Family values 1950s

 Reaching back to my earliest memories, I find myself touching my mother's face and looking into her smiling eyes as she held me in her arms, softly singing a song that, to this day, makes tears flow down my face when I hear it. I remember her teaching me to tie my shoes and comb my hair, reminding me how important it was to clean up after myself and always use my manners. I can close my eyes and see her in the kitchen, her dress of many colors and her hair and makeup perfect. Women in those days looked like women getting the latest fashion tips from the moms on television, like Leave It to Beaver, My Three Sons, and The Donna Reed Show, all of whom dressed more like the moms I pictured.

In the 1950s, life was simple: you went to bed early on school nights, woke up to the smell of brewing coffee and sizzling bacon, and left your lunchbox and books on the counter. Dad was up and dressed, his tie tucked into his shirt as Mom told him she wasn't about to hear from the ladies at the beauty parlor that she sent her husband off to work with egg on his tie. My siblings and I rushed down the stairs and sat at the table, where pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, and orange juice filled the room with the smell of breakfast. We never knew what kind of lunch Mom made; some days it was peanut butter and grape jam my grandma made, plus a piece of tin foil holding a couple of carrots and celery, an apple or pear, and a cookie or two. Another lunch would be an egg salad sandwich with sweet relish and cut-up green olives that was my favorite sandwich ever. Another foil-wrapped package meant more carrots and celery and, of course, an apple, peach or pear depending on what was in season. Sometimes, as a special treat, we'd find a store-bought package of cupcakes or Twinkies every kid wanted to trade for two cookies or a lunch-size carton of chocolate milk. Did they think we were crazy?
We got off the school bus a few blocks from home, passing by the corner store owned and operated by Mr. Sweeney, a jolly man who always asked how our family was doing, and he had just seen our mom the other day when she stopped in for some milk. He had the largest assortment of penny candies in glass containers that made choosing one a major decision for a kid. I had been careful not to waste my nickel on extra chocolate milk, but saved it until Friday. Neither of my siblings did that, so all they could do was stare into the jars filled with fireballs, licorice sticks, and wax bottles with juice inside. There were suckers and jawbreakers, candy cigarettes, and chocolate mothballs all sitting side by side as decisions were made. I'd pick out three things and give my siblings one piece of their choosing, being the good brother mom would be proud of. Sometimes, after seeing that, Mr. Sweeney told all of us to pick out two more each with a smile on his kind face.
We made it a point to eat all our treats before arriving home and telling Mom we were starved, and she replied that we wouldn't starve and supper wouldn't be much longer. We did our homework until Dad got home and supper was ready, when each of us told them about our day, good or bad but always truthful. Saturday meant no school, and we had chores to finish before we could even think about playing outside. My sisters helped Mom with the laundry and folded clothes like an army recruit. All of us had to clean our rooms and vacuum every room in the house. As for me, well, it meant helping Dad wash his car inside and out, then cutting the grass with a lawnmower that had no engine, just kid power. When we were done, and Mom and Dad checked that our work was done properly, Mom called us for lunch, which we sometimes had at the picnic table like an unexpected picnic in our backyard.
After lunch, we were told the rest of the day belonged to us as the girls called over the fence, yelling to see if their friends wanted to play with their dolls. At the same time, I jumped on my bicycle and headed down the driveway to my best friend's house, where I found him lifting his leg over the handlebars, ready to explore whatever we could before daylight gave way to dusk. We headed home, pedaling as fast as we could to run up the porch and announce my presence just as Dad shouted not to slam the door. Saturday dinner was what Mom called a light meal, since tomorrow, Sunday, meant a feast one might mistake for Thanksgiving dinner—Saturday evening we'd gather in the living room to watch a show on the television that, mind you, only had three stations to choose from. But every Saturday at eight o'clock a movie like The Wizard of Oz would play as the smell of popcorn popping gave you that movie theater feeling, only smaller than the big screen at the downtown movie house. It had been a good Saturday, and sleep came easy as church clothes were laid out, shoes were polished, and Mom looked more and more like the beaver's mom. 

                                                                                        Mike  2026

Mike  2026

Thumbs up

 He watched his grandkids run from one row of pumpkins to another, their eyes moving faster than their legs as they searched for the perfect one. He kept an eye on them as, one after another, they pointed to a pumpkin and waited for his thumbs-up, but he didn't act too soon, because once he did, the hunt was over and he wanted the moment to last. The eldest had hunted pumpkins for a dozen years, carefully scanning the rows and choosing the first one he saw. The youngest, six years old, asked for her brother's help, and he willingly gave it, remembering how difficult it was for him at her age. She would point to one that had a broken stem or a flat side, and he'd point those things out to her, but she was already rows ahead, her little legs moving through all the shapes and sizes, a real dilemma for a young child whose memories of past hunts were somewhat blurry. Then he heard her yelling for him to look as she held up her favorite, and he gave her the thumbs up. It was small, but then so was she. It had a long stem and was as perfectly round as any pumpkin he had ever seen. I'm going to make it have a big smile," she told him. "And why is that?" he asked her. "Aren't pumpkin faces supposed to be scary?" Some are, she said, but this one is happy. I chose it so I want it to smile. He looked in the rearview mirror at her, smiling and holding her pumpkin in her lap, and he smiled back with a big thumbs up.

Mike  2026                                                                                   

                                          

Autumn's goodbye

 The last of the autumn leaves have fallen to the ground, leaving behind naked branches soon to be pit stops for the falling snow. The ground will harden, and new growth will stop until the sun comes out to work and springtime softens the soil.

The remnants of autumn will go from an artist's palette of color to a forgotten gray of winter soon to arrive. Empty fields of corn stalks and a battered scarecrow the birds rest upon, claiming victory. The streams still flow, but each day they grow colder until they're just a trickle of water dodging the ice, until all is frozen and stopped in its tracks until springtime comes along to give it movement again.
The end of autumn is a waiting game as the sky shows promise and snow clouds build up their strength, getting ready to open up and send blankets of white to cover everything they fall on. Those once-brilliant fall colors turn to a blinding white, with no color visible anywhere you squint to look. It came in the darkness of night, as kids dreamed of a snow day and jumped out of bed, looking out the window at mountains of snow inviting them outside to play in the frozen drifts and icy hills.
It's a long way off until next autumn, but the memories keep it alive in my thoughts, and they catch up to me as I brave the highest hill, sledding down at breakneck speed and running over a small pile of forgotten autumn leaves.

Mike  2026                                                                        

The perfect pumpkin

 The pumpkins left in the patch will be a treat for the animals scrounging for food as they prepare for the cold months ahead. Their crop was good this year, with hundreds of different shapes and sizes being purchased at their country roadside stand. They never got tired of seeing the children's faces as they scanned the patch for the perfect one, while Mom bought some apples and a homemade pumpkin pie she couldn't resist. Dad sat in the car listening to the football game, giving a thumbs up as his kid held up a pumpkin for him to see. It was a difficult decision for most kids, as one was too big or too small. One had a flat side while another had a snapped-off stem where somebody probably tried to lift it, and it snapped off.

His wife ran the stand, where she collected payment and put it in an old cigar box she'd used for too many years to remember. She made conversation for those seeking it and just smiled at those who didn't. She spent more time at the stand during harvest time than she did at the house, only leaving to fetch more pies or jars of honey and having her husband watch things, which wasn't always a good idea when he struck up a conversation with a neighbor and let the line grow behind him.
At sundown, they would light up a dozen pumpkins, carved and spaced along the rows to light the way into the patch, where sometimes a ghostly apparition appeared, popping up and screaming with no warning. Kids and adults could be heard gasping in fright, followed by laughter at the well-intended prank. The stand closed for the day at nine o'clock, and two weary farmers sat at the kitchen table counting the money from the cigar box, which no longer closed because of the stack of money it held. Morning came early as the light of a new day found them loading bushels of apples onto the trailer, a dozen pumpkin pies and jars of honey all taken to the stand and displayed. They enjoyed breakfast together before heading down to the stand, where a few cars had already parked, and kids roamed row after row of pumpkins, searching for that perfect one.

                                                                                     Mike  2026

Mike 2026

The old school

 He ignored the yellow tape surrounding the school he attended decades ago. The wrecking ball sat quietly in the distance, waiting for sunrise. It seemed smaller than he remembered, and he thought for a moment about what the long hallways were like when you were late for class. He walked from one area to another, looking through old metal lockers, hoping to find something left behind, then to the gym, where he could hear the whistles of a coach and the squeak of sneakers on hardwood floors. A rope still hung from the ceiling, and a basket of deflated basketballs was all that remained.

He remembered his homeroom class and made his way there, walking with memories of faces by his side, endless chatter and teasing, the pulling of ponytails, and books dropped on the floor with a bang. He had a seat at a lone desk he barely fit on, seeing his teacher, Mrs. Clark, reading from a book as she walked slowly around her class, taking a folded note from someone and throwing it in a trash can along with a squirt gun, a comic book, and a dead frog. He remembered the classroom being hot in the last few days before summer vacation, when the windows were opened, because there was no air conditioning back then.
He moved on to the auditorium, which had seemed huge then but now looked small, with seats gone and the stage standing alone where recitals and plays, award ceremonies, and graduations had once been held. He remembered walking onto that stage to receive an award he didn't know he was receiving and seeing his parents in the audience clapping as his name was called.
He heard the wrecking ball coming to life outside, so he made his way out into the light of day and joined others to watch the school crumble to dust, bringing silent tears of remembrance as his youth crumbled with it, never to be forgotten.

                                                                              

Mike 2026

Mike  2026

Last leaf of Autumn

 I love to write about autumn with its cool weather and colorful leaves, sitting on the porch with a morning cup of coffee, saying to myself Come along, winter Im ready for you. I love long walks through the woods, as falling leaves brush against me on their way to the ground, and the sound of squirrels gathering nuts to sustain them during the cold months of winter.

I love the smells of the woods in autumn that you have to smell to understand, and how the breeze blows through the trees, carrying crimson leaves floating downward to their final resting place and leaving behind naked branches to sway in cold winter winds.
I love my autumn walks as the quiet embraces me, a welcome change from the summer noise echoing through the trees as city folks claim their picnic tables and children's voices carry as they play hide-and-seek among the mighty trees. Soon the cold will arrive, and city folks will head back to their lives, as will I, taking one last walk on autumn leaves bidding me goodbye as the last leaf slowly drifts downward and brushes my face like a lover's last kiss.

Mike  2026                                                

My attic room

 As a boy, our family lived in a two-bedroom house with five people. Because I was the only boy, the attic became my bedroom. It was the perfect place for me: large, with an octagonal window I could look out of at the world below. I liked that adults had to duck their heads, since the rafters were only a few feet higher than me, so they usually just called my name from downstairs to come down for a meal or do chores.

To me, my room became a playground, with plenty of room to ride my pedal car, set up battlefields for games of war, and keep my collections of comic books, jars full of marbles, and kites hanging from the rafters. There was only one light, the one in the stairwell that barely lit my room, so Dad helped me hang Christmas lights throughout the space, which eventually helped my fear of shadow people disappear.
On the far side, things were stored: boxes labeled Grandma and Grandpa, old dishes, an old hat rack, and two sleds that would be retrieved when the snow arrived. An old rocking chair sat there, used to rock several babies over time, and a birdcage I was told belonged to my great-grandma, who loved birds that sang the most beautiful songs. As the years passed and I grew taller, I had to crouch around my room, but it was a small price to pay for my sanctuary away from the chaos of two sisters who shared a room downstairs.
I was fifteen when my folks sold the little house and moved into a large four-bedroom across town. My room was nothing like my attic room; it lacked character, but with some imagination, I turned it into a quiet space I called my own. I had an aquarium with different kinds of fish and that old bird cage where my lovebirds sang to me. I had a shelf filled with books I loved, like Moby-Dick, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Swiss Family Robinson, and many more. And my pride and joy: a collection of comic books dating back years, some in plastic to preserve their pristine condition. Little did I realize many of them would be worth hundreds of dollars and more. Decades passed, and I did a hitch in the army, going home on leave a couple of times a year and thanking my baby sister for feeding my fish and lovebirds, who always sang loudly whenever I came home. More time passed, and I married my high school sweetheart. We spent many days looking for our first house, mostly in my old neighborhood, when we came upon my old house for sale. There was an open house sign, so we went inside. A realtor greeted us and told us to look around, but I headed straight for the attic, where my childhood bedroom was. I had to crouch like Dad, and although it was smaller than I remembered, it was everything I remembered.
We bought that house, started our family, and eventually had to put our son in my old attic room. I would be on bended knees as we played with my old toy soldiers and read my favorite books on a shelf handed down to my son to read and enjoy as I did a long time ago. I strung colored lights to brighten his space, promising no shadow men would lurk in the darkness or peer through the octagon window. We had a million memories of the attic room that we both remembered and promised each other we'd never forget.                                                              As a boy, our family lived in a two-bedroom house with five people. Because I was the only boy, the attic became my bedroom. It was the perfect place for me: large, with an octagonal window I could look out of at the world below. I liked that adults had to duck their heads, since the rafters were only a few feet higher than me, so they usually just called my name from downstairs to come down for a meal or do chores.

To me, my room became a playground, with plenty of room to ride my pedal car, set up battlefields for games of war, and keep my collections of comic books, jars full of marbles, and kites hanging from the rafters. There was only one light, the one in the stairwell that barely lit my room, so Dad helped me hang Christmas lights throughout the space, which eventually helped my fear of shadow people disappear.
On the far side, things were stored: boxes labeled Grandma and Grandpa, old dishes, an old hat rack, and two sleds that would be retrieved when the snow arrived. An old rocking chair sat there, used to rock several babies over time, and a birdcage I was told belonged to my great-grandma, who loved birds that sang the most beautiful songs. As the years passed and I grew taller, I had to crouch around my room, but it was a small price to pay for my sanctuary away from the chaos of two sisters who shared a room downstairs.
I was fifteen when my folks sold the little house and moved into a large four-bedroom house across town. My room was nothing like my attic room; it lacked character, but with some imagination, I turned it into a quiet space I called my own. I had an aquarium with different kinds of fish and that old bird cage where my lovebirds sang to me. I had a shelf filled with books I loved, like Moby-Dick, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Swiss Family Robinson, and many more. And my pride and joy: a collection of comic books dating back years, some in plastic to preserve their pristine condition. Little did I realize many of them would be worth hundreds of dollars and more.
Decades passed, and I did a hitch in the army, going home on leave a couple of times a year, thanking my baby sister for feeding my fish and lovebirds, who always sang loudly every time I came home. More time passed, and I married my high school sweetheart. We spent many days looking for our first house, mostly in my old neighborhood, when we came upon my old house for sale. There was an open house sign, so we went inside and were greeted by a realtor who told us to look around, but I headed straight for the attic, where my childhood bedroom was. I had to crouch as Dad did, and although it was smaller than I remembered, it was everything I remembered.
We bought that house, started our family, and eventually had to put our son in my old attic room. I would be on bended knees as we played with my old toy soldiers and my favorite books on a shelf handed down to my son to read and enjoy as I did a long time ago. I strung colored lights to brighten his space, promising no shadow men would lurk in the darkness or peer through the octagon window. We had a million memories of the attic room that we both remembered and promised each other we'd never forget.
Mike  2026                                                        

                                                                          

 

One last look behind you

 He saw her at the bus stop, her gloved hands holding her coat tight against the early evening cold. He recognized her from a distance, wondering if he was mistaken until he got closer and saw her eyes. Time had taken its toll on both of them, and he wondered what her life had become. Did she have a family, as she told him she wanted years ago? Did she have the house with a white picket fence and a rose garden, a dog and a cat and a home filled with grandkids? Did she have a husband who worshiped the ground she walked on?

He was close enough now, mingling in the crowd waiting for the bus, to see her beauty had only grown more through the years. Her long silver hair flowed in the breeze, and the lines of age were a roadmap of her life that he wondered and hoped was a life well lived with the love and happiness she deserved. They were just a few feet apart when he saw her looking his way. Did she notice him? Did she doubt herself, wondering if, after all these years apart, it was actually him? He felt a pit in his stomach as he tried to speak, but the crowd suddenly rushed onto the bus, and she was out of his sight for a brief moment until she found an empty seat, and he practically jumped over people to claim the seat beside her.
For what felt like an eternity, they stayed quiet until she softly asked, "Is that really you, Sam?" It certainly felt like a lifetime, didn't it? They took turns talking about their lives and their past when they thought they'd have a life together, but it wasn't meant to be, as he was a young man focused on his career with no time for her dreams. He whispered he was sorry, but she cut him off, saying she'd had a full life, a happy life that she wouldn't trade for anything.
Thirty minutes on a city bus, a lifetime of shared stories, and the sadness of knowing they were given this moment that would never be given to them again. As her stop drew closer, he told her he thought of her often and always wondered if, had he asked for her hand in marriage, she would have said yes, would she have given up her dreams to follow him wherever he went. She touched his face and shook her head, saying goodbye, as he watched her walk away, turning just once to see his face one last time.

   Mike 2026                                                                      

Mike  2026

Old school biker

 His old Harley sat covered in the garage, now a reminder of his younger days riding on mountain roads and country miles he wanted to last forever. It wasn't about fancy paint jobs or a thousand pieces of chrome; he remembered the bike itself. An old Panhead with a kick-start and a seemingly never-ending machine with oil leaks. If you owned a bike like his, you never went anywhere, even to the corner store, without a burlap sack of tools. He wasn't a fair-weather biker; his rubber met the roads in every condition. During the harsh winters, he'd rebuild his bike from the ground up, a painstaking task but one he loved as much as he did riding. He will never forget the first ride of spring, stopping along the road to tighten something he'd forgotten, saying to himself, crap happens, with a smile.

It wasn't just the ride but riding with other bikers, some known, others met, having a beer in one of many biker bars along the way. Most conversations focused on their bikes in detail only a true biker would know. In the summer months, he carried a sleeping bag tied to the back and had no fixed place to go, as long as there were forests and rivers where he could sleep under the stars. He'd often go back to camps he'd visited before, where bikers gathered in peace to share stories of the open roads and party until the sun came up, then fired up their bikes to continue their journey to no place special.
Back in the day, a lot of people hitchhiked, and it was common to offer a girl a ride on the back to where she was going even if it was out of your way. He had many memories of long-haired beauties who smelled like patchouli and sun-drenched skin. Now all he has are memories, as age has stopped him from riding after he finally listened to his kids and grandkids that his reflexes weren't what they once were. Now, every so often, he uncovers his steel pony and swings a leg over to sit, but dares not start it, as the kick would probably break his leg. It's enough to sit on it, reliving the country roads and mountain curves that challenged the best riders.
When he passed, he wished to be buried beside his bike, where the heavens would greet him with the sounds of other bikers kick-starting their steeds and traveling endless roads in good weather, where the rubber meets the road, and real bikers ride forever. 

                                                                                          Mike  2026

Mike 2026

Pumpkin creations

 He planted acres of pumpkins on the farm, watching them grow in every shape and size. Every October, cars filled with smiling faces as kids rushed in to select the perfect pumpkin that would glow brightly through crooked mouths and triangle eyes as they sat on the porch, the scent one more memory that began in the ground and ended up on someone's porch next to a bowl of candy.

Some families went all out, letting dad carve out an award-winning face or use stencils for the perfect pumpkin. At my house, my siblings and I would use a crayon to outline their faces, and with a lot of supervision we'd use a kitchen knife to cut what we had drawn, mistakes and all. I can still feel the goop I took out of the insides, saving the seeds so Mom could soak them in salt water, then bake them to a golden brown. I think they were gone before we even collected all the candy.
The day after Halloween, the pumpkins that glowed so brightly now sat on the porch, a shadow of their former selves, with eyes and mouths, one big gaping hole becoming one with melted candles. Into the trash they went with little remorse and a thought of next year's pumpkin creations.

Mike 2026                                                      

The final showing

 Ready, Pops? he heard his son ask. If we hurry, we can get in line first. It was the last day the old movie theater would be open after seventy-five years of entertaining the people of this once small town. He was eight years old when the doors opened, and a silent movie played on the huge screen. He remembered newsreels playing during the war, asking boys to enlist and folks to buy war bonds to support the cause.

He relived the first time he asked his high school sweetheart, Mary Jo, to a Saturday matinee showing Gone with the Wind, holding her hand and sharing a box of popcorn. At seventeen, they sat in the balcony stealing kisses, and at eighteen, she promised to write to him every day until he returned.
Bring back memories, Pop, his son asked. He didn't need to answer as he wiped away a tear, remembering she didn't wait and how his heart was broken. On this final day, they showed bits and pieces of the past seventy-five years, those that made you laugh with The Three Stooges and The Wizard of Oz that you could watch a hundred times. They played cartoons like Felix the Cat and Superman, King Kong, and Tarzan. All of which were played out in backyards, bringing the movies to life with you as the hero and your friends as villains.
As the last film ended and the lights went on, old folks didn't get up too fast, not because of their age but to soak in for the last time the place that molded their lives. All set, Pops, his son asked. Just a second, son, he answered, reaching into the box of milk duds and throwing one from the balcony, hitting someone on the head who said in a loud voice, I've been waiting for someone to do that for a long time. Thanks for the memory. He took his son's arm to guide him down the steps of the balcony, slowly looking one last time at the movie posters on the walls in the lobby and the smell of popcorn popping, the one constant memory of going to the movies.

                                                                                Mike 2026

                        

Mike 2026

Summers as a carney

 He went back to a now-deserted carnival where, long ago, he spent his teenage years working and thinking he was the luckiest kid alive. He remembered the day before opening for the summer months; he'd be tasked with greasing the rides and making sure every ride was safe, as there were times when a bolt or nut would vibrate loose, which could spell disaster if not tended to quickly.

The carnies became like family to him, sharing meals in the dining tent together, telling him stories of their travels that took them North in the summer months and south for the winters. The carnival owner was a large man; everyone called him Boss, with a big heart and a profound love for the carney lifestyle. He took him under his wing, and in the few years he worked for him, he taught him all he needed to know.
Looking at the remnants of the once-lively carnival, he remembered the pull-behind trailers that were home to the performers and midway workers, now just shells filled with memories and the voices of those carnies long since passed. The once bustling midway where he learned the ways of the games, some, if not all, rigged to lose. The sights of the rifles were off just enough to cause a missed shot; the milk bottles had a magnet attached to the bottom, guaranteeing they couldn't fall with the others. Most folks just passed it off as bad luck and swore they'd win next time. He remembered a time when one teenage boy, trying to win a huge purple stuffed panda bear for his girlfriend, spent his whole allowance throwing rings at soda bottles he had to get over the neck completely. Ring after ring, he was off by less than a micro-inch, not knowing the bottles weren't exactly level but couldn't tell with the naked eye.
Not all games were rigged; some made a point of letting folks win a cheap toy or a couple of free tickets to the ice cream wagon. The sounds of victory filled the midway, enticing others to take a chance. His last season came to a close four years after his first day. He left for college up state. He wrote letters to his friends, and they wrote back, telling him where they were and where they'd be heading as they followed the weather. After a while, the letters stopped coming and going, and his years as a carney became a chest full of memories.
Decades later, he came across an article about abandoned carnivals and theme parks, and one picture stopped him in his tracks as he looked at the carnival he once called his second home. He jumped on a plane and flew to Kansas, and with the help of a taxi driver who knew every square inch of the county, he drove him to a deserted field littered with the remains of a once-thriving carnival. He couldn't stop the tears as the midway lights and the faded paint on the thrill rides stood as reminders of their days of glory and the joy they brought to kids of all ages. He continued his walk, bending down to retrieve what was left of a purple stuffed panda bear tortured by time and the elements, now just a few threads of purple material and one eye hanging by a string.
He was about to leave when he saw what had once been his trailer, now a rusted-out shell, all but invisible, buried in weeds and forgotten. He got on his knees and looked inside, bringing back so many memories of days long past but never forgotten. He spotted an old piece of paper yellowed with time and saw it was a flyer for the carnival, the very kind he pasted all over town on phone poles and storefronts. Finding it was his holy grail, and he took it home and framed it where it now joins other memorabilia: a milk bottle that couldn't fall, a rifle with a bad sight, and a complete set of colored rings and a soda bottle.
He may have been a seasonal carny, but those were the happiest times of his life, and they will stay with him until the lights and sounds of the carnival fade away and the carousel music stops.

                                                                         

Mike  2026

Life on the rails

 He had walked the railroad tracks for most of his adult life. A lone traveler, a hobo, a soul on life's journey of whistle stops and days on end in a boxcar, his worn boots hanging over the edge, dancing with no floor. He followed the seasons, staying cool in the mountains of the northern Pacific and warm on southern stretches of track.

He was a simple man who preferred his own company and never paid much attention to glaring eyes and whispers. His clothes were well worn, and he replaced them with throwaways found in dumpsters and donation boxes when needed. The tracks were his road map that he knew like a good friend, cold steel taking him places most will never see.
Homeless camps yards from the tracks, where some like him stayed out of sight until an open car filled with supplies was ambushed, as men risked life and limb throwing boxes of unknown contents out of the car to be picked up by hungry mouths. It was like Christmas morning as boxes were opened and they found things they could use, while others were left in the bushes because they had no value to them.
Life on the rails, where stories were written and told around campfires and hidden riverbanks, brought smiles and often a deep recognition of a chosen life and the sadness it brought. Broken veterans and Wall Street business people who took the gamble and lost everything, leaving them empty, with no future, unable to face the life they walked away from.
The sounds of passing trains and whistles, the smell of diesel fuel, a dragging wheel throwing off sparks, and the smell of an empty boxcar were all moments he grew to love on his endless journey as the caboose rounded a bend and rolled out of sight

Mike  2026

                                                                                

Mike  2026

Life defined

 Life is give and take, ask and answer. Life is good and evil, and trying to understand why bad things happen to good people. Life is happiness and sorrows rolled into one lifetime as we do our best, and best isn't always good enough. Life is a series of tests; some we pass and others we fail, but we keep trying because what else can we do?

Life is our opportunity to share our knowledge and experiences, hoping it will be accepted, respected, and remembered. Life is meant to be an abundance of happiness with occasional letdowns and times when you need to be with others and other times alone.
Life is respecting elders as you thirst for their knowledge and how they even survived the worst of times. You listen as they speak, sometimes with tears rolling down their face as some memories remain too painful to bring back up.
Life is what we make it to be, how we live it and why we did the things we did, all rolled up in a package well used and sometimes abused in the name of fun. Life is a gift we can either like or dislike; that's all up to you, but one thing is certain: we have only one chance to get it right.

Mike  2026                                                              

Ice cream man on a Harley Davidson

 I remember the ice cream man cruising our neighborhood in a postwar trike that the police also used. His was painted white with decals of treats on the ice box that made kids drool. There were ice cream cones and suckers, orange-flavored cream cycles, and fudge bars. But the best treat was the ice cream man himself. He was a large man who always had a smile and a kind word. He was born in Greece and came to America as a young man seeking his fortune, but like so many others, his fortune eluded him. After the war, in which he proudly served, he used his savings to buy a 1940 Harley-Davidson three-wheeler with a box on the side. He painted it white and insulated the box to keep things inside cold. He wore white coveralls, a white hat, and a smile for every kid. Every weekday, he'd fill the box with treats and head out to neighborhoods around six o'clock, ringing the bell he had installed on the handlebars to let everyone know he was nearby. When he stopped, kids would pour out of houses with nickels and dimes to buy a treat while parents waved and he waved back. The box didn't take long to empty, and he'd head back to his large freezer in the garage to restock it, then head back out until darkness came and the box was empty again. On Saturdays, he'd sometimes be called upon to attend children's birthday parties, where he'd park in front of a house and a dozen or so revelers wearing birthday hats ran out to choose a frozen treat that the parents of the birthday boy or girl paid for, along with a nice tip. When the last kid got a treat, he started up the trike and headed for another neighborhood where outdoor barbecues were being held, and families gathered for a backyard picnic. He'd ring the bell and sit still as kids begged parents for a quarter, some who dug into their pockets and came up with one while others had a hissy fit when told not today.

I can still visualize his trike and the sound of the bell. I can taste the creamcicles and ice cream sandwiches and hear his genuine laughter as he handed out treats until the box was empty, leaving behind the wooden sticks licked clean as chocolate faces smiled and waved goodbye until next time. I believe he continued to roam the neighborhoods well into his senior years, until one day the bell stopped ringing and kids quit waiting. Soon after, larger ice cream trucks came into the neighborhoods with music blasting one song on repeat, and someone inside handed out many different kinds of frozen treats that cost twice what they used to when a white Harley-Davidson with a box on the side rolled into your neighborhood.

                                   Mike 2026                                          

Mike 2026

Cycle of a leaf

 I'm sitting on the porch, sipping apple cider and watching autumn-colored leaves float to the ground in a kind of dance, with an encore performance repeated every year. I watch as they twirl and float with no particular rhyme or reason, just a leaf in flight ending with a soft landing on the ground from which its mother tree stands, letting go of her children as all mothers must do. Soon the tree, with bare branches, will go to sleep, knowing springtime will awaken them with tiny buds she must nourish until they too float away on their own as the cycle repeats itself, and I witness the performance from my porch, sipping apple cider.

Mike  2026                                                    

Monster hill

 A gentle snowfall blankets the ground as you sleep. As you wake up, your eyes are blinded as you look outside at a blank slate ready to entertain children of all ages. You pull on layers of clothing, skipping the buttons moms fasten right before sending you out into the crisp air and virgin snow. Garage doors open as sleds and saucers are pulled from months of disuse and hauled to the hills to be challenged again. You arrive as other kids join in the run to be first down the hill as the smaller kids give way to teenagers on a mission. It's an unwritten law that the smaller hill belongs to the little kids, and anyone older will be warned to stay away. For the little ones, the smaller hill is challenging enough: they make it to the top, sit on their sleds, and push off, gaining speed as they go. They jump for joy, yelling to the older siblings about their success, but the older kids have had only one thing on their minds: to be flying down the untouched snow.

The day wore on, and countless runs striped the hills as blades and runners rained on the once-snowy surface, now just a mix of dirt and snow. Soon the kids left the hills and pulled their sleds to the next hill their parents forbade them to go to, but they knew darn well they would anyway. It was known as the monster hill, and for good reason, as you could see it in the distance, reaching into the clouds, or so it seemed. The little kids could only watch; that was fine by them, as fear gripped them at the thought of sledding down at breakneck speeds. Up on top of the giant hill, a few teenagers sat on their sleds, looking down at the little kids who seemed no bigger than a swarm of ants. Then one by one they shoved off and began the death-defying plunge down the hill. The cold turned their eyebrows to ice, and their heartbeats were almost audible as they passed the little kids cheering them on. Then the unthinkable happened: one of the teens lost control and fell off his sled, tumbling down the hill at breakneck speed, and stopped when he rolled into the field, where bushes softened the landing. It became very quiet as everyone waited to see if he was dead, but he got up and waved, saying he was okay and ready to go again.
Years later, when I visited home, I prayed for a good snowfall, and my prayers were answered: on my first night home, a massive storm blew in, covering everything with the blanket needed to challenge the monster hill. My wife said I was crazy, and my kids begged to go but settled for the little hill. I got my old sled from the garage and began the long walk, each step a chance to turn back. I reached the top and sat on my sled as a couple of teens laughed at the older man who just signed his own death certificate. Then, with one little push, I was gaining speed until I felt my cheeks fluttering and my eyelids icing up to the point of blindness, but I wouldn't abort and kept going, speeding past the teens to the bottom where I was greeted by my wife and kids, happy to see me in one piece. The teens came up to me, all saying one word: respect. My kids thought of me as their hero, and my wife said she'd file for divorce if I ever did that again. I never did go down the hill again, but I watched as kids, including my own, faced the challenge of Monster Hill that only those who've experienced it could live to tell.

                                                                               

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

The smells of autumn

 I lay on the cool autumn grass looking up at the cloud animals that entertained me for a few brief moments. I watched two colorful maple leaves drift by, wondering whether they would land on my face; the autumn air smelled musty, like the old corn stalks lying in the harvested fields. I could also smell woodsmoke from piles of burning leaves, their smoke filling the neighborhood and rising into the sky, on its way to who knows where. Maybe a mom hanging her laundry caught a whiff as the passing smell moved on.

Autumn is like a tease, warning us that all that beauty is short-lived and preparing us for what waits down the road. But for now I'll look the fool as I smell everything autumn gives me: pumpkins and gourds, damp leaves, and tilled soil. I'll smell the trees and the last time the lawn is mowed.
I love the smells of a roadside stand where every scent blends to create a five-star dinner: fresh-baked pumpkin and pecan pies selling out quickly to a few lucky city folks who stopped in on a Sunday drive. As sunset draws near and the last of the harvest is gone, the smells grow faint, and soon the smells of winter will let themselves be known. In the meantime, I stand still, looking up at the last of the fallen leaves as one brushes my face on its way to the ground, and all is well.

Mike 2026                                                        

 As a storyteller, I write mostly from thousands of memories I call untapped resources, then sprinkle in some fiction to enhance the reading experience. Let's say I'm writing a story of my childhood where we searched for the elusive giant pumpkin. That part was easy to write, since it truly happened

. But it doesn't make for a very good read. So first I'll tell you what led up to looking for pumpkins: conversations with the family about which patches offered the biggest inventory, and then we jumped in the station wagon with a picnic lunch Mom made for the day trip into the country. Next, I'd probably dedicate some words to describing the pumpkins my siblings chose and the corn stalks Mom wanted for decoration. I'd include Dad loading a bushel of just-picked apples that Mom would make pies and cinnamon applesauce from, and a jug of apple cider us kids could drink until it became an adult drink only. I'd go on to explain how we'd draw faces on our pumpkins that Dad would carve with a large kitchen knife, and Mom would stand by to dress a wound Dad said was okay. I'd tell of trick-or-treats at neighbors' houses, dressed in costumes Mom made, some of which took a whole year to complete. This whole story began with the first few sentences I wrote, then I sat back and let my imagination run wild.

Every one of my thousand-plus stories began with a thought or memory I unlocked; then I let them grow, and I didn't finish them until I read them and either threw them in the trash bucket or tuned them up the way I saw fit. That makes you, the reader, long for more. I purposely keep each very short story to a maximum of three paragraphs, with some a tad longer if I felt it needed more to create a moment in time you may have forgotten but can now experience once again with a smile and anticipation for the next story, just waiting for you to remember something the story told that reminded you of years gone by.

My work is more than a short story with a beginning and an end; my very short stories send you back to some of your greatest memories, pulling you from your surroundings and leaving you wanting more. I call them one-cup-of-coffee reads, meaning that by the time you finish that cup, you can read several very short stories I guarantee will start your day with a smile.

If you'd like to see over one thousand of my stories, visit my blog: mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com. My plan is to publish my thousand-plus stories, then begin with a clean slate for volume number two. It took me eight years to complete volume one so dont be in a hurry to read volume two. Thanks for all the wonderful comments I've received, as they inspire me to keep going.

Mike  2026

Three months of a farmer

 It's that first morning with frost on the fields, and you're thankful you got the harvest in on time. Scattered pumpkins no one wanted lie there and go back into the ground as nature intended, while remnants of corn stalks litter the fields.

The apple trees are bare, but they've provided bushels of fruit that will be the stars of the table, including applesauce, pies, and cobblers. School lunch bags and one for the teacher, a sweet delight.
Time to give thanks for family and friends who share your table, filled with nature's bounty, as children shout for a drumstick. An afternoon football game and a turkey sandwich end the day as the last of the embers glow in the fireplace and kids say their prayers.
December says hello with an early snowfall as the roadside stand of Christmas trees comes alive with fresh paint and colored lights. This is the first year your son is old enough to cut trees with the chainsaw, under close supervision from Dad. Trees of all sizes are cut and stood up as city folks stop and hunt for the perfect tree. Christmas Eve, with all but a couple of trees left, the stand closes, and you join your family to decorate your tree, a balsam fir the kids agreed on.
Three months of hard work pass quickly as you wait for the springtime thaw and the beginning of another cycle of planting, tending, and harvesting. This is your way of life, filled with the good and the bad as Mother Nature decides your fate. Prayers are said at every mass or service for a bountiful harvest, but you realize not every prayer will be answered—broken machinery that costs too much to repair, bad seeds that will never grow. Invasions of bugs stopped, but at a cost. All part of being a farmer: doing what he loves with the people he loves, in a place he will never leave.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026

The last picture

 There are good things about growing older; the best thing is growing older and waking in the morning to the smell of coffee your late wife made every morning, which you now prepare before going to bed on a timer and waking up with a smile, thinking about her before you even wipe the sleep from your eyes. Growing older means having time to browse through old school photo albums and seeing those faces you loved so very much. Time passes so quickly you dare not blink as children become adults with their own babies, and those who've passed on are now just shadows in a yellow-stained picture of your past.

Growing older makes you pause as you contemplate doing something you probably shouldn't, like riding your bicycle in the rain or sledding down a winter hill, as grandkids cheer you on and your child hides the view with her hands over her eyes. Those kinds of things are designed for much younger people; at least that's what you're led to believe as you shut out everything around you and become a kid again, probably for the last time.
I remember hearing a song by Tobi Keith titled Don't Let the Old Man In. That rang true for what I believed as I looked at my weathered face in the mirror, trying to convince myself it wasn't me, even though I knew it was. Staring back at me as each wrinkle told a story of my past, some I'd rather forget while others I accepted as my life journey with no regrets. Growing older and remembering the important parts of your life takes you back to the old photo albums time and again to look deeply into the faces that fulfilled your life and the memories you know will one day fade away.
Your children and grandchildren will browse through those books, laughing with love, seeing you racing down that snow-covered hill with a smile as big as life itself, and the last picture of you riding your bicycle on a rainy day, arms stretched out and looking to the heavens. Growing older is a series of should-I-or-shouldn't-I moments, and you lean toward the should-I, craving one last crazy hurrah for your picture book.                                                

Mike 2026

Winters fury and then some

 He woke to a chill in the air, a sign that autumn was nudging out summer's blistering heat. He took a breath and smelled the earth again as summer said goodbye for a long winter's nap. Soon the leaves would turn colors of burnt orange and crimson as they floated to the ground, leaving naked branches behind. The sound of rakes piling leaves into mounds beckoned children to jump and disappear into the darkness of autumn fun. The smell of burning leaves filled the air, and the last of summer's cookouts could be heard as burgers and dogs sizzled on grills for the last time this year.

Neighbors gathered at a picnic table, pulling on sweaters they'd brought along and watching the sunset sink into the sky as the first cold air settled beside them. The elders were covered in blankets to keep them warm and refused to go inside, claiming they felt invigorated by the crisp air. They used fire pits for the first time in a while, and kids made s'mores with a little guidance from moms and dads. Each moment was captured and remembered as autumn disappeared into the darkness of night and was replaced with a blanket of white that covered everything and left behind paper plates filled with scraps of burgers and dogs quickly gathered by the small creatures of the night to be added to their gatherings needed to sustain them during the frigid months of winter's fury.
He woke covered in a quilt his wife made for him, so warm and cozy he didn't want to get up. Still, the brightness of the morning seemed brighter than usual, so he got up wrapped in the quilt and went to the window of his upstairs bedroom, and his words wouldn't form- just a muttering of sorts as he looked out, seeing nothing but snow that covered everything as far as he could see. He reached for his sunglasses to dull the glare and saw only the tips of telephone poles with drifts over two stories tall. He knew there were cars parked on the streets, but none were visible, buried beneath the mountains of winter's first attack. Still in shock, he heard the kids' laughter as a no-school-today message blared on the radio, but they wouldn't be going outside until they cleared fallen trees and downed power lines.
Drifts covered the windows, and with no power, the house seemed like a prison, dark and cold. He built a fire in the fireplace, burning through wood as fast as it went, fearing they'd run out altogether. They agreed they'd burn furniture if need be, as the kids pleaded with them not to burn their wooden bunk beds. One day became two, and then three, as hope dwindled, but on day four the sounds of work trucks and snow removal vehicles slowly made their way across town, clearing the roads and leaving behind giant piles of snow at the foot of driveways for homeowners to clear one shovel at a time.  Day five arrived, and things leaned towards recovery, but not soon enough, as cabinets once filled were now empty and the only things in the fridge were almost empty ketchup bottles and a jar of sweet pickles with two that escaped hungry hands.
Dad and his sons worked to clear the drifts and eventually claimed victory, turning to the car buried in the street. A few good neighbors lent a hand pushing him out to the screams of victory. The main streets were OK to drive on now that the dangers were gone. The family jumped in as Dad headed for the grocery store only to find that many had been there before them. Mom gathered what she could but realized it would only last a couple of days. But on the 6th day, another radio announcement told people the National Guard was setting up drop zones where trucks full of food and water were available to everyone in need. By day 10, temperatures were rising and melting large quantities of snow, allowing crews to plow the streets so work could be finished and traffic could get back on track. On day 11, school opened again, a blessing for moms who had run out of games to play and stories to tell. Dads went back to work, and grocery stores were full again. No one would ever forget that early winter storm, but they made the best of it by sliding down gigantic snow piles and building snow forts that sometimes spanned a hundred feet. I guess autumn couldn't wait to be over, but did she have to drop in like an atomic bomb? Will we see it happen again? I guess we will have to wait to see.

Mike  2026                                                                

Mike  2026

Sucker fishing

 It was mid-March, and the sucker fish were running in county streams. I was 12 when I first tried to catch some, so I was armed with waders, a three-pronged spear, a lantern, and a burlap bag. I spent some weekends at my aunt and uncle's place, where the saying a one-traffic-light town was very true. My cousin Peter was two years older than me and would show me how to catch these elusive fish, and believe me, it wasn't an experience I cared to repeat. So on a cold March night he drove us down country roads, and I feared we'd never find our way back. We finally stopped and parked beside a stream with angry currents and the roar of an angry beast ready to swallow me up. Peter showed me how to put on the waders, which made me feel like a giant rubber glove from neck to feet. He handed me my spear and lantern, lit the lantern, and told me to put the burlap bag across my shoulders like my newspaper delivery bag. Ok, he said, just follow me and walk slowly like I could do anything differently. Hold your lantern a couple of feet above the water, and you'll see the shadow of the fish, and when you do, spear it. When you get one, put it in the bag and move on. Will we eat these fish I asked and he told me no they tasted awful but made for great fietilzer so try and fill your bag.geared up and redy to go I stepped into the cold water and followed my cousin. It didn't take long, and I saw him put a fish into his bag and yell, "They're on the run, cuz get you some." I'll admit the thought of getting one was overwhelming, but I moved on, and without warning I felt a fish rub against my waders, so with high expectations I threw my spear and immediately felt the rush of frigid water fill my waders. Yep, I speared my waders and lost my balance as the current took hold, and within seconds I was bobbing up and down in the stream, getting farther away from my cousin, who had no idea I was being swept away to who knows where. I saw his lantern coming towards me and pulling me to the bank where I lay freezing to death. Peter thought fast and pulled off my mangled waders and retrieved a blanket from the car and wrapped me up like a burrito as my teeth chattered and my lips turned a shade of blue.So did you get the fish? He asked me with a grin. He got me into the car and turned on the heat as I slowly warmed up and my teeth quit chattering. Country folks love to hear a good story, especially when it's true, and Peter was already thinking about how he'd spin my misfortune into a laughing fit for anyone who would listen. And they listened. The next morning, as we walked the few short steps to the town's only diner, we entered to clapping and laughter all around. Hey, wader boy! One man shouted. Spear any more waders? Another chimed in. Even the cook looked out the serving window and asked if I was going out again that night. Like most stories, mine was set aside for another to be told, and a few days later Peter and I headed to the stream and geared up. I ended up filling my bag with sucker fish and never once speared my waders. Back at the diner the next morning, another round of remarks changed from laughing to congratulations. Peter and I went sucker fishing quite a few times after that fateful night, and as we unloaded our gear, he made sure I got the waders that were duct-taped over the spear marks that made me smile and remember always.   

Mike  2026

                                                                                    

                                                                                 

                                                                             

Letting her get away

 I remember when a handshake sealed a deal, and I remember when a man held the door for a woman and always walked on the outside of the sidewalk so a car splash wouldn't soak her, I Remember when a boy asked her father for permission to date her, and he looked like a serial killer. Do you remember, like I do, the first time you held her hand and it felt so smooth, and the first kiss that made you dizzy? Do you remember Friday under the lights, when your high school football game was played in frigid temperatures, and you gave her your jacket as you silently froze? I remember when I gave her a ring I saved up for; it took forever to pay it off, but the look on her face made it all worthwhile.

I remember having to leave her when I joined the Navy, like my dad did, and his dad before him. At first we wrote letters, but that eventually slowed down until it stopped. I saw a big part of the world and grew up almost overnight knowing that when I got out and went home I'd eventually see her someplace, and I wondered how that would go. That day came when I saw her in a club, dancing with someone who had his arms around her, as she looked into his eyes the way she looked into mine years ago. I remember walking out, looking back as her eyes met mine, and her stopping dancing for a minute to watch me close the door behind me.I can remember running into her at the grocery store, and her tugging on my shirt, smiling that smile that warmed my heart back then. The years had been good to her; a tiny spark lit as my heart beat faster. We went for coffee and talked for an hour before she had to leave, and I stayed until her lilac scent left the room. She was my first real love, and no one else could fill my heart the way she did.
I remember my first love, which ended in a far-away ocean and blank sheets of writing paper. I think of her almost every day and ask myself what our life would have been, but that was just one of many thoughts I had about her, about us, about myself, and questions left unanswered. I'll think about her every time I smell lilacs as I walk down a sidewalk without her hand in mine.

Mike 2026                                                      

Mike 2026

The seasons I remember

 The house is so quiet this autumn day; it's as if time stopped for a minute, letting a season change into another, from the sounds of kids playing Marco Polo in the pool to picking out a pumpkin at the pumpkin patch. Once green leaves, now a splash of colors fall to the ground, leaving bare branches behind to fend off another cold winter. From bathing suits to sweaters, from iced tea to hot chocolate, the changes are a story told in living color that never disappoints. A distant tractor breaks the silence as it harvests the last of the hay and marks the end of another season.

Roadside stands offer baskets full of apples, pumpkins, and cider to families from the city on a Sunday afternoon. The search for the biggest pumpkin farm ends with a field of orange as far as the eye can see, and kids of all ages roam through the rows in search of a favorite. Back home, the firepit holding toys and chew toys for the dog is cleaned out and ready for a cold night when the smell of wood burning can't come soon enough. Piles of leaves stand tall until kids run and jump into them; they are alive as voices and laughter fill the air.
As autumn comes to an end and winter knocks at the door, pools will be covered and grills put up in the garage. Ice skates will replace skateboards, and sleds will replace bicycles next to the grills. The freezer holds a turkey that will soon be the guest of honor at a Thanksgiving feast. A house full of family and friends sit around three tables pushed together as one, and mom brings out dish after dish of everyone's favorites. This day officially marks the end of autumn and gives way to thoughts of the holidays looming just ahead.
A Sunday afternoon in search of the perfect Christmas tree and little voices claiming they had found the one. Then, without warning, a light snow fell from the sky, coming to rest for a minute on the many trees that could have made the perfect Christmas card if the snow hadn't fallen to the ground. A speaker hanging in a tree played holiday music as kids and grown-ups sang the familiar songs they grew up with, bringing back memories of holidays past.
Winter gave way to spring, with the land awakening and sprouts of color peeking through the ground as bulbs became vivid tulips. Heavy coats gave way to jackets, then to T-shirts; jeans were outgrown and cut into shorts, and bare feet replaced rubber boots. Spring meant repairing what winter claimed like a fresh coat of paint, replacing boards on the porch and making sure the lawn mower was in good working order. It meant scattering grass seed everywhere, hoping it would take hold and grow.
Summer arrived, and the pool was uncovered and cleaned; bicycles and grills came out of the garage, and skateboards were well oiled. Fans were turned on, slowly, cooling the house with warm air, while open windows sometimes blessed you with a cooler breeze. Summer meant no school and gave time for exploring the dirt roads and hidden ponds in search of a fishing hole you'd try to keep secret that didn't last long. Soon summer would come to a close as autumn woke up in living color and we began again.

Mike 2026                                                                 

Mike 2026

Saturdays with Dad

 I remember when Saturdays meant doing something with my dad, like me mowing the grass and him reading the paper, making sure I cut it the way he wanted. But it also meant going into town for a haircut, sitting in a chair reading comic books that had seen better days while Dad and the barber talked about whatever you talk about while getting your hair cut. Saturdays felt like an unwritten law: dads and their sons hung out together, taking up a good portion of the sidewalk and going into places like the hardware store and newsstands, where Dad read the news from around the world. In contrast, you looked at the latest comic books, most protected from greasy kid hands with a plastic cover, leaving you to wonder what was inside.

Lunch was a bonus when we went inside the 24-hour diner, and I got to order anything on the menu, which was always a burger with fries and a chocolate shake. It was also when Dad would ask me about school and whether I was trying out for football this year. Did I have a girlfriend or a hundred other questions, some making me blush, but I didn't mind. Being from a small town, it wasn't unusual to run into a friend or two that led to handshakes and small talk between dads and nods of the head between the boys. On the way back home, Dad whistled to the music on the radio as I stuck my head out of the window, catching the air in my mouth like a dog would do
Mom would be standing on the porch watching as we pulled into the driveway, anxious to hear about our day. It was great, I'd say as I ran inside, hoping to watch some television, but I never quite made it before Dad told me to get the gloves out for a game of catch. He always let me warm up tossing the ball a few times at low speeds, and without warning he threw a fastball that hit my glove like a missile on a mission. I'd fling my glove away from the pain, but he told me to laugh it off and get ready for another one. That torture went on for a while until he looked at his watch and told me I was on my own, as college ball was coming on air in just a few minutes.
My dad was a good guy who provided for us and always made it clear I could be anything I wanted and do whatever my heart told me to do. I know I disappointed him at times when I didn't try out for football or join the youth hockey team as my interests leaned more toward being a writer. I believed I had a thousand stories to write about my childhood, and he just shrugged, saying it was my life. Years passed, and I attended the city college, where I received several awards for creative writing. I went on to become a published author, and my first book, titled Time with Dad, sold off the shelves.
One Saturday years later, we had lunch at the diner, where he asked me about my life and smiled as I gave him a signed copy of my book, which Mom later told me he read a dozen times or more. He told me he remembered a lot of the things we did but had no idea I remembered. On that Saturday, I packed my bags to leave, and he brought out the gloves he kept next to my book, asking me to have a catch. I agreed but told him to ease up on the speed, but the missile flew and landed in my glove with a bang as he smiled that smile I remember so well. 

Mike 2026               

Mike  2026

Smell,see,touch and taste

 I'll catch a whiff of hot dogs cooking on a warm, sunny day; I can almost hear the sizzle of burgers and kids holding up paper plates, told to hold them tight so the hot dog doesn't roll off and into the mouth of the family dog.

I'll smell the freshly mowed grass and open bags of pine mulch as young newlyweds work together on the lawn of their new house. I'll catch the scent of varnish as a neighbor readies his boat for the summer, and paint as a group of young people paints the house of an old school teacher too old to climb ladders anymore.
I can smell the river as a western breeze floats through the air and into my waiting nose. Smells turn into sights as I admire the colorful tulips in full bloom planted as bulbs on a cool autumn day. I see a new roof being installed and neighborhood teens working on a car in the street while giggly girls look for their attention. I hear the diesel engine of a semitruck passing by, blowing the horn as a neighborhood long-haul driver stops at home briefly, into the arms of his wife and children.
I can hear the crack of a bat at the ball field where I once played and the shouts of fans echoing in my ears. Running late, I arrived just in time to see my grandson hit a home run, then found me standing up and waving him on. After the game, we went for ice cream with the team, turning a once quiet place into a dozen youngsters making noise and memories never to be forgotten for them and for me.
There are so many things we smell, taste, see, and feel if we take time to, but sometimes time and life don't mix well, and we find ourselves saying, "I'm sorry," to a disappointed kid, with a promise to make up for it the next game, dance, picnic, or by helping fix a broken bicycle.
Slow down, I tell myself. Take the time to smell those hot dogs and burgers, get to the game early for the best seats, give the newlyweds some pointers, and offer the kids working on a car your years of experience under the hood. I'll pick a few tulips for my everything and kiss her cheek for no reason. Then I'll look to the heavens and give thanks for all things that I can smell, see, touch, and taste on any given day.

Mike 2026                                                        

Mike  2026

A daughters never ending love

 His daughter picks him up, making sure no cigarettes are left unattended and that he's dressed warm enough for a cool autumn morning. He mentions that he likes her new car, but he's been saying that since she bought it three years ago. Their first stop is the cemetery, where they pay respects while he speaks softly to his family gone before him, and she brushes off fallen leaves and places fresh flowers on her mother's grave. She never tells him when it's time to leave, as she knows when he kisses her headstone and slowly walks back to the car.

Their next stop is a small coffee shop that's been around for decades. He used to go there almost every day, but since his stroke, he only goes when his daughter takes him something he looks forward to, as he often sees old friends that he recognizes or thinks he does. He shakes hands and smiles, and others return his smile with kindness and understanding.
As they leave, he asks where they're going, looking out the window at the colors of autumn, and whispers how beautiful they are; she knows he's speaking to her mom and two children who left this world too soon. They pass a pumpkin patch that stirs memories as he smiles and touches her hand, asking if she remembered that place. He spoke quietly and asked if they could stop. He reached into his pocket, holding a small basket of apples, but had to ask her to help him count out the money, since all the coins looked the same to him.
It was noon by the time they reached their final destination, a state park that he took his family to every autumn when the kids would play in the fallen leaves, and he would grill dogs and burgers, a smell he never wanted to forget but feared that day was near. She found a place to park and helped him to a picnic table, then she unpacked their lunch as he stared at the old grill, probably trying hard to remember those days long gone.
The air grew cold as the day wore on, so she built a small fire in the grill where they warmed their hands and looked into the flames, each of them reaching back in time to happy days. As the fire went out, she took his hand, helped him back into the car, and turned up the heat as he smiled at her, saying, B"Brrrr." They arrived back at his place, an assisted living facility that she knew deep down he didn't like very much but understood it was for his own good. As they walked down the hall leading to his room, he passed out apples to his friends and showed off the pumpkin he sat on the floor next to his door.
She sat with him for a spell but knew she had to leave, so she hugged him, and he hugged her back with a smile and whispers of his thanks for that day. She went back to her car and wept as she saw him waving at her from his window, wishing things could be different but knowing they'd never be. He left her an apple on the seat of her car; he said it was nice for three years now, as she wiped away her tears and whispered how much she loved him.

                                                                              His daughter picks him up, making sure no cigarettes are left unattended and that he's dressed warm enough for a cool autumn morning. He mentions that he likes her new car, but he's been saying that since she bought it three years ago. Their first stop is the cemetery, where they pay respects while he speaks softly to his family gone before him, and she brushes off fallen leaves and places fresh flowers on her mother's grave. She never tells him when it's time to leave, as she knows when he kisses her headstone and slowly walks back to the car.

Their next stop is a small coffee shop that's been around for decades. He used to go there almost every day, but since his stroke, he only goes when his daughter takes him something he looks forward to, as he often sees old friends that he recognizes or thinks he does. He shakes hands and smiles, and others return his smile with kindness and understanding.
As they leave, he asks where they're going, looking out the window at the colors of autumn, and whispers how beautiful they are; she knows he's speaking to her mom and two children who left this world too soon. They pass a pumpkin patch that stirs memories as he smiles and touches her hand, asking if she remembered that place. He spoke quietly and asked if they could stop. He reached into his pocket, holding a small basket of apples, but had to ask her to help him count out the money, since all the coins looked the same to him.
It was noon by the time they reached their final destination, a state park that he took his family to every autumn when the kids would play in the fallen leaves, and he would grill dogs and burgers, a smell he never wanted to forget but feared that day was near. She found a place to park and helped him to a picnic table, then she unpacked their lunch as he stared at the old grill, probably trying hard to remember those days long gone.
The air grew cold as the day wore on, so she built a small fire in the grill where they warmed their hands and looked into the flames, each of them reaching back in time to happy days. As the fire went out, she took his hand, helped him back into the car, and turned up the heat as he smiled at her, saying, B"Brrrr." They arrived back at his place, an assisted living facility that she knew deep down he didn't like very much but understood it was for his own good. As they walked down the hall leading to his room, he passed out apples to his friends and showed off the pumpkin he sat on the floor next to his door.
She sat with him for a spell but knew she had to leave, so she hugged him, and he hugged her back with a smile and whispers of his thanks for that day. She went back to her car and wept as she saw him waving at her from his window, wishing things could be different but knowing they'd never be. He left her an apple on the seat of her car; he said it was nice for three years now, as she wiped away her tears and whispered how much she loved him.

                                                                                

Mike 2026

Mike 2026