Imaginations of childhood

 I remember, as a boy, letting my imagination run wild and untamed as I turned everyday objects into whatever my mind saw them as. A metal trash can became an army tank with me as the gunner, using a stick for a machine gun, complete with sound effects. The garden hose was used to fuel my tank, and two-by-fours laid under the tank served as the tracks with different sound effects.

Sometimes I was a big-game hunter, climbing a tree to set up my sniper nest. I'd cover my clothes with small branches, hiding my location from the big cats and other predators hunting me as I hunted them. There was an apple tree I liked to hide in and eat the sweet apples as I patiently awaited an approaching animal below. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large jungle cat as our eyes locked, and I readied my shot. With precise and controlled movement, I aimed and took my shot. With an award-winning sound effect, the neighbor's cat, Missy, ran for safety under the porch.
Another adventure found me standing on the bank of a mighty river, fishing gear included a pair of dad's rubber boots that turned into waders, a pool cue for the pole, and one of mom's empty flower baskets slung around my shoulder where I'd put the fish. I found some string in dad's tackle box, along with a cork bobber I tied to it that would disappear beneath the water, letting me know something had taken the bait. Patience was required when fishing, so I didn't speak when I heard Mom calling me in for lunch. Then, with a mighty tug on my line, the bobber floated to the surface as the monster fish broke loose and disappeared into the murky water. Mom spoke again, telling me to get out of the puddle, put my dad's boots back where I found them, and get inside right that minute.
Every kid wants to be someone they admire at some point. Girls become ballerinas and princesses, dressing up in old Halloween costumes, while others are homemakers like mom, baking award-winning pies at the county fair. Some want to be nurses using their baby dolls as patients as they wrap their arms and legs in rags they found in moms rag box. From astronauts to firemen, police officers to army generals, there was no end to the imaginations of a child. As for me, well, I ate my lunch and went back outside to venture further than anyone had gone before, as long as I stayed in my own backyard.

Mike 2026                                                  

Looking through the glass

 In days past, in the small town where I was born, I would walk the streets, looking into the windows of local bars. Men after their shifts at the factory gathered to tip a few after a hard day's work, some just looking to waste time before going home to a houseful of kids and a wife who went from prom queen to housewife, exchanging high heels and peek-a-boo blouses for a well-worn housecoat. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to prop myself on a stool and order an ice-cold beer served in a frosted glass mug. As I continued to watch through the window, I'd see someone playing the jukebox so loud that the glass I was standing by vibrated until the bartender turned it down. The bar itself was very old and had been in one family since it was built sometime in the 1890s. The walls and the floor were made of wood, as was the long bartop, which the bartender seemed to wipe every few minutes. Sitting on the bar were several large glass containers filled with hard-boiled eggs and pigs' feet that made me gag just looking at them. I don't think I ever saw anyone actually eat one.

There were wooden tables, most scarred with cigarette burns, and at some tables black indentations of a girl's name or a heart that said Mom. A little carving and a lot of drinking. I saw men playing checkers for money and poker games that sometimes went on well into the night, some smiling, and one leaving the bar wondering how he'd tell his wife he'd gambled his paycheck away. I looked into that bar through rain and shine, seeing the same old faces that to this day sit on the same stool they did when they turned 21 and looking the same as they do now, fifteen years later.

Remembering back when I finally became of age, I walked into that bar that I had only been able to look inside for so long. I picked out a stool, looking around and avoiding being anywhere close to pigs' feet and hard-boiled eggs. The bartender asked for my ID, which I gladly showed him, and asked, "What will it be, son?" Your first one is on the house. Sitting there, I smelled the smells of a bar, something I could only imagine as smells don't pass through glass. The smell of cigarettes and cigars, old wooden floors, and the scents of hard-working men that couldn't care less how they smelled.

I became a regular at that old bar right up to the day the city claimed the place would have to shut down as a new highway was going to cut right through there. The owner got a hefty offer to buy him out, and that was that. I stopped at the closed bar one more time, looking through the glass and remembering the faces, the smells, and the genuine laughter of hard-working men tipping a few cold ones and possibly eating a pig's foot or hard-boiled egg that made me gag one last time.

Mike 2026                                          

I grow weary

 I grow weary at times, redoing the day before and the day before again. My eyes serve as my guide now, red with time and endless glances and glares.  My weathered hands with throbbing veins are a testimony of hard work for decades until they softened and hard-earned calluses vanished.

I grow weary at times, wondering what could have been and spending too little time thankful for what is. I find myself thinking out loud as my memories refuse to be silent, and I am grateful for being called upon.
I grow weary listening to the noise of mouths that should never open and actions that should never have taken place. But no one says I have to conform because I refuse to listen to words; I just ignore them with both ears.
I grow weary because I chose to be, and I've earned that after decades of following the leader before learning that I had the right to walk away from things that prevented me from smiling.

Mike 2026                                                                      

Slower pace

 There are times I'm good with being old. The fast-paced world we live in can all become a blur, and that's when I close my eyes and write about the things I remember at a much slower pace.

Sitting down and writing a letter to a friend by candlelight in cursive, careful to spell everything correctly, or having to toss it into the trash can and start again. We've all seen pictures of a person surrounded by crumpled-up balls of paper strewn across the floor, with a look of frustration on the writer's face. But the end result was a beautifully written work of art, complete with a wax stamp and vintage stationery.

It seems to me my generation and those before me took more pride in things that today aren't as important at all. Handwritten recipes handed down by grandmothers and Christmas cards containing a heartfelt message. Birthday cards carefully picked out that were kept forever in a box of special things you'd take out sometimes to read over and over again. Each one is a memory you wanted to keep close to your heart.

Family time together with no phones or games, just each other and conversations about school, work, and that feeling of closeness every family should have. Family nights with bowls of freshly popped popcorn, with four hands digging into the bowl at one time, while a black and white movie played on the black and white television.

Kids didn't grow up as fast as they do today, finding time to sit and talk and going into town with a parent was just how life was back then. Teenagers still voiced their opinions, but the parents had the final say, and that was that. But some had to chance it by sneaking out of the house to meet up with a boy or girl friend and usually got caught during a routine check by a parent who was once a kid too. This meant being grounded, no matter what was going on, like school dances and football games.

Life was simpler back then, and although we had our share of problems, everything seemed to work out in the end. Kids didn't disrespect their elders or bring guns to school, except for hunting rifles on a gun rack in a lot of pickup trucks. Killing something meant hunting for that elusive buck or shooting clay pigeons with dad.

I don't mind getting old as long as I can keep remembering my younger days brought to me in black and white at a pace I control.

Mike 2026                                                    

Best of friends

 He walks close to me and follows wherever I go. Since a pup, he's done that, and it made me wonder if it was the breed or just him being my shadow. It's been 12 years now since I fell in love with him as a pup, and his devotion to me is something I didn't even have with two wives.

We're growing old together, and our once bounding through the tall grass days are reduced to a slow walk, and I wonder if he's missing that as much as I do. The way he looks at me tells me he does.

His hearing is all but gone, and he doesn't move around as fast, but if there's a snack to be had, he's up and moving as he gently takes the treat from me, holding it by a corner as he goes back under the table to slowly enjoy it.

He used to chase lizards and bark at the ducks in the pond, but he never hurt one, and I wonder if he was just asking if they wanted to play. He could talk when he wanted to, kind of hard to explain, you just had to hear it as he barked in different tones trying to sound like his human being, me.

Like most dogs, he loved being brushed and always fell asleep as I spoke softly to him. I'd finish brushing and softly sneak away, but he senses that and wakes up to be by my side as usual. We both liked the warmth of a late spring day and sitting outside me on a chair and him as close to it as he could manage.

He would whimper every time I closed the door behind me, going somewhere he couldn't, but I'd make it up to him by taking him for an ice cream cone, vanilla being his flavor of choice. He'd finish his first, then stare at me until I gave him the rest of mine. I think he knew me more than I thought.

I thank God for giving me such a great friend, and I carry more memories of him than I could ever remember in a lifetime. As I look at him, I still see that bouncy puppy running to fetch a stick, always to big hanging out of his mouth and dropping it at my feet. I see him staring at me when he had to go outside, and never once in all these years did he mess in the house.

Sometimes when we sit in silence, I wonder what he's thinking. Is he flashing back to our younger days and all the fun we had, or is he thinking what I am, that 12 years isn't enough? One thing I do know is that one day we will run those fields again together forever.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                     

Last breaths

 Those few last breaths fighting not to end but to begin again in a place where it's springtime every day you want it to be. When you've picked a million wildflowers, then place them onto a waiting cloud.

The last few breaths are free of pain as the memories flood back, seemingly exhaling all the wrong you did, but are forgiven with a gentle touch on your shoulder that lets you know the end is near, and you need not fear.

Your loved ones stand by you, taking turns holding your hand now, too weak to squeeze back as painted-on faces hold back the tears, the best they can, walking swiftly out of the room to cry a river unseen and so much alone.

Those few last breaths make some wonder if he knows these are his last few moments, and whether he will be gone when everything goes quiet. Will he know the machines have stopped, and only sobs of sorrow now fill the room?

They will all leave now as his body is prepared, and his last wishes are remembered. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. No casket, no memorials, and above all else, no grave. He chose cremation, fast and final, and his ticket to eternal peace.

Those last breaths released his soul as it let his human self to follow the angel leading him into the light and eternal rest. All his questions were answered at one time before he stood at the gate alone, waiting for them to be opened or closed for all eternity.

The massive white gates opened slowly as a softly spoken man with a kindness the likes of which he had never known extended his open hands as a gesture to enter. Stepping into the light, he came through to a softer light where he could see millions of souls, both human and animal, together with no cares and endless memories

There were no greetings, only a feeling of that very moment when he knew he belonged. A microsecond of remembering a face or a place, a special event, or a motherly hug to stay with you for just a moment on your journey.

Beautiful doesn't do justice to the pillow-soft clouds you could feel free to hitch a ride with to yet another place, leaving you in awe. More beautiful than a field of roses or stars, you could touch as they welcomed you anytime.

Oceans of blue, clear water, you could look into at the millions of sea life swimming free with no chance of hooks. Some of the larger creatures that once scared you become friends, allowing you to jump on for the grand tour of God's creations.

Death isn't something to be afraid of if you've tried your best to live a good life. God knows this and so much more. All of your fears, your questions, and doubts vanish into another realm where every day is one more truth spoken, one more chance to question anything. And one last breath to take you there.

Mike  2026

AS A WRITER, I FEEL THE URGE TO WRITE WHAT I'm FEELING, AND I MEAN NO DISRESPECT TO ANY RELIGION AND THEIR BELIEFS.

                                                              

Where do the words go?

 Where do the words go when the fingers stop moving? Are they gone forever or just playing possum to get the creative juices going again? Where do the memories go when you believe you've written about all of them?

Where do the stories go when they've all been read time and again, and new ones are in a corner of your mind refusing to come out? Maybe it's time to stop looking.

I'm 72 years of age, and I believe I can say I've spent over thirty years of that writing about this or that, mostly about memories I didn't want to forget, and it turned out I have a gift for remembering pieces of my past from infancy to the present. To me, their building blocks and then a game of fill in the blanks.

To date, I've penned over one thousand very short stories, published three books, and thrown away scraps of jibber jabber not worthy of sharing. And what saddened me at first is that most of what I've written hasn't been read. There may be some truth to the saying, " You have to be dead before your work is noticed. Don't panic, I don't plan on going anytime soon.

Even though there are a few cobwebs in the old melon, I continue every day to find something new to write about. And it amazes me that I can still tap the keys and let my fingers do the talking. I've visualized a loud voice saying, STOP, that's enough but I ignore that voice, believing it's a bad angel who I can banish with just one sentence.

So I suppose I'll forge on, digging deep into my mind and my heart to try and find new meanings to old memories that I can turn into something when read, which will stir some memories for you, bringing a tear or two, maybe some laughter, and above all, will take you to places long forgotten.

Mike 2026                                                          

Bottoms up

 Louis Armstrong played on the juke box as a generation of post-war revelers danced the night away. They never forgot where they were when the bombs fell and how the world changed before their eyes. Most were in their late teens, early twenties, and answered the call to duty both here and abroad. The men who worked in the factories left those jobs for the women to take over, while the men marched off to war with promises to return, but so many didn't.

In base camps just miles from the action, a make-shift nightclub was made. A place with a wooden bar top made from pallets covered with the tops of ammunition boxes. Somehow, a juke box made its way there, and no one asked how. Some say it disappeared from an officers' club. Booze was rarely an issue, as certain supply personnel made sure a few bottles destined for various commands came up short that no one ever missed.

It was a happy place where thoughts of loved ones back home were eased with a couple of shots and a dance with a cute nurse.  That makeshift bar helped many of them cope with the ravages of war as they remembered dancing with their best girl back home in a smoke-filled bar and stolen kisses.

Now here they are again in a club with a polished bar top and glasses suspended from the ceiling. Soft lighting and a juke box allowed to be played until happy hour ended, when the band showed up to play well into the night. One by one, the aging soldiers and nurses danced to the juke box and the songs they can't forget and don't ever want to. They let their minds recall the good times that seldom outweighed the bad, like kicking up their shoes to a jazzy number on the jukebox, dust flying on the dirt dance floor, and that eighteen-year-old soldier who wouldn't take no for an answer when he asked the cute nurse for a spin around the floor.

Now, even though their years are limited, the few remaining heroes climb up on a barstool and order something strong. The bartender flicks a switch, and the juke box comes alive with all the songs they remember from those dark days they tried to forget but still can't, and soon there are none.

 I like to believe their minds are at rest and have forgotten the bad, the young men lost, and the timeless scars they carried with them for so many years. I hope they're all together again in a place they dreamed about, where the jukebox plays, and dust flies off combat boots and nurses' shoes. Smiling faces and whiskey toasts to make it feel more like home.    Bottoms up

Mike 2026                                              

Autumn by choice

 Winter's white gives way to springtime green, overtaken by the summer's heat and the colorful months of autumn, waiting to explode in all its splendor. I find beauty in every season, each flooding me with memories I keep locked up until I choose to remember them on a cold winter walk, a springtime rain, or a summer's night on a swing built for two. But it's autumn that has always held a special place in my heart, as cool air fills my lungs, gasping at the beauty of the leaves in autumn's finest colors. It's autumn, and I remember taking walks with my mom in a forest of amazement, where falling leaves floated to the ground, creating our own carpet of colors we slowly walked on as we talked about most anything, like moms and sons often do.

Autumn brings back memories of burning leaves and carving pumpkins. Raking piles of leaves only to jump into them as dad pretended to be angry. Trick or treat and warm pumpkin pie. Apple cider and picking apples in Mr. Jones ' orchard. Autumn meant sleeping with the windows open and covering yourself with a blanket grandma made years ago. I do find love in all the seasons, as each holds memories of its own embedded deep within my heart, but it's autumn that captured the most heartfelt memories that will lead me to the heavens as I gently walk on a carpet of colors, reaching for my mom's outstretched hand just ahead of me, where the light awaits and I never have to leave.

Mike 2026                                                      

suicide hill

 He wasn't scared, he told himself as his buddies cheered him on from the bottom of the hill. They looked so small down there, like small versions of themselves. This was the first time for him sledding down the giant hill, as he was younger than they were by a couple of years, and all of them had already taken the plunge several times. It was known as Suicide Hill, the drop to hell, and more names to describe this rite of passage every kid seven years and older had to bravely do or be labeled a chicken and worse.

He'd never been so high up before sledding down the much smaller hill for as long as he could remember. It was fun, unlike the pictures in his mind of him racing down a mountain so fast that the runners on his sled caught fire, ending with him crashing into a tree and passing out.
His friends continued cheering him on, telling him that if he didn't go right now, they would leave him and label him the chicken of the day. But he wasn't the only kid up there, he noticed. There were four of them, all getting the courage to jump on their sleds, and all being cheered on by the little versions of themselves at the bottom of the massive hill.
He spoke to the other kids, saying they should all go down together after all, there's strength in numbers, right? They all agreed and laid out their sleds next to each other, close enough to touch mitts and wish each other good luck. Within seconds of nosediving over the edge, they separated, one crashing at take off, another hitting a kid on a toboggan, and the other kid screaming his head off as he reached the bottom, where his buddies slapped him on the shoulders, congratulating him and welcoming him to the big boy hill.
As for him, well, he shot over the edge like a missile, using his arms to try to steer the runaway sled, but it had a mind of its own as his speed increased and his thoughts were all panic and the realization that he'd never see his family again. He heard himself screaming like a little girl as the ice from the sled's runners threw snow on his face, covering his goggles and leaving him blinded for the rest of the way down. His life passed before him as he waited for the worst to happen. But something was wrong. He quickly wiped the snow from his goggles just long enough to see he had crossed over the yellow tape warning of extreme speeds, possible injury, and even death.
Then, like a slow-motion movie, he felt the sled coming to a stop. His buddies were running to him, asking if he was all right. They couldn't believe he would sled the extreme hill that couldn't be used because so many people had been hurt racing down at breakneck speeds. He even heard that one older kid attempted the massive hill, and his runners separated from the sled, sending him screaming down the hill on a sled with no runners.
He became a sort of legend that day when a 7-year-old kid sled down Devil's Peak and lived to tell about it. He is in his thirties now and often brings his kids to the smaller hill, telling them, once upon a time, there was a massive hill that caused many injuries, and because of that, the county came in and leveled the hill and built a hill just for skiers.
Did you sled down that big hill, Dad? His kid asked him. Let's just say not only did I sled down, but I crossed over to the massive hill, at forty miles per hour and with snow-covered goggles, and did it with my eyes closed and my heart in my throat. Would you ever do that again his kid asked. Oh yeah, he said in a heartbeat.

Mike 2026                                                   

Age is more than a number

 At one point in my life, I never saw myself as being old. I'd see the older folks sitting on their front porch, visiting with a neighbor they've probably known for more years than I've been alive. I'd like to know what they talk about, and what their generation faced, like wars that took hundreds of thousands of lives, most just boys who left a heartbroken family behind. I often found myself trying to imagine all the changes they went through, but the numbers are too great.

The great depression, standing in bread lines and hording pennies to buy a treat for the children. Hand-made toys carved with a pocket knife, so there would be something under the tattered Christmas tree, a throw-away left behind, and hand-me-down clothes that rarely fit. Men standing on corners through every kind of weather, hoping to be picked for a day's work. But usually goes back home to his family empty-handed.
I look into the faces that time, weathered with tear ducts long ago dried up, no more to give. So many stars in the windows telling the neighborhood their boys had served, and the pride they feel can't be put into words.
I feel the emptiness they feel every day as I see them looking toward a place I guess only they can see and feel. Their own private slide show of carefree days of their youth, before time took over, catching them off guard as it did to me.
I can't tell you where the years went as they all blended into one life, my life. Aside from the white hair and skin that don't fit anymore, I feel like I did as a young man, out to conquer the world one day at a time, but a little bit slower. Soon, I imagine I'll have a place on the porch and wave to my neighbor as I've done for too many years to recall. I'll stare into space, where my memories seem scattered as I try to remember the good and the not-so-good.
Growing old isn't a curse; it's a blessing we've been given, a chance to look back to the spring dance where you met your soon-to-be wife. The birth of your children and that new house you had built, where you'd live for sixty-five years, making memories all along the way.
Mostly, as I look into the eyes of an elder, I believe they are seeing the faces of family and friends that have entered the light before them. I believe they see them as they remembered them when their hair was brown, and their skin was tight. When they could dance the night away and steal a kiss under the street light. Now I see myself as I once saw others, and it's all okay.

Mike 2026                                                 

 

Tears at the train station

 By the light of a silvery moon, he softly touched her face. The train would soon be leaving as countless tears fell to the ground and goodbyes were spoken with shaky voices.

Military uniforms as far as the eye could see, mixed with young brides and weeping mothers, waving until the train couldn't be seen or heard as it chugged along to the next stop and more waiting soldiers.
Months passed slowly, as did the mail, which usually arrived weeks or more after it was sent. Tear-stained, dirty envelopes didn't matter, as the envelope was ripped open, and his voice jumped off the pages and into her heart.
She read his words over and over until she had memorized every word that she repeated to herself during her waking hours until sleep came and her dreams were only of him. She dreamed of him looking so handsome in his uniform, his smile, and piercing blue eyes that saw their way straight into her lonely heart.
His last letter came saying he'd be home soon, and the postmark told her it would be in just two more days. Not enough time to prepare for his return, but she managed to look like his million-dollar baby, something he said often.
She dressed in a springtime outfit he had bought for her, with powder-blue shoes and a matching purse. A stylish hat and silk scarf around her neck, she made her way to the train station, joining at least fifty other wives and moms all filled with the anticipation of their loved ones finally coming home.
From the opposite end of the depot, a faint voice could be heard that the train was coming. Compacts were everywhere as the ladies powdered their faces and applied a bit more lipstick that would soon be kissed away.
As it pulled into the station, the faces of young men appeared through open windows as they scanned the crowd, looking for that special someone. The air was filled with the smell of perfumes that erased the smells of war and the fact that they really were home. She got lost in the crowd as she frantically searched for him, walking quickly through the sea of soldiers until she stopped and saw him looking at her just feet away.
She ran straight into his arms as he lifted her into the air, his strong arms holding her so tightly she almost couldn't breathe. Their lips met, and the first kiss was more like a thank you for bringing them back together. The second kiss was the one they both dreamed of in their dreams.
He hadn't told her in his last letter that he'd be going back for a second tour. He wanted her to feel nothing but happiness in the moment and every day they'd have together, to be what dreams are made of, until it was time for him to go again.
She joined the other wives and moms at the station, holding his hand, feeling his strength as he tried to control a single tear he hoped she wouldn't see. They didn't talk much as they both knew everything they wanted to say had been said. She kissed him, leaving the shape of her heart on his cheek, then a long, tender kiss on the lips that would help her remember his taste for the many months he'd be gone.
She was a military wife and knew what she had signed up for, but it wouldn't stop the loneliness or the endless waiting for a tear-stained envelope. She'd be waiting, as she always did, memorizing every word in his letters and repeating each one throughout her days until another letter arrived, weeks after he'd written it, saying he'd soon be home again.
She lived the life she had chosen and never let him see her deepest longing for him to be home for good. He was a soldier, and she was his wife, and they both had jobs to do. One day, he would retire, and on that day, she would kiss his cheek with ruby-red lipstick that would never wipe away.

Mike  2026                                                    

Treasured family moments in the forest

 The campfire crackled as pieces of fire raced towards the heavens, only to be snuffed out by opposing winds. Once large logs are reduced to glowing embers, the heat, once intense, becomes warmth.

Sticks that pierced marshmallows lay on the edge of the fire, igniting as their sticky remnants caught fire and were swallowed by flames.
Light from a lantern inside a tent eases the children's fear of the darkness as scary stories are told, and they hide under covers, while Mom and Dad share a glass of wine under the star-filled night.
It's getting cold as the fire is now just a pile of smoking ash, and the ground is the only thing that feels any heat. They get into their tent listening for laughs and giggles from the tent next to theirs, but the children are quiet and sleeping soundly, tired from a day of exploring.
Sharing a large sleeping bag, they cuddle together, their bodies providing warmth and other feelings that come to life in the quiet of the night. Sunrise says good morning as a fire is made and a coffee pot from an old thrift store percolates, transforming clear water into brown coffee, showing its colors as the glass top allows a look inside.
As Mom prepares breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and her famous biscuits slathered with honey, the smell awakens the children as they wipe the sleep from their eyes and join their parents around the fire. They'd be heading home today, but not before they took one last hike through the forest they all loved so much. And not before they took their dirty dishes, pots, and pans down to the stream and washed them clean.
This would be the final hours to gather what the forest gave, memories of their time there that would be the source of conversations for months and sometimes years. Six arrowheads, Dad claimed, were at least one hundred years old, along with several fossilized leaves, small creatures like lizards, and even a small footprint that only left them wondering. The best find, agreed upon by everyone, was a very old, rusted axe. Their minds were working in overdrive as they searched through the book of rare finds. And there it was, looking back at them from a page, the exact axe his daughter found as she tripped on a fallen log, and a patch of moss dislodged the ancient tool.
All packed up and heading home, there were a lot of mixed emotions, but more memories than anything else. Three days and nights together in the magic of the forests, the glow of a campfire for warmth, and the best cooking ever. Scary stories read under the covers and screaming when the flashlight's batteries wore down. Then, when pulling into their driveway, a collective sigh knowing it was over at least for a while.
Mike  2026                                                                 

Old man on the lake

 Small ripples lapped on the boat's side as the anchor line held firm. The gentle rocking made his eyes heavy, and he wanted to take a nap, but his days on the lake were running short, and every tug of the line was another possible trophy that he'd end up throwing back in the water to live another day.

He was brought up on this lake, as were his parents, in a place where nature reigned, and the city seemed a million miles away. When they passed just five months apart, he moved into the cottage some forty-something years ago. Math tells him he's lived there a total of seventy-five years and never changed a thing about it.
The hardwood floors were swollen in places as the lake's moisture took its toll. Kitchen cabinets didn't open or close as easily as they did when he was a kid, opening and closing a thousand times in search of a treat or a box of oat cereal. It showed character, he thought, like the pieces of driftwood hanging on the wall and the collections of small, smooth rocks his mom would find on her morning walks.
His line grew taut, and he jerked the pole up and hooked a monster of the lake, maybe the one legends are made of. It put up a fight as the old man grew tired and his arms felt like rubber. Then, without warning, the line snapped, and the would-be trophy dove deep and escaped. He sat there for a minute, cursing that no one would hear except maybe another fisherman around the point who saw what happened and held up his hands in a gesture of dismay.
He took his time securing his gear and pulling up anchor, then rowed the quarter mile back to the dock, also in need of repair. He thought about that and hoped it would hold up just a few more fishing trips, but he wouldn't bet on it. No fish for dinner tonight, he said to himself, but that was okay as he didn't really acquire a taste for it. Strange, isn't it? A kid who was brought up fishing almost daily for decades didn't like fish.
The daylight was sinking, and darkness would follow, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees, so he built a fire and took a hungry man's dinner from the freezer. Salsbury steak, mashed taters, green beans, and an apple crisp for dessert. Life was good, and no washing dishes either, just a two-point shot into the garbage can.
It didn't take long as the warmth from the fireplace filled the cottage with the smell of wood burning as he gave in to sleep sitting on his dad's favorite chair, something else he left as it was so long ago. He'd repaired that chair too many times to count with duct tape and pieces of cloth that ended up looking like a patchwork quilt. But he wouldn't change a thing.
The old man had three more fishing trips that all went well, except on his second trip, when the old dock finally collapsed, sending the small boat to the bottom of the lake and plunging him into the cold water. He was able to retrieve most of his gear, but some things were gone forever, and that was okay with him.
Now he sits in a chair at the foot of the lake tossing out his line. He saw the neighbor around the point, passing him by with his arms held up in dismay and a smile on his face. The old man gestured back with his middle finger held high, adding a few choice words from one fisherman to another.

Mike 2026                                                                    

The writing room

 He wrote in his home office, a small room with a window not much bigger than a large broom closet. The walls were covered with pictures he liked, some of family, others like a World War II fighter pilot, and several pin-ups from days gone by. Fishing rods in one corner and a broken printer that he intends to get rid of one day in another. His desk was saved from the jaws of a garbage truck, old school with years of use everywhere you looked. Initials with hearts and dates that meant something to someone. He'd sometimes catch himself rubbing a heart and wonder if the carver was still among us.

His chair was decades old, with one roller gone and replaced with cardboard and duct tape that did the job. The armrests were worn from years of use, much like the desk, and he often found himself wondering who the person was, assuming they were a writer of some kind. Maybe they wrote for a newspaper ages ago, wrote children's books, or wrote graphic novels.
Many nights when the urge to write overcame him, he'd light a couple of candles and turn on a vintage lamp with an amber bulb, just enough light to write. He never knew what he would write until a word turned into a sentence and sentences into paragraphs. Write, delete, write some more, delete, and try again until he was satisfied that a story was told.
He never thought of himself as a great writer; he just believed it was a gift of sorts that he didn't take lightly. Years passed, and countless stories were written in that small room with fighter pilots and pin-ups on the walls and a seldom-used fishing pole gathering dust in a corner. He had carved his own heart and the dates he wanted to remember on the top of the desk, and every so often, he rubbed his hand across it as memories flooded back and lost loves filled his mind.
He wrote his last story sitting at the desk saved from the jaws of the garbage truck, rolling his chair with the broken wheel to take a break and look out the window, he hoped would inspire him one more time, until the words no longer flowed and one last story was written.

Mike  2026                                            

County fair memories

 We stood in line to ride the carousel on a cool autumn day. Puffy clouds and blue skies made for the perfect day for my grandson and me. I looked at him as he looked around his small hand in mine, and I wondered what it would feel like to be him one more time.

It was a Saturday in 1960, and the county fair was in town. Like most seven-year-olds, I had saved some money all year for just this day when our family would head for the fairgrounds, ready to enjoy all it had to offer. Funnel cakes and cotton candy, popcorn and candy apples, and all those rides.

Dad stood in line to buy our tickets, while my sisters and I couldn't stand still as we watched the many rides and screaming kids. I remember my Mom telling us the usual mom things like don't touch the water fountains and don't lose sight of each other. 

Every year at the fair, Dad would give each of us a ten-dollar bill to do with what we wanted, but when it was gone, it was gone, and there would be no more. Most of the rides were three tickets each, worth a quarter, so we chose the rides carefully so we didn't use them up too fast.

Running from one ride to the next, we'd wait our turn at the Ferris wheel and bumper cars. Giant swings and slides so high that they gave me butterflies. Every once in a while, we'd report back to mom and dad, who sat in the big tent where dad drank some beers and mom talked to friends. She would see us and wave, which was her signal to go ahead and have fun. I remember there was a dance floor in the tent, and when the sun was about to set, the band would start playing, and the large group of parents and grandparents put on their dancing shoes and danced to their favorite songs, bringing back memories of their own.

I loved the fair at night, when all the rides lit up with colored lights, and I was sure they could be seen for miles away. As the night began to wear on, my sisters and I headed for the main attraction, the wooden rollercoaster. A true beast with hairpin curves and speeds up to 50 miles per hour. This year, my little sister just made the mark on the wooden policeman that showed your height, and if you were as tall as his mark, you could ride the monster coaster.

Standing in line to wait your turn was pure terror, as the coaster cars screamed past and above you, kids screaming their heads off, until it finally came to a stop. Each car sat two, so my sisters rode together, and I, well, I rode alone. Once seated, the cars were locked, and we began the slow climb to the top of the tracks. The clanking of the chains filled you with even more fear, and then the moment you'd been waiting for all day was about to happen. The cars took a nosedive, pointing straight down and moving so fast your lips quivered and your stomach did somersaults as you headed for dead man's curve. Around and around you flew the screams of my sisters in the car behind me, sounding like sheer terror as the mighty ride came to a stop and everybody got off, vowing to ride it again.

We left the fair tired and fulfilled, and dad even won a giant stuffed bear at the shooting gallery that he gave to my younger sister, who named it Bob for reasons unknown. One tradition we had was that before we left, we would ride the carousel as a family. Mom and Dad sat on a colorful bench while my sisters and I picked out a mighty steed with flared nostrils, a large ostrich, and for me, a jet black stallion. Round and around we went, the music of the carousel ringing in our ears. and the realization that our day at the fair had come to an end.

My grandson was too small for the big-boy rides, but we had great fun in kiddy land, riding the mini versions of bumper cars and small boats that circled in the water. We took a mini train ride around the fairgrounds, and my favorite part was the six jets that flew in circles on chains, with toy guns mounted on their wings that made gunshots. We finished our day at the fair by riding the carousel. He chose a lion, and I chose a jet-black stallion with flaring nostrils. As we left the fair, my grandson stood next to the wooden policeman, looking at the mark he had to reach to ride the coaster, and said, " Grampa, next year will be my year.

Mike  2026                                                     

One word at a time

 She kept a journal of her life overflowing with words written on gold paper. By all accounts, her life was a simple one, filling her days and nights with precious moments, smiles, and tears of both joy and sorrow.

She often wrote about her husband. A simple man who trusted God with everything and had a genuine fear of hell. He treated her like a princess and brought her flowers for no reason other than he loved her.
They raised two children to be happy and trust their heads and their hearts because both would be a part of their lives. They were tough at times when lessons had to be given for crossing a line, but they never went to bed mad and always got a good-night kiss.

Their home was cozy, with homemade curtains and tablecloths; knick-knacks filled a corner stand, mementos of places they went, mostly no more than a few miles away. A snow globe from the general store with a small Santa and his reindeer looking back at you as snow danced around inside. A small salt and pepper shaker with two farmers, each holding a small sign telling you which was which.
She wrote something every day in that journal, no matter what was going on with her life, good or not so good. Class plays, concerts, and Halloween costumes made in the light of a single bulb. Senior prom and more time spent sewing for a dress that made them cry as she came down the stairs.

She lost count of the pets, but she believed there were seven dogs, five cats, two turtles, and a couple of hamsters, all cherished and buried in a pet cemetery out behind the giant oak tree. Dad made wooden crosses for all of them, and it wasn't uncommon to find him standing looking over them and remembering the joy they brought into their lives.
Her journal, written on golden paper, is heavy now, as thousands of words, sentences, and chapters fill its pages. Who knows, maybe nobody will ever read them, and that's okay, as the memories belong to her. She didn't write it for anybody but herself. But if it's read, she hopes they will know the woman, the wife, the mother, and a friend to many who wrote her life's story one word at a time.

Mike  2026                                            

History lessons

 Time slipped away from me, taking me off guard. One minute I was in my prime, then BANG I was a history book. But that's important for the little ones who never run out of questions about anything and everything under the sun, and somehow, I've always been able to quench their thirst for answers. 

What makes the sun so bright? How do birds fly? What makes a waterfall fall? As adults, we just chalk it up to age and learning is just a tool we use every day, but then I think about their little selves with a virgin brain screaming for answers for anything and everything they question. They see the world around them but don't understand much of what makes things tick. So nothing is off-limits when their volley of questions is shot out with the expectation of answers.

Why do the wheels on a car on television spin backwards? Why can't I spin my head around like an owl?  As they begin to grow and their questions sometimes challenge a scholar, I realize one day I won't have all the answers they seek. How does a penny sink in the water, but a huge ship floats? Why does my stomach growl when I'm hungry, and how can Cousin Bobby shoot milk out of his nose?

Then, as they grow older and the questions keep coming, I fear my usefulness is winding down, and they see it and sometimes ask others to answer the tough ones, like, "Why are there wars when peace can be achieved through talking?" Why do the important things in life come with a cost, and why does what we say and how we look determine our destiny in this century?

I believe the old saying, out of the mouth of babes, holds true. I listen to conversations at the Sunday dinner table, those young minds growing faster and faster, talking over one another until someone throws down their napkin in protest. Just how smart are they? I've asked myself, and my answer is simple. They learn over time that all the seemingly simple questions have seemingly simple answers learned by asking, and they stick with them as their minds grow in capacity to comprehend more difficult questions that boggle your mind and make you want to retreat into your quiet place with a glass of wine and a good book.

Some of these younger people will go on to do great things and ask the really serious questions. I wonder if they will remember asking about what makes a waterfall fall, or why they can't rotate their head like an owl? Were my answers locked somewhere deep down in their mind where they've remained for years? Maybe so because I just saw my eldest grandchild toss a penny into the pond.

Mike  2026                                              

Master boat builder

 He built his first boat at the age of twelve. It sank quickly. But he learned from his mistakes and vowed the next one would be carefully thought out, and he wouldn't hurry. His grandfather, a master boat builder, saw the potential in his grandson at an early age. It was said he let the young boy make mistakes on his first attempt so he'd never repeat them. Taking the boy under his wing, he taught him the proper kind of wood to use and how to use wooden pegs rather than metal screws to prevent rust and corrosion. He showed him how to steam the wood and bend each plank to the exact size needed. It was something that couldn't be rushed, as was every piece of trim, every single coat of varnish, and an eye for detail throughout the boat.

It wasn't just a lesson in boat building; it was many life lessons the boy learned from his grandpa throughout the build. How to think long and hard if the plans he drew up were the very best he could do, and realizing if they were almost perfect, he'd start over until everything was. He instilled into the boy the meaning of patience, as rushing anything could mean the difference between floating or sinking. He wasn't a man of many words, but when he had something important to pass along, he demanded that the boy listen with both ears.

For eight months, the boy learned, believing he had mastered the craft, only to be reprimanded for rushing and failing to consider every detail that could cause the boat to sink during its first water trial. He learned how to sand the wood until he could run his hands across each plank and deck board with no slivers to be had. He learned that the more coats of varnish applied, the better the appearance, so it was sand and varnish, then repeat until it looked like a thick layer of caramel that shone in the light.

On its first maiden voyage, standing beside his grandpa, they listened for leaks, which every wooden boat would have until the wood swelled and created a seal between the planks. He had a pail of tar, which he'd use to plug the seeping nothing that can't be fixed; he'd say, keep moving forward. The boy, now a young man, rowed to the rhythm of the waves, each movement of the oars a test of strength, as the boat plowed through them, the bow rising higher and higher until it would surely come crashing down hard and damage itself. But she performed like every boat his grandpa had built, and the smile on his face told the young man he was satisfied.

He and his grandpa built many boats together in the years that followed, with his grandpa giving him more responsibilities as he observed each wooden peg and steamed boards with keen eyes, pointing out what his grandson had forgotten to do, and the lessons never ended. He kept building boats of all sizes and purposes, each reflecting his grandpa's vision and attention to detail. People waited years sometimes to commission a boat, some as small as a dinghy, others cruisers powered by large engines to go further out to sea. Grandpa passed away, but his grandson carried on the traditions he had learned from the master boat builder. Now each finished boat has a plaque next to the helm that reads " built by a master boat builder and grandson.

Mike 2026                                                  

Where I belong

 The smell of a forest takes me back to when I was living with the stick soldiers, ancient trees that shared their shade in the summer and their heat in the winter. The smell of burning campfires an invitation for others to sit down and be warm.

As I hiked through the forest, the smells captured me and stirred my senses with every step. Damp patches of moss and decaying leaves, a musty reminder I was an uninvited guest who tread lightly on sacred land, as not to wake the spirits who slept deep into the ground.

As I continued, it was not the smell but the sound that brought me to a river, its raging water deflecting rocks and boulders as it rushed to a waiting calm that silenced its rage and gently flowed onward.

Once again, I found myself deep into the white birch and mighty oaks that had smells of their own. Deserted nests cradled in the crook of a pine, a smell of life born and a mother's care until the day of reckoning when wings spread, and freedom just a few flaps away.

I loved climbing the trees and looking out at the distance that seemed to have no end. The fear of falling was just a passing thought as I climbed higher, and I found a nest as large as any I had ever seen. The sound of a baby's cry followed by the scream of an eagle on a kill mission, and that mission was me. I climbed down the tree and lost my footing as gravity got me to the ground quickly and without injury.

To me, the time I spent in the forest was better than any book or campfire stories. It was my one-room schoolhouse that invited me in to walk beside the teachers who shared their knowledge of earth, sky, and life as old as time itself.

When I walk out of the shelter of the trees and the smells of hot dogs being grilled await me, a sadness fills my heart, and I wish I could retreat back into the ancient trees, the smells of damp moss and decaying leaves filling my senses, and the understanding that this is where I was meant to be.

Mike 2026                                                  

Winters memories of fun

 My mom would get me dressed for a Nor'easter with layers of clothes and no skin showing except for my eyes. I looked like the Michelin Man. In those days, there were no video games or the internet. No television except for cartoons on Saturday mornings and family night to watch a black-and-white movie.

Our backyard was my playground with everything a kid needed to entertain himself. Winter had its challenges, especially if you were by yourself, but if a couple of friends showed up, well, that was a different thing altogether.

After an all-night snowfall, the back yard was an undisturbed blanket of white with everything buried with drifts of snow, some as high as the tip of the swing set, and the fun began. After freeing a swing from the grips of the snow, I'd swing higher and higher, then jump off into a drift, burying myself in the powder and laughing to myself.

Hours would pass as I found new things to do, like climbing a fruit tree with low-hanging branches and taking a minute to find a sturdy branch while wearing a space suit. Eventually, I reached my destination, looking all around me and over the fence, seeing nothing but snow-covered mountains. 

Lunchtime came around, and I headed inside, where Mom had a bowl of my favorite tomato soup waiting. She partially undressed me, taking my space suit off and setting it next to the heater to thaw out. My ice-coated mittens were replaced with a fresh pair, and new bread bags were put into my boots. I was fueled up and ready to go back outside when the doorbell rang, and my next-door neighbor greeted us, asking if I'd like to go sledding. He was several years older than me, but my folks liked and trusted him enough to put me in his care.

With our sleds in tow, we ventured out beyond the confines of my backyard to a huge pile of snow in the city park. It was the biggest pile of snow I'd ever seen as we slowly climbed to the top behind other kids, then sat on our sleds and raced towards the bottom at breakneck speed. Over and over again, we sled down that hill until our frozen selves were tired and cold.

As the daylight began to fade, we headed home, laughing at the times we wiped out, doing face plants that froze our eyelashes, and barely getting run over by older kids on toboggans. I thanked my neighbor for taking me along, then headed inside where Mom was waiting with dry clothes and a slice of freshly baked bread and butter.

Dad got home, and I told him about my day, especially the parts where we sled so fast our eyes froze shut, leaving us blind and flying by the seat of our pants. He laughed and told me how he remembered sledding down that very same hill when he was much younger. You know it's supposed to snow again tonight he said with a grin on his face. And its saturday, so no work. How about we tackle the hill together, he asked. I think my old sled is in the garage.

After mom's ritual of stuffing me into the space suit, my dad and I ventured out to the park, and seven more inches of snow fell during the night. To me, winter was my favorite time of the year, and my memories are vivid. Dad's laughter as he captured his inner kid and me smiling, knowing I'd always remember those times together. And do you know the best part of it was knowing that someday I'd race down that hill with my own kids, taking a deep breath and racing them to the bottom, praying not to be run over by a screaming bunch of kids on a toboggan.

Mike 2026                                             

Defying the odds

 He lived in a small apartment with poor heat and drafty windows. The carpet was stained beyond help, but he didn't seem to mind. His easy chair was threadbare and tilted to one side, but he didn't care. The small kitchen had a stove with just one working burner and a fridge that barely kept things cold, but he didn't care. A black iron skillet was where he cooked every meal, fried eggs and bacon for breakfast, and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Supper was either a cheap steak or a couple of pork chops cooked in the skillet with grease from previous meals, which he said gave them flavor.

There was just one bedroom that he did his best to keep in military fashion. Crisp and sharp corners on the sheets and a blanket folded at the foot of the bed in case he got cold in the night. A bedside stand next to where he slept was an alarm clock he bought at the drugstore years ago, a glass of water that held his dentures, and, of course, a pack of hand-rolled cigarettes that he would wake in the night to light up and watch the orange glow until snuffing it out and going back to sleep.

The tiny bathroom was just big enough to do his business and look in a cracked mirror when he shaved. It was only showers as a tub would never fit in such a small space, but he didn't care. He spent his days reading the newspaper from cover to cover, always interested in what was happening outside his weathered door. He owned two pairs of pants and two shirts, all of which he purchased at the Goodwill store just a short walk from home. His grown kids often tried to give him new clothes, but he always said no, so eventually they gave up and let him do as he pleased.

Decades had passed since his military life as a highly decorated officer that was cut short when he had a stroke, and doctors said he'd never speak again or be able to communicate easily. He worked every day on his speech and movements, writing his thoughts on endless sheets of paper and putting notes in his pockets that had his recipe for a perfect martini or how he wanted his steak.

He rarely had company, and that's how he liked it. But when one of his kids showed up to check on him, he seemed to have a glow that welcomed them. Against all odds, he eventually began to speak again and could walk with a cane, kissing the wheelchair goodbye. He loved to walk and could often be seen in the summer, winter, fall, and spring making his way to his favorite bar and grill, where he met other veterans and became good friends.

He left this world; he chose to live on his terms with a greasy skillet on the stove and hundreds of hand-rolled cigarettes stashed away in empty coffee cans. His son had kept his father's military dress uniform, and he was buried in that, along with full military honors. The flag was presented to his son and, to this day, is proudly displayed on the mantel of his fireplace.

He may have lived in a cold, drafty apartment with little to show for the bravery he displayed throughout his life, but he died a hero to us and an example of defying the odds, walking the path he had chosen even when it was said he'd never be the same man again.

Mike 2026                                               

Words are timeless treasures

 I've walked a million miles in my lifetime. I've sailed the ocean hundreds of miles from land. I rode my Harley on mountain roads and slept under the forest skys. I've told a thousand stories and listened to many more. I've loved and been loved in return and cried tears of joy and sorrow. I saw the miracle of life tenfold and the heartbreak of loss, too many to remember.

I've traveled the globe and seen the wonders of time unfold before my eyes, and I've walked on dusty country roads, seeing crumbling barns once filled with life now lying silent as birds make it their home.

I've accepted old age and give thanks I can remember my youth with clarity. I picture my mom and her gentle ways, and hear my Dad whistling his favorite song on the radio as we, as a family, took Sunday drives with the car windows open, the dust just a part of the drive.

I've tried to remember all that I can by putting words on paper seldom read by anyone but me, but that's okay, as my words are timeless, and one day, one of my great, great grandchildren will discover a box in the attic and spend hours under the light of a full moon discovering who I was.

I suppose if my beliefs are true and I'm able to look upon life in death, then I'll watch that child put pen to paper and begin her journey, following my footprints into her tomorrows, with me as her guide.

Mike 2026                                                 

A walk with pops

 He walked more slowly now, his footing carefully placed, stepping over exposed roots and other hidden obstacles. His grandson walked close to him, ready to catch him if need be. Can you smell the wildflowers he asked, and the rainbow of tulips on both sides of the path? Can you hear the running water from the same stream I swam in as a kid? I do, Pops, I see it all through your eyes.

They stopped by the stream, cupped their hands, drank the cool water, and rested for a minute before moving ahead. I made this walking stick, you know, I found it on a Sunday walk with your mom. True, it's just a stick, but I saw something more than that. I saw the face of an angel, nature-carved, and I had to have it. You can have it when I'm gone.

They were halfway home when they came upon the fire pit, the place where a fire was built, and bones were warmed. A thermos of hot chocolate and a PBJ tasting better than any fast food. I built this pit, he told his grandson. When you were just a gleam in your daddy's eyes. The night air was getting colder by the minute, so they put out the fire and headed home.

Here's the wandering man, Grama said as she helped take off his coat, replaced with a warm blanket she had set near the fireplace. Did you have many adventures she asked. But sleep caught up with him, and there was no answer. He said goodbye to his grama and bent to kiss his pops' forehead, whispering a thank-you for the wonderful day.

As he got into his car and began to drive away, he looked back and saw his pops waving goodbye from the window, probably wondering the same thing he was, as he returned the wave and kept on going.

Mike 2026                                                 

A man and his mountain ways

 Sitting by the fire, he traveled back in time when life was an open book of discovery. He strokes his long white beard and remembers throwing away his razor on his forty-fifth birthday. It was the same year he left the city behind, choosing a life of quiet solitude on a mountain, where wildlife became his friend and the seasons his clock and calendar.

In the quiet night, as the fire spat out tiny sparks of light, it reminded him of headlights down below, where the people of the city blew their horns and yelled at the traffic as if it would matter or make it possible to move a few inches forward.

As he sat in the cold of the night his face warm from the fire he remembered his first time smoking some weed with friends deep in the darkness of the forest where the sounds of nature and a lone guitar filled the air as that sweet smell of pot filled his lungs and opened his mind to the true meaning of what he wanted his life to be.

He could have followed the masses and become another sheep following the rituals of those around him, but his true self couldn't allow that, no matter how hard he tried. He was a solitary man who craved the mountains and forests and the sweet smell of weed filling the air as his imagination ran wild and his spirit soared with the eagles.

At seventy-two years old, he had become a legend in the mountains. His cabin was a welcome station for hikers passing by, who sat by his fire as he passed the pipe around and told them stories of yesteryear, capturing their attention as their minds opened to the true reality of his life and what he had given up by choice.

Years later, a simple wooden cross marked the spot where his cabin once stood. It's said he fought off a grizzly bear but lost. Others said he ventured down the mountain for reasons unknown, made it halfway, sat against a tree, and fell asleep, but never woke up.

I sat by his fire once a long time ago, where he shared the pipe with me, telling stories, some real and others a byproduct of decades smoking the weed he loved so much. I never met such a man whose life was a story many would never read, but he was as real as it gets, and his legend will live on as long as there are those who choose to believe in a mountain man with a very long white beard and a well-smoked pipe.

Mike  2026                       

Spring times arrival

 The smell of Spring's arrival stirs creatures big and small. Reminders of winter's wrath are seen in small patches of snow, holding out, melting into the ground. Nests are made in trees and in the safety of caves and holes. Love fills the air, awaiting the births of new generations.

Tiny buds appear on the trees. They replace the few old leaves that held on through blizzards and frigid temperatures. Now those leaves fall to the ground without fanfare.
It's out with the old and in with the new as rugs are beaten and windows are opened, saying goodbye to stale air and letting in the fresh air, with the scents of nature's rebirth. Soon, the wildflowers will appear, and gentle breezes will scatter their seeds in a palette of colors. The tulip bulbs will burst out of the ground in a rainbow of reds and yellows, some in a vase on the table to be enjoyed.
Brown grass will give way to lush green, and the season's first picnic will be welcomed as family and friends gather beneath the old oak tree, while children run free for the first time since winter's long, dark days.
Tiny cries are heard as the springtime babies are welcomed into the world, always hungry and keeping parents busy gathering enough food for the hunger that never seems to end. The woods are like a symphony of voices as evening approaches, and the insects join the concert, serving as alarms warning of predators nearby.
Rows and rows of fields are plowed and planted, nurtured and tended to in the hope of a bountiful harvest to come. April showers don't disappoint and quench the thirst of parched crops as the kids and the first litter of puppies are introduced to mud puddles, fetching sticks, and rubber balls.
Soon, the wonders of spring will give way to the heat of summer when crops can whither under the sun's glare, and there's never enough water to satisfy all the needs of both man and creatures, who can be seen licking up the last few drops of muddy puddles.
The seasons collide as summer gives way to autumn and bountiful harvests that will be preserved in root cellars for the long winter ahead. Bonfires will be built as neighbors gather, knowing that soon enough the bonfire will fizzle out, only to return when called upon.
Springtime is just a memory now of tiny voices in the woods and all the dazzling colors that remain in your mind as you paint a watercolor that hangs on a wall, and you smile every time you see it alongside the others. knowing that you've once again captured spring and never have to let it go.

Mike 2026                                                   

Bar of heroes

 His ball cap was faded and worn, but he wore it proudly as he had for many years. He bought it at the veterans hospital, where he attended group meetings for ptsd with other vets who marched to the same drummer. Looking around the bar, he noticed other ball caps from all branches of the military, some staring into bottomless glasses in silence, while others talked about their time serving, embellishing their stories in a way that seemed to make them remember just the good times.

It was a military bar, for sure, with every wall space filled with black-and-white photographs of duty stations and ports of call, and shadow boxes filled with patches and medals once proudly worn. In a corner was a table that no one ever sat at, and every man in this place knew the reason.
The barmaid was married to a soldier who never came home many years ago, and she shared that pain with others who bought her shots as she listened to their stories about brothers in arms who had given their lives as so many had. She did so much more than pour drinks and keep the bartop clean; she spoiled them like a mother would do, reminding one not to forget his appointment tomorrow or making sure another had a ride if needed.
There was an air of respect in that bar, especially when an old-timer came in wearing his ball cap that read "Korean war veteran."Or another in a wheelchair pushed by his grandson on leave from boot camp. Glasses were raised and salutes given as they found a place to sit, as plastic chips, good for one drink, piled up in front of them. The barmaid kept bowls of peanuts and pretzels full, happy with her tip jar filling up fast.
Unlike most bars, this one closed at eight o'clock. Taxies were called, and relatives came to take their loved one home, some needing help out, but never a harsh word was spoken as heroes said goodnight and see you tomorrow. He finished his last drink and was heading out when he saw a faded ball cap on a stool. He handed it to the barmaid, who hung it on the wall behind the bar, knowing someone would claim it tomorrow when the doors opened again, and heroes marched in.

Mike 2026                                       

A Fathers love

 A father's love for his children far surpasses any other love. The daughter whom he spoils with no regrets from her first breath to his last. The way she held your finger as the first steps were taken, and how her voice remained in your head when you were apart. A father's love for his daughter continued to grow as she became a teen and a young lady living her life, but always finding time for an ice cream cone with daddy. He smiles as he remembers her as an infant lying on his chest, her little breaths gently rising and falling with his every breath. Tea parties in a chair he barely fit in, and bedtime stories when he caught her staring at him with a smile on her beautiful face. She grew up, and he grew old, but the bond between them never faded; it grew stronger as he watched her dreams come true. Now it's a tea party with chairs he fits and stories from the heart, not a bedtime tale. She was, and always will be, his little girl. He was meant to spoil her with pink canopy beds and princess bikes. She is his reason for wanting to grow old and spoil her daughter, his granddaughter, who looks remarkably like her mom. I read her bedtime stories and see her mom's eyes staring at me, as if it were yesterday, and I fall in love all over again.

A father's love for his son goes beyond toy trucks and baseball games. It's understood that dad is the teacher and the son is the student. Dad becomes larger than life, and every lesson learned is locked away in a vault to be opened only if needed. You smiled as he grew, wanting to dress like you, talk like you, and even walk like you. One memory you held onto was you changing the oil in your truck with him right beside you, lying on the garage floor, handing you the tools you needed, proud of himself for remembering which tool was what. With the job completed, father and son wiped the grease from their hands and went inside, as mom laughed with love, seeing her men covered in oil stains and with two huge smiles. As he grew up and being with dad wasn't always the first choice, he saw some of himself in his son, and pride filled his heart. As a young man, he knew his calling and pursued it until he mastered it, climbing the ladder to success and reaching the top at a very young age. They didn't talk every day because he had a career and two children that kept him busy, but out of the blue, he'd call his dad, catch up on life, and ask if he needed anything. Again, his pride swelled, and his love grew. Time flies past you, and one day you find yourself in need of some help that he gives without thinking about it. You realize that your son has grown up to be a good man, a good dad with a huge heart, and you hold back tears realizing the lessons taught were truly learned, and you couldn't be more proud.

Mike 2026                                              

Memories fading light

 He smiled more when he remembered more than he forgot. It was like a light switch that toyed with him, going on, going off, and that space in between when his mind rested, not by choice.

It was hard work recalling his life, and even harder to keep the memories, as those pesky little memory crashers were always ready to strike again.
Doctors said his advanced stage of memory loss was common, and although there were some medications that may help to slow it down, he chose to let things happen as they would.
I watched him slow to answer questions, but I believed it was because he didn't want to miss anything, and if it took a bit longer, so be it. I often found him outside in the yard, looking left to right and back again, taking baby steps towards the road, but stopping short. He wasnt trying to hurt himself, he just wanted to remember the road, that simple.
Over time, he got worse, but we sat every day, sometimes in silence, letting facial expressions speak for themselves, which eventually became a sort of game between us. A touch to his mouth meant he was hungry. A tug on his ear meant turn up the programs he liked.
At bedtime, I'd hold his hand in mine, the wrinkles like a roadmap of his life, and the realization that the body wears out as the mind does, each fighting to be the last survivor.
At the end, we were holding hands as he slowly went to sleep, hopefully remembering all the memories he fought so hard to remember. He blinked twice, which meant he loved me, and tears fell from both our eyes as his journey was complete.

Mike 2026