The iron maiden

 The sand beneath my feet dared me to keep going, farther from the shore. The sand seemed to go on forever as I ventured deeper. The people on the beach grew smaller. The sounds of the midway fade, then disappear into the sounds of silent waves. The carousel becomes a spinning top, like a child's toy, and disappears into the sand.

The sea now laps at my face, my feet in a scramble with the bottom to see who goes the distance. It's in plain sight now, bobbing to and fro with every swell another inch forward as my lungs begin to burn and fear creeps up.

Another twenty feet and I'll be able to touch the iron maiden as it takes me for a ride on the waves, but remains anchored safely in place as it has a job to do. I climb up on the small platform, waving my arms towards the shoreline, barely making out a small cluster of boys, and I imagine their shouting their approval for my success.

I had to catch my breath and begin my return journey, as the distance was the same and my body was as rested as it would get. I let go of my grip and started swimming until I felt the sand beneath my feet that gently touched down like the first man on the moon.

The sights and sounds of the midway slowly began coming into view through my salt-filled eyes. My boys are still rooting for me, as I was so close to earning my medal of bravery, which was in reality the bottom of a soda can cut off with a dull knife and strung on a piece of old rope. But it was a right of passage and meant a lot to each of us.

I finally reached shore, collapsing on the still warm sand, mostly for effect, as the crowd of young boys vowed to be the next one to swim out to the iron Maden. And back. But today, the bragging rights belonged to me as they hoisted me upon their shoulders, and I proudly showed off my medal for all to see.

Mike 2026           

                                                                                                                                            

Memories of the Junk man

 Many decades ago, as a kid, I'd watch and listen for the junk man coming down our street, walking next to his horse, which he called Barney. A flat-bed trailer, either bursting at the seams with other people's discarded items or almost empty if he hit the wrong street at the wrong time. It was always on a Thursday when the jingling of bells on Barney's collar announced he wasn't far away. JUNK MAN, JUNK MAN hed sing out as people rushed to the wagon with broken tools and discarded toys. Old pots and pans, worn-out shoes, and mismatched linens.

Days before the junk man's arrival, I would scurry about the house asking my mom what we could give to him, and she seemed to always find an item or two that had seen better days. Tarnished silverware and broken tea cups. Rusted milk jugs and cracked clay pots. As his voice grew farther away, Barney's bells went silent, and the junk man headed home.

Home for the junk man and Barney was an old barn that had been in his family for decades, but disaster struck one night when a fire broke out in the house, destroying everything but the barn. His family left, but he remained behind and began filling the barn with items others no longer wanted. As the years went by, he organized the barn into two sections. The first part of the barn was for newly found treasures that needed fixing, and the other half was filled with finished items ready to sell.

Many people stopped in to have a look at the junk man's handy work, some even recognizing something they had disregarded and considered just junk. They'd sometimes spend hours looking at his massive collection as the kids offered Barney an apple or a carrot, and in turn, Barney would nod his head and ring the bells on his collar, to the children's delight.

I don't remember exactly when the bells quit ringing, and Thursdays went by without the song of the junk man. Some say he passed away in his barn, repairing a toaster or putting new tires on a child's bike. Others like myself just believed he got too old, as did Barney, and they passed away together, roaming the streets of eternity with the sound of jingle bells and the call of the junk man.

Mike 2026                                                           

Withdrawal from anxiety meds

 Withdrawal feels like facing down a formidable enemy, even as we pray for God's help to get through it. I never expected to be someone who experienced withdrawal and actually lived to tell the story.

I've taken numerous medications in my lifetime, each addressing issues like blood pressure, prostate, testosterone, and especially anxiety. The anxiety medication, when taken daily, calmed my racing mind and helped control the endless loop of anxious thoughts.

These anxiety medications come in many names, but all with the same promise of defeating the anxiety monsters that lie in wait for the one time you didn't get a refill, and the pharmacy is closed for an extended holiday weekend. The next four days are my story and mine alone as I prepare for the unknowns of withdrawal that's about to slap me in the face, laughing a sinister laugh from the deepest regions of my being.

Day one was doable with just some chills that came and went along with a decrease in food consumption and a creeping feeling that things were going to get worse, much worse. Day two, I found myself going from bed to couch and back again, dozing off for 15-minute intervals, but not resting my mind, which has begun playing a fast-forward version of my thoughts.

Day three, and the devil was fully awake. My skin felt like it had been turned inside out, and my every glance around the room found me looking at non-reality like dancing lamp cords and my dog's hair balls growing legs and scurrying past me seeking a place to hide. At this point, I was fairly certain I wouldn't make it through another day, and the devil would claim victory.

Day four arrived with my mind racing so fast my eyeballs rolled around in my head as I tried to focus on anything other than what was going on inside of me. All I had to do was get through until the mail arrived with my medication. Meanwhile, I became fixated on the wall clock in my living room, with a face that talked and arms and legs that did an Irish jig. I had enough sense left to know it was all in my head and gaining ground quickly, trying to take total control of all my thoughts.

Late on day four, I swallowed my medication finally and lay down on the couch for the devil to leave with his spiked tail dragging behind him in defeat. Not long after, I began to feel like I was once again in control of my thoughts as the medication flowed through my mind and body, and the picture show stopped moving fast forward.

Day five and I'm going about my daily routines as usual, checking out emails and maybe crafting a story for my blog, but within me lies a few remnants of the beast, who I suppose was taking a final bow and vanishing to another someone like me who may have forgotten to refill their meds.

There was nothing funny about what happened to me, and I wouldn't wish it on anybody. It's beyond darkness and without reason or understanding, and all you want is to keep your balance until you're stable again. I never thought at 72 years of age I'd be experiencing a skin worn inside out and the scariest visions I've tried to mask with meds. You can bank on the fact I'll never run out again without some sort of backup plan, like a handful of xnax hidden in a coffee can. And a conversation with my doctor, who's preaching to the choir because I've seen both sides, I'll never forget.

Mike 2026                                        

Story box

 Is it writer's block, or have I just said all I want to say? I've likely used every word combination I know, so maybe this is the final stop for story retirement. But what does one do with over a thousand stories stored away in digital clouds—written, saved, and rarely revisited?

When I began my writing journey, I used paper and pen, doubting I'd ever use a typewriter, and never did. Boxes of stories, all handwritten now, rest with other boxes full of memories and are shoved into an empty space in an already cluttered garage.

I opened a box recently, a smile on my face as I picked something out to read, and instantly remembered where and when I had written it. It was written on a bar napkin, the ink smudged a little from a drink that sat on it. I remember asking the barmaid for a topic and writing something for her. Believe it or not, it was a good pickup line. There were literally hundreds of scraps of paper, even paper bags, and a page from a phone book, all with my words, my stories, and my passion for the written word.

I came across a binder of song lyrics I had written over the years, along with a couple of CDs in demo form, but they never went any further and joined the rest of the forgotten word soldiers in the box of the unread. I've never gone more than a few days without writing something. I had to, was compelled to, and lived for the release of a potential story that was filling my head to the point of exploding. And then came my blog.

A place I could tell stories, most only a few paragraphs depicting fantasy with my own life adventures all rolled up into a neat little story I shared with anyone who would take a minute or two and read them. The years passed, and the stories kept coming almost daily. Hundreds of themes that grew to thousands, but sadly never reached the audience I longed for.

So maybe this is the end of my storytelling, and my keyboard, with well-worn keys, should be put in a box, in a well-deserved resting place among the forgotten stories I had such hopes for. Who knows? Maybe one day my box will be found by a family member clearing out my life's stories, and they will take the time to read them and find themselves right where I wanted them to be.

Mike 2026                                        

A grammar school valentine

 She took the small cardboard heart from the shelf where it had sat gathering dust for a very long time. She wiped the top with her sleeve. Then she opened it. The faint smell of chocolate drifted towards her—another trip down memory lane. Grammar school valentines so many alike, but a certain few were kept as they had more meaning than the school's bully card did. She took a card out of the heart-shaped box from Billy, whom she had the biggest crush on in the fourth grade. She traced his name with her finger, recalling laughter in the schoolyard as he smiled at her, melting her heart.

She knew all the verses on the various cards and other reminders of Valentine's past. A red ribbon she wore in her hair at the school dance, a white handkerchief with a red heart embroidered by her grandmother, and even a couple of candy hearts with simple but memorable words like "Be my valentine," hardly legible anymore.

Then there was the stack of red envelopes postmarked over the years. She always kept them for last as funny valentines were replaced with real letters of love. One by one, she read every word slowly as if it were the first time. He wrote about ports he visited and life on a Navy ship. He professed his love for her in words he had often written on a star-filled night, looking at the sky, knowing she would be looking at them with him as tears fell from her eyes, coming to rest on his own tear-stained words.

Time had taken its toll on the faded letters, just as it had on her heart, when she realized she'd read for the last time, the final expression of love from her childhood crush, Billy. She put the letters back into the heart-shaped box where they'd remain until next year, gathering dust and a few more tears of both sorrow and joy, knowing she was loved when she traced his name on a grammar school Valentine.

Mike 2026                                                 

66 years between them

 There were 66 years between them; her life just beginning, his like sand in an hourglass. He adored her as he did all his grandchildren, near and far. He remembers, as if yesterday, his first grandson, now 21, stealing a part of his heart he had never known. As years passed, more blessings and love arrived with every newborn.

Decades of birthdays and holidays, and hundreds of memories filling his days with special moments, stolen hugs and kisses, and rare moments lying on the floor with coloring books and stickers. It took her a while to warm up to him, but it wasn't his first rodeo, and he knew if he just waited long enough, she'd ask him if he was staying for dinner or going to her school, as she was receiving an award, and would he let her ride with him and stop for a treat?

It never ceased to amaze him the wonders of a child's life as they began to absorb the world around them, wanting answers to countless questions, like where the stars come from or how fish breathe underwater. Their growing minds are starved for knowledge, and they will go to great lengths for answers.

Rides home from school with her brother and endless chatter about who's her friend and who isn't, one sentence spoken with another close behind as her little mind must speak when the thought is there, lest she forget it. Her older brother, now a teen, sits beside her, doting on her and, with great kindness, always answering her questions, no matter how many times she asks. It wouldn't be a proper ride home without stopping at the food mart for a treat, which always meant several trips around the store for a snack and a drink of her favorite juice, while her brother tried to help her select the right treat with patience for his baby sister.

Five minutes of silence as snacks are eaten, and then the questions come back in doubletime. Will you stay with me until mommy gets home? Will you stay for dinner with us? Can we color together? Can we play with my dolls and put makeup on them? So I put on my grandpa hat and wear a cardboard crown left over from a trip to Burger King. She picks out the colored crayons, leaving me with one green one and her with an entire box.

Time flies, and her mommy arrives home, tiny legs running to greet her with papers flying all over as she shows her what she and Poppi had colored. Poppies are green, but mine are all colors. Poppi is staying for dinner, right, Poppi? she asks. He smiles at his daughter, who knows all too well that her child never gives up when she wants something. So an extra plate is set at the table, the coloring books and stickers are put away, and you can bet your last dollar the conversation will be memorable.

Mike 2026                                             

Painted faces

 He stood in a field that is barren now, remembering days long passed when the crowd cheered him as he played the part of a circus clown. He closed his eyes and pictured all the colorful costumes, the stage makeup, and brightly painted wagons he called home. He could hear the barkers and vendors selling their goods just outside of the big top as people lined up for the evening performance.

He saw himself so much younger when he first signed on as a laborer with a wish to become a clown. Time passed, and he held onto his dream, watching and learning from some of the greats, and from one particular clown named Emmitt Kelly. Truly a legend whose inner clown was expressed so quietly that the world could only look in awe at his performance.

More time passed as he worked his way into the clown quarters and was allowed to practice his own makeup and a routine he could call his own. He practiced every day, slowly improving, until the day finally arrived when his name was added to the list of full-time clowns. He wore a happy face and flowered clothes, floppy red shoes, and a purple wig. He wore a horn on a string around his neck that he'd blow at unsuspecting guests who would jump up out of their seats laughing and spilling popcorn to the delight of everyone close by. And they called him Mr. Floppy.

As he stood in the field, memories washed over him, and he saw the faces of the other clowns, without makeup or costumes, just ordinary men trying to express a part of themselves hidden beneath the surface of sometimes-damaged souls. But when the costumes were put on and the makeup painted on their faces, the clowns of the circus came alive. Dancing and jumping around the tent, getting both applause and cries from little ones whose parents might find it hard to get them to sleep that night.

He stood in that field, wondering where everyone could be now. Some had passed while others resided in circus housing, a place where help was given and afternoon performances were put on, with shaking hands, putting on makeup, and wigs, ready one more time to entertain. The beep of the van's horn signalled it was time to leave, as he took one more look at where the once majestic big top once stood. He breathed in the smells of peanuts and cotton candy and saw the human cannonball fly away into the clouds he had always pursued.

Come on, Mr. Floppy, the driver yelled. We have a show to put on. hed almost forgotten that every other Thursday, the remaining clowns of the greatest show on earth would visit a children's home where, in full costumes, they would make balloon animals, toot their horns, and throw candy into waiting hands. It meant the world to the children, but also gave the tired old clowns one more chance to paint on a happy face.

Mike 2026

                                                            

Butter yellow home

 Springtime finally arrived in all its colors, splashed against a backdrop of green, as children once again rode their bicycles. The ringing of handlebar horns—pink and blue—filled the air. Some showed off Christmas bikes, while others found the nearest mud holes to christen their mighty steeds.

Springtime meant mom opening every window in the house and shaking the winter's dust outside, where it belonged, as Dad took inventory in his shed, preparing to paint the house a butter-yellow that mom insisted was the best choice.

Snow shovels were put away, replaced with hoes, rakes, and sprinklers, with great expectations of a bountiful harvest. Mom let us reach into her apron pockets, and each of us removed a packet of seeds to plant and nurture throughout the coming months.

Snow tires were replaced with good-weather tires, and dad changed the oil in the car they'd had as long as anybody could remember. It was grandpa's car at one time, but he bought it second-hand and handed it down to dad when his eyesight was almost gone. As it turned out, it was fifty-some years old, but you'd never know it. It's a classic, Dad would say, and someday it will be a collector's dream car.

April brought showers and summer sweltering heat that made tending the garden a chore, but also the promise of keeping it alive and thriving. Late spring brought baseball games at the town park, where families brought picnic lunches, spread out on a blanket of red-and-white checkers, some watching the game while others read books or played with the young children whose energy knew no bounds.

Spring gave way to summer, then to autumn, with a freshly painted house and a garden ready for harvest. Baskets overflowed with vegetables, each of us proud of ourselves for the promises fulfilled. But one thing we didn't plan for was the biggest pumpkin anyone had ever seen. We thought it would stop growing, but week after week it doubled in size and became a contender at the county fair, where it took first place in the two-hundred-and-twenty-pound giant category.

Winter made itself known in the wee hours of a December day, covering the land around them in a blanket of white, where bicycles were buried and some not found for weeks. Snow tires were put on, and shovels replaced the hoes. Colored lights of Christmas were strung again, and snowmen popped up all over the place as Mom kept asking where all the carrots had disappeared to.

Life is a circle that always comes around, filled with memories of family and friends and everyday acts of love and kindness. Its promises made and promises kept, its wonder and joy, and watching as everything and anything grows before your eyes, and that's how I see it all from the porch of my butter-yellow home.

Mike 2026                                                     

The elusive trading card

 The ice-cold bottle of Coke crashed down the chute and came to rest at his fingertips. He pried off the cap, lifted the bottle, and drank, bubbles sliding down his throat. Three quick slugs emptied it. He placed it with the other empties in the wooden case. Though he could have drunk another, he saved his last change for baseball cards.

It was a short walk to the comic store where the cards were also sold and hed been keeping an eye out for the next delivery that was due in today. He was greeted by a few of his friends, all gathered in front of the store, their change jingling in their pockets, anticipating finding a rare, very collectible card. And even though their chances weren't good, their spirits ran high; maybe one of them would.

Finally, the mail truck pulled up. The driver, holding a box no bigger than a breadbox, walked past them and set it on the counter, where the shopkeeper opened it and took out the stack of wrapped cards. Once good buddies, now like ravens fighting over roadkill, they pushed and shoved to be first in line.

What seemed like an eternity a minute ago became mere seconds as wrappers were dropped to the floor and each card looked at with great hopes of finding that one card, but only finding a small flat piece of bubblegum and players they already had. Sorry, boys, the shopkeeper said as the boys shuffled out of the store toward the park bench, where they traded cards for ones they didn't have.

Each of the boys had a couple of coins, not enough to buy one more pack, but if they pooled their change, they had just enough for one more pack. It was a race back to the store, where, along the way, they swore a blood oath that if that one special card was in the pack, they'd take turns holding on to it forever.

They plopped their change on the counter, and the shopkeeper set the last of the new cards on the counter where the boys just stared at it, knowing and believing this was the pack they sought. They decided on rock, paper, scissors to see who would be the lucky one to open the pack. It was Bobby who won the honor as he slowly opened the pack, as all eyes were on the pictures of familiar players, but once again, not the card they sought. Bobby split the flat piece of bubblegum among them as they left the store, popping bubbles and racing to the ball park, hoping to see the mid-day game with players still climbing the ladder to the big leagues, and who knows, maybe their own cards someday.

That one card was never found, and the boys grew up with sons of their own who, on any given Saturday, could be found opening trading-card packages and fighting over the flat piece of bubblegum. I suppose some things are just too good to let go of.

Mike 2026                                                 

The power of written words

 I find writing more effective than speaking for sharing my feelings. Writing lets me express myself in a form I can keep and revisit. Spoken words fade, but written words remain, providing a lasting reminder that's always there when summoned.

When I think about life, my words come naturally, and writing lets every thought and feeling be preserved, ready to revisit.

I am inspired to write rather than speak my emotions about everyday occurrences, leaving a lasting impression that touches me in one way or another, and remains in limbo until called upon to put it into meaningful written words.

For many years, I spoke the words to audiences of eager young adults who craved the next sentence I spoke like eager beavers hanging on every word they would retain to be used in their professions. Then, like a light switch, I stopped speaking and began writing.

I realized I had so much more to say when I let the pen do the talking, and all I had to do was supply the concept, and the words flowed. Now, three books and 1000 blogs later, I continue to write about anything and everything my mind and heart want me to write.

I'm still in awe at the volumes of stories I've penned, and I never lose sight of the gift given to me. In reality, written words come to be through my imagination and heartfelt memories, which only come to life through my pen and a blank sheet of paper.

Mike 2026                                                        

The racer in me

 It was 1969, and I was 15 years old when my dad purchased a 1969 Ford Mustang convertible—burgundy with a black interior. With its three-speed floor shifter and 289 HP engine, the car cost $2,800.00 off the showroom floor.

I learned to drive in that car, sometimes switching off to my mom's 1966 Chevy Impala, but my driving scared her too much to continue, so the Mustang it was. I got my license in the dead of winter, and anyone who experienced a driver's test on icy roads and snow blindness knows all too well how difficult that was for the instructor and me.

Little did I know that just a year and a half later, I'd be trading in the asphalt for a destroyer in the United States Navy. Just 17 years old with an option to either join up or be carted in front of a judge for possession of a bag of pot my dad found in the glovebox of his Mustang, a stupid thing to do  on my part, to say the least.

I spent four years on that tin can and was finally discharged in South Carolina, where I purchased my first Harley-Davidson motorcycle from a guy heading out to sea and had no further use for it. It was a 1959 Road King that needed some TLC, but it was doable. I rode that bike all the way to upstate New York, taking my time to see the sights and enjoy life on the road, where I met many people living their dream of communing, while others like myself chose the open road and the adventures it brought.

At 22, I bought a 1963 Chevy Impala Super Sport. With the money earmarked for college, but that was not in my plans. The Impala had a 327 cubic inch engine with a four-speed on the floor and some hidden items that would prove useful when I street raced it on Friday nights under the lights. I recall my first time racing it up against a 1955 Chevy with a blower, and god knows what else, but it was a beast to say the least.

The flag was lowered, and all I can remember is my Impala front wheels coming off the ground as I did my best to keep it in my lane. The fireblowing Chevy was inches behind me and sure to win until I mashed the nitro button, and with a trail of fire, I crossed the finish line to applause from my friends in the stands.

I continued racing and building cars, and the track became my second home. I taught both my son and my daughter to drive, each with the same passion for speed I had. We were on the road a lot, going from one race to another, and doing well enough until a major sponsor approached me, and just like that, we were in the big league.

Time raced past me, and after a wreck that left me with a broken neck, I retired from racing but never far away from it as I became my kids' manager. They went on to become well-known in the racing world, earning a comfortable life and fulfilling their need for speed.

Me, you ask. Well, I found a 1932 Willys, a car I'd dreamed about when I was a kid. It was in the fields along a long, winding country road, rotting away, until I towed it home and began the task of putting it back to its original glory. It took me three years to complete, with the goal of one day racing it against any fire-breathing monster who dared to race me.

Rolling up to the starting line, both my kids were assisting me and cheering me on as the tree lit up green and my willys jumped off the ground and disappeared down the strip all alone with no other car in sight. I deployed the chute and coasted to the end of the field, where I was pushed back to the staging area, and screaming fans who had just witnessed the fastest time ever on that track.

I never raced that car anymore, but I sat in it more times than I can remember. reliving that first and last race that forced me into retirement, to the joy of my wife, who, although scared every time I buckled in, waiting for the green light, sat in the stands, hands clenched, silently cheering me on.

Mike  2026                               

A dance token

 People saw him as just another old man staring into space, when in reality, he was reliving memories. Now, standing on a busy street corner, he remembered what it looked like decades ago—when youth and love were blossoming, the war had ended, and the dream of a bright future was within their grasp. As the crowd brushed past him, he saw her in his mind, young and beautiful, a smile on her face and love in her heart as they walked to the courthouse to be married.

Sixty years later, he looked up at a rooftop restaurant where they once dined. The building looked the same, although others had surrendered to the wrecking ball. The city had grown, and changes occurred before his eyes as he stepped off the curb with the crowd heading to one last stop.

The windows were boarded up, and the doors padlocked as he approached the old dance hall where they danced the nights away when each song played by the band found a place in their hearts to be called upon when memories were all he had left to remind him of her.

He could be seen on any given day roaming around the city, just another old man in an outdated coat and dancing shoes. Looking into windows, hoping for a reminder of her, like the old drugstore with a display of her favorite perfume in the window. The clerk seemed disturbed as he counted out the change from his pocket, coming up fifty cents short. He reached into another pocket and set a silver dance token on the counter, claiming it was worth so much more.

The night air was cold as he headed back to his modest home, where they lived for decades, although he admitted she kept a much neater home. He took the perfume from the bag and sat down. Very slowly, he let the mist hang in the air long enough to picture her there beside him, spraying the mist everywhere she said she wanted to be kissed.

Old age has no expiration date, no less feelings of wanting to be loved and remembered, just bits and pieces of dancing the night away with that special person, and a favorite perfume purchased with a dance token, and the need to remember.

Mike 2026                                             

Fresh paint

 He spotted the rusted remains of his son's scooter covered with spider webs and a hundred stories waiting to be told. He remembered the day he brought it home for his 7th birthday, all shiny and new, with a blue bow and colorful streamers, as he stood, frozen in the moment, alongside his wife, who had saved the pennies to buy it.

In another part of the cluttered garage, he spotted his daughter's bicycle, much in the same condition as the scooter. She had to have a pink bicycle, and he remembered how difficult that was, since every pink bicycle in town was sold out for Christmas. But that didn't stop him as he drove a hundred miles in all directions, stopping at every toy store and bicycle shop he could find, and each one telling him they were sold out. With all options gone, he had an idea.

He bought a blue bike, which there were plenty of for some reason, and four cans of pink spray paint, which he used to turn blue into pink. He didn't skip a single spec of blue as he carefully disassembled the bike down to the frame and prepped it for the paint job. He had painted his own bikes when he was younger, and it came right back to him with the final result being a world-class paint job. The years passed, and young girls grew up, as did young boys. Their interests weren't pink bicycles and scooters anymore, and that's how they ended up tucked away in the garage, where one day his grandchildren would be surprised when a freshly painted scooter and pink bicycle rolled out of the garage, ready for the joys of being a kid, just one more thing to smile about.

Mike 2026                                         

Days of my youth

 If I could go back to the days of my youth, I'd try to relive every happy moment, both big and small. I remember going for a haircut with my dad on a Saturday morning, holding his hand as we crossed the street to the soda fountain. There, he looked at me the way only a father does and told me I could have anything I wanted, but not to tell Mom.

I'd go back to Sunday drives, pulling over and having a picnic by the side of the road, the peaceful sounds of nature, far from the noises of man. We'd leave the car unlocked because back then, people were honest, and the bad guys didn't exist. We would walk in the fields and gather wildflowers that mom would take home and display as a reminder of our day.

I'd go back to a first crush, when we found ourselves holding hands as I walked her home from school, and stole my first kiss quickly so her mom wouldn't see out the window. All the way home, I'd taste her lips and walk on clouds knowing I'd see her tomorrow.

Throughout my youth, I loved and was loved in return. The love of parents ,siblings, and a grandmother who taught me the old ways of doing things, I remember to this day. Aunts and uncles, cousins, all who had an impact on me throughout my life.

And then one day, I don't know which, I was a young man who was too cool to be seen with my parents and wanted nothing to do with almost everybody. I retreated into my world, a world of outdoor concerts and long hair I refused to cut. A world of defiance and rebellion that ended when I was sworn into the Navy by my own father after a bag of pot was discovered in my sock drawer.

The days of my youth became my memories that filled my heart with the simple things I realized I needed to be reminded of so they wouldn't sail away on the wings of time.

The days of my youth are long gone now, and memories fade. Photographs are left in a book gathering dust as smartphones capture anything they want, spilling out like gumballs from an antique dispenser long forgotten.

If I could go back to my youth, I'd capture as much as possible and never let go of the people, places, and things that shaped my life in ways only they could. If only I knew that back then.

Mike 2026                                              

The red wagon

 He was a lanky man, quick to smile at everyone he met. In his prime during the 1930s, he dreamed big, always chasing get-rich-quick schemes. Often, it was the bottle talking as he sat at the table, his mother glowing as he described his next big score.

He tried several jobs, but most were terminated for sleeping in the night before and arriving late to work. He tried selling insurance and new and used cars, but all ended up taking a back seat to his priority: the drink.

He came from a circus family and quickly grew to love it, a chip off the old block, as his dad was a circus band leader and his mom walked the tightrope. They traveled from town to town, setting up in vacant fields, where he was tasked with setting up and taking down the big tent. Nobody knew exactly how many days of work he missed, but he was often found sleeping it off under a circus wagon, which led to him being fired, again.

He wandered aimlessly across the states, always with a smile and a promise to do a good job, but the booze ruled his life, and before he died of a bad liver, he went back home to live with his mother and memories of his dad. It was then that he came across a 1930s food truck abandoned in a field. Immediately, he knew what he wanted to do. All he needed was someone to believe in his dream as he did, and his mom agreed to lend him the money if he promised her he would stop drinking.

He was a guy who worked with his hands and his vision, fixing what he could and figuring out the rest through trial and error. He painted the truck bright red and painted the name on both sides. When it came time to outfit the inside, his skills shone as much as the stainless sinks and countertops he designed himself. He went to auctions and bought a cotton candy machine, a peanut roaster, and a hot-dog-and-burger grill. He found a soda fountain at the curb and took it home, where he fixed it like new. He searched for the elusive candy apple machine without any luck until he visited the county fair and played poker with the workers. When everybody cashed out, it was just him and the candy apple vendor.

He probably cheated, but he didn't much care, as he talked the vendor into putting up the candy apple machine, which the vendor reluctantly did, and then lost. With that secure in the truck, he was ready to hit the road and live his dream. He traveled with carnivals and fairs, doing great business, and for the first time in a long time, he was sober and making money. But like many things in life, he fell off the wagon and often found himself alone in his truck after the fairs closed down and left him behind.

Years later, the little red wagon, faded red with vines growing in the wooden-spoked wheels, came to rest next to his mother's house, where it remained until a passerby noticed it and its potential. He sold it to that passerby for pennies on the dollar, enough to keep him in whiskey for a few months, when he developed liver cancer and passed away at 44 years old.

To this day, you'll still see the little red wagon at county fairs and carnivals across the land, the smell of hot dogs and burgers cooking, and the smiles on children's faces as they bite into a candy apple.I like to think he's looking down at his vision, proud of what he did and sorry for what he didn't.

Mike 2026                                                          

The view from my world

 Looking out the window on a damp, gloomy day, I see my little space on the earth below me. Rainwater flows down the sides of the street. A little boy's toy boat lay capsized without a captain, and the chalk of the hopscotch game washed away.

Meanwhile, outside, a few children in bright yellow raincoats and rubber boots jump in puddles and sail paper boats downstream, which are quickly sucked into a drain.

A pet lover braves the rain to walk their dog, begging it to hurry along as cats take shelter under the porch.

I retreat from my window and pick up the book I started during the last storm, dressed in the robe gifted to me by my daughter, who claims I shouldn't live alone anymore.

I'm far from being alone, more like a spectator watching from a second floor as the circus below me must go on. There are animals and clowns in yellow raincoats, show dogs and feats of bravery everywhere I look, as props float away only to be retrieved when the gloom turns to light.

What a difference a day makes as I wake to sunny skies and fluffy clouds. The once-moving water has dried up, leaving behind a rubber boot and a box of waterlogged chalk turned to liquid colors. I'll venture outside and sit on the porch to listen to the sounds I couldn't hear from my window. Kids' laughter, dogs barking, and finally the sound of the ice cream man, and a quarter burning a hole in the pocket of my robe.

Mike 2026                                                    

Emergence of spring

 Another almost-invisible speck of green poked through the remaining snow. She knelt beside it, wanting to touch it, but refrained as its delicate stalk danced in the gentle breeze. There were signs of spring everywhere she looked, in the trees, where once bare limbs shivered in the cold, now slowly warm themselves with hundreds of baby leaf blankets.

Her walk finds her at the river's edge, where the ice has melted for the most part, allowing the streams to flow with purpose as she cupped her hands and drank the ice-cold water. In the distance, a newborn bird screams its song for its mother, who's never too far away, gathering food to fill their empty stomachs.

She had walked a good distance from her home and knew it wouldn't be long before her mom called out to her to come inside for a warm bowl of soup. She had another look at the magic of spring that surrounded her house, wondering how many more tiny miracles would appear overnight as she slept.

The morning brought the color green everywhere she looked, as if the warmth had arrived overnight and taken the snow away for another year. Splashes of color from the tulip bulbs planted in the autumn burst into an artist's palette of reds, yellows, and white, rising from hidden places known only to her.

It was her special place, with sights she had longed for amid the endless cold of winter's fury. Her love for the outside, where animals ran free, and time was measured by hunger pains. Her vision of living in the forest was etched in her mind: chasing fireflies in mason jars and never forgetting her role as a caretaker of nature. It was her calling, and the forests listened to her every word.

Mike 2026                                                            

Witch of the woods

 I remember as a kid, the dusty dirt road beneath my feet as I kicked a can, sunlight shimmering through the thick afternoon air. I was on my way home from school the final day before summer vacation, my mind ablaze with dreams of endless, golden afternoons and the sweet freedom of long, hot summer days. Hopefully, none of my buddies would have to attend summer school, and we could all explore the woods and the river, where a cool dip was always welcome. The four of us parted ways at the four corners, each headed home except for me. I went inside the old country store my granddad built some fifty years ago, the squeaky screen door announcing my arrival. Granddad was getting along in years, and we all knew that when he passed on, the old store would be gone. It hadn't turned out a profit in a long time, but the family didn't have the heart to tell him as he perched on his stool reading a newspaper; he'd already read several times. Hey, boy, he would say here to help, are you? Yes, sir, I'd answer, grabbing a broom and sweeping the floor, and stocking the almost empty shelves with the same cans that have sat on those shelves long after the date of expiration. When I was done, he put a dime on the counter, never looking up from his newspaper, as I left with the squeaky door announcing my departure.

Summer meant hot days and warm nights, both of which we'd take advantage of camping out in the woods and swimming in the cool water of the river. We'd follow the train tracks and explore just far enough to make sure we got back to camp before the darkness set in and the woods became a scary place. We'd take turns telling ghost stories and legends as we sat around the campfire, roasting hot dogs on sticks. One such folklore was the story of the old witch who lived deep in the woods, who boiled kids in a huge black iron pot if she caught them snooping around her cottage. Last summer, we made a blood promise to sneak up to her windows and look inside, scared to death of what we'd find. Like most times when an important task had to be done, we would draw straws or sticks to see who got the glory this time around. I'll admit I felt a little sick when I drew the shorts. But a Pac was a Pac, and early the following morning, we began the search for the old cottage in the woods.

As we ventured deeper into the woods, the smell of something sweet filled the air. The smell we surmised was kids being cooked alive in a sticky mess. My heart was in my throat, my hands shaking as I left behind my buddies hiding next to a fallen tree, as I got on my belly and crept ever closer to the sickening sweet smell. Then I saw it, an old cottage covered with vines that almost blended into the woods itself, alone and untouched for who knew how long. Smoke rose from the chimney, and horrible thoughts were too much to bear. My buddies egged me on, so I continued closer until I reached the rickety steps of the porch, and as quietly as possible, I looked into a window, and there she was. Dressed all in black, her long white hair tied up with black ribbons. I gasped just loud enough to see her look intently out of the window as my face twitched with fear, and I took off running as fast as I could, racing past my buddies and screaming as loud as I could to run and not look back. I wasn't proud of myself, especially since I soiled my pants.

That evening, around the table, my mom sensed something was wrong with me and asked me questions about my day... I assured her everything was fine. Once dinner was over, my dad set out four pieces of golden foil on the table, each with a wrapper that read "Aunt Tilly's Chocolate." One for each of you, he smiled, unwrapping it and claiming it was the best chocolate he'd ever had. Where did you get this, my mom asked. Believe it or not, at grandad's store. I stopped in to check on him just as a woman in black, carrying a basket adorned with flowers, left the store. On the counter were twelve foil-wrapped pieces of candy, well, actually eleven, as granddad was making fast work of the other amazing piece of chocolate. Dad went on to say that her name is Aunt Tilly and that she'd been making chocolate for decades, alone in her cottage, doing what she loved best: bringing smiles to children and adults alike. Granddad said she was his first vendor when he opened his store, arriving with the squeaky screen door and leaving it creaking after she left. We kids, learned a lesson or two, but it took growing a little more to believe what we were told. We continued to recon the cottage and eventually got up the nerve to knock on her door, where she'd be waiting with four extra-large chocolate bars that we enjoyed on the walk back home. Time passed, and Aunt Tilly passed away doing what she loved best. As for me, I bought the rights to her recipes and mass-produced her chocolate bars, eventually becoming the king of chocolate.

Mike 2026                                          

Moments in time

 I remember, as a child, taking slow walks with my grandma to the end of the driveway, which seemed endless when I was just learning to walk. I clung to her thumb as she steadied my unsteady steps, her gentle voice guiding me toward the world ahead.

I remember being a child, and my own superhero, spending countless hours as the Lone Ranger, Superman, a crusty pirate, and the lion in The Wizard of Oz. My backyard, the stage; my imagination, the script.

There was no money for fancy costumes, but improvisation came in the form of old bed sheets, a broomstick, and a small trash lid that, when tied around my waist, served nicely for my body armor. Granddad showed me how to make a pirate hat using a paper bag that he folded in creases, then another one until it fit me perfectly.

I remember the Fourth of July challenge of climbing the big tree in our yard, which was a rite of passage for the older cousins. Their reward was watching the fireworks displays across the town and beyond from their perch high in the tree. I dreamed about the time it would be me inching up through the branches, each step a challenge mixed with an abnormal amount of fear.

I remember walking in the fields of corn, hearing my dad say, " Knee high by the fourth of July, and all is looking good. But it was his knee-high, not mine, as I struggled to keep up with him. Looking as far as the eye could see at the endless rows of corn, I was beginning to feel trapped, so he hoisted me upon his shoulders and slowly continued our quest.

I remember endless summer days playing baseball with the neighborhood kids on the town field that doubled for an ice rink in winter. We used worn-out berlap sacks stitched together and filled with sand as bases, and the biggest thrill of all was getting to wear a uniform. The woman held baked good sales and other crafts to raise the money for the uniforms, which made you feel like the real deal when you stepped off the bus at your first away game.

I remember going to mass at the most amazing church right in the middle of town. Walking through the heavy wooden doors that creaked whenever opened or closed and made a distinct thudd when fully closed. I was baptized there, received my first communion, and attended funerals too many to remember. It was the only time I saw my dad cry.

I remember the kindness of strangers who helped when help was needed. I remember the switchboard operator who knew your name and the fireman who blew the horn as they passed you by. I remember getting caught stealing a piece of bubble gum while shopping with my mom, who made me give it to the biggest policeman I'd ever seen.

I remember making popsicles in ice cube trays and Kool-Aid, and catching earthworms at night when the grass was damp. I go back in time, remembering everything that ever meant something to me, and I hold on tight to all of them as I walk down the driveway in my dreams, letting go of Grandma's thumb at the end and moving toward a life filled with cherished moments.

Mike 2026                                        

Last line untied

 When the wind stirs my hair, and the sea's scent soothes me, I'll know it's time to close my eyes.

And when the last rope has been untied, and the bow points west, I too will set with the sun.

Then, when the darkness falls, and the sea is illuminated by the green of Neptune's breath and the feel of a mermaid's kiss on my face, I'll know I've come home.

If a gust rocks my boat or a squall tips me into the sea, I won't flounder but surrender to its power as I slowly am guided to depths only ever known by those who went before me.

I hope it's a sailing ship that spots my boat adrift in a now calm sea as they search for me with no success. They line the deck and salute a brother of the sea who's gone home to a place all sailors wish to be when the last line is untied, and the bow points West.

Mike 2026                                                 

Love letters from the sea

 As the sun rises and the ship moves forward, I feel the ache of missing you on a cold winter day. I picture you wrapped in a blanket, gazing out the window, longing for the warmth of our shared daydreams.

I man the rail as salt spray wakes me. A pod of dolphins plays nearby. I close my eyes and see you brush your hair, wearing one of my sweaters, and pausing to breathe in my scent.

Life at sea is a lonely place where the sirens of the mermaids call out, beckoning you to Neptune's kingdom, a place where the giant turtles and spotted whales protect this underwater castle and its king.

You're suddenly awakened by the ship's bell announcing breakfast in the galley, and, briefly, you think of her having her breakfast of tea and biscuits at a table meant for two; a stack of letters remains sealed on my side of that table.

I'll be gone for 18 months, and I promised I'd write every day, and I did. Over 500 letters I penned and mailed, arriving at their destination, I called home and you. I close my eyes again, watching as you open one letter, reading it over and over, written with salty tears, and read with the same as her teardrops fell upon my own.

Life on a ship with secret destinations and delayed mail services sometimes backed up for weeks, even months, but eventually made it home to her, fifty or more on any given day. She marked each letter with a number from 1 to 500, using the postmarks to make sure she read them in order, then neatly piled them on the table for two, where she would open number 1 and read it over and over again, then place it in a box to be shared when you steamed back home on a cold winter's day.

I returned to port and was granted a two-week leave before heading back out to sea. I spotted her in the crowd and dropped my seabag on the deck, running to meet her halfway as our bodies collided in a warm embrace, our tears flowing like those of one more mermaid splashing me goodbye until the next time I ventured out to sea.

We never finished reading the rest of the letters that spoke of my love for her, the memories we've shared, and the deepest emotions we shared with the flesh. Now I leave again on a springtime day when flowers bloom, and robins sing. When one last time waking up next to each other, a stack of love letters from the sea on both sides of the table meant for two.

Mike 2026                                  

The little things

 It's the little things that bring the greatest joy in life: the sound of a baby's sigh as their eyes meet yours for the first time, or the sight of your child climbing a tree. Each step upward brings him closer, in his mind, to reaching the stars.

The smallest things offer pause, quiet moments, and a stillness that lasts a lifetime. Listen to raindrops on a tin roof, watch water spatter as children leap into puddles, their laughter endless and full of joy.

Watching the flicker of a candle's shadow and the joy of creating hand figures dancing on the wall. It's your dog, his head on your chest, syncing heartbeats as one.

It's staring out a window, watching the street below come alive with a game of stick ball, hopscotch, and marbles. It's the dropping of the sticks and marbles gathered up and put into pockets of worn jeans as the sound of the ice cream truck turns down your street, and that obnoxious song you've played in your mind long after the truck was gone.

Joy is captured in pictures hanging on the walls of homes where time is measured by years gone by, and love remains in every smiling face that looks back at you.

Joy is happiness stored within you and remains there until summoned to be felt and remembered again. Such a small word to carry so much meaning for so many pictures in your heart.

Mike 2026                                     

Rewind time

 In a world devoid of respect, I want to rewind time. I'll keep growing a salt-and-pepper beard and let my hair grow until I'm unrecognizable.

Whether on a boat sailing the oceans or in a cabin in the forest among creatures, I seek freedom and connection with nature. I pursue new tattoos as expressions of my journey and keep the memory of my Harley alive.

I'll give my eyes and ears a break from world news, which seems harder and harder to believe. Aren't they capable of showing you what they want you to believe with AI? Of course they are.

I'll close all social accounts and sites, leaving behind a very small footprint. Only a very limited number of people will have to find me. Some will call me unhinged, and I suppose there's truth in that. Being 72 years old has allowed me to feel and remember countless changes in this world. Watching as a simple life with faith in God and Country has become something forgotten in a history lesson, and the previous chapter has no dust.

I will meditate and pray for inner peace, something that tiptoed away from me but wants to return. I will sit by a river and watch the tall weeds sway to the music of the winds, and walk on a white-sand beach as the sun sets, with crashing waves as the only sound.

A cleanse of both mind and body, a float in a salt bath in the ocean, splashing me around where she pleases until I'm coated with salt like a fish waiting to be fried. Rinsed by the rain and dried by the sun, both body and mind free of yesterday's trials.

I choose neither left nor right, nor weak nor strong, just peace and quiet, walking or skipping somewhere, my written words are all I hear within the sounds of nature's heartbeat.

I will rewind in time if only in my dreams.

Mike 2026                               

First above ground pool

 As a boy on summer vacation, I got to sleep in a little, but not too much. It was usually the sounds of a Saturday morning that woke me. The roar of a distant lawnmower, cars being washed, the radio playing top hits, and sometimes my buddies throwing pebbles at my bedroom window. Come on, Mikey, they'd shout, get your but up, we got stuff to do today, remember? If we had our way, every day would come with something to do and stuff to see. But this particular Saturday was the day my uncle's toy store introduced its line of outdoor above-ground swimming pools in three sizes. They held a lottery of sorts to be one of 15 kids who could swim in all three pools. But just because they were my uncles, my chances were as good as any kid's. Turned out my luck wasn't with me that Saturday, but the next Saturday was, as the delivery truck from my uncle's store pulled up to my house, where my dad and a helper set up the first above-ground pool in our neighborhood. You've heard the expression 'watching ink dry, well, that's what we did as the garden hose slowly filled the pool, and wrinkles were flattened as the weight of the water smoothed the bottom. It was about noon when watching it slowly got boring, until we heard what turned out to be a buddy of my dad's, a fireman, pull up to our house and greet everyone. Thought maybe we could make a deal, he told my dad. I'll fill your pool in a matter of minutes in exchange for a swim. Deal, my dad said, and the fireman made good on his end and filled the pool to the top in fifteen minutes. I'll be back for that swim, he told my dad when the water warms up a little. With that, he was gone, the pool filter and ladder were in place, and we were told to go ahead and have fun. I don't remember whose screams were the loudest, mine or my buddy's, as we hit the icy-cold water that turned our lips purple and made our skin feel like a popsicle. But I can say this: we got out just as fast as we got in. We should have listened to the fireman.

As we got older, and the pool did too, it was decided that it wasn't cost-effective anymore, with numerous patches and always a pinhole leak everywhere you looked. We drained our memories onto the grass that flowed to the street and vanished, leaving us feeling a little sad. How many games of Marco-Polo? How many alone times with your girlfriend or late nights under the backyard lights? How many nieces and nephews were taught to swim, and how many backyard picnics were held while kids swam, with parents keeping a sharp lookout?  As the decades passed and the backyard pool was just a memory, I sometimes drive by the old house and the garden where the pool once stood, and I can hear those words, "Marco-Polo," and slowly drive away.

Mike 2026                                                     

The tavern

 His tavern was wedged between two other buildings overlooking the Erie Canal. Like many stores and bars, it had an apartment upstairs. Sometimes the owner lived there. Sometimes it was rented. Most renters believed the noise from the bar below would not bother them. In most cases, it did.

The tavern, as he liked saying, was as close to an old west tavern as you could get, except there was no place to tie up your horse. The inside was built with dark oak, and the bar rail was brass. There was even a spitoon close to the bar, but it was mostly missed by patrons with a lousy aim.

It was 1969 now, and 1939 when he first opened for business. His wife helped out tending bar, in the beginning, as the men would much rather see a pretty face than his ugly mug. It was a typical neighborhood tavern, with some memorable characters who walked in when their shifts at the box factory ended. And much like the television sitcom Cheers, when a regular walked in, the entire place would greet him by name.

When the war started, and thousands of men enlisted in 1939, the box factory converted to making ammunition boxes. The women worked in the factories, and the tavern became a gathering place to share stories from their men overseas. Every Saturday, he hired a piano man, and every man who couldn't serve, usually because of age or a medical issue, danced to the music with the ammo girls, as they were known.

For seven long years, he tried to keep the doors open, but with the men gone, paying the bills proved almost impossible, so he began serving a fish fry dinner on Fridays. When the word got out, people from several neighborhoods came to try out what everyone said was the best fish fry anywhere. There was a long line to get in, and the kitchen couldn't keep up with the demand. But they made it happen every Friday, long after the war was over and the men came home.

For the next twenty-some years, he continued the Saturday dance and the Friday fish frys, now a legend around the surrounding neighborhoods. A lot of the old timers still came through the doors and were greeted by the others as always, but times were changing: fancy nightclubs opened with flashing lights and live bands, and the cover charge to get in paid for the overhead, with every drink sold pure profit.

In 1970, he announced he would close the tavern and sell the building. On the last night, the place was full of many familiar faces, some in wheelchairs, others needing assistance, as they bellied up to the bar one last time. His granddaughter showed up with a carfull of friends, as did other younger people who had heard about the legendary tavern and wanted to see it before it was gone. Little did he know that one new face in the crowd had an idea of buying the place and turning it into a replica of a 1939 tavern. But with upgrades to bring it into this century.

It turned out he did sell the tavern, and for a huge amount of money that would be used to build a little place on the lake. They were happy there, but they missed the old tavern and the people who passed through the door. So they decided to attend the Friday fish fry. When they entered the door, a chorus of greetings filled them with pride, and a few tears quickly wiped away as they greeted old friends and a new breed of much younger customers. His wife nudged him, pointing to a large portrait hanging behind the bar of him and his wife with the date they were the owners.

As for the tavern itself, it still smelled like fish and cigarettes, and that spittoon was still at the end of the bar but was very rarely used. The beautiful oak woodwork looked like it did when he and some friends built the place back in 39. The old wooden barstools remained, but with cushions. Behind the bar were neon lights, and a stage was set up for live music. He and his bride of fifty-some years danced to the song " I'll Be Seeing You, " bringing back a time when nobody knew what tomorrow would bring.

That would be the last time he visited his tavern as he and his wife returned to their lake house, where he passed away peacefully in his sleep at 90 years of age, with the first flyer advertising the Friday fish fry on his lap. His beloved wife followed close behind, passing just six months later. It was 1990 something, and the old building was torn down, along with others, to make way for a shopping mall. I drive past the mall on occasion, remembering the crowds waiting in line for the fishfrys and the ammunition girls awaiting news from the front lines. I hear the greetings calling out the names of people coming in, and if I think hard enough, I see him laughing with customers, a bar towel hanging from his shoulder to wipe down the bar with every drink he serves.

The dark woodwork and brass rail gone, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer just a memory. Time moves ahead, and if we're not careful, precious memories will disappear like the old tavern meeting the wrecking ball.

Mike 2026                                          

The valley

 Fifty years had passed since he last visited the valley. He pictured himself here, overlooking a meadow of wildflowers where people played frisbee. Music washed through the trees, and the smell of pot tangled with campfire smoke in a hazy cloud stretching across the scene.

It was a peaceful place filled with people from all walks of life camping out for a week, a month, or the entire summer into fall. He had arrived on the trip east and sadly admitted this was its final journey in his van—a well-worn vehicle that demanded constant attention. But it provided him with shelter as the rain fell, sinking deeper into the mud and its final resting place.

He walked the path that led to the meadow, a slow journey for him now that age was catching up at a rapid pace. He got through tangles of vines and overgrowth, eventually seeing something in the distance. A faded shade of blue, interred in weeds and left to be forgotten. It was his van.

He reached out and touched it, as one might an old dog, softly and with deep feeling. The inside was strewn with old beer cans and assorted things like a threadbare blanket covered with moss and a pair of cutoff jeans he remembered as being the only thing he wore back then. They had almost turned to faded blue ashes like everything does in forgotten decades.

He had seen enough and slowly made his way back to the trailhead where his grandson waited. Seen enough pops, he asked. He thought about his question for a minute, then turned to him and said he had seen his past in all its glory. He saw old friends and bonfires, fireflies in mason jars, and listened to a hundred guitars. He tasted the strawberry wine and spat out seeds from a joint. His mind was open again as countless memories came alive one last time." Let's go home his grandson said, to which he replied I am home.

Mike 2026                                                  

Going fishing

 He got up most mornings, making sure he was awake and wondering if there was anything more important to do than go fishing. He stretched, moved slowly to the kitchen, and brewed a pot of coffee: one cup for now, the rest into his thermos. He got dressed and looked into their bedroom, where his bride of fifty years slept, well, making it look like she was sleeping, but she wasn't. She used to rise with him, offering breakfast, but he said no, so she quit offering so often. But there was always a paper bag with two sandwiches and an apple that he grabbed on his way out, smiling.

The lake was just a few hundred yards from the house, and a shed where he kept both fishing gear and some tools and other assorted things he had accumulated over the years. He grabbed what he needed and made his way to the small boat tied up to the dock. There hadn't been any rain overnight, so the boat only held the normal amount of water, as all wooden boats do. He bailed out the boat, loaded his gear, untied the boat, and headed out to his favorite spot. He didn't have a motor on the boat; he said it just scared the fish away, and besides, rowing was good for his health.

Arriving at his spot, he baited a hook with a night crawler he found last night by wetting the grass, then shone a flashlight on the ground, and the worms would surface, and he'd grab one, adding to the dozen or so others in the tin can. For him, it wasn't just the fishing but everything and nothing surrounding him. The splash of a fish jumping, taunting him to catch it, the lapping of water against the hull, and the feel of the warm air blowing against his face, it just didn't get any better than that.

After a half a day on the lake, he'd sometimes come home with a stringer of fish he'd cleaned at the shed, taking the fillets to the house, where later they'd be grilled outdoors and accompanied with one of his bride's many unforgettable sides. Come sunset, they'd sit on the front porch swing, slowly watching as the ball of fire above sank into the trees as darkness fell on their little piece of heaven. So what are your plans for tomorrow she would ask him. He just smiled, took her hand, and told her that tomorrow was her day to do whatever she wanted. " Let's go fishing she said.

Mike 2026