. He showed me how to build an engine on Dad's boat, a monster 350 that would get her anywhere you wanted to go and get there fast.

It took two years to complete the Reel-Fun, a name I suggested by the way. And when the day arrived for the shake-down cruise, I arrived early to make sure she was ready. She was in the sling just feet away from the water when Dad and the Captain showed up. Once submerged, we checked the hull for any leaks and started the engine for any last-minute adjustments. Once we were satisfied, the sling pulled out, and we were on our own.

It was a cool but sunny day when we crossed the channel and entered open water. The Captain said, 'Let's see what this beauty can do. He gave it some throttle, and the 350 roared into action with the bow up, then planed nicely like a stick of butter through water. And that's not full throttle, he said as the forward movement blew his long white beard behind him. I think that's enough for today, he said. Everything seems shipshape to me.

That boat became a weekend getaway for the family. We'd motor out to some small islands and camp, or take a sunset cruise down the canal, sometimes as a family and other times when Mom and Dad wanted some alone time. Fasting forward as life does, Dad had to sell the boat, and I knew that broke his heart. But as he said, we had a lot of good times on the water in a boat we worked on together.

Decades passed, and I bought a boat the same year and model as Dad's. I discovered it at a marina covered with a tarp and inquired with the harbor master if he knew anything about her. He told me it started as a project boat, like so many others, that never got done. He provided me with the owner's information and informed me that he'd let it go for the cost of his last six months' storage fees. The day I took possession, my son and I pulled off the tarp, and a rush of emotion hit me like a ton of bricks. It was as if I was looking at Dad's boat all over again. Then my son removed the other tarp that was covering the stern, and to my shock and disbelief, the name Reel Fun appeared. This was my Dad's boat that somehow found its way back to me.

My son and I worked on that boat for almost three years to restore her to the original beauty I remembered. Every time I take her out, I see my Dad's face and a smile as he takes another cruise on the boat he thought was lost forever.

Mike 2025                                                           

Carnival fun

 Around and around he went, his mighty black stallion keeping time with a hidden music machine. He felt like a warrior as he repeatedly glimpsed his parents while riding off into a world that belonged only to him and the other children, who were sitting atop lions, tigers, and horses of many sizes. When the ride came to a stop, he begged to go on another one, this time choosing racing cars of many colors, each with steering wheels that, although real to the eye, were only for show. He picked out a blue car and climbed in as the other cars filled up, and the ride began. The sounds of real race cars blasted from speakers as the ride sped up for a couple of laps before coming to a stop.

He spotted his parents again and shouted that he was going to ride the boats. With a nod of approval from them, he sped off. There were eight boats in total, each floating in a pool of water that circled around the area. An arm attached to each boat allowed him to steer, though it was just for show. He felt like a pirate as he rang the bell on his boat while "Shiver Me Timbers" played through the speakers.

Approaching his parents, he saw that they looked ready to call it a day, but he had one last ride in mind. They agreed, but it would be the final one. He walked up to the giant coaster, which towered above him. The ride operator measured him and told him he had just made the height requirement and could ride the monster coaster—something he had been dreaming of for a long time. He found a seat by himself, as the ride was only half full. His hands were sweaty as he held on tightly; the coaster began to move with a series of clangs and bangs. Slowly, it climbed the first hill, and everything below looked like ants, including his parents. As Dad pointed up at him, Mom covered her face, praying for his safety. 

Then, with lightning speed, the coaster raced down the tracks, dipping and turning at speeds he had never experienced before. His stomach fought against the hot dog he had eaten earlier, but he held on tight. When the coaster finally came to a stop, he smiled—it's a smile he had waited for all these years.

It had been a fantastic day, one he would never forget. Aside from all the rides, cotton candy, and midway games, he got to play the roles of a race car driver, a warrior, and a pirate—the things a boy dreams about even to this day.

Mike 2025                                                     

No age limits

 She sat alone at a table in the shadows, surrounded by the blues that filled the room. The movement on the dance floor sliced through the clouds of cigarette smoke. She looked around as if expecting someone who was now late, glancing at her watch. Charley perceived her gaze, thinking to himself that she was a real beauty, wondering if this was a blind date gone wrong. A glass of wine sat untouched, and the ashtray was beginning to fill as she checked her watch once more. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before she would leave.

Gathering his courage, he walked to her table. She greeted him with a beautiful smile, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Bill?" she asked. "Charley," he replied. She introduced herself as Liz, short for Elizabeth, and mentioned she had been waiting for her date, who never showed up. "He's a fool," Charley said, making her blush, clearly pleased by the compliment.

"Would you like to sit?" she asked. "I'd rather dance," he replied, taking her hand and leading her to the dance floor.

She was petite and smelled of lilacs, her golden-brown hair framing her face. Her lips were a cherry red, moist and inviting. Charley didn't want to rush things and scare her away.

They talked, laughed, and danced well into the night until the lights dimmed and the band leader announced last call, inviting everyone to return soon and drive home carefully. "Can I get you a cab?" he asked, but she replied that she had walked as she lived just a few short blocks away. "Then may I walk you home?" he asked, his voice slightly shaky, fearing she might say no. She took his arm and smiled, saying it would be lovely.

Soon, they stood outside her door. She told him she had a nice time and was glad Bill hadn't shown up. They laughed and exchanged numbers, as he finally worked up the courage to ask if she'd like to see him again. She looked up at him, and her eyes expressed what words could not convey.

                                    I suppose many of us have had an encounter like this in our golden years, when meeting someone new doesn't always come easy. Either way, it's a nice feeling to be noticed again, to be swept off your feet like a first love, and to realize that the need for companionship has no age requirements.

Mike 2025                                                

Open doors and songs

 Something startled him, waking him from his afternoon nap. It was probably his closest neighbor, three miles down the road, blowing up gopher holes again. Now that he was awake, there was no sense in wallowing in his sorrows. He might as well get started on the chores he had promised her he would complete, but never did before she left him alone and went to be with her maker.

He headed out to the chicken coop but stopped in his tracks when he thought he heard her voice in the distance calling to him. It was just a trick of the mind, and he wished it would stop. She was the churchgoer, not him, always quoting verses about things he should heed if he ever expected to go to heaven. He would hug her and tell her that he was too old and set in his ways to change anything about his beliefs. She would always respond by saying she'd pray for him in church as she walked down the dirt road to catch the bus. The bus, accompanied by a choir of ladies singing their hymns, whether they could sing or not.

It was one such Sunday that she never returned on that bus but instead was taken to the hospital, where she passed before he could get there to be by her side. He sat on the bed, holding her hand and seeing the toll that age had taken, along with all he had taken for granted. They had been together for sixty-four years, building a life and raising three children, all of whom had succeeded in their lives mainly due to her love and guidance, as well as the belief and power of prayer.

They buried her beneath the giant oak tree she loved so much, where its canopy shaded her and offered a view of the valley where she had run and played with the children. He could picture that and more as he looked toward the hill and said aloud, "I miss you," as loud as the neighbors' M80s blowing up gopher holes. What would he do without her? No one answered that question until one Sunday morning when the church bus stopped at the end of the road with its doors open and the ladies singing their hymns.

He walked to the bus and questioned why they had stopped since they all knew she had passed away a while ago. One lady explained that it was his wife's wish for him to find answers in the teachings of the Bible, and she had made them promise to help him achieve that.

Every Sunday, the bus would stop and wait with its doors open for him to join them, but he would sit on the porch until they left, trailing hymns behind them. He was sure they would eventually lose interest and keep going without stopping, but they never did. He didn't know if it was her voice he heard on that Sunday in April telling him to do it for her, but he found himself waiting at the end of the road, watching for the bus that would welcome him with open doors and song. 

Mike 2025                                                   

The old farm house

 The road leading to the farmhouse was mostly dirt and clay, marked by decades of tire tracks. It was about half a mile, maybe less, to the house where four generations had gathered, both in body and spirit, to live off the land as intended. As I got closer, I noticed that the trail had become overgrown; cars and trucks had ceased to come, and children grew up, eager to leave behind most everything except for a few memories that might one day fade away.

The house had seen better days. It leaned slightly, and the wood hadn't been painted in what felt like ages. The screens were torn, and several pieces of glass were broken, some scattered as if they had endured a storm or the mischief of wayward children throwing stones.

I sat there for a while, remembering what it was like to grow up in that house. It seemed smaller now, but that was to be expected. The front porch, now empty save for some old clay pots that Mom used to fill with plants, was crumbling and slowly returning to the earth from which it came. If I closed my eyes, I could still catch the scent of the land, along with the smells of flowers and wind-blown grass from the valley below.

As I walked up to the porch, I was careful not to stumble between the rotted timbers and opened the screen door, which now hung on just one hinge. I recalled how that door used to swing open and closed a thousand times during my childhood, and I could almost hear its familiar squeak.

Once inside, I glanced around at the empty rooms, except for an old rocking chair where Grandpa used to sit and read us stories. Sometimes it was Grandma rocking us to sleep, her soothing melody still etched in my memory. As I climbed the stairway, I noticed faded squares on the walls where family pictures once hung, evoking a sense of loss and frustration, as I struggled to recall many of the faces that only existed in my mind.

Nightfall was approaching, and without electricity, the house would soon be engulfed in darkness. It was time for me to gather more memories and bid goodnight to those who had once protected this old farm and to the souls of those who could not bear to leave. 

- Mike, 2025                           

    

The mud room

 His worn-out boots and her irreparable shoes were kept in the mudroom, a feature common to most homes. It served as a place to remove wet clothes and kick off muddy shoes and boots before entering the house. Over time, this small room transformed into a storage space where fishing poles and waders hung on hooks, along with walking sticks and treasures collected during autumn days, all piled against a wall. These items would soon be forgotten, except for the many stones and countless keepsakes from the kids that nearly filled a five-gallon bucket.

Inside the mudroom, there was a lantern, a backpack, a rolled-up tent, and a fishing net, all of which had stories to share, but remained silent as the years passed. It felt like time stood still in that room until the day you spent hours reminiscing about everything, recalling the experiences tied to each item—camping in a rainstorm, fishing in a chilly spring lake, and walking with the kids on a colorful carpet of leaves—all reminders of family life.

Shoes and boots of all sizes never found their way to the trash can, but that was okay; each pair took you back from toddler to graduate, evoking memories that brought happy tears to your eyes in that mud-stained room. While that small room serves a practical purpose, it also tells a story of family life and the moments when a little mud, water, and laughter signified a truly happy home.

Mike 2025                                       

   

The shoe shine box

 He took out the old shoe shine box from the closet, the one his dad had given him. “I’ve had this for many years,” he said, “and it has lasted this long because I took care of it.” Inside the box were four tins of polish: black, brown, cordovan, and neutral. There were also two horsehair brushes, a soft rag, and a toothbrush. He would often tell me, “You can tell a lot about a man by the way he keeps his shoes.” Looking back, I realize I never saw him with unpolished shoes.

Many Saturdays, he would show me how to slip my hand into a shoe and select the color of polish I wanted. With a soft rag, he would dip it into the tin with two fingers and, in a circular motion, cover the entire shoe with the waxy polish, which we would then let set for five minutes. After that, he would use the larger brush to brush the shoe with even strokes until a shine began to appear. It was like magic; the shoe became so shiny you could see your reflection. To make the shoe shine even more, he would use the smaller brush for several minutes. The final step involved using the toothbrush to clean around the heel and inside the grooves. “That’s it,” he would say, “one shined shoe. Now you do the other one.”

As I grew up and kept my shoes polished, I picked up some tricks during my time in the Navy. An old sailor taught me how to make the toe of a shoe shine like a mirror by taking a rag, dipping it into a tin of hot wax, and slowly moving it back and forth until a shine started to develop. It was time-consuming, but we spent days and weeks at sea, and time was something we had plenty of.

Once my service was over and I began a civilian job, I made sure to shine my shoes. In doing so, I remembered all the times my dad and I polished our shoes on the back porch. Now that I’m retired, there’s no real need for shiny shoes, but I have shown my grandsons the wooden box with the tins and brushes, just as I showed my son. Hoping they might use it someday. Unfortunately, all they wear are sneakers that don’t require the use of the old shoe shine box.

— Mike, 2025                                    

Night writer

 He was a night writer, a man who lit a candle, inspired by its glow and hypnotic movements. His mind unlocked forgotten moments as the wax slowly crept down the sides, forming a small pool at the base of the light that guided him.

He embraced the quiet of the streets, allowing the rhythm of his keystrokes to be the only sound he heard. The small flame drew him in, and his eyes squinted not from fatigue, but from a desperate desire to somehow climb into it and join its dance.

In a one-bedroom apartment with no electricity or heat, he continued as a night writer, searching for stories. He was a man on a mission to be heard, not seen. He stayed there until daylight broke, filled with hope that a story had emerged. As he ventured outside through the alley door, he rummaged through a dumpster for scraps. "So much waste," he said aloud, blending into the morning crowds as just another forgotten soul with a story to tell.

Years passed, and he spotted his book in the window display of a bookstore. It had climbed to number one worldwide, adorned with a candle on the cover and a story depicting the life of someone who never stopped believing that someday he would be consumed by the flame and truly become a night writer. 

— Mike, 2025                                            

Wonders of Autumn

 Soon, Autumn will make its appearance, showcasing vibrant colors and filling our senses with all that it brings. After a brutal summer, we sigh in relief as the air conditioning is turned off and the windows are opened. This brings delight to everyone who has ever slept with open windows, watching the curtains flutter in the cool breeze, lulling them to sleep. 

When I wake up, I find the quilt our grandmother made wrapped around me as the coolness of the night has turned to cold. Getting out of bed may take a few extra minutes. I search through the drawers for a cozy flannel shirt or a forgotten sweatshirt, hoping they still fit. 

Looking out the window, I see Dad raking leaves into giant piles while Mom harvests the last of the vegetables from the garden, placing them into a basket for the long winter months ahead. 

We rush to eat breakfast, my siblings close behind, and then we race outside, getting faster and faster until we leap into the pile of leaves as Dad leans on the rake, laughing. He hands us the rake to continue his work we've undone.

The ground is damp enough to start a fire, so Dad pours lighter fluid on the pile. We watch as the smoke curls up and vanishes into the sky, leaving behind the unmistakable smell of Autumn. It becomes our job to use the wheelbarrow to gather the leaves from the smaller piles to the fire, and Dad reminds us not to dawdle. I remember seeing smoke from other leaf fires as our neighbors did the same, with joyful laughter from kids echoing throughout the neighborhood. 

Soon, the day will come when we search the roadside stands for the perfect pumpkins and pick apples from the trees, which will be transformed into pies, cinnamon applesauce, and sometimes caramel apples on a stick. I remember peeling the wrappers off the caramels, separating the dark from the light, sneaking one of each when I hoped, though I knew better, that Mom wasn't watching.

Halloween arrives, and we find ourselves in homemade costumes that Mom created for each of us. Sometimes, they were as simple as an old bed sheet with cutout eye holes and black circles drawn around them; suddenly, I became a scary ghost. My sister transforms into an old lady thanks to an old dress of Grandma's, complete with a wig and round eyeglasses. My other sister becomes the perfect girl from Mars, wrapped in a box covered in aluminum foil with cutouts for arms and legs, and a whimsical, made-up face crafted by Mom.

The end of Autumn always saddens me a little, as it brings so much joy, but truthfully, winter is approaching with a whole new agenda: sledding down hills, skating on frozen ponds, building snowmen, and having snowball fights. There will be hot chocolate and the smell of bread baking in Mom's kitchen. But for now, it must wait a bit longer, as the last of the colors descend to earth and the jug of apple cider is empty. Soon, I will wake up to a blanket of white and an extra quilt, admitting that Autumn has come to an end.

Mike 2925                                                          

Labor Day

 Since the beginning of time, hard-working men and women have strived to improve themselves and their communities. From bricklayers to scientists, a day's work has always been a source of pride. Whether rising early on the farm or staying late at the office, the work was accomplished. Whether in overalls or a business suit, on a subway or on a tractor, we committed ourselves to getting the job done and doing it right. It’s reassuring to know that our labor has never been taken for granted and is recognized on a day dedicated to honoring the hard work of countless individuals, both past and present, who understood the value of a hard day’s work. Happy Labor Day, everyone!

Mike 2025