The flu from hell

 The tenth day now, and this flu from hell or whatever it is has resided inside of me for way too long. I'm a prisoner in my own house, wading in Kleenex up to my ankles because the garbage can overflowed days ago. Food in the fridge goes untouched because the mere thought of it triggers a gag reflex I can't control, and even my dog sleeps, making sounds I haven't heard before. I've only had two showers since this began, so if I could smell anything, which I can't, it would be me.

The imprint of my body on my recliner will no doubt remain there forever. The small table beside me holds everything I need, like my glasses, three remotes, don't ask me why, bottles of water, and one empty except for the garbage on the bottom that looks to be boiling. But it's not, and wrappers from cough drops I eat like candy, and of course, my phone, which I have on silent mode because the only call I want is no call at all.

I do, however, look at texts from my kids, who check in on me with genuine concern and offers of food, which I gratefully decline as I gag but can't be heard.

As the godfather said, just when I thought I was getting out, they pulled me back in, which sums it up nicely. Last night I was actually feeling a little better, but come daylight, everything came back with a vengeance. I don't know what today will bring or tomorrow or next week, but this I can promise you: if it doesn't go back to hell where it came from very soon, I'd better hide the kitchen knives. Kidding. I just want to feel normal again, whatever that is. As for you who have joined me in this battle, I feel for you and hope that your feelings of crap blow out a window and land on someone you don't like. Just kidding, or am I?

Mike 2025                                                     

                    

The light man

 I'm back.   The light man

He was known around town as the light man. Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, he'd show up in town driving a rickety old truck loaded with strands of lights and other holiday figures, all looking like new. The older townsfolk told stories about how a long time ago, he lost his wife after returning from the war and finding their house abandoned. People said she couldn't take the loneliness, and she ran off with a traveling salesman, but one thing was sure: she was gone for good.

He lost more than his wife; he also lost his will to go on, and the spark he once felt was all but snuffed out. He made his way by doing odd jobs around town, and twenty-five years ago, he got the contract to hang the holiday lights throughout the town square. There were also a couple of dozen figures he placed around, keeping them high and out of reach of the snowball-yeilding troublemakers.

As years passed, things didn't change much until they did. At one town meeting, it was decided that the lights should no longer be hung. More advanced methods of decorating the square were put into place, requiring the knowledge of technology that the light man didn't possess, so with an envelope containing his final check and a bonus of one hundred dollars, the light man walked out into the night.

On December eleventh, the townsfolk gathered in the square to see the new lights turned on with much fanfare. The mayor was chosen to throw the switch, but when he did, nothing happened. The mayor laughed nervously and tried again, but the tech wiz admitted he didn't know what was wrong. The people walked away, and the light man sprang into action. He worked well into the night, hanging lights in the square and placing the holiday figures exactly where he'd hung them for all these years. As people slept, he finished his job. When the sun went down and holiday shoppers filled the street, he plugged the lights in, and the town square lit up to the joy of everyone around.

For the next ten years, the light man kept his job to the delight of everyone who knew him, and on one winter's night, a single bulb blew out, and the light man passed quietly into the night, surrounded by his lights and his friends.

Mike 2025                                           

Farming off the hook

 A dusting of white covers the land he farmed like his father before him. Well-used machinery lies scattered about, doubtful to be used again. Some he remembered as a child, like riding on the tractor and the scent of a hard day's work coming off his dad's shirt, he had hung to dry on the tractor's door before getting home to his bride.

The hay baler and the combine were all useful in their day, but now they are just rusted monsters sinking deeper into the ground with every violent storm.

It's sometimes hard to accept change, but it's going to happen whether you like it or not. He barely swallowed a sip of iced tea when he was buzzed by a drone his son was using to calculate the acres he would plant this year, then he'd feed all the data into a computer and come up with a foolproof game plan. There was a machine for everything, but not the kind he used; those were relics people collected and restored in their garages and entered in the farm parade.

His wife of sixty years would sometimes join him, sitting on the porch waiting for their son to bring out the next machine, and he never disappointed. A hovercraft floated above the rows, dropping seeds at a precise moment, controlled by an app from his tablet strapped to his arm A remote-controlled wagon with robotic hooks grabbed the bales of hay, setting them into a huge wagon that, once full, would be sent to the mill a mile down the road, guided by lasers with no need for a human at all.

Would you look at that? She would say, "Looks like the apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it?"He just shrugged his shoulders and got up, heading for the barn where he was restoring a classic John Deere tractor, which he was certain had a good chance at the farm parade.

His son came into the barn asking if he had seen the most recent tool he had ordered, a drone the size of a midsize truck that would become a patrolling kill machine, ridding the farm of poachers, both animal and human. Just don't kill one of us, he said to his son, who was prepping the drone for its first mission that night. They sat on the porch looking at the screen of his tablet, searching for intruders who would be met with rapid bursts of fire and destroyed in seconds. But with rubber bullets.

Farming had become a game he no longer cared to play. But the result was more crops, less work, and huge harvests, all for the cost of a few machines. He admitted he feared a little. At the farm parade, a few young nerds with coke bottle glasses decided to do a flyover to aggravate the old timers, and when a drone the size of a midsize truck buzzed him, he reached for his Smith and Wesson Bulldog and blew a hole into it the size of a Volkswagen.

She bailed him out of jail, and she joined him on the John Deere tractor for the slow ride back to their farm. Along the way, crowds of onlookers clapped their hands and shouted words of encouragement. The sweat from his shirt drying on the tractor door was just one more memory of time going by too fast.

He helped his son fix the drone, and, as time would have it, he began to understand his son's futuristic farming methods, even if he didn't like them. More and more farmers adapted and discovered the benefits of farming in the future, but he would leave it all up to his son now as he finished the John Deere that, by the way, took the blue ribbon at the state fair.

Mike 2025                                          

The farmhouse

 If I could go back in time to a country farmhouse sometime in the 1940s, this is what I would see.

The house itself was busy, serving as the hub for the family and farmhands, who gathered in the kitchen every morning as coffee mugs were filled and chores to be done were assigned. It was harvest time, and twenty acres of land were yielding their bounties so people could be fed throughout the coming winter months.

All around the land, bursts of autumn colors make you take notice of God's handiwork, and you stop for a moment to soak it all in before the land grows dark and the colors say goodbye until next year. Farming after the war was hard, as one son didn't make it back home; his laughter was missed, and his picture in uniform was displayed on a small table in the hallway, a constant reminder of the love and respect of everyone.

Inside the old wooden house, furniture was scarce, with most rooms having only hardwood floors and a crude mattress. There was a radio that played music of the times, bringing dad to the house for a quick dance step between husband and wife, who shooed him away so she could get on with dinner.

The eldest son shot a big turkey, at least thirty pounds, that would easily feed everyone, with some left over for turkey sandwiches everybody craved the day after. On the last Thursday, Thanksgiving was observed on the farm. The farmhands would put on their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and have a seat at the extended table, where, one by one, they would name one thing they were grateful for.

Outside, the tractor lay quiet with the fields stripped of the bounty, except for the ones that didn't make the cut and were left for the animals to enjoy their own thanksgiving.

With a cup of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie, the men talked about the harvest and gave thanks for this year's crops. In the kitchen, the woman boxed up lunches for the farmhands who would be leaving and heading South, where the fruits would be waiting to be picked. Envelopes were given to the men, filled with their final pay and a bonus for their hard work.

The next morning, the sounds of old trucks could be heard as the small caravan headed down the dirt road for points south. The farmer and his wife stood on the porch, waving them goodbye until the dust settled and they were gone. Back inside the house, an eerie quiet surrounded them as they sat at the table with a cup of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie, the wife had hidden away for just this moment, bringing a smile to the dad's face and a gentle squeeze on the hand of his wife showing him in a simple way how the two of them made it all happen one more time.

Christmas was knocking at the door, and soon the kids and grandkids would visit, bringing laughter, joy, and memories of years passed. Mom's kitchen came alive once more with holiday goodies and hours of fun for the kids playing in the hay loft.

Life on this land changed with the seasons, each one special in its own way. But some things never change as traditions are honored and the elders share stories to eager ears of the children. There are seasons' worth of love that fill the old farmhouse, as the radio still plays and dad asks mom for a twirl around the wooden floor.

Mike 2025                                           

Rusted dreams

 An old, deserted farmhouse sits in the middle of corn fields, long since abandoned, leaving behind memories of settlers who made this land their own. As I look inside the decaying house, I can picture how it was in its day, filled with the laughter and the prayers of a young family who traveled there in wagon trains, with every mile another step closer to their dreams. I look around, and in my mind, I picture the simplicity and the hard work when eighteen-hour days were common, as the chores never ended. I see a rag doll and a small bow and arrow made with love.

It was a small house, just three rooms, built in a hurry to withstand the harsh winters. I see the remains of a stone fireplace now, just piles of stones used to make it. I can see the family sitting by the fire, sharing stories of days gone by and remembering those they left behind.

Leaving the house, I walked to the barn, another weathered structure that served as shelter for the mule and storage for corn they would sell at the market in town, a dozen miles away. It struck me as odd that, even after all these years of being empty, I could smell the hay and picture a young man with a pitchfork in his hand, whistling a tune his mom sang to him when he was younger.

Back outside, I walked around the land, coming upon rusted farm equipment left to decay, and each had a story to tell if you just listened. How many rows of soil were tilled by the old mule-driven plow, and how long did it take to plant seeds one handful at a time? I found an outbuilding, or what was left of it, once a blacksmith's space to forge a variety of tools and horseshoes after they traded corn for a healthy but aging horse.

As darkness approached, I left the old homestead with a thousand memories and wondered what became of the settlers. There could be many reasons, like smallpox or fever, or maybe starvation, that left the place empty. Perhaps they gave up on the farm as nature played cruel jokes on them, like dust bowls or drought. Did they all pass on together, embracing death as it knocked on their door, or did they give up and move closer to the city where jobs and opportunity awaited?

A short time later, I returned to the old homestead with a camera in hand and took pictures of everything I had seen before. It was a timeline of joy and anticipation that turned to rotted boards and rusted equipment. I displayed my photos at a renowned gallery in the city, naming the collection "Rusted Dreams."

Mike 2025                                                      

Grandsons Visits

 My grandson came to visit today, something he didn't do as often now. He grew into a young man right in front of me, sitting on his bed and reading him a goodnight story from a book I had read my kids so very long ago. He used to like playing with well-used toys, especially the ones I kept, like Lincoln Logs and an Erector Set, which now sit on a shelf, gathering dust with the passage of time.

I remember the endless talks, mostly filled with questions like, "Why does the moon sometimes come out in the daylight?" or "How come it rains on one side of the street and not on the other?" His young mind, pondering one thing or another, like a sponge absorbing everything he could think of, each one bringing a smile to my face.

He used to like taking long walks with me, asking questions about the different types of trees, birds, or anything that piqued his curiosity, and relying on me to find the answers. When we walked in silence, it was as if he was absorbing everything like a bomb waiting to blow up, spewing question after question until I had to calm him down a bit, but he kept on asking, and I did my best to keep on answering.

I watch as the dusty road that leads to my house signals his arrival, with music blaring and, hopefully, good brakes on his car. He came to a stop, looking at me with that boyish smile I loved to see. What's up, old man? He asked, his voice a few decibels lower than I remember. He climbed the steps to my porch, where a picture of iced tea awaited, and the hug he always gave me warmed my heart.

He still had a thousand questions, but most of the topics were well beyond my reach, so I learned to tell him to look it up on that Google thing, so he got the correct answers. He was still my little grandson even though he towered over me like a giant tree, and his quest for knowledge far exceeded my capabilities of explanation.

There were many times when he shut off the questions and just enjoyed the company we shared, remembering the time that had passed and the fun we had together. We'd share a meal of tuna noodle casserole, his favorite dish, which I made every time he came to visit. A close second were egg salad sandwiches, which he claimed were the best in the world.

I asked him what his goals were, and the words poured out like lava as he told me he might be a tradesman or a computer programmer. He was still trying to figure it out, but worked every day at a fast food joint to help pay the bills at his mom's house, where he lived for now.

Darkness fell when, armed with a Tupperware full of tuna casserole and two egg salad sandwiches, he hugged me goodbye and promised to visit more often. I watched the dust kick up as he drove out of sight, his music loud enough to be heard well down the road, wondering why I saw his brake lights glow, and told myself he probably had another question, but decided to leave it until the next time he came for a visit.

Mike 2025                                                         

Invisible mist

 Wisps of smoke circled the room as music from the forties brought back memories of a lost time. The lights were dim as couples danced on a wooden dance floor, wrapped in each other's embrace, when nothing else mattered. Her hair smelled like lilacs, and her scent like an invisible mist taking him hostage in just one dance.

They had met there years ago when men went off to war and women took over factory jobs left vacant by fighting soldiers. It was a dimly lit basement with stone walls and round tables, a place to go to try to forget the world above.

Years passed, bringing peace, as life changed drastically, and post-war dreams became reality, leaving behind stolen moments in a basement bar. He was drawn to that place many times, taking a table in the back and listening to the music they once danced to on a well-worn wooden dancefloor scarred by age.

He knew the odds were against him, but he never gave up that one day she would walk in, surrounded by a lilac mist he could close his eyes and remember. He never could get her out of his mind, but the hope of seeing her stayed with him every time he took a seat at a back table, staring at the door, his heart skipping a beat when someone entered, only to be disappointed once again.

He passed away at that table, lying his head down, listening to the music fade away with a smile on his face as the scent of lilacs surrounded him in an invisible mist.

Mike 2025                                                    

Unanswered questions

 Stormy weather played on the record player, flowing through the house like a soothing melody, always will. She sat on the chair left behind by the previous tenant, a bit worn but better than no chair, don't you think? Her sheer robe, soothing as it touched her skin, was as white as the clouds she saw passing by from her window.

He left her a few months ago, a sudden thing; she was still having a hard time trying to figure out why. Hadn't she given her love completely, hadn't she been faithful, never straying off course? She covered her mouth as tears began to flow like raindrops that wouldn't stop. She tried to stop them for a while, but eventually they had a mind of their own, which she accepted.

His shirt, which she had found in her suitcase for reasons she didn't know, smelled like him as she held it to her face, bringing back a flood of memories of when they were happy and so much in love. Or at least that's what she believed. The record was skipping as the song ended, but she ignored it and went back further in her mind as she tried to understand what she had done wrong. However, she drew a blank and realized it was over between them, and she had to go on with a new life she hadn't planned for.

One single chair and a box of her memories, left unopened, empty cupboards, and noisy pipes that wouldn't allow a peaceful night's rest. This was now her life, not by choice, mind you, and she told herself it was he who had the excuses and he who had told her it was over, and she had to leave. It was he who wouldn't give her the answers she needed to know, and it was he who never looked her in the eyes as she begged for a reason.

Time didn't stop as it passed her by, leaving behind memories of lost loves and someone who almost made it into your heart, just shy of giving them your love, but stopping as your guard went up, as you remembered the pain of a shattered heart and endless tears. You heard from someone that he had passed alone with no one by his bedside, but you didn't shed a single tear for him, as he had already claimed all of them over the years.

She sat in her one chair, the one that the previous tenants had left behind, looking out the window as the white clouds passed by. A smile appeared on her face, as it looked just like his for a moment. As she closed the curtains, a single tear rolled down her face as she thought to herself, it was for him, and a love with unanswered questions.

Mike 2025                                                 

Cigarettes and Beer

 The house was old but not impressive by anyone's standards. It needed a coat of paint and some boards on the porch replaced, all things he said he'd get done, but never did. The inside wasn't much better with overflowing ashtrays and dishes left unwashed in the sink. A round table with burn spots from a discarded cigarette, and a block of wood under one leg to level it, along with another empty promise to fix it. It was a gathering place for anyone who happened by, as long as they came with a six-pack in hand.

Time had taken over as the once beautiful, blond, and handsome man drank themselves to addiction with no desire to stop, their good looks replaced with the looks of someone who didn't care anymore as long as the glass was full and a carton of Lucky Strikes was always within reach.

He had a knack for making things out of other things, like coffee cans painted different colors that he'd run through with strings of lights and hanging them on the porch. He made windchimes out of kitchen utensils and ashtrays out of hubcaps.

She was a small woman who, on most days, never got dressed but instead chose to wear pajamas in children's sizes and dirty, fuzzy slippers. It was her dad who started her drinking at the age of thirteen, and she never had a desire to stop. They met in a bar, like many did back in the day. He was funny and smart, not to mention his handsome looks, which won her over at first sight. They danced the night away with dozens of dead soldiers on the bar and a final last call for alcohol as they drank up and left the bar to head home.

She married her handsome man and gave birth to a son who followed closely in their footsteps, starting to drink at the kitchen table and occasionally bringing home a six-pack to their delight. He was fourteen years of age.

Music was a big part of their lives, with singers like Nat King Cole and Johnny Mathis, and for the kid, Elvis was king. He taught himself to play the guitar and became very good at it, telling his parents someday soon he'd drop out of school and put together a band that he hoped would lead him to stardom. Those dreams were shattered on a cold and slippery night when he and his buddies were all killed in a horrific crash.

They drank even more after that, never letting a glass become empty or running out of Lucky Strikes. Both claiming sobriety would kill them if they had to relive their tragedy sober, so they drank and lived with the never-ending pain of two broken hearts.

He couldn't hold down a job for very long, as his breath reeked of booze more often than not, so he jumped from one place to another, eventually landing a job as a used car salesman in a low-budget car lot. He had the gift of gab, and people liked him, especially his boss, who kept a bottle of whiskey in a desk drawer, where, after closing, they would have a few snorts together. He was making enough money to keep his wife in smokes and beer and to do some of the things he'd been putting off for time unknown. But he didn't.

He eventually met someone who, surprisingly, bore a striking resemblance to his wife. She was twenty years younger, but that didn't matter to him. He started coming home in the early morning hours, sometimes later, as she sat at the table, pouring the first of many drinks and waiting for him to return, but he never did. 

Some say she moved a few counties away to live with her sister, and he found a small house to rent where he and his girl would live. He moved his belongings and took the kitchen table, which had burn spots, and a block of wood to level it. People stopped by bringing a six-pack and maybe some cigarettes they could snuff out in the giant ashtray he had made all those years ago. Life was good until his drinking finally killed him, but he claimed he had a wild ride and he'd never change one thing about it. Isn't life grand?

Mike 2025                                                  

The Knights

 We walked towards town, my hand in his as he told me stories about the old house on the corner. My great-grandfather built the home as a gift to his wife, he said. As we approached the fire station, he waved to the firefighters washing their big red fire truck, the only one for that part of town. Ahead lay the Catholic church, where we attended on Sundays and confessed our sins. We should stop, don't you think? He asked me. But we kept walking into town on our way to the Knights of Columbus. Down a flight of stairs, leading to the basement of a department store that leased it to them, was a dimly lit bar room complete with a pool table, dart boards, and plenty of room to have a stool at the bar.

On Fridays, they served up the best fish fry in town and were usually sold out an hour after opening. My Dad would help me up onto a stool and order me an orange Crush soda pop and a bowl of stale, chewable pretzels, which I could soften by swishing the soda around in my mouth.

The Knights was a gathering place for many veterans and other men of status around town, and it was common for them to acknowledge me with a never-ending supply of soda pop. If the place wasn't busy, I could play a game of pool, usually by myself, as Dad and others tried to solve the world's problems one drink at a time.

As years passed and I was in my early teens, we would still walk from home to the Knights together, and on my seventeenth birthday, he bought me my first bottle of beer. I was still a year early, but Dad said if I was old enough to serve my country, I could definitely have a beer. You see, I graduated from high school by the grace of God, and my grades weren't college-worthy, so he signed my enlistment papers, permitting me to join up at seventeen.

When I came home on leave, we'd meet up at the Knights, where he'd make a fuss about his son, the sailor, and when I was in uniform, my money was no good. When I was discharged after serving eight years, I blinked, and my Dad was old. He drank himself to sleep and awoke to another to get him going. He became a janitor at the Knights, and every morning before opening, he would mop floors and stock the bar, taking a nip whenever he pleased. By the time his work was finished, he had a good start at becoming drunk and often found himself loud and boisterous towards other members. It was all too common for someone to give him a lift home and make sure he was okay, and hopefully wouldn't start a fire with a cigarette.

Years continued to pass, and he continued to do his job until the day came when he fell to the floor in pain. The fire department took him to the hospital, where I was told he had a stroke and a heart attack that left him unable to speak and with limited movement of his arms and legs. So I got him into a nursing home where he'd get the care he needed for the rest of his life.

I visited every day, holding his hand and telling him stories about the town he'd lived in and our walks to the Knights. I told him about his friends who always wished him well and a speedy recovery, even if they knew recovery was a long shot. My Dad passed away with me by his side, his old hand barely able to hold mine, and the look in his eyes as he smiled a little smile that said he loved me.

I'm older now and have a son whom I take to the Knights on certain Saturdays, propping him on a stool and ordering him an orange crush soda pop as my friends and I describe how we will fix the world's problems one drink at a time.

Mike 2025                                                  

Tree Farm

 The tree farm has been in his family for four generations. Eight hundred acres with names like Scotch pine, douglas fir, noble fir, balsam, and virginia pine, all contained in one thousand acres, where new growth replaces the old cut down by those seeking the whole Christmas experience. 

The old roadside stand still stands where his great-granddad built it so many years ago; it still has the wooden pegs he used instead of nails. Claiming the pegs would never rust. The city folks came every year to claim their trees as holiday music played from an old speaker his dad mounted on the shed when he was just a young boy.

On another three acres, he had white birch, cherry, and oak trees, which, when old enough, would be sold to the lumber mills to be cut into different lengths and loaded on box cars to their destinations.

Two acres were full of maple trees that produce the best maple syrup once they undergo the various stages of the production process. When bottled, the jars of syrup would line the shelves of the old stand, selling as fast as they could to city folk who believed in the syrup's healing ability. Or so it's said.

The final two acres were saved for the house that Great-Granddad built when he married Grandma, promising her the home of her dreams. It took him two years to complete the house, with some help from neighborhood friends who were always willing to lend a hand.

Today, it's my family and I who live in that house. I've added some upgrades, such as indoor plumbing and a new roof, but everything else remains unchanged from when it was built.

My favorite time of the year on the farm was Christmas by far. People drove for miles to visit the place named the best tree farm in the county, where hundreds of Christmas trees awaited selection and purchase to become this year's holiday tree. The old stand was filled with wreaths and holiday baked goods, as well as hot cocoa for anyone who asked.

I hope my kids will carry on the traditions of the past and appreciate the trees we have put to good use. I hope they continue to perfect the syrup and always replant a new tree for every one harvested.

But mostly, I hope they feel the awe that I do when I'm sitting on the porch that great-granddad built, where he would look out at his land and the little trees that would someday grow tall and bring joy to all who stopped by.

Mike 2025                                                 

Hand in hand

 They strolled hand in hand down a deserted street, a lamppost flickering with an almost burned-out bulb. The cobblestone road was a reminder of the past, as the sound of her heels echoed the rhythm of her pounding heart.

As they walked in silence, each wondered whether this would be their last stroll holding hands,as she held his tighter, drawing closer to the pier and his waiting ship. Around them, others said their goodbyes, tears silently falling to the ground, as children clung to their dads, hoping to come home soon. 

He stroked her cheek and gazed into her eyes, knowing she was looking deeply into his. Sometimes, silence was a welcome relief, wondering if you had told her you loved her enough, and that she would always remain in your heart, through both the good times and the bad.

As the moment approached for him to board, he inched closer to the ship, reluctant to let go, while she clung to him for a few brief moments, reliving the weekend they had shared, determined to keep those memories alive.

A candlelit room, soft music, and clothes strewn about the floor. Room service meals on silver platters and champagne in crystal glasses—all cherished memories she knew she would recall while he was away. When the sun rose, the ship pulled out, marking the beginning of a half-year cruise. She couldn't look back. Her tears still fell on the cobblestone street as the sound of her heels echoed the beat of two broken hearts.

Mike 2025                                                     

Moonshine and fast cars

 He wandered off the beaten path into a holler between two hills, a place lost to time. This area was once a roadway through the mountains where moonshiners tested the power of their vehicles to deliver their white lightning, steering clear of sheriff's deputies patrolling the roads. 

Those country boys could drive like professionals, maneuvering the hairpin turns and drop-offs into the hollers below. He could picture them hootin' and hollerin' as their souped-up engines outran the sheriff's cruisers, which were no match for what was under the hood of a country boy's vehicle. 

Tucked away on farms and in crude workshops, the shine runners were no country bumpkins when it came to building engines that defied the odds, using homemade parts and a knack for squeezing out as much horsepower as possible. However, these engines often came with problems that could lead to catastrophic failures. If they were lucky, the driver might escape unharmed, but it would mean heading back to the drawing board.

Once an engine was tested, it underwent numerous additional tests, learning from mistakes and eventually being refined and perfected. It was then ready for a run with a load of shine hidden away under the floorboards or in other parts of the vehicle, hoping it wouldn’t be found if the sheriff managed to stop them.

He could close his eyes and hear the roar of a shine runner taking the hairpin curves and narrow road to the eventual destination, where the shine would be transferred into a waiting truck on the main road that would take it to its buyers. Some runs didn't end well; drivers would sometimes run off the narrow road and barrel down the hill into the holler lost forever in the weeds and brush below.

As he continued his walk, lost in his thoughts, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—a rusted-out old farm truck in the holler below. The tires were flat and rotting, and the body was little more than a pile of rusted metal. Curious for a better look, he carefully climbed down the hill until he stood close enough to peer inside. Broken glass jars, he imagined, once held the shine; now they were empty, like the fallen soldiers who lost the battle.

He cleared away the brush and vines to reveal an engine that appeared to be a hodgepodge of various parts. Some he recognized, while others were obviously handmade by some country boys who knew all about speed and design. Standing there, he let his imagination run wild, picturing how fast the truck might have gone.

He walked further, hoping to come across another shine vehicle, but as daylight began to fade, he decided to head back to the present. Now, all one had to do was stop at a bar and order their drink of choice. If you were lucky, the bartender would ask if you’d like a sip of the white lightning he kept hidden behind the bar. How could you say no?

With the radio playing country songs and old-timers gathered for a game of checkers, you would sip the shine, feeling your throat close up and your stomach ablaze. Yet through the pain came a strange sense of peace as you regained your composure. When the bartender offered you another shot, you politely declined, and a few old-timers had a good laugh at your expense.

His days of shine were now just a memory, a story to tell his grandkids. As for him, a cold bottle of beer would be just fine.

— Mike, 2025                                               

Life on a trawler

 The sun rose in the eastern sky as I sipped hot coffee and had my first smoke of the day. A passing boat off in the distance made tiny waves as they hit me broadside, causing a little rocking motion, not enough to require sealegs. I had anchored in a cove yesterday, no place special, but quiet, which is what I live for these days. I left the everyday world in my wake as I said goodbye to who and what I had, and stowed only what I would need on my boat as I plotted a course to points south.

I had purchased a trawler well known for its comfort, but not for speed, which topped out at twelve miles per hour. But I wasn't in a hurry by any means, and fuel wasn't cheap.

Friends told me I'd be lonely on the water with no one to talk to, but I had the voices of the mermaids and the sound of dolphins, which was better than any conversation with a man. I spoke to the seagulls and they spoke back. I listened to the waves lap against the sides of the boat, which lulled me to sleep every time I drifted off, and I woke every morning to the rising sun warm upon my face.

I left port on a stormy September morning with no one there to say goodbye, and I never once looked back at the life I once thought important. It would take me about three weeks to reach the Bahamas, a place I'd always wanted to go but never did. My journey was not always one of smooth sailing, and I sometimes had to seek shelter from high seas and hurricane-force winds that could damage my boat.

On one such day, I found an inlet on the charts that would get me to safety just before the storm hit with a vengeance. I set anchor and closed the hatches as the boat rocked back and forth, the winds in excess of fifty mph testing the worthlessness of my boat. Luckily, the storm passed quickly, and I was able to move ahead towards my goal of reaching the islands in a couple of weeks.

On a warm October day, somewhere along the Florida coastline, I came upon a cluster of boats anchored in a cove, which appeared to be a party in the making as kids swam and adults fished for their supper. I waved as most boaters do, and heard shouts of welcome to join them. So I slowly moved into the circle and dropped anchor. Perfect strangers, brought together by their love for boats and the water, waded towards my boat, with one happy boater holding a beer. He gave it to me, saying there was plenty more, so I should drink up!

As night began to fall, a group of people built a bonfire on a sandbar, where many gathered to share their journeys, some nearing completion, while others, like me, were just starting. Freshly caught fish were cooking on a cooking grate made for just that purpose, while kids made s'mores and chased bait fish around the sandbar.

It was a nice time, but come morning, I'd leave them to the rest of their weekend and continue on my journey. After a week had passed, my legs needed stretching, and fuel was getting low, so I pulled into a dockside marina where several boats were tied up, probably to have a well-deserved break from cooking on their small grills. Other boats were waiting their turn at the fueling station, so I motored in at the back of the line, knowing it was going to be a long night.

The restaurant at the marina was very friendly, and the people were dressed in their boating clothes, which cost more than the fuel. Their boats, some yachts, were million-dollar boats, probably steaming south for the winter, only to return in late spring to their home port. My mouth was watering for a steak, so even though I was underdressed, I ordered my steak, enjoying every little bite in my cut-off shorts and flip-flops.

Under way the following morning, I steered south, and the chart told me I had another week before reaching the islands.

Finally, the day arrived, and as I spotted islands in the distance, I had made it without any real difficult situations, which surprised me, I must admit. I contacted the harbor master on the radio, requesting a slip where I would stay for a month, and was told to proceed to slip number 120. Arriving, I was greeted by a young man who caught my lines and secured my boat perfectly between two much larger boats without as much as a scratch on anything. I tipped him as he began to tell me about all there was to do on the island, including day excursions to smaller islands, some loud and crazy, and others a quiet day of lounging on the beach and sipping margaritas.

The time on the islands flew by, and I found myself going over charts to map out my next adventure. I decided to motor west, where I'd pick up the Intracoastal and spend some time in the narrow waterways that offered scenic views of days past, with small fishing boats competing for a catch on one side and modern marinas with all the amenities I needed, such as supplies and fuel.

I followed the seasons, steaming South for the winter months and back north for summer. I discovered the life of a live-aboard and never once regretted my decision to pursue this lifestyle at this stage of my life. I truthfully wondered why I hadn't begun it sooner.

Mike 2025                                             

Navy Veteran

 I stood watch on the signal bridge, biding my time writing a letter to my high school sweetheart thousands of miles away. It was nearing the holidays, but we'd be spending them on the sea and on alert, as the navy always was. Down below, the sound of Christmas music could be heard, probably by a recruit away from home for the first time.

On the eve of Christmas, we encountered a Nor'easter with huge swells and hurricane-force winds that tested the ship's seaworthiness as well as the sailors, some of whom couldn't be too far away from a bucket and strapped to their bunks, and the old salts who shrugged it off and made do with whatever the sea threw at them.

Christmas morning brought more of the same, and the constant listing of the ship proved to be too much for the ship's cook as he closed the galley until it was safe. This meant raiding your stash of cookies and crackers for those who were well enough to eat, while others rode it out and filled more buckets.

On the third day, the seas calmed and life on the ship returned to normal as all recruits swabbed the decks and cleaned buckets, some losing their cookies again until they had nothing left inside. This warship took a beating from the storm as sea salt slammed against the hull, washing away the ship's numbers and releasing a forward gun mount, weighing several tons, into the sea to prevent capsizing.

We pulled into our home port on New Year's Eve, the pier filled with loved ones, some holding up homemade signs as others yelled out names of the sailors standing at the rails in dress blues. It seemed like a lifetime as the ship was tied up and the gangplank lowered, allowing the crew to disembark to waiting hugs and kisses.

Most of the ship's crew were granted a seventy-two-hour liberty, while those who remained onboard played cards and enjoyed a meal of turkey and all the trimmings, waiting for the liberty to end and for theres to begin. One week later, it was all hands on deck to repaint the exterior of the ship, mount another heavy gun mount, and replace two lifeboats lost at sea.

Once again, the ship received orders, and once again, the rails were manned as family and friends waved goodbye, tears flowed, and promises to write often were made. Out of sight from land, the crew began the daily duties that would continue until the next port, wherever that may be. Old salts would share stories with the wide open eyes of recruits, saying someday they'd be the old salts, but until then, get me a coffee, recruit, and make it strong.

Life on a navy ship was always my dream, growing up in Arizona with no ocean nearby. I'd read brochures from recruiters over and over again, finally convincing my parents that's what I'd do after graduation, at seventeen years of age. From boot camp to my discharge, I lived the life of a sailor on an American warship, every moment an adventure I will never forget. As well as my brothers of the sea, who would give their lives for you, no questions asked.

They called us squids, they called us out, and we never missed a chance to fight behind a bar in an alley, usually between Marines versus Navy. It was all in the spirit of fun with some anger mixed in, but in the end, we'd belly up to the bar, wiping blood from broken noses and toasting to America, the country we loved.

I'm an old salt now standing on the beach looking out as a navy warship heads out to sea. Memories fill my heart as I recall the midnight call to watch and being a recruit subjected to the dirtiest jobs and all the humiliations the old-timers could dish out. It's just a speck on the ocean now as I salute from the beach to all my brothers, old and new, who serve and protect the best country in the world.

Never forget any veteran who would give up their life for you on this designated day of respect and remembrance.

Mike 2025                                           

Children of the valley

 An old, deserted school bus came to rest in a valley deep within the forest, where once music and song echoed, and plumes of smoke gave the air a scent of pine. Footpaths once worn to dirt are overgrown with wildflowers, as discarded objects rust away hidden within the brush.

Broken glass jars that once held fireflies, and crudely carved pipes to pass around, can take you to a better place if you're lucky enough to find them.

You could walk as far as your legs would carry you and stop at a camp where you'd be invited to share whatever they had to offer. There were poets and guitars, flutes and harmonicas that filled the air, traveling as far as nature allowed, creating a symphony of music that flowed through the forest of mighty pines.

Time somehow dismantled the children of the flowers as the outside world broke up the camps, believing the devil or other satanic beings possessed them. They accused them of drug abuse and orgys and anything else they could think of to proclaim them freaks of nature who didn't belong within the pines. In reality, they were living their lives free from government rules and regulations, peacefully coexisting with each other in a place untouched by outsiders.

I still walk the footpaths looking for broken glass jars, hearing Stevie Nicks flowing through the trees and into my soul. But most of all, I remember the freedom and the love that touched us all in one way or another.

The old, rusty school bus is covered with vines and overgrowth, a reminder of my past as it slowly fades away into the pines, forgotten by some and remembered by others who will never let go of the memories and friendships carved out of the valley we loved.

Mike 2025                                           

Poster Girl

 Her beauty extended far beyond her face, and her laughter was truly captivating. Her presence brightened up a room, and her eyes reflected her true self deep inside, which few people ever saw. She was every man's pin-up, defying age and time. Her posters faded on bedroom walls and magazine covers from decades ago sit on her nightstand, dusty reminders of yesterday's fame.

She once lived a life of glitz and glamour, when women's clothing left you wondering what lay beneath the silk and lace. Her creamy complexion, with rose-colored cheeks and cherry lips, were kissed a million times under the cover of night by a young man's infatuation.

I saw her from afar today; her hair showed streaks of silver, and her dress was a favorite of hers that showed a little leg and accentuated her cleavage, which she knew was worth a second look. A small crowd gathered around her at her favorite coffee shop, someplace she went every day, knowing her fans would find her, and they never disappointed.

It wasn't the size of the crowd that mattered anymore, but it was nice just the same.

I slowly walked to her table as she signed the last poster, then placed my own poster on the table and asked if she would sign one more. She smiled at me with a look like she knew me and asked who to make it out to. Just make it to Richard, I said, and she looked up at me with those eyes that reflected her true self.

We spoke of many things, like dancing in the moonlight under a star-filled night, the songs of the big band in the distance, and never wanting the dance to end. She thanked me for the dance as she joined the crowd of men around her, pleading for just one twirl around the dance floor as I leaned on the bar with her scent on my suit coat.

Life was grand, don't you agree, Richard?" she asked me, as she took my hand in hers and closed her eyes, as if remembering that night a long time ago. The small crowd was anxious for her autograph, so I quietly walked away, thanking her for being my poster girl. I noticed a twinkle in her eyes as she waved goodbye and blew me a kiss from those cherry-red lips I had kissed so many times under the covers.

Mike 2025                                               

OOOOPS!

 I just wanted to see who was paying attention to my post from yesterday, titled 'Sea Glass Blue'.Something went wrong, and paragraphs popped up wherever they wanted to. I don't know what happened, but it got some of you to comment, which tells me at least you're reading my stories.

Mike 2025

Sea glass blue

 I purchased a boat a while ago—a thirty-two-foot cabin cruiser in much need of a makeover. The first good thing was that it was in the water, tied up at a marina a few miles from home. The owner lived up North, and with many excuses, he rarely had any time to visit his decaying craft. He finally put it up for sale, and when I first saw it, I knew it was the project I was looking for. I inspected to see what it would cost in terms of money to get her back to her original condition and wasn't surprised at the amount. I presented the broker with an offer, and much to my surprise, I had an answer the next day, and she was all mine.

For the next year, I spent almost every weekend replacing rotted wood and cracked fiberglass, as well as laying new teakwood decks and walkways. I removed all the wood rails, a painstaking job that required sanding every inch and staining each rail, then varnishing it until I was satisfied with the end result.

I hired a marine mechanic to rebuild the single screw engine, and I moved to the cabin to bring it back to its original state. The appliances were outdated and had been for a long time, so the stove, fridge, as well as the head, were all brought up to today's standards. I had a local upholstery specialist recover all the seats and create a new canopy that could cover the flying bridge against rain and provide some shade on sunny days.

I removed all of the floors and replaced them with teak wood and new sections of pine for the bulkheads. Next came the hardware, corroded by salt spray, which I scrubbed with steel wool and many hours of elbow grease to restore to its shiny brass.

The final task involved removing her from the water and removing years of neglect, then applying a bottom paint to help with the hitchhiking barticles. I had planned to bring the paint back using various products, but halfway through, I realized the only thing that would help would be a fresh coat of paint. I wanted to keep the factory color, so I researched it and found the exact color, called Sea Glass Blue. It turned out beautifully, earning high fives from passersby. I purchased a boat a while ago—a thirty-two-foot cabin cruiser that was in desperate need of a makeover. The first good thing was that it was already in the water, tied up at a marina just a few miles from my home. The owner lived up North, and with a plethora of excuses, he rarely had time to visit his decaying craft. After some time, he finally put it up for sale, and when I first laid eyes on it, I felt a spark of connection—I knew it was the project I was searching for.

When I inspected the boat, I wanted to calculate the cost of restoring it to its original beauty. I wasn’t surprised at the figure; it was daunting, but I felt invigorated by the challenge. I presented the broker with an offer, and much to my surprise, I received a positive response the very next day. Before I knew it, she was all mine.

For the next year, I dedicated nearly every weekend to her restoration. The work was intensive; I replaced rotting wood and cracked fiberglass while also laying new teakwood decks and walkways. I removed all the wood railings, a painstaking job that required me to sand down every inch, stain each rail to perfection, and then apply layer after layer of varnish until I was satisfied with the outcome. It was my passion project—one that kept me excited to wake up every Saturday morning.

Realizing the engine needed professional attention, I hired a marine mechanic to rebuild the single-screw engine. This was one of the most crucial steps in the restoration process. I knew the boat’s performance depended heavily on having a reliable engine. At the same time, I moved into the cabin to bring it back to its original state. The appliances were outdated, having not been replaced for years. I decided to modernize the boat, so I replaced the stove, fridge, and head with new models that adhered to today’s standards. 

To give the interior a fresh look, I collaborated with a local upholstery specialist to recover all the seats, ensuring they would be both comfortable and stylish for guests. We even crafted a new canopy for the flying bridge—a perfect addition that would provide shade on sunny days or protection from unexpected rain.

Next, I tackled the floors, removing everything down to the substructure. I replaced the old flooring with a combination of luxurious teak wood and new sections of pine for the bulkheads. With every plank I laid down, I felt a sense of pride, knowing I was restoring this vessel to her former glory. 

As I worked through the restoration, I realized that the hardware was another critical element that needed to be addressed. Exposed to the harsh marine environment, it had become corroded by salt spray. With steel wool and countless hours of elbow grease, I painstakingly scrubbed each piece, bringing back the shiny brass that had once adorned the boat. 

The final task involved removing her from the water to address years of neglect on the hull. After cleaning and preparing it, I applied a fresh coat of bottom paint designed to fend off hitchhiking barnacles and other aquatic nuisances. Initially, I had planned to revert to various products, but halfway through, it became abundantly clear that only a fresh coat of paint would suffice. I wanted to maintain the historical integrity of the boat, so I researched and found the exact color—Sea Glass Blue. When finished, it looked stunning and garnered high fives and thumbs up from passerby boaters who admired her transformation.

With everything complete, I returned the boat to the water and made a few final tweaks to the engine. She was finally ready for her trial run. The mechanic accompanied me, just in case something went awry, but it turned out beautifully. She cut through the water with grace, gliding smoothly as other boaters waved and gave thumbs up in approval.

Back in her slip, I dedicated my weekends to enjoying the boat, frequently inviting friends on board for leisurely days spent on the water. I loved sleeping in the master bedroom, where a clear hatch above my bed provided a nightly view of the stars. The gentle rocking motion of the boat would lull me to sleep effortlessly, creating a sense of peace and tranquility that I looked forward to.

One warm summer evening, my brother and I were lounging on the boat, casually throwing back a few beers while observing the marina bustle as visitors made their way to their own boats. Over the months, I had forged friendships with several marina patrons who often saw me diligently cleaning and maintaining my craft. They frequently praised my boat, calling it the best-looking craft in the marina.

During one such evening, a man appeared before our boat, dressed in cut-off jeans with no shirt and a beer bottle clutched in his hand. He stopped in his tracks and seemed captivated, muttering to himself as he approached. “My dad had the exact same boat years ago,” he said, almost in disbelief. When I acknowledged that my boat was indeed a 1971 model, he exploded with excitement and asked, “Could I come on board and have a look?” I chuckled and welcomed him aboard, intrigued by his enthusiasm.

As he wandered around the cabin, seemingly lost in nostalgic memories, he came back to us with a very serious demeanor. “I’d like to buy your boat,” he said, leaving my brother and me stunned. “Name your price,” he added, but I quickly responded that I had no intention of selling her, as I had recently completed her restoration and wanted to enjoy her for a while.

Just for fun, I threw out a ridiculous number—an amount well above what I expected anyone would pay. To my absolute shock, he agreed immediately, but with one curious condition: we would need to vacate the boat that day. Yes, he even offered me a thousand dollars in cash for the immediate vacate. My brother and I exchanged puzzled glances, both of us astounded. He told us he’d run to his bank and return with a cashier's check for the agreed amount.

We watched as the strange man sprinted towards his car, thinking to ourselves that surely we’d never see him again. But to our disbelief, just an hour later, he returned with an envelope containing the cashier's check along with an additional one hundred dollars in cash. “There you go,” he said with a smirk. “Now, please gather your belongings and hand over the keys and the title.” My brother and I scrambled to comply, still in disbelief over what had just occurred. The strange man had paid three times what I would have initially asked for—practically a windfall.

As months passed, my life took different turns, and I soon found myself stopping at the marina to catch up with some friends. As I roamed the docks, I realized my old boat was notably absent. I assumed it was simply out for a joyride until the marina manager approached me with a concerned look on his face. “Have you heard about your boat?” he asked, catching me off guard. 

He went on to share that the two teenage sons of the man I sold it to were often allowed to take the boat out, and they had a habit of inviting friends along. They treated the boat more like a party barge than a cabin cruiser. I listened with growing dismay as he recounted tales of shattered windows and damaged interiors, the boat I had worked so hard to restore deteriorating under their care. It seemed my beloved Sea Glass Blue had become a casualty of reckless youth—a heartbreaking reality that made me wish I had held onto her just a little longer.

Back in the water and the final tweaks on the engine, and she was ready for a trial run. The mechanic came along in case something went wrong, but it turned out she was perfect. She cut through the water like a knife through butter as other boaters waved and gave thumbs up as they went past.

Back in her slip, I would spend my weekends enjoying the boat, often having friends come on board for a day on the water. I loved sleeping in the master bedroom on the boat, where a clear hatch above my head allowed me to gaze up at the stars. That and the gentle rocking motions would put you to sleep every time.

On a warm summer evening, my brother and I were throwing back a few beers on the boat as visitors passed by on their way to their own boats. Over time, I had made some friends at the marina who often caught me shining brass or cleaning windows, and they always praised my boat as the best-looking craft in the marina.

On one such evening, we saw a guy dressed in cut-off jeans, no shirt, and a bottle of beer in his hands. He stopped in his tracks in front of my boat and appeared to be talking to himself as he slowly came forward and said that his dad had the exact boat years ago. It's 1971, right? he asked. It is I replied. Could I come on board and have a look? He asked. Sure, I said, come aboard. As my brother and I were getting a kick out of this guy, we couldn't help but hear him talking to himself about how his dad's boat was exactly like his dad's.

He came back up from the cabin and, with a very serious voice, said he'd like to buy my boat. ' Name your price,' he said, as my brother gulped and almost choked. I have no plan to sell her, I told him. I've only recently finished her, and I'd like to enjoy her for a while. More or less just toying with him, I threw out a number, which he immediately agreed to, with one condition: we would vacate the boat that day and even give me one thousand dollars in cash for doing so. He said he would go to his bank right now and return with a cashier's check for the agreed-upon amount.

We watched the strange man running towards his car and thought to ourselves, 'We'd never see him again. Wrong.

An hour later, he returned and handed me an envelope containing a cashier's check and one hundred dollars in cash. There you go, "he said." Now, please gather your belongings and hand over the keys and the title. My brother and I were gone in a few minutes, neither of us believing what had just happened. The stranger had paid three times what I would have asked for.

Months passed, and one day I found myself stopping at the marina to say hello to some friends, only to notice that my old boat wasn't there. I figured he was out somewhere on the river until the marina manager came up to me and asked if I'd heard about my boat. He informed me that the two teenage boys of the man I sold to were often allowed to take the boat out, along with a group of teenagers who treated the boat like a party barge. Windows were shattered, and the hard soles of shoes and boots ruined decks. The canvas was ripped to shreds, and the seats were slashed for reasons I couldn't imagine. Then he informed me that they had never checked the oil, and eventually, the engine seized up, and the boat ran aground, and was abandoned.

I later learned a salvage crew towed her away to a place where certain parts were saved, but the hull was crushed, and all the pain and love I put into it was now just a memory. I considered getting another boat, but I haven't done so yet. But if the right one comes my way, you never can tell.

Mike 2025                                                   

Just a quarter

 We all remember the ice cream truck that came through our neighborhood on hot summer nights. The endless loop of a song still resonates with us decades later, as children would run and scream, desperately clutching their quarters as the music grew louder. When the truck stopped, a line of kids formed, eagerly holding onto their change while reading the menu of treats: fudge bars, chocolate-covered cones, popsicles, squeeze tubes, ice cream sandwiches, and creamsicles. The ice cream man was always smiling as he handed out the frozen treats, often saying, "It's okay if a kid comes up short on their quarter."

But do you remember the ice cream man who drove a converted police three-wheeler Harley-Davidson? He transformed the compartment that once held a policeman's equipment into a freezer for the treats. He painted it white and decorated it with stickers showcasing the various frozen delights that you could get for, you guessed it, a quarter. He was a large man with a laugh as big as his personality, and he spoke with a Greek accent.

Then there was the ride man who drove through the neighborhoods on a converted flatbed truck with a kiddie ride attached to it. The ride was called "The Whip," and to a six-year-old, it was as scary as it got. The ride man was friendly, nodding to parents with a toothless smile and dirty overalls. He always had something nice to say to the kids who hesitated to get on the ride, assuring them that it was safe.

And how about the pony man? There was an actual man who walked his pony down the street, offering rides on Princess the pony. He charged a little more than a quarter because he had to buy feed and new shoes for her when she needed them. He also had a few cowboy hats that he would put on your head while parents scrambled for cameras to take pictures, which, to this day, adorn the walls of many homes.

I’m showing my age now as I ask if you remember the Fuller Brush man, the knife-sharpening guy, and the vegetable man who came with a horse-drawn wagon, stopping where moms gathered to pick out the best produce. There was even the ice man who came around with a giant block of ice. He would chip off good-sized pieces and fill a bag for, yes, a quarter.

Those were simpler times when the little things meant something. Kids were spoiled with treats as simple as ice cream or a ride on a pony. There were people trying to earn a few quarters to bring smiles and create memories that would last a lifetime. I’m glad I was part of those times and reminisce about them every time I hold a quarter in my hand, hoping the ride man will come down my street.

- Mike, 2025                                         

My woods

 I loved the woods surrounding the subdivision where I grew up. As a young boy filled with adventure, I would spend hours among the giant pines and white birches, especially in the winter months when blankets of snow covered the ground. It was quiet during that time of the year, as many woodland creatures slept through the long winter.

The crunch of my boots on the snow and the occasional snap of a tree limb too weak to bear the weight of the snow created sounds of nature around me. Sometimes, I would pick up a fallen limb to use as a walking stick until I grew tired of carrying it and tossed it aside. 

There were streams in my woods where I would float sticks and test the ice that formed, eventually halting the water's flow until spring arrived. Deep into winter, I would ice skate along the frozen streams, reveling in the frozen wonderland that was my woods.

As I grew older and made friends, the woods continued to play a significant role in our lives. We ventured deeper into the forest, exploring the magic of the towering trees and flowing streams that turned into large ponds. As soon as the ponds froze solid, we played ice hockey.

We would set up a fire in a hundred-gallon barrel we brought to the pond, a place to warm our hands and occasionally make s'mores. The pond became a gathering spot for families, where they brought their kids to learn how to skate and enjoy the woods just as I had.

As the subdivision expanded and more of the woods were cleared to make way for houses, the forest's size diminished. However, thanks to a city ordinance, most of the woods remained untouched by heavy machinery.

Today, I ventured back into my beloved woods, greeting the pines and birches I hadn’t seen in years. The young trees, now towering into the sky, seemed to wave to me, and the sounds of small creatures welcomed me, knowing I had brought treats to ease their burden of gathering food in the deep snow.

I found a tree stump where I sat in silence as squirrels approached, taking morsels of food from my hand without fear. Minutes passed, and soon more of the woods' smallest inhabitants gathered inches away as I scattered pieces of apples and frozen berries I had retrieved from my freezer.

Not long after, I heard branches rustling and was delighted to see a magnificent deer, a rare sight. I sat very still, and after what felt like a long time, it emerged from the protection of the trees and walked closer, allowing me to offer it some apple pieces and a few carrot chunks. Its gaze never left mine as it ate, and when it realized my hands were empty, it turned and walked back into the trees. I stayed seated for a while longer until the cold from the stump drove me to stand up and continue my journey through the wonder of it all, with my love for the woods stronger than ever.

Now, as an older man, I have to be cautious during my days in the woods, fearing a fall or sinking into icy water. I remain vigilant, watching for deep holes and snares set by hunters, which I would dismantle to save a life.

Now that I am old and unable to venture out much, my days are spent gazing out the window at falling snow while a small group of creatures and one large deer stand at the edge of the woods, wondering where I am and what happened to the treats. It breaks my heart, so I grab my coat and gather everything I can find in the fridge before heading to the edge of my woods, where my old friends are waiting. They eagerly take treats from my hand and scamper back into the woods, but the deer stays behind, looking into my eyes in gratitude for what I did when others didn’t care.

As it walks back into the trees, it takes one last look at me, as if remembering this moment might be the final time it trusts anyone the way it trusted me. A frozen tear rolls down my face as I hope to never forget them all.

Mike, 2025                                                   

Frozen fields

 I looked out a window covered in ice crystals, and my gaze reflected my youth. I saw kids bundled up, playing street hockey, wishing they could have a real game on the skating rink that the town created each winter by flooding a field with water. The firetruck from Ladder 51 made it a habit to do this; without it, there would be no hometown hockey, which meant no hockey team, no adoring fans, and no cheerleaders bouncing up and down to stay warm.

The first game was scheduled for this coming Saturday, but a fierce blizzard had hit us overnight, nearly canceling it. I looked at the scene with a sinking heart, knowing it would take an army of volunteers to clear the rink in time. I decided to reach out for help, driving through town with a loudspeaker attached to the roof of my car, asking for volunteers to clean the rink. The response was amazing.

People stopped working, and almost every business in town hung a "Closed" sign in its window. Dropping whatever they were doing and armed with shovels, they headed to the rink. It was a heartwarming sight as I pulled up and saw at least fifty people of all ages clearing away the three feet of snow. Meanwhile, some ladies served hot cocoa as a gesture of thanks for their help.

Whether it was sheer determination or perhaps divine intervention, the rink was ready to host the game, which went off without a hitch. I often wonder how this would play out today. If a town were to ask for help, would the people hang a "Closed" sign on their stores and, without hesitation, offer their assistance? Would they put their own lives on hold while silent cash registers waited for their return?

One thing I do know is that small-town America still holds on to its traditions, and helping your neighbor takes precedence over most other things. People wave as they pass each other on the road, and assistance is offered to anyone in need—even to strangers. Children are taught to show respect, and heaven help them if they fail to do so.

I can't imagine living in a place where people seldom smile and never return a wave. I wouldn't want to mind my own business when something is wrong, nor would I want to live somewhere houses are so close together that you can smell their dinner cooking. That’s just one man’s observations while looking out a window covered in ice crystals, listening to the sounds of street hockey, and dreaming of playing on the big frozen field. 

— Mike, 2025                                             

Haloween to new years

 As the vibrant colors of Halloween fade, candy wrappers litter the sidewalks, remnants of an evening filled with laughter and excitement. Pumpkins, once aglow, now sit quietly, their lights extinguished. The joyous excitement of trick-or-treating transforms into a cozy scene as children sift through their mountain of treats, inspecting each piece with wide-eyed wonder. There’s a lively exchange as kids eagerly trade Snickers for Butterfingers and Milky Ways for Reese's Cups, while parents sneak a few of their own favorites—a sweet reminder of their childhood joy.

With Halloween behind us, thoughts naturally shift toward the Thanksgiving season. Decorations featuring turkeys begin to adorn doors, and our trusty fridge displays a large turkey decoration, snugly affixed with the last few magnets. Mom prepares for the holiday by gathering her lists and coupons, excitedly strolling through the aisles of the grocery store. She joins other eager shoppers, quickly grabbing essentials like pumpkin pie filling and canned green beans before the shelves start to empty. Spotting a rush towards the fruit section, she expertly steers her cart through the chaos, making sure to snatch up the last of the cranberries. With a little friendly banter and determination, she completes her Thanksgiving mission.

Once the turkey leftovers have finally vanished, the excitement builds for Christmas. The large turkey is replaced by an equally grand Santa Claus decoration on the fridge. Dad sets aside an entire Saturday to retrieve boxes from the attic—most clearly labeled "Christmas," though a few labeled without names might reveal forgotten treasures someday. For now, we joyfully untangle strings of lights, testing each one as Dad prepares to string them along the front porch. I can’t help but notice Mom’s cautious glance as Dad climbs the ladder, thinking to herself that maybe it’s time he took it a bit easier.

With the lights twinkling brightly, it’s time to welcome the inflatable holiday characters into our yard. Reindeer pulling sleighs, a waving snowman, and many more bring joy to passersby. I remember as a child wondering if those characters went “to sleep” during the day and “woke up” when the lights turned on. Dad’s thoughtful answer had reassured me, and I loved that we could share those innocent questions.

As Black Friday approaches, stores prepare for the shopping frenzy by dedicating aisles to toys, games, bicycles, and more. Mom, who tackles early mornings like a pro, slips into her running shoes and comfortable clothes, ready with a list taped to her cart and armed with a bag full of coupons. The thrill of the hunt fills her with festive energy, and her enthusiasm makes every shopping trip an adventure that captures the spirit of the season.

When the much-anticipated day arrives, our home transforms into a magical rendition of Santa’s village. We gather under the twinkling tree to exchange gifts—everything from toys to practical items like socks and underwear, each wrapped with love to make the pile look grander. Stockings hang from the fireplace, filled with pencils, an occasional orange, and small surprises. Dad uncovers new slippers, their sound unmistakable as he walks through the house, ensuring we’re cozy and tucked in for the night. He also receives a couple of ties and a fresh belt, while my own gift to him is a pouch of Captain Morgan pipe tobacco—a little nod to his personality.

Mom takes her time unwrapping gifts, savoring the look of joy on our faces. I still smile thinking about the day she nearly lost her balance in a playful competition over the last GI Joe action figure. With gentle encouragement, she finally opens her presents, unveiling a bottle of her cherished perfume, new slippers, and a romance novel. Among the store-bought gifts, she treasures the ornament we created together from popsicle sticks, placing it proudly on the tree among her collection of memories.

The arrival of the New Year is celebrated with revelry and good cheer. Our living room transforms into a festive scene, filled with party hats, noise makers, and streamers, as we prepare for the countdown and the hope of a New Year’s kiss. In a twist of fate, Aunt Sandra, with her warm embrace, plants a wet kiss on my cheek, leaving me feeling both embarrassed and amused.

As New Year’s Day dawns, the atmosphere shifts to one of relaxation and comfort. Dad settles in to watch football, a trusty bottle of aspirin by his side, while Mom takes a peaceful moment to recover, finding solace with a cool compress. 

Each of these moments, from Halloween to New Year’s Day, weaves a beautiful tapestry of family traditions, joyful chaos, and cherished memories that remind us of the love and laughter we share. As we embrace each season, there’s an unquenchable spirit of togetherness that lights up our lives, ensuring that each holiday is filled with warmth, joy, and gratitude.

Mike 2025