Cold snap

 That first snap of cold air fills you with visions of holiday joy just ahead. You climb up a ladder to the attic and bring down boxes that have been waiting for your arrival. As you grab the first of many, you remember that last year, while putting them away, you may have broken a few ornaments that you hoped went unnoticed—but surely they will be. The strings of lights went into a box as you told yourself that next year you’d straighten them out, but you know you won't.

You search through your closet for a hoodie you really like, but no matter how hard you look, it’s nowhere to be found. Then you see your grandson wearing it, and he says he hopes you don’t mind. So, you put on a sweatshirt and leash up the dog for a brisk walk. The cold air fills your nose, causing a tear or two to run down your face.

On your way home, you crave the vegetable soup your mom used to make. You decide to drive to the produce stand and buy almost every vegetable known to man. Back home, you begin the long task of cutting up potatoes, carrots, celery, and too many others to name. You cut the stew meat into chunks and cook it briefly before adding it to the soup. Finally, the secret spices Mom used go in last, as the pot fills three-quarters with water, and the magic begins.

Within an hour, the whole house is filled with the aroma you've been waiting for since the last cold snap. As darkness begins to fall, you close a few windows because the temperature is dropping, and it feels like we’re in for a chilly night. You head to the chest where the blankets are kept, and with no real surprise, you remember your daughter had hinted that she needed another blanket, so you gave her yours. Oh well, you’ll sleep in your sweatshirt.

Typical of Florida, you wake up to rising temperatures in the high sixties, with a forecast that says today's high will be seventy-nine degrees. Off comes the sweatshirt, and you put the rest of the soup into containers to freeze. By late afternoon, you fire up the air conditioner and settle back to sip the last of the unfrozen soup, longing for the next cold front so you can fully immerse yourself in the holiday spirit. You could untangle a mess of lights, but your heart isn't into it right now. Instead, you decide to watch some football and wish you were in the stands, bundled up for the frigid temperatures while sipping iced tea in your shorts. 

Mike 2025                                       

We did it

 One more walk down a deserted beach, one more star-filled night, and warm ocean breezes. One more time holding your hand, tasting the sweetness of your kiss, and one more time embracing you, never wanting to let go.

We did it, didn’t we? We held on through the storms and beat the odds while others gave up and walked away. We watched our children grow up, and sometimes we wept, knowing what they would face in a world where giving up is easy and giving your all takes courage and faith.

We did it, didn’t we? As time passed, we fought to keep our love strong and our dreams alive. We saw the world around us face impossible challenges, yet we lived our lives with hopes for a better future for our grandchildren. 

We witnessed our bodies age with grace, our hair turning silver and our skin weathering the passage of time, yet we still held onto the warmth of each other’s touch.

We did it, didn’t we, my darling? We defied the odds against us and proved to the world that true love can last a lifetime. I believe we were a match made in heaven, and as I walk on that deserted beach without your hand to hold, I look to the sky and see the stars shining down upon my broken heart, each one reflecting your image. We did it, didn't we?

Mike 2025                                                        

Baron

 As a young kid who craved adventure and often faced dares accompanied by chicken noises from my friends, I was eager to prove that I wasn't easily scared. Here's a little background for you.

Back in elementary school, my friends and I didn't want to ride the school bus home; we preferred walking through the neighborhoods, kicking cans, and throwing stones at stop signs—just boys having some fun. Our houses were two blocks away, and we sometimes cut through an alleyway where the houses were so close together that we had to squeeze our way down the length of the alley. This shortcut would help us get home well before our moms began to worry. However, one day, something did happen on that shortcut.

As we entered the alley, a huge German shepherd fenced in a yard leaped at us, scaring the life out of all of us. We knew the dog had chewed a significant hole in the fence and could almost reach us. We were left to weigh our options, and more importantly, figure out which of us was brave enough to sneak past the snarling dog, who looked like it would love nothing more than to eat our faces. A challenge was issued, but none of us volunteered.

For the next few days, we took the bus home while we tried to figure out how to get past the terrifying beast without losing any limbs or faces. One kid suggested drugging it by putting bleach in a dog biscuit, but we all agreed that was too cruel. Another idea was to throw a steak over the fence, and when the dog started eating the raw meat, we would run as fast as we could to the other side, safe and sound. That plan was settled, and we decided tomorrow would be the day to execute it.

Unfortunately, there were no steaks in my freezer, so I took a couple of pork chops instead. They would have plenty of time to thaw in my backpack during the school day. We walked slower than usual as we headed to the alley, peeking inside to make sure the beast hadn't escaped. As we got closer, without warning, the dog slammed against the fence, drool dripping from its massive mouth filled with rows of teeth designed to rip through even the toughest meat.

Just as I was about to toss the pork chops over the fence, a man suddenly appeared and shouted a few commands. To my surprise, the dog lay down quietly. "I see you've met Baron," the man said. "Did you know that he was once a police dog? I was his handler for five years. When he turned six, he retired from the force, and I took him home to live out the rest of his life without danger. However, some things he never forgot, like the time he chased down a group of kids robbing a store. He wanted to scare them, so he cornered them and showed them his massive teeth while drooling until I caught up with him.

I imagine he thought you were another group of boys posing a threat, which is why he went into attack mode. Let me assure you, if he had managed to escape under the fence, you boys would have been his dinner. Now, one at a time, please come close and offer your hand for him to smell." "No way!" my buddy shouted as he ran away. "I'm not doing it; I need both hands!" said another. "I'll do it," I said, my heart racing.

Very slowly, I inched closer to the fence, holding out my hand as I said his name. Baron walked toward me, his warm breath brushing against my palm. "Go ahead, pet his head; he likes that." I followed his instructions, and within a minute, the beast transformed into a gentle dog and a wonderful friend.

From that day forward, every time we arrived at the alley, we'd call out his name, and he would appear at the fence, wagging his tail and welcoming the hands that reached out to him.

The following year, we changed schools, which was far from the alley, but every few days we'd visit Baron, tossing treats over the fence and petting his head. He remained our friend for several more years, and when he passed away, he was honored with a police funeral attended by dozens of officers from around the county.

Later in my life, I gave my son a puppy for Christmas, and you can probably guess what I named him.  

Mike                                                                

2025

Brushing her hair

 She pulled the hairpin from the top of her head, letting her silver hair drop to the center of her back. He always loved her hair, often brushing it for her under the light of a candle on a moonlit night.

He's gone now, and she sits alone at her vanity, staring into nothingness as she counts the brush strokes and remembers how his rough, weathered hands seemed so gentle as she caught him smiling at her in the mirror's reflection.

It's odd, she thought, that something so simple as brushing her hair would bring back some of her fondest memories of the man she loved and the stolen moments of closeness they shared. She finished brushing and blew out the candle, draping her hair over his side of their bed as she whispered goodnight with a falling tear.

Mike 2025                                                        

Content

 It didn’t bother him like most things once did when a rat scurried across the floor or when a leak appeared in the roof. He didn’t even flinch when a bolt of lightning struck his neighbor’s tree, missing his place by mere inches. 

Somehow, he had grown old, a mystery he would ponder as long as he didn’t look in a mirror. He once cared about things like most people did—keeping his place clean—but not about dusting off pictures or sweeping the floors every day; that was ludicrous. 

With no one to impress, he chose when to do what was needed, going about his tasks at his own pace, which was just a notch below slow. Trips to the grocery store required preparation, as he would shower for the first time in a few days, lay out clean or semi-clean clothes, and make a shopping list he never quite followed. Instead, he roamed the aisles, tossing whatever looked good into the only cart with a broken wheel. 

Once back home, he put the groceries away and shook the box of dog treats that his best friend had been patiently waiting for. Then he changed into his shorts, which he should have put in the dirty clothes basket hiding in the corner—maybe tomorrow. 

He didn’t care much about time, as he could predict his every move, just as he had done before and would do again. He sat by his keyboard, fingers poised, but his mind was quiet. It often took several attempts to latch onto a memory he wanted to write about. 

For the most part, he felt content, always waiting for a text or call from his kids and anxiously anticipating Saturday nights under the lights at youth football, when he received a week's worth of hugs and kisses. 

In his mind, he envisioned his future, and this is what he saw: not dust bunnies or clean countertops, not smudged pictures of his past or dirty dishes in the sink. His life had been mapped out for him long ago, when the dreams of boys transformed into the memories of the old. 

Mike 2025                                            

Jasmans world

 Jasman viewed the world differently than some; she believed in Mother Earth and the gifts she bestowed upon her. Choosing to live deep in the forest, she resided in a simple cottage that, over time, became entwined with vines, blending seamlessly into nature. As a young girl, she had rid herself of creature comforts and entered the forest with only a backpack. After walking for a long time, she discovered the perfect place to settle down: a clearing surrounded by giant, ancient trees that would eventually speak to her.

In this clearing, she built her shelter and planted her gardens. Her first shelter was rudimentary, made of branches and a tarp to protect her from the rain. This temporary structure would suffice until her gardens flourished, allowing her to construct a more permanent home.

Jasman had a friend from the nearest town, Joseph, a carpenter who lived a simple life, dedicated to helping those in need. He worked out of his workshop, making furniture and completing odd jobs. When Jasman reached out to him for assistance in building her house, she offered to pay him with the few dollars she had brought along and promised to provide him with as many vegetables as he wanted. Joseph graciously declined her money, stating that nature would provide everything they needed.

Over the next month, Joseph felled trees, splitting them with an axe to create logs for the walls. He crafted gables, doors, and windows with skills that amazed her. Jasman diligently gathered rocks for the fireplace, essential for the colder months ahead. By late September, her house was complete, just in time for the harvest season.

Jasman was happy with her new home and spent her days personalizing it by hanging herbs and filling shelves with jars of various roots and wildflowers. These ingredients were used to make salves and remedies for natural healing. She found herself as her first patient when she got a thorn in her foot, using a drawing sav from the natural ingredients her grandmother had taught her to identify as a child. Long ago, she, too, had fallen in love with nature and had joined a group traveling across the countryside to embrace the lifestyle they had chosen, which she later learned they referred to as being “hippies."

As harvest time approached, Jasman celebrated the back-breaking work that yielded baskets of vegetables, which she stored in a root cellar. She filled jars with carrots, beets, beans, and more and harvested around seventy potatoes, leaving them in a box filled with dirt. The heads of cabbage she gathered were too numerous to count. By the time the first frost appeared on the pumpkins, her harvest was complete, but her work was far from over.

To keep a fire going, she needed a substantial amount of wood cut and stacked in the wood bin just outside her door. She dedicated countless hours to this task, preparing for the winter months ahead.

On a mid-October morning, she fulfilled her promise of fresh vegetables to Joseph by loading her wheelbarrow with everything she had grown, enough to keep him fed through the harsh winter. Joseph was very thankful and pointed to something in the corner covered with a tarp. "That's for you," he said. "Go ahead, have a look." 

She slowly pulled away the tarp to reveal a beautiful wooden sleigh. "It's beautiful," she exclaimed, "but I can't accept such a gift." 

"You can, and you will," he replied. "You'll need this to haul wood in the snow or move heavy boxes in and out of the root cellar. You may even use it to have some fun sliding down a hill." 

Then, in a surprising move that startled Joseph, Jasman jumped up and down, yelling a hundred thank-yous as she kissed him on the cheek, making the old carpenter blush a million shades of red.Soon, the holidays would be upon her, which meant she needed to find a Christmas tree. She took her sled into the forest, searching for the perfect tree. However, as usual, she found the one that nobody else would choose—limbs missing and crooked like an old man. Nevertheless, she had a vision for that tree, carefully cut it down, and loaded it onto the sled for the long walk home.

After building a tree stand from old lumber, she let the tree warm up inside, where the heat would help the branches drop, filling in some of the bare spots. However, one side was nearly devoid of branches, so she hid that section against the wall and stood back to admire her work. 

That night, as a cold wind began to blow and the thermometer dropped below zero, she stoked the fire, added a couple of good-sized logs, and began decorating her beautiful tree. She had no sparkly ornaments, colored lights, tinsel, or garland—just handmade objects she had crafted since the previous autumn.

She made snowflakes from old paper and hung pine cones that filled the house with an earthy aroma. She took bunches of dried wildflowers and strung them around the tree, adding a touch of color. As she stepped back to admire the tree that nobody but her would love, she felt the spirit of Christmas fill her heart. But she still had work to do; she had invited Joseph to Christmas dinner just a few hours away.

Jasman lived off nature and did not eat meat. Her love for the creatures of the forest was genuine, and the last thing she would do was take the life of a dear friend. However, she believed she could transform vegetables into amazing dishes by adding family secrets her grandmother had taught her. She prepared vegetable pies with a flaky crust, stuffed potatoes filled with melted cheese, and an apple pie sprinkled with cinnamon. As if that wasn't enough, she also made oatmeal cookies that were warm from sitting on a stone near the fireplace. 

Joseph couldn't thank her enough as he headed back home with a very full belly.

The months passed, and spring finally arrived. April showers gave way to the rebirth of the land as the bulbs planted the previous fall began to bloom and wildflowers exploded in the valley. Green leaves adorned the naked trees as the smallest of creatures came back home to start a family. Her world was coming to life as the woodland babies were born and mothers protected them from predators who shared the forests.

One spring day, as Jasman was working in the garden, she felt a chill run down her back as the distinct sound of a bear came out of the forest, staring at Jasman, but not getting any closer. Jasman stared back but stayed very still as the bear began to move closer. She had heard that making loud noises might scare them away, so, without much thought, she grabbed her garden shovel and started banging it against a wash pan. The bear turned and ran back into the forest, hopefully for a long distance.

The seasons came and went as Jasman grew older, living in the small house and tending to her gardens. Her steps grew slower, and her back ached from chopping wood for so many years. Her shelves were overflowing with every kind of herb and other concoctions she had made over the years, and many people from the forests came to her for one ailment or another. She became known as Mother Earth.

On the day of her passing, people came out of the forest and the little town not far away to pay their respects to Mother Earth. Even the creatures she loved so dearly came out of the trees while birds flew overhead, circling her small house. Joseph, now old, dusted off his tools and made a beautiful casket out of cherry wood where she would be laid to rest among the giant trees of her beloved forest.

Once, a young girl with dreams of a simple life walked into the forest with a backpack and the hope that it would welcome her, which it did in so many ways.

Mike 2025

                                                             

Trailer on the hilltop

 When I was ten years old, my dad bought eleven acres of untouched land in the hills of upstate New York. He referred to it as a family place, a weekend retreat where we could escape the hustle and bustle of everyday life. He purchased a small travel trailer, which was quite a challenge to pull up the steep hill to a resting spot at the very top. To get it up there, he hired the farmer who lived a couple of miles away with a tractor to do the heavy lifting, likely giving him a generous tip, as Dad had a knack for making deals.

The view from the top was breathtaking, with miles of ancient trees, valleys, and even a pond we used for swimming in the summer and for ice skating in the winter. The trailer had everything we needed, but when the whole family was inside, we were rubbing elbows, to say the least. It had a stove and a tiny bathroom for number one, but for number two, we'd venture into the woods. Mom was so worried about bears that I think she held it in until we got back home.

We usually arrived on Friday afternoons, giving us time to settle in before darkness fell and everything turned pitch black. The only light we had was from the fire and a couple of lanterns we used to navigate our way around the trailer. Mom would prepare meals with what little we had, often grilling Dad's favorite steaks over an open fire. Looking back, I don’t think he considered the possibility of a black bear being attracted by the smell of his cooking. After all, he was a war veteran and believed he could face any challenge that came his way.

We visited our little slice of heaven during all seasons. Summer brought fun at the pond and explorations in the woods, where we sometimes spotted animals that darted away to safety. Summer nights were magical, illuminated by thousands of fireflies dancing in the valley while my sisters and I tried to catch them in mason jars to show our parents. I remember it being quite hot inside the trailer, where a small fan circulated the warm air. But we got through it, knowing autumn was just around the corner.

Fall arrived right on cue, as thousands of trees exploded with colors that were difficult to describe. We would don our jackets and take walks, each turn revealing another dazzling display of nature's artistry. There was something special about autumn, perhaps the vibrant colors, but also a crispness in the air that seemed to cleanse your lungs with every breath. Still, no bears had appeared.

Winter presented challenges when it came to driving Dad's truck up the hill, as it didn’t have four-wheel drive. Whenever we spun out, Mom would worry about going off the road and into the valley. She’d get out and supervise while we kids pushed and pushed until we finally made it to the top.

We always brought our sleds and ice skates to enjoy our very own winter wonderland. The previous year, we had gotten a snowmobile that we eventually got running, leading to some real excitement. Dad would take us on rides through the woods to a clearing next to the pond. He'd first check the ice thickness, and if he declared it safe, he'd take a running start and race across the pond, much to Mom's dismay. However, my favorite thing to do was tie a rope from the ski to the circular sled— a metal sphere you sat in with your legs tucked beneath you while holding on for dear life. The ski would pick up speed quickly, and during one exhilarating turn, the rope snapped. My sister, who was screaming at the top of her lungs, fell hard enough that the sled crashed into the ice and disappeared beneath the surface. Thankfully, the pond was shallow, and when I saw her head pop up, I raced to pull her out of the freezing water. By the time we got back to the trailer, she was frozen solid, and Mom had to cut off her wet clothes and get her next to the blazing fire to warm her up. Still, no bears had shown up.

Winter also meant venturing into the woods to cut a Christmas tree. We would spend as much time as needed to find the perfect one. The trailer was too small for a tree, so we kept it outside, stringing lights brought from home, our handmade ornaments—like pine cones—and several tins of Jiffy Pop popcorn that we hung on the tree. We’d drink hot chocolate, make s'mores, and roast hot dogs over an open flame. I figured the bears must be hibernating.

Springtime brought melting snow, but the roads became too dangerous to drive, so the trailer sat empty until late spring allowed safe passage up the hill. It was muddy everywhere, and to be honest, not much fun. I do remember one day in April when the rain began to fall. Dad looked at Mom, who was already packing up everything we had just brought. We literally slid down the hill as Dad's knuckles turned white, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, fear etched on his face. One wrong turn could mean a one-way trip down into the valley. I thought, “The bears are awake.”

That was Mom's last trip up the hill, and she vowed never to go back. So for the next few trips, it was without her, and we all felt the loss of her presence. They eventually decided to sell the land and throw in the trailer that a guy from out of state purchased for three times what dad paid a few years ago. I told you he was quite the salesman. With the money, he bought a boat that sat in the driveway for a couple of years as he restored it to its original state. No bears unless they can swim!

Mike 2025                                           

PS

We did have a visit one spring night from a black bear searching for food. He rocked the trailer from side to side like a kid shaking cereal out of the box. Dad shot off a warning shot from a gun nobody knew he had, and the bear ran off into the woods. The rest is history.

                                                             

Long white hair

 Her long white hair seemed to bounce with her movements as she strolled down a dirt country road. On either side, wildflowers of many shapes and sizes bloomed, each beautiful in its own way. She picked some to take home, wanting to enjoy them before their brief beauty passed.

A tune played over in her mind, a song she had danced to many years ago at the homecoming dance with Billy, her middle school boyfriend. It was sad that they had lost touch, but she knew life gave you one memory at a time to hold onto.

Up ahead was the pond where she used to swim to escape the heat of summer and skate on a carpet of ice in winter, twirling round and round to the music in her head. She sat on a rock, just as she always did, looking over the land that had captured her heart as her youth faded away.

She watched the sun set, marveling at its wonder and beauty—a portrait any artist would love to capture. As she began her walk home, the moonlight guided her steps, and she listened to the crickets singing their songs while an owl announced its presence.

Upon climbing the four steps onto her porch, she sat down for a well-deserved rest, comforted by the symphony of the wild. She loved her simple life, away from the noises and chaos of people rushing to get somewhere, relishing the smell of wildflowers instead of bus fumes and fast food grease.

Feeling rested, she went inside, lit some candles, and burned a stick of incense as she finished the other half of a sandwich she had saved, washing it down with a glass of dandelion wine. 

As she brushed her long white hair, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Each stroke of the brush restored the shine and luster to the young girl who was looking back at her. Her eyes grew heavy as sleep came, and sometimes in the shadows of night, she felt the spirits of those she loved visiting her.

Morning arrived, bringing the sound of raindrops hitting the tin roof like the beat of a parade of drums, along with the fresh smells of the wet woods filling her cottage. She quickly gathered several pots and pans and set them outside to collect the purest water for her tea, saving the rest for a bath once the rain stopped. This was her life, a place once filled with people who, like her, cherished simple pleasures—like singing around a campfire or catching fireflies in the meadow while someone strummed a guitar to a song he had written.

They loved the land and each other until the city lured them away, and now they only visited when they found the time. The rain continued to fall as she undressed and walked down the now muddy country road, bathing herself in nature's shower, her long white hair bouncing behind her with every step.

Mike 2025                                                       

Under the lights

 The air was cool on an October night as families gathered at the football field. Parents, classmates, and teachers came together to watch the last game of the season. Food trucks circled the field, offering hot chocolate, coffee, and the all-time favorite fruit smoothies. Under the watchful eyes of their parents, younger kids, some from the local school and others from nearby schools, played together. It was amusing to see these little ones, largely uninterested in football, creating their own games, like handstands and hide and seek.

The cheerleaders, dressed in colorful uniforms that some mothers had sewn in between organizing bake sales to fund various sporting events, practiced on the sidelines until it was their turn to perform. 

The coaches, all volunteers, dedicated their time not only to teaching the rules of the game but also to instilling the values of teamwork and supporting one another. I have always admired a coach's ability to leave a lasting impression on every child they coach.

As the evening grew colder, some spectators wrapped themselves in blankets and sipped hot cocoa to stay warm. They jumped up to applaud when the team ran onto the field. Many spectators thought they knew all the calls made by the referees, loudly shouting their opinions and often embarrassing their wives or girlfriends, who sank deeper into their blankets. There was always at least one person who reminded them to keep it down; after all, it was just kids out on the field.

Friday nights under the lights have always been something I cherish. I never miss a chance to watch a game where my kids or grandkids can experience the excitement I felt decades ago. Back then, football meant everything to me, and my coach was Mr. Miller, whom I still have fond memories of whenever I watch a game.

Mike 2025                                             

Basement Bar

 Growing up in the 60s, a couple of houses on our block had converted their basements into full-fledged bars and amusement parks. What was once a place with cement floors and walls, used for storage and laundry, was transformed into a main room with an impressive bar. The bar was made of knotty pine, fifteen feet long, complete with a brass footrest and two beer taps. The wall behind the bar, also paneled in knotty pine, displayed a myriad of liquor bottles—every brand seemed to be represented. There was even a hideaway jukebox that looked like a piece of furniture rather than the typical model. My dad worked at the Wurlitzer company, and the jukebox had been a gift to him, which was pretty cool. 

The basement also housed a skee-ball game, which involved sliding a metal puck down a sawdust lane to knock over pins. It featured flashing lights and played music when you achieved a high score. One Christmas, I received a set of drums, but they usually sat untouched until the whiskey flowed, at which point everyone wanted a turn banging on the skins to the music playing on the jukebox.

Through the swinging barroom doors, there was a restroom, beautifully decorated by my mom, who had a magical touch. Glass bowls filled with scented soaps, a beveled glass mirror, and hand towels made in France were carefully placed, with the hope that they wouldn’t be used! If I recall correctly, linoleum covered the cement floors instead of tile, as tile was quite expensive.

My parents had many friends, and when they received an invitation to a party, it was rare for anyone not to show up. In the days leading up to an event, Mom would spend hours preparing several snack trays. Shrimp was always the favorite, and she didn’t disappoint, arranging a silver tray piled high with the beloved crustaceans on the bar. Other snacks included olives, cheese, crackers, and deviled eggs, which were almost as popular as the shrimp.

My sisters and I had our own tasks to complete, which came with the promise of attending the party until bedtime. I would stock the cooler with beer bottles and ensure clean ashtrays were set out on the bar. Everyone smoked back then; after all, if John Wayne advertised something, it had to be good. There was even a shot glass brimming with six or eight non-filtered cigarettes available for guests. As my sisters assisted Mom, I made sure all the party lights were on, the jukebox was plugged in, and the skee-ball table was dusted and ready to play. It was finally party time!

Dad went downstairs to check all the preparations, cleaning already clean glasses and dusting off bottles that hadn't been used in a while. The first guests arrived right on time, claiming barstools that they would only vacate to use the restroom. My sisters brought down the snack trays, and soon after, Mom made her entrance, looking more beautiful than any other woman in the room. Dad whistled, followed by other men, much to the chagrin of the other wives, but it was all in good fun. 

Before long, the party was in full swing, with dancing, snacking, and drinks flowing like water. Conversations were loud, almost bordering on shouting, as people tried to talk over the music and the bells ringing from the skee-ball machine. Bottles of beer were spilled, and a glass or two broke as the night progressed.

As the night wore on, guests began to leave, thanking my parents for another wonderful evening, while some overstayed their welcome. Dad helped those who were sober enough to drive to their cars, while others found their wives to drive them home. Once everyone had finally departed, Mom would take a seat at the bar, and Dad would pour them a nightcap as they reminisced about this man or that woman, sometimes swearing they’d never invite certain guests again. Mom would survey the mess and let out a sigh, while Dad would say, “Leave it until tomorrow.” With that, they turned off the lights and unplugged the jukebox, and the barroom grew dark and quiet.

The next morning, we all pitched in to clean up, throwing away trash and wiping down the bar, which showed signs of spilled drinks and remnants of deviled eggs and cheese. The floor was mopped, dirty glasses were washed and left to drain in the sink, and empty bottles were returned to their cases for Dad to take back to the store for a deposit. We opened the windows wide to air out the smoke of a hundred cigarettes, and we drew straws to decide who would clean the restroom.

The day after the party was always a day of rest—another name for recovering from a hangover—but I didn’t mind. The fridge was stocked with a big plate of shrimp and cocktail sauce that my sisters and I enjoyed together. I miss those parties in our basement, but the memories stay with me every time I dust off the photos my dad took and hung behind his bar. 

Mike 2025                                                      

Navy days

 The ship was quiet as she sailed into the vastness of a destination unknown. Most of the crew were asleep except for those standing watch like me, walking back and forth countless times, stopping only long enough to light a smoke, then continuing until relieved by a sleepy-eyed sailor whose name I didn't know yet. I walked down a narrow passageway, the sounds of the engine keeping the beat of my boon dockers still not worn in like the others, but I was the new kid on board, and my new clothes stuck out.

I made it to my bunk as snoring and sleep talking was like a symphony, as the smell of unwashed feet made me gag with my hand over my mouth. I had the worst bunk on the entire ship again; the new kid gets screwed. With inches on either side, you had to sleep very still or roll out onto the deck, probably hitting the guy below you who woke up, warning you it better not happen again.

Lying there listening to the sounds of a Navy warship cutting through the waves brought with it needed sleep that seemed to end way too soon as you were awakened by a commotion a few bunks away. Four sailors had grabbed a hold of a guy and dragged him into the shower area, where they used scrub brushes and soap to wash the stink away. I heard him crying later in the night, but hopefully, he learned a lesson about living in close quarters. I know I learned.

With only two hours before my kitchen duties, I lay there listening to music through my earphones to try and remember where I was when a particular song came out, bringing back memories of parties and road trips with my friends, some of whom have already written me letters I read over and over again.

Two cups of wake-up juice (coffee), and I reported to the mess hall chief, who didn't speak, just pointed to a vast amount of potatoes that needed to be peeled. I wasn't fast enough, he said, told me a lot of sailors would be pissed off if they didn't get their hash browns to go with their eggs. I managed to peel every potato with just three wounds that I thought needed stitches, but the chief told me to tape them and move on. My next task was to wash all the pots and pans, dry them, and put them where they were secure from sudden rolls of the ship. With that completed, I went topside for a smoke that didn't last as the chief called me back to begin preparations for lunch. One hundred fifty sandwiches had to be made, each one with a bag of chips and an apple. I felt like I was back in school, but I dove in, slapping ham or turkey onto slices of bread with lettuce and a slice of tomato when we could get them. Once completed, I was told to make fifty gallons of bug juice that consisted of powdered fruit juice and way too much sugar. When lunch was over and all the dishes were washed, I got a thirty-minute break, which I took, falling asleep on deck exhausted from the morning's work.

I awoke to being kicked and looked up to see the chief telling me I was fifteen minutes late and to get my new kid ass back to the gally and start cutting the ends off a thousand green beans. Who does that? Dinner was the big meal of the day with some meat, mashed potatoes, and a choice of biscuits or bread and butter. For dessert, an assortment of pies or cookies. Tomorrow it would be something different, as well as the days that followed, when the chief got creative and mixed up leftovers, turning them into sloppy joes one night and turkey pot pie the next. After a while, you'd know what was being served on what day, so you could eat or go to the vending machines scattered about the ship and dine on peanut butter crackers or an assortment of candy bars and cream-filled cupcakes.

After my ninety days of mess hall duty, I was assigned to the position I had gone to Navy school for as a signalman. There were five of us led by a first-class lifer who took me under his wing and taught me everything I needed to make him proud. I had to master the various flags, all with a meaning and an order in which they were displayed. I also spent hours and hours perfecting my Morse code to be used with the signal lights to communicate with other ships close by.

Weeks turned to months and months to years as I was no longer the new kid but rather a faded jeans, polished boondockers, and bleached out shirts kind of sailor. The signal gang we were known as became best friends, going ashore in many different ports to drink a lot, and if brave enough, a trip to a horror house, which sometimes required a shot of antibiotics from the ship's doctor.

We weathered Nor'easters with sixty-foot waves and seas as calm as a sea could be. We saw places like Greece, Spain, Italy, France, Tunisia, Portugal, South Africa, Pakistan, and more. My favorite was Gibraltar at Christmas time with a thousand colored lights on every building.

Four years flew past me, and I was discharged back into civilian life, where I learned another trade in roofing and siding, a job I loved even in the coldest of weather. But my wanderlust caught up to me as I packed up a truck and drove thousands of miles away to the ocean I grew to love. I would walk miles on golden sand listening to the call of the mermaids, beckoning me to come to them. I'd fall to sleep under a palm tree, smelling the salty air and wishing I had signed up for more years in the Navy. Then, feeling a gentle kick, I awoke to my wife telling me the kids were hungry for my cooking, and with a smile as large as a navy warship, I headed for the gally to peel some potatoes.

Mike 2025                                                 

Apple pie

 He climbed to the top of an apple tree, where he could see the whole world—or so it seemed to an eight-year-old. From his perch, he spotted a man walking to his car and a lady with her newborn baby making her way to the bus stop. He loved his spot in the tree, which he sometimes shared with a squirrel that didn’t seem to mind his presence. Being the explorer that he was, he carried a gunny sack to keep the treasures he found, most of which he unearthed with a garden shovel he discovered when he tripped over it, sticking out of the tall grass behind the old garden shed. He didn’t visit the shed often, as it gave him the creeps for some reason.

When he grew tired of sitting in the apple tree, he would pick the best apples to surprise his mom, who would use them to bake his favorite treat: apple pie. Once back on solid ground, he’d venture into the woods surrounding his house. He believed that people from long ago had camped there on their way to new lands, possibly leaving behind treasures he wanted to find.

He took baby steps, careful not to miss anything, slowly digging with his garden shovel until he heard the blade hit stone. Digging faster, he was disappointed to find it was just a rock. He searched beneath the giant pines and along the streams, unaware of the silent company that had joined him—animals like rabbits, foxes, raccoons, and deer, all wondering who he was and what he was doing in their woods.

As dusk settled, it was his signal to go home and share his adventures over supper. After the table was cleared and his mom said it was okay, he opened his gunny sack and took out a small stone to show his family. “This could be an arrowhead,” Dad said, rubbing it in his hand and nodding in approval. Next, he pulled out a rusted handle of something, which Dad guessed might be a tool.

This continued, as one treasure after another came from the sack, each accompanied by the stories and imagination of a young boy’s adventures. He produced a couple of fossils, a pile of chestnuts he claimed were small cannonballs used by tiny warriors, a fork and a spoon, and a piece of wood carved to a sharp point, which he assumed was used for hunting. But he saved the best for last—he carefully removed eight shiny, red apples. “For you, Mom,” he said. “They're from the very top of the apple tree and should make the perfect pie.”

That little boy eventually grew up and no longer climbed that apple tree. Instead, he used a ladder he found in the shed, which still gave him the shivers for reasons he never understood. But it was all worth it when he dumped out eight of the finest apples off the tree and saw the smile on his mom's face as she reached for her pie tins one more time.

Mike 2025                                                 

Pedal cars

 Up and down the driveway, I would drive my pedal car that I received for Christmas. Under my mom's watchful eye and loving glance, I was a fireman in my fire engine, complete with a red fire helmet and a working siren powered by batteries. Later, I learned that Dad had hidden the batteries from me so he could read his morning paper without listening to the siren. At the time, I didn’t find it funny.

One day, while I was playing with my fire truck, my buddy from a few doors down showed up in his Christmas present: a brand new pedal tractor. It was a real beauty, even equipped with a plow on the front that he could lift and dump snow, dirt, or whatever he desired. We spent hours in our machines, and one day, while we were playing, we heard a noise rumbling down the sidewalk. Pulling into my driveway was another neighborhood boy on his pedal car—a true Bigfoot!

The tractor plowed a hill of snow, dumping it as high as he could, and Bigfoot climbed up and over the pile to everyone's delight. Just for fun, we tipped Bigfoot on its side, pretending it had caught fire. My fire truck rushed over, and I pretended to put out the flames. The three of us had a blast, but then we heard a rumbling sound moving slowly around the bend that sent chills down our spines. It was an army tank pedal machine, equipped with treads for rough terrain and a long barrel that shot plastic shells. The kid inside, another neighbor, was hunkered down in his tank with only his helmeted head visible. He maneuvered the tank with a stick, allowing him to go in any direction he wanted. It was an impressive tank, for sure.

Now, with four machines zooming up and down the driveway, we imagined countless scenarios, like the tractor plowing my fire truck into a snowbank or Bigfoot running over the tractor. Meanwhile, the tank watched for its next move, climbing right over my fire truck and causing some damage to it while I tried to escape from the treads rolling over me—but I lived to tell the tale.

Just when we thought we were the only kids on the block with pedal cars, another kid showed up in his ambulance pedal car, blasting various sirens from several sounds he controlled on a panel inside the dashboard. It didn't take long for the ambulance to be called into action as more and more wrecks were staged, allowing him to come to the rescue. And just like that, we were five.

Like most toys, our pedal cars were eventually parked in the garage and replaced with bicycles, scooters, and skateboards. The five of us remained friends throughout our school years, all eventually getting our driver’s licenses and storing our bikes, scooters, and skateboards in our garages for our younger siblings to enjoy. Looking back, the memories stay with me as new ones are made watching my son in his pedal car, a brand new Lexus. Who would have ever believed that?

Mike 2025                                                 

                                       

HALOWEEN

 The night arrived with fallen leaves and carved-out pumpkins glowing on porches across the town. Bowls of candy filled to the top awaited the doorbell to ring as trick-or-treaters put on their costumes, with moms snapping pictures to preserve the moment.

Like the starting gate at a horse race, the doors opened, and children emerged running to the first house and sweet treats. There were costumes of superheroes, good witches, pop stars, and the always popular Freddy himself.

The older kids, going on their last trick or treat, wore sunglasses and maybe a hat as they filled their pillow cases for the last time. Little girls in princess costumes struggled to keep up with the older kids, sometimes falling and watching as their candy scattered across someone's lawn. But Spider-Man came to the rescue, helping her gather her treats and disappearing into the night.

Parents holding flashlights stood watch from the street, keeping tabs on their little ghosts and goblins. They reminded them every so often to wait until they got back home so the candy could be inspected for poison apples — a joke back then, but not so much now.

As the night wound down, just a handful of kids remained on the streets while most sat on the floor with Mom, checking their bounty as pumpkin candles burned out and melted wax flowed from the mouth and eyes, a final tribute until next year.

Now the porch lights are turned off, the curtains are closed, and sleep tries to come for sugar-overloaded children. Moms and dads pick out their favorites, stashing some away for tomorrow with a promise never to tell the kids it was their Daddy who dressed as Spider-Man, always nearby to help a princess whose candy had scattered across someone's lawn.

                                           HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Mike 2025                                               

As A story teller

 As a storyteller, age has become my greatest ally. Growing up in a different era, I witnessed a time when people seemed to care more, and life revolved around family. I remember reading about the Roaring Twenties, with jazz bands playing the night away in smoke-filled bars. My grandpa would share tales of Prohibition and speakeasies, recounting how he ran bootleg whiskey through the mountains without ever getting caught.

My mom would spend hours telling me stories of hard times when food was rationed, clothes were passed down, and a new shirt required a year of saving. This upbringing instilled a sense of thriftiness in people, even during better times. I recall a jar she kept filled with pennies, reminding me that we might need them someday. There was also a box filled with scraps of material that she claimed she would eventually turn into a beautiful dress to wear at a ball.

All these memories have stayed with me over the years, providing rich material for my writing. Of course, I often added what I call “fillers” to make the stories more interesting. The most enjoyable part was inserting myself into various scenarios, like a gangster wannabe standing on the running board of a 1932 coupe, Tommy guns blazing, or as a drummer in a blues band performing in the dim light of a smoke-filled room.

I could weave myself into the narrative during a time when not all good guys wore white hats and not all bad guys wore black. In my stories, I became the sheriff who always captured his man—and his woman, who was always stunning. It felt as if I was sharing my life with the masses, allowing them to connect with every word and sentence. Yet, I always reminded my readers that it was just a story.

I’ve shared countless tales with my kids and grandkids, hoping they would remember them and pass them down. This way, the stories will never die; they will preserve the memories gifted to them by their ancestors and keep the tales alive. So, what will my next story be about, you ask? Perhaps a runaway train with me as the engineer, or a tale of a man so down on his luck that his shoes are taped together to avoid frostbite. I can vividly picture those scenarios, and I know a story needs to be written. 

Mike, 2025                                          As a storyteller, age has become my greatest ally. Growing up in a different era, I witnessed a time when people seemed to care more, and life revolved around family. I remember reading about the Roaring Twenties, with jazz bands playing the night away in smoke-filled bars. My grandpa would share tales of Prohibition and speakeasies, recounting how he ran bootleg whiskey through the mountains without ever getting caught.

My mom would spend hours telling me stories of hard times when food was rationed, clothes were passed down, and a new shirt required a year of saving. This upbringing instilled a sense of thriftiness in people, even during better times. I recall a jar she kept filled with pennies, reminding me that we might need them someday. There was also a box filled with scraps of material that she claimed she would eventually turn into a beautiful dress to wear at a ball.

All these memories have stayed with me over the years, providing rich material for my writing. Of course, I often added what I call “fillers” to make the stories more interesting. The most enjoyable part was inserting myself into various scenarios, like a gangster wannabe standing on the running board of a 1932 coupe, Tommy guns blazing, or as a drummer in a blues band performing in the dim light of a smoke-filled room.

I could weave myself into the narrative during a time when not all good guys wore white hats and not all bad guys wore black. In my stories, I became the sheriff who always captured his man—and his woman, who was always stunning. It felt as if I was sharing my life with the masses, allowing them to connect with every word and sentence. Yet, I always reminded my readers that it was just a story.

I’ve shared countless tales with my kids and grandkids, hoping they would remember them and pass them down. This way, the stories will never die; they will preserve the memories gifted to them by their ancestors and keep the tales alive. So, what will my next story be about, you ask? Perhaps a runaway train with me as the engineer, or a tale of a man so down on his luck that his shoes are taped together to avoid frostbite. I can vividly picture those scenarios, and I know a story needs to be written. 

Mike, 2025                                           

              

Scattered ashes

 Down in a valley where the wildflowers grow and fireflies light up the night sky is where I want to be when my time on earth is through. Or miles out to sea, where the dolphins and sharks coexist in the tranquility of an underwater world.

Deep in a forest that seems never to end, where ancient pines and oaks could tell a thousand stories, is where I'd like my ashes to mingle with those endless woods, oceans, and a peaceful valley where fireflies light my way to a star-filled sky and waiting arms.

Mike 2025                                          

Growing with changes

 Growing up in the '50s and '60s was a gift for many reasons. Our family, like many others, enjoyed life, worked hard, and believed in God without question. We lived in a neighborhood where all the houses looked the same, and cars from Detroit parked in the driveways.

We rode the bus to and from school, and Mom was always waiting for us. In some cases, a dog or two would be watching for a particular kid. We had friends our own age who became best friends, moving through the grades and graduating together. Some classmates went off to college, while others went to work in the mills and factories, just like their parents and grandparents before them.

People were kind and showed respect for one another. Men opened doors for women, and strangers tipped their hats as they walked on the inside of the sidewalk.

Kids earned their allowances by cutting lawns and washing cars. They had a strong work ethic instilled by caring parents and seldom talked back or misbehaved, as the threat of Dad coming home and taking off his belt was the worst nightmare.

Everything seemed black or white back then. Families ate together at a table, discussing the news of the day, like winning a prize at school or the neighbor's son joining the Marines, which was typical dinner conversation. There were no cellphones or video games, but we enjoyed Saturday afternoon trips to the movie theater, where older kids in the balcony threw popcorn down on us. They were older, so we just dealt with it, fearing for our teeth.

There was the bowling alley and the ball field, where kids from the neighborhood challenged each other in friendly games. We swam in the public pool and ice-skated on a frozen pond. We wore out our sneakers in a matter of months, and Mom let out our pants as we grew taller. We learned to shave using a razor without blades and got brush cuts every summer.

We explored on our bikes and put baseball cards in the spokes, creating sounds like motorcycles. We camped outside on warm summer nights, telling ghost stories that sometimes frightened a kid so badly they ran home. We played soldiers in the woods using sticks instead of guns and made crude bows and arrows that never seemed to go very far.

We went home when the streetlights turned on, and God help you if you didn’t get home before Dad.

It was a great time to be alive when simplicity was the norm, and every day was another adventure. We loved our families and our bedrooms, where some would write secrets in a diary while others read comic books under the covers with the Mickey Mouse flashlight you could send away for with ten box tops from your favorite cereals.

We set up model railroads in the basement, wishing for more tracks or a new engine, which Santa somehow heard and delivered. We put together model cars and airplanes, hung them from our bedroom ceilings, and watched them spin as a warm breeze blew into our room.

Looking back, I don’t think I’d change a single thing about my life back then. Sure, I grew up, and toys were handed down or donated to a church rummage sale. Saturday afternoon movies were replaced with Saturday night dates, where you had your first kiss and sat close to the girl of your dreams.

Some of my buddies were called off to war, and some never came home as our world began to change. Factories closed, and new cars became just a dream. Food prices rose, and hamburgers replaced steak. More and more moms found work outside the home, leading to frozen dinners eaten on TV trays in front of the television. We watched as picture after picture seemed a million miles away, but somehow, it felt close to home when a military car with two officers brought bad news.

“The world is changing so fast,” Mom would say, wiping away a tear and asking us to join in a prayer. As the years passed and the world changed, life was no longer about afternoon movies or drinking milkshakes with your sweetheart. It became a time when people stopped trusting one another, as the age of the computer emerged—a place where the dirtiest of secrets could be found with the click of a mouse.

Kids stopped exploring the woods and playing stick soldiers, opting instead to sit in front of a screen until their eyes dried out. Making ends meet became impossible as both parents, or sometimes just one, struggled and prayed for their children’s future, while some feared the worst.

I was one of the lucky ones who made it home from the Navy and pursued a career that allowed me to provide for my family. We still eat supper together, sharing the day’s news, but unlike the simple events of the past, we discuss the state of our world and wonder what kind of life our children will have. There isn’t much laughter anymore, and the old ways feel like they are drying up and scattered to the wind.

In my heart, I still believe there is goodness in this world; people care for each other and want to relive the past to preserve the memories we never want to lose. Just close your eyes and smell a steak grilling on a beautiful autumn day, or remember the Sunday drives in the country. Think of losing your two front teeth and staying awake to see Santa. Believe in the good things as the noise of today quiets down, and you stop worrying, if only for a moment.

Mike 2025                                                     

Autumn days

 The first cool autumn day brings back memories of walks in the woods, where leaves seem to fall from the heavens, creating a soon-to-be blanket of white. With cautious steps, I venture deeper into the forest, aware that hunters could be nearby, seeking a trophy with questioning eyes.

Chimneys are cleaned, and wood is cut in preparation for the cold winter nights and lazy days spent curled up with a good book. The quiet is comforting, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of a burning log.

The smell of pine mingles with the aroma of cookies baking in the oven, transporting me back to another time spent by a campfire among the oldest pines. But I’m quickly brought back to the present by the kitchen timer announcing that the cookies are done.

As the sun begins to set and the moon rises, I light some scented candles that cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating a soothing flicker that makes me smile. 

My eyes grow heavy as I trace the ice crystals on the window, looking out to see a deer whose life was spared today. I whisper a good night to him as I pull the covers up, watching the shadows continue their dance until they can dance no more. 

— Mike, 2025                                           

Mom

 I am thinking about you, Mom, but that's nothing new. My mind is filled with childhood memories, like holding your hand as we crossed the street to the store, and the loving glances I caught when you thought I didn't see. I reflect on all the years we had together and how I wish for more, but God needed another angel and chose you to sit beside Him, watching over me until my name is called....

I think of you, Mom, when the brightest star above me is the one we watched together while sitting on a blanket, or during the times we walked down a tree-lined street when the rest of the world slept.

We made each other a promise: when I chose to join the Navy, that no matter where it took me, we would never drift apart. All we had to do was look high into the heavens and see our star, knowing we weren't that far away.

I remember you, Mom, when my world turned upside down. You always helped me understand that life isn’t always fair, but it usually comes around. 

I smile as I think of you and the times we shared—the endless laughter and, sometimes, the tears we shed while talking on the phone to say goodnight. I remember the moment when the line went dead; I held the phone to my ear, as I  listened to the silence on your end, and my tears flowed. An emptiness filled my heart with such sorrow, I'm certain God felt my pain.

I think about you, Mom, when I long for your loving touch, when the darkness tries to scare me, and I feel like giving up. I keep your picture in my mind and on my fridge so I won't forget your face, blowing it a kiss each time I begin and end my day.

I know you're watching over me; I feel it in my heart. I see us walking down that tree-lined street as the world slept, both of us in our pajamas, laughing at what people behind closed blinds were thinking. I remember every second we shared and cherish them all. Don't wait up for me, Mom. I still have work to do, but our day will come eventually, when we will spend eternal amounts of time together laughing, smiling, and above all, knowing why we are here.

Mike 2025                                                    

Airborne

 While cleaning out the garage, I came across a plastic airplane model, the very one I used to teach my son to fly all those years ago. It came in a box with a body, wings, and tail, which easily slid together and were ready for flight. I vividly remember watching him struggle to carry it to the open field, stumbling multiple times because it was almost as big as he was.

I showed him how to hold and throw it, but each attempt ended in disaster as it crashed repeatedly. Then I had an idea. I called him over and took the two wings, duct-taping each one to his arms. I explained that birds learn to fly through trial and error, so he should run as fast as he could, flapping his arms until he became airborne. I told him that once he mastered this, he would better understand how the model plane flew. 

Before long, he got the hang of it and began running across the field, flapping his arms with all his might. Just then, my wife arrived and asked what in the world he was doing. "He's learning the miracle of flight," I replied, and she held back her laughter, giving our son a thumbs-up.

I must admit, after about an hour of trying to fly, I was ready to call it a day and ask him to come back. Then the unthinkable happened: he let out a scream, proclaiming, "I’m flying!" And sure enough, his feet were a few inches off the ground—if only for a minute or less—but he was indeed flying. His little arms were flapping like the propeller of an airplane, and when he came to a stop, he wore a smile as big as Texas.

Without wasting a moment, he grabbed the model plane and dashed onto the field, running as fast as the wind. The plane soared higher and higher, passing him by before coming to rest in one piece. “I did it! I flew it!” he exclaimed, laughter spilling from his lips like that of a happy child.

We still share that story whenever we have the chance. As for my son, well, he eventually figured it out, but he always enjoyed being the first to tell the tale of his winged flight.

Mike 2025                                            

Eyes of a child

 Looking into the eyes of a child makes me wonder what they will grow up to be. What will they learn, and will they apply it or choose a different path?  

When I hold a baby who gazes deeply into my eyes, I can't help but think they are searching for something not yet understood and are counting on me to provide answers.  

As I watch a child grow into adolescence, I see a thirst for knowledge and a willingness to learn as they absorb everything they can. It's our responsibility to take the time to teach them so they can prosper in the future.  

When I see a child become a young adult, I sometimes witness rebellion. That’s perfectly normal as long as they believe strongly in their cause and stand by it.  

When we shake hands instead of exchanging hugs, I respect that moment. I know the child has grown up, and their handshake is their word, just as they were taught.  

When they look into my old and tired eyes, I wonder if they remember being my babies, searching for answers that were always there. If they just looked. 

Mike 2025                                   

We'll get together soon.

 He rarely left his small house in the country since she went to be with the Lord. I should have visited him more often, but as the Cat Stevens song says, "We'll get together then, Dad." We talked on the phone, which eventually transitioned to texting, and ultimately fell into silence on both ends.

How is it that growing up in his shadow, filled with love, became a part-time job? Weekend drives to his house were few and far between, usually filled with long periods of silence as his mind had slowed down and his memories remained hidden from outside ears. Sometimes I would show him old pictures, which brought a smile to his face, but mostly his expression was blank as he drifted off to a place far removed from anyone else's sight.

He spent most of his time sitting at the kitchen table, looking out the window at the backyard where his beloved wife had once tended to her garden. He pictured her wearing a floppy sun hat and a colorful apron, carrying a basket of freshly cut flowers that she would place in a vase on the table. The vase sits empty now, but not in his mind. When he asked me what I thought, I would tell him they were beautiful, just like Mom.

For reasons I cannot explain, he passed away during one of my few visits. I found him dressed in his Sunday best, his hair slicked back as he liked it, with a picture of our family on the table where he sat. He looked at peace, ready to travel to the heavens, until he found her waiting for him. I took his hand in mine for a moment and thanked him for giving me a life filled with his teachings and for showing me what true love meant.

His house sits empty for now, and probably will for time unknown, as my memories take over and tears begin to fall. I listen to Cat Stevens sing 'We'll Get Together Then Dad,' and that always reminds me of him and the time we lost to silence. 

Mike 2025                                                 

Carousel carver

 He sat quietly, watching his grandpa carve a block of wood into the head of a mighty steed. With each stroke of his tools, he transformed the block, preparing it to be joined with the rest of the body. Eventually, it would make its way to the paint room, where other artists would turn the blank canvas into works of incredible beauty that only they could bring to life.

Every so often, his grandpa would glance at him, gently asking if he understood what he had just done. He nodded in response, feeling a deep affection for that place, filled with the scents of wood shavings, paint, and the relentless pursuit of perfection.

One day, he hoped to be a carver too, but for now, he remained a watcher, learning the names of each tool and their functions. He marveled as his grandpa's rough hands transformed into those of a surgeon, delicately using the smallest of tools to shape what was once just a block, guided solely by his vision of the finished product.

The day finally arrived when his grandpa handed him an apron with tools that had been passed down through generations, along with a block of wood and a confident smile. As he sat there, staring at the block, he envisioned the flared nostrils and sleek neckline of the horse he would create, complete with pinned-back ears and eyes that told the story of a great race that his horse would surely win.

He worked meticulously, pouring his heart into the detail. When he felt deep down that it was finished, he leaned back to admire his work, just like the other carvers before him. He was proud, knowing he had the skills to create a magnificent carousel horse.

For many years, he continued to carve, with his grandpa always watching over him from the workshop in the sky. His tools found their mark, and blocks of wood were transformed into creations that delighted children as they rushed to mount one of his carved horses, complete with flared nostrils and pinned-back ears, ready to race. 

Mike, 2025                                                   

Through time

 Wondering what to write about comes easily for me. All I have to do is remember a time between the 1930s and 1970s, and my mind opens up, spewing out words faster than a locomotive. I loved the years of Bonnie and Clyde and Al Capone, Ginger Rogers, and zoot suits. I can clearly see a café in Paris after the war, where a lonely woman mourned her losses. I can taste the cherry-red lips of a USO volunteer who danced with me for what seemed like hours, and ended up in her bed, holding each other close as memories flashed by us in their own way.

I close my eyes and see the 1950s, filled with hot rods and poodle skirts, drive-in movies where innocence was lost, and letter jackets worn by the girlfriends of jocks. I recall the cool kids with slicked-back hair and leather jackets, while the girls wore saddle shoes, pink sweaters, and carried pom-poms. Street racing, rumbles, switchblades, and soda fountains all come to mind.

The 1960s saw an increase in draft resistance, with some individuals burning their draft cards and many fleeing to Canada. The beginning of the hippie movement was marked by protests for peace and love, characterized by long hair and love beads. Incense and peppermint filled the air, and a concert drew thousands to a farm in upstate New York. The smell of Mary Jane—pot, reefer, whatever you called it—was around every corner. Acid with names like "brown barrel" and "green frog," along with other mind-altering drugs, transported you to places only you could experience.

The 1970s saw hard rock take the stage with bands like Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, the Rolling Stones, and Fleetwood Mac, among many others. The Beatles remained influential as members broke up, drifting further apart and pursuing solo careers that left songs forever embedded in my heart and soul. Late in that decade, something changed: affordable computers brought the world to your fingertips, allowing you to explore from a chair, rather than a van.

The 1980s lost my interest as boy bands and punk rockers filled the airwaves, while skateboard parks rose to prominence and nerds became popular. By the 1990s, I was a married man with a child, and I needed to make changes—mostly for the better. However, this left me struggling to fit into the role of a father, working a forty-hour week and carrying groceries from the family minivan, which replaced my Volkswagen camper.

The 2000s were chaotic years as towers fell and thousands were killed in yet another senseless war that sent many of our boys off to distant deserts, where blood was spilled, and some came home broken, facing demons they couldn't fight.

In these current years, filled with violence and hatred, with needless shootings claiming hundreds of lives and a sense of impending doom, I’m grateful for the simpler times I experienced growing up. I cherish my memories of the years before my birth and those leading up to now. I wish they would bring back zoot suits, jukeboxes playing 45s, and sharing a malt with your favorite girl. It doesn’t hurt to dream. 

Some of my years and events may not be exactly correct, but I think you'll remember those you lived in and maybe some you wished you had.

Mike, 2025