The kitchen window

 He watched her as she stood at the window, washing the supper dishes. He gave up asking her if she wanted one of those fancy machines that wash dirty dishes, but she kept saying no, so he quit asking. He remembers asking what she looked at outside that window every evening as she cleaned the greasy plates, and then cleaned them again as he told her she was going to wash the color out of them. " Just our world," she would answer, tossing him a cloth to wipe the dishes. He stood next to her, looking out at the two apple trees they planted when the kids were born, which, over time, produced the best apples known to man. And darn good apple pies, he thought to himself. They looked at the lawn, now pristine, and remembered it as a playground with a swing set and a kiddie pool. Bicycles deserted in the woodshed when outgrown. A few years ago, she got them out of the shed, painted them with vibrant blues and pinks, then picked bunches of wildflowers and wove them between the spokes. " Yard art," she told him with a smile; "memories," he replied.

Looking out the window was a movie she would re-run when their family was young. Picnics and play dates, birthday parties and graduations. Their eldest boy coming home on leave for Christmas, bringing his mom to tears, wondering who that young man is in a sailor suit. They looked out and saw their daughter with her husband and newborn child opening the car door before it even stopped, running towards them with open arms.
They stood at the window together, bringing back the memories of their lives until she told him the dishes won't dry themselves. He kissed her cheek and said They've been dry a long time, my love.

Mike  2026

A thousand stories

 I have reached back into my memory bank well over a thousand times. One thousand two hundred times, to be exact. Each very short story is a partnership of fact and fiction blended together to create something that some may find hits pretty close to home. That is my intent.

Some have said I need more spice in my writing, and my reply is that I want readers of all ages to enjoy my stories without being rated for mature audiences. There's plenty of that on the social media platforms, but not mine.

I'm a Boomer, born in the fabulous fifties; therefore, my stories often reflect life as it played out in my memories during those iconic times. I believe that everybody has memories that flash by, then fly away, never to be remembered again, so I try to capture them in story form, adding some bits of fiction to make things interesting. Each story is accompanied by a picture that I feel complements it.

My stories are only a few paragraphs long, hence the name Very Short Stories. Read a few on your lunch break or in the back seat of an Uber. Go back to times when life was less complicated but oh so interesting. Holding hands with your high school sweetheart, walking down a country road, kicking a can.Dancing at a school dance or making snow angels after the first snowfall of the year. There are stories about the seasons, holidays, and children's adventures. Your first car, first kiss, and of course your first love.

Very short stories aren't one story; they're thousands of stories, all unique in their own ways. I invite you to take a minute or two and visit my blog at mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com, then drop me a comment if you'd be so kind, as your opinions matter, good or bad. I'll see you between the covers. Book covers, that is.

Mike

Walking with Mom

 His kids and grandkids brought him to a special place in his heart where the trees reach to the heavens, and autumn leaves drift to the ground to join others that will soon be buried in a blanket of white. The smell of campfires and roasted hot dogs is pleasing, as the kids jump in the piles of fallen leaves piled high with a rake Dad brought along for just that reason.

They have been coming to this park since he was a toddler, with his first memory being Mom holding his hand and walking through the forest as she pointed out different names of the trees. But all he wanted to do was run and jump into the piles like his older siblings were doing. She let go of his hand, and he took off as fast as his little legs would run, falling more than once but finally reaching the pile and throwing himself into it, laughing and throwing leaves at everybody around him.
As time marched on, they went to the park on any given autumn Sunday with sunny skies and cool autumn breezes. The grill heated up as Dad announced it was finally time to cook. Mom brought out salads and cut-up fruit, as well as her famous baked beans, which Dad would heat before serving. There were cheese platters and crackers as well as plenty of chips and dips, making for a feast fit for a king.
When everybody had their fill, Dad would fall asleep for a nap as he always did, and Mom and he went for a walk holding hands until something caught his eye and found him running ahead, stooping down to look at a small snake. Will it bite me? he asked, and she carefully picked it up very gently, showing his markings that, in this case, was just a harmless garden snake out for a stroll like them.
As kids do, he grew up and had a girlfriend whom he brought with him to a Sunday picnic to meet everyone, and from the look on Mom's face approved of his choice. After eating, he took his mom's hand and walked into the forest, naming the trees and going back in time to when he jumped into his first pile of leaves or caught his first snake. Their walks were just as important as any other family tradition that was held close to their hearts.
Many years passed, and circumstances prohibited some Sunday picnics, but Mom always insisted on just one more in October, when the colors of autumn were those of an artist's palette she had to see once more. My sisters made all the food like Mom once did, and Dad passed on the cooking duties to my son while he listened to the game on his radio, and Mom told him to lower the volume as she couldn't hear herself think. After a while, Mom asked me if I was ready for our walk, which surprised me a little, as she needed a cane to get around, but she was determined, so off we went slowly into the forest, holding hands one more time.
As life has it, we all leave this world, and we rely on our memories to hold on to special people and things we never will forget. To me, one of my most vivid memories is my walks with Mom on a sunny autumn day, holding hands and being loved. So here I am again with a lot of laugh lines on my weathered face, a walking stick gifted to me way back when, and one last walk with Mom in spirit but all very real. When I pass, I've instructed my children to scatter my ashes in that beautiful place where my soul will rest, and Mom looks over me with an outstretched hand.

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

Where the sun, meets the sand

 With every crunch of sand, every gentle roll of a wave, I'm at the doorstep of heaven. A crimson sun hisses as it meets the water, or so I'd like to think. The fish come closer as the beach is empty of kids with plastic shovels and pails as they forage for their supper under the watchful eyes of Neptune. Dolphins leap high above the sea as if taunting anyone to get closer, performing their magic as one lonely man claps his hands, asking for more.

The end of day makes way for the darkness, and the sea creatures come alive in a storybook being read to children around a bonfire. Little did they know they were just far enough away from the shores not to be seen by just anyone. The spirits of many a pirate stand ready to steal more bounty as a group of mermaids dances to the music of the deep. King Neptune himself may not be visible, but with every wave that rolls past him, a baby turtle is welcomed into his arms, where they will be watched over and learn the ways of the mighty ocean.
Just beyond the darkness, where a light shows the way to heaven, so shines the light of the sea as the moonlight illuminates the way towards eternal joy and freedom to swim as you were meant to among your new friends swimming beside you.No fear of propellers or net fishermen, no harpoons or traps to capture your spiny friends. No pieces of trash or oil from passing ships, no party balloons trapping your brothers and sisters.No more broken bottles to litter the sandy beaches, no thoughtless beachgoers who leave their garbage behind.
With every crunch of sand, every gentle roll of a wave, I'm at the doorstep of my heaven that lies just past the horizon where the sun sizzles as it touches the sea.

Mike 2026

Mike  2026

County fair memories

 Lollipop pops as big as my head, the not quite tall enough sign at the roller coaster. Sticky hands, blue or pink lips depending on the cotton candy you ate. The smell of peanuts roasting and the never-ending popcorn popping. Midway games and someone shouting they had won, hoisting a four-foot purple teddy bear he gave to his girlfriend. Water guns shooting into a clown's mouth, and the winner got a choice of cheap toys. Moms wiping hands and mouths, a never-ending battle as Dad handed out tickets for the rides, like Boats going around in a water-filled pool. A little kids' Ferris wheel filled with happy faces as parents snapped pictures, sure that one would be on the family Christmas cards.

As darkness fell, the entire place became a rainbow of colored lights, some blinking, others not. Screaming people on the mother of all coasters lit up with strobe lights, making you wonder if that's what a bad trip felt like. Hot dogs and greasy fries smothered with ketchup for dinner, leaving their mark on every kid's shirt. And just like that, the fair announced it was closing for the night, promising to be open tomorrow, as parents took their kids' sticky hands, some carried by tired dads and moms walking slowly with tired kids in tow. Two yellow stuffed monkeys and a bag of half-eaten peanuts would go home and be proudly displayed on a bedroom shelf.
The ride home had hardly begun, and three tired kids were asleep before the lights of the fair were behind them. Mom and Dad talked quietly, looking back at their kids' smiling faces, knowing this day would always be remembered, even in sleep. Back home, Dad carried the little ones inside as the older of the bunch walked slowly, dragging two yellow monkeys behind him. No teeth brushing tonight, no stories to be read, or glasses of water, just a deep sleep dreaming of colored lights and never-ending popping of popcorn—all in all, the perfect day at the fair.
Mike  2026

The park bench

 He remembered sitting on a park bench eating an ice cream cone with his grandma. Decades have passed since that time, with the old bench replaced by a new one, a magnet for anyone with a pocketknife to carve out their initials, hearts, and professions of love. It was like a rite of passage, handed down and never forgotten as time made room for one more young lover's expression of first love.

He remembered his crudely carved heart done in the darkness of an empty park years ago, his own heart beating fast in fear of being caught, but never was. And like many others, an X carved through the heart meant a breakup and a message to others that they were over and available.
Those years of innocence were so different than today's, when a guy carved his feelings, and girls drew hearts on book covers for everyone to see. It was a time when milkshakes were shared and holding hands in the school hallways was a big deal. It was skipping last period and going to the park, where first kisses left you breathless and speechless, as you unveiled the heart you had carved for the world to see.
As my kids grew up, all the old benches were replaced with composite ones, making them impossible to carve on, so colored markers became the jackknives, and the legacy continued. Kids still hold hands and experience a first kiss; they still sit on a bench looking for an X, but more important is knowing their love can be expressed with a magic marker, whether time will erase it or not.
Mike  2026

Atomic fireballs

 He was just a kid who lived in the country. Growing up around family and a couple of good friends. He'd sit on the wooden crate in front of the general store, tossing stones at a stray cat, never intending to hit it, just to scare it a bit. He was going to meet up with Billy and John, his only real friends, but neither showed up, thinking they probably got tied up with more chores. He fumbled in his overall pockets, searching for the quarter he'd earned from Mrs. Jefferies, whose husband of sixty years passed on a while back. He'd drop in on her every so often as she always had something needed done. He went straight into the store to the orange-colored cooler, where bottles of five different flavors were kept cold and frosty. He chose a Dr. Pepper today and a bag of peanuts that he'd pour into the bottle, making a Georgia milkshake. It erupted like a volcano, something he learned from his older brother. Thing was, by the time it was done erupting, there wasn't anything left to drink, so he didn't do that much anymore unless he was trying to impress Betty Joe, the girl of his dreams who couldn't care less about his stupid tricks.

He had a seat on the old crate again, this time kicking a can of empty beans until it landed under the sheriff's car, and he was sure enough not going under there to get it. The sheriff came out of the store with a bottle of Coke, chugged it down, and handed the empty bottle to him, saying he could get the two-cent deposit and get himself two cents' worth of candy. That was an easy decision as he set two atomic fireballs on the counter along with the empty bottle. Back outside and sitting on the crate, the challenge to himself began. The object was to suck on the fireball until your mouth couldn't take it anymore. When your lips felt like two red peppers, and your throat began to close up. What seemed like forever but was really only a minute or so until the darn thing quit burning and was reduced to a marble-sized ball that could safely be eaten until it was gone. He put the other fireball in his pocket for another time, knowing he didn't want to go through that again, at least not for a while.
He looked inside the store at the Coca-Cola clock, which showed him it was getting late and that it was time to get home before his dad finished plowing and before Mom rang the supper bell. Just as he began his walk home, he saw Mr. Larry's old pickup truck headed for the store, which meant one thing: he was running late as Mom's dinner bell rang at four thirty sharp. You see, Mr. Larry was what my mom called a creature of habit. Every day except Sunday, he left his job at the mill at exactly four oclock. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the store where he'd buy a loaf of bread and a six-pack of a cheap beer. Then he'd head straight home, arriving at four thirty-five on the dot. As he pulled away from the store, Mr. Larry leaned out the window without slowing down, asking him if he needed a ride. Get in the back, he told him again, never slowing down. It was a bumpy road, especially when Mr. Larry hit every pothole in sight. He yelled out the window and told him to go ahead and jump off, as he wasn't going to stop. So, with no other options, he jumped out, rolling through the dirt and coming to rest at the gate. He jumped to his feet and ran down the road leading to the farm, where he saw his dad putting the tractor in the barn and, seconds later, the supper bell ringing. It was a close call, but he made it in time, and that's what mattered. He asked his mom why Mr. Larry kept such a tight schedule, and she answered that he had never missed an episode of Wheel of Fortune since it began airing. She said he was in love with Vanna White like so many men were. She may be hot, he thought to himself, but as for him, he'd rather get his hot from an atomic fireball at least for the time being.

Mike  2026

Another life, maybe.

 All of us, at one time or another, believe we've lived more than once. We see something never seen before, giving us chills as it all becomes so clear we've been there before.

I believe I was a fighter pilot in ww2 a product of a military father who made my decision to join up a no-brainer. I went to flight school and graduated in just enough time to witness Pearl Harbor in such detail that I still can close my eyes and see myself in the cockpit, taking off from a crude runway and looking down at the destruction burning a hole in my heart.
I was 25 years old and quickly discovered I had a talent. My skills as a pilot were well known, with 30 confirmed kills, each a painted lady on the fuselage of my plane. I could feel the plane as we took part in dogfights, watching as black smoke filled the sky, forcing me to fly blindfolded at times but always breaking through in time to shoot down another enemy plane.
I witnessed one of ours go down in flames, and I prayed for their souls but was never distracted from my mission. Outnumbered until reinforcements arrived, we fought in the sky blanketed by darkness, our ammo running low but our spirits high as enemy planes crashed into the sea below us. Tired and wounded, we refueled and flew back into the battle to help our brothers alone without us to protect them.
When it was over, we limped back, our planes riddled with hits, engines overworked, and nothing shy of a miracle we survived. I can smell the war on my flight suit, a smell of fuel everywhere and of death, as one of my brothers crashed before my eyes in a fireball of flames. It's all so clear to me today; the panic and the realism burn inside me as I take to the skies over and over until it all disappears, and I'm back home safe and sound.
I was never a pilot, or, for that matter, never served one day in the military. Not by choice, mind you, but a medical condition disqualified me from joining up. I ask myself how, after all this time, I remember everything in vivid detail. The sounds of my plane, the explosions on the ships in the harbor, the choking smell of jet fuel, and a picture of my wife next to the fuel gauge, even though I never wed.
I can only come up with one reason that I had lived another life, and yes, that sounds unbelievable, and maybe it is, but to me I believe such things do happen, and sometimes we're shown that previous life in details too great to ignore. A dream, some ask; I don't think so more of a portal into another time, where we find ourselves in death reaching for another time, another chance, or maybe just another version of ourselves.
Mike  2026

Whispers at the head stones

 When I go home for a visit, I spend time with those who have passed before me, going back from decades to generations. I'll sometimes have to search certain areas obscured by weeds and grass, and others that are kept up by those left behind, maintaining a peaceful spot where heaven's light shines down upon them as they talk to the departed.

My Mom is laid to rest on a slight hill that seems to grow steeper with every year I age. I'll catch my breath and tell her about my life, how big my grandkids are, and how I remember her and miss her every day. I always bring her some lilacs, as they were her favorite. In the quiet of the day, I touch her headstone and whisper my love for her, a love that time can't change or grow less. Saying goodbye breaks another piece of my heart as I walk down the hill, leaving tears that follow me always.
It's easy to find my dad, who is laid to rest in a military section of the graveyard. He rests among the dozens of his brothers-in-arms who fought the great battles of wars and conflicts, some who died in battle while others lived a life filled with hidden pain. I speak to him with the respect he deserves and forgiveness for his anger that was fueled by the bottle and his endless nightmares that often woke me in the darkness of night as I held my pillow over my head to drown out a voice I didn't recognize. I'll brush away the weeds to clearly see his name and salute him, knowing that would make his day.
I make my way across the hundreds of graves and come upon a beautiful place, the resting place for a father and a son lying side by side for eternity. As I sit on a small bench, I can hear them debating on one topic or another, both deep in thought and planning their next move in never-ending chess games. I see their faces as I remember two scholars, a father and son who loved each other more than any lifetime could understand.
My final stop is that of my first love. Taken from this world too soon, leaving a trail of broken hearts, none more broken than my own. She lies beside her parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, together forever, with her name, Tamara Star, etched into the stone that I trace with my finger, hoping a speck of heavenly dust remains with me forevermore. I can't stop my tears as her beautiful face smiles down on me and eases the pain I've felt for decades. I often sit in silence, remembering her in every way I can and knowing words aren't needed; just a little more time until we meet again.
My baby sister, as well as my best friend, chose cremation; their remains on shelves are a constant reminder of their presence and importance, always in view and always in my heart. I speak to them as I did the others who, in so many ways, touched me in ways only I can feel. I will find myself at the ocean, staring out to an endless sea where my best friend blows with grains of sand at the ocean's bottom as I cup a handful of damp sand, wondering if it's him telling me everything is okay. I find myself hoping he will watch over my sister among the grains of sand and stay by her side, like I picture him doing.
Death isn't just a time of mourning; it's a place of comfort for those like me who never really said goodbye just one-way conversations between a man and his whispers to headstones that sometimes whisper back.
Mike  2026

Pumpkin patches and more

 I remember walking through a pumpkin patch that seemed to go on forever.  Odd-shaped gourds destined to sit on a porch with carved-out faces, often from the imaginations of children. I recall drawing the face with a crayon, then Dad taking charge of the knife and carving it exactly the way I drew it. Mom would soak the seeds in saltwater, then bake them to a golden brown, and my sisters and I ate them until our lips were parched. On Halloween night, the candles were lit, and the ghoul-ish faces came to life as another memory was added to my childhood book of smiles. It was always a little sad to see the once mighty pumpkin reduced to mush and discarded. Still, I only had to wait another year for a trip to the pumpkin patch, when I'd search row after row for that perfect pumpkin whose face I would color in crayon. Dad said maybe next year, but not today, as he took the knife and began carving upside-down triangles and jagged teeth sure to scare even the bravest kid. I never liked the day after, when pumpkins sat atop trash cans, deformed and scorched by the candle's flame, looking like defeated soldiers on a battlefield. But on the upside, we had pillowcases full of candy that my sisters and I would trade for Kit Kats, Snickers, pieces of Double Bubble gum, and more. Our thoughts of Thanksgiving and the grand daddy of all Christmas were on our minds. It was fun being a kid back then, when boxes filled the shelves in the attic, each marked for the occasion, filled with costumes to be handed down and paper turkeys cut out using your hand as a template. Box after box of Christmas decorations, filled with ornaments handed down from generation to generation, and dozens of handmade ornaments made by the kids that were hung on the tree every year. But the most important boxes contained hundreds of strings of colored lights Dad would spend hours untangling, swearing this was the last year he'd do it. But there he was, up on a ladder turning our house into a winter wonderland like he's been doing since I can remember.

I count my blessings for the childhood years I shared with my family, and over the years I've found myself doing the same things for my children and grandkids. We've even started our own traditions, like sitting around a campfire on Christmas Eve, drinking hot chocolate, and singing holiday songs. We invite neighbors over to share in our bounty, and every kid exchanges small homemade gifts with one another. We still visit that pumpkin patch where we let the grandkids run from row to row in search of the perfect pumpkin to draw faces on with a crayon, and I finally get the honor of using the knife to carve exactly what they drew, no matter how they looked.

Mike  2026

Dads dream boat

 I was about twelve when my dad brought home a big boat on a trailer, towed by a tow truck. It was quite the show as neighbors watched it slowly make its way through turns and park in the driveway. From the look on my mom's face, this was one of those times when Dad preferred to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. The boat was in fair condition but would need some work to make it seaworthy. As luck would have it, one of the neighbors was a well-known carpenter with years of experience reconditioning boats. I later learned that the carpenter and my dad had met up at the marina on several occasions to plan something that wouldn't break the bank.

Dad grew up living a stone's throw from the Niagara River, which, like most young boys, was a place to learn to swim and help with small chores at the marina. He fell in love with boats and had a few over the years, telling me he was working his way up from smaller boats to a cabin cruiser he had yet to find.  I'll never forget the day he got a call from the harbor master at the marina, telling Dad that a 28-foot Trogen cabin cruiser went up for sale at a very good price. We quickly took the short drive to the marina, where the harbor master showed us to the metal hut where boats were placed on cradles and covered with tarps to protect them from the bad weather.
There she blows, the harbor master said, pointing to a boat covered with blue tarps, which he pulled off, revealing what Dad said was a dream come true. All I saw was a hull and a ton of work to be done before she ever hit the water. On his first visit, the carpenter told my dad it would take about $4,000 to restore it to its original beauty. Plus, the engine would have to be overhauled and all electrical components brought up to current codes. Mind you, my dad wasn't much of a get-your-hands-dirty kind of guy, but he could negotiate with the best of them, eventually getting everything done for 3,500 dollars, which was no small amount in 1963.
The boat took shape in our driveway for a year and a half, and the finished product was one of beauty and grace. Everybody in our family did their part, with Mom making curtains down below in the living area, and my sisters lending a hand. The boat had a cooking stove, a small fridge, a stand-up shower, and a commode. It had a forward berth with a good-sized bed and a table that folded down to form a sleeping area. I'll never forget the smell of new wood and knew why the carpenter was in demand.
We launched the boat on July fourth. Dad and I had already given her a test run, with the mechanic getting out the bugs and giving his stamp of approval. We passed inspection by the Coast Guard, who put a red sticker on the bottom of the windshield dated 1965 through 1966. So with food and drinks stowed away below and sunscreen applied, we headed out of the harbor onto the mighty Niagara River. That was just the first of many voyages we took on that boat as time swam past; Dad couldn't operate the boat anymore due to his failing health. But it didn't stop him from becoming first mate, passing down the captain's hat he wore for many years to me.
Long after my parents left this world, I kept the boat for years, taking my kids on weekend cruises, showing them the places my dad showed us, always with a tear shed. But eventually the upkeep became a burden, and we decided to sell her. I learned that a young couple bought her and treated her with the respect she deserved. As for me, well, I found another boat under a tarp in the marina and called the carpenter straight away.

Mike  2026

Waiting for your next nap.

 It took him a little longer to get to his chair these days, plopping down hard enough that he thought he'd blow out the stuffing. It wasn't always like that he remembered. There were times he could have jumped over the darn thing. These days it's the little things he remembers, like getting his first tattoo and the dozens that followed. Now just a faded ink highway no one would notice.

He smiles as he looks at a picture of himself in his navy uniform, wondering if he really was that age and where the time went. He spends hours looking at old photographs, each a story of his life; he never grows tired of remembering and knowing the day will come when the stories will grow fewer and fade away altogether.
He naps every afternoon, not by choice; mind you, it's just a way of saying he can no longer control sleep as it finds him whenever it pleases. He has one of those new-to-him cell phones his daughter gave to him so she could keep tabs on him. After all, Dad, she would say, you can't be alone all the time without letting me know you're okay. He didn't argue with her, as he knew he couldn't win unless you call turning the damn thing off a win.
As he sat in his chair, he'd put himself into a kind of trance, reliving precious memories of his life, seeing clearly the faces he loved and the laughter of so many, each unique in their own way. Everything was crystal clear, like the time he kicked a can down a country road, hearing crickets and the buzzing of bees hovering over a patch of flowers. Or the time he bought his first car from the junkyard, a 1957 Chevrolet for seventy bucks, and drove it home.
The doorbell rang, and he ignored it, knowing it was just another somebody wanting to mow his grass or shovel his driveway when the snow came. They'd go away, slipping a pamphlet under the door, which he used for kindling in the fireplace. After all, he wasn't glued to his chair and still maintained his house; it just took a while longer to finish, and he hoped he wouldn't fall asleep halfway through.
He used to shrug off people calling him old, but somewhere along the line he accepted the fact that he was. But old doesn't always mean old; it just means slowing down and waiting for a nap.

Mike  2026

too hot to handle

 The heat was worse than she remembered as she sat on the porch fanning her face with a plastic fan she picked up at the market some time ago. It was baby blue with pink flowers and a tiny gold label reading made in China. It helped, she supposed, but sometimes she felt like it was just blowing hot air at her. A glass of iced tea sat beside her, but it hadn't taken much time before the ice cubes just melted, leaving a bit more watered-down tea.

She wasn't expecting any visitors today, so she rolled her stockings down and unbuttoned her blouse just enough to fan her neck as droplets of sweat rolled down her already soaked chest. She wasn't one to complain or question God, but today she found herself looking to the heavens and whispering Why?
There was no air conditioning in the old farmhouse, just open windows and a prayer for any kind of breeze at all. But she'd have to wait for nightfall when the scorching sun gave way to the moon and stars as collective souls gave thanks.
Too hot to cook, so crackers and peanut butter were on the menu tonight, and a cupcake treat with melted frosting for dessert. The darkness was upon her as she sat on the porch again, closing her eyes and letting the warm summer breeze lull her to sleep.
Crickets sang, and tree frogs let their presence be known as the creatures of the night ventured out from daytime hiding places to embrace the cooling night. She woke, remembering her dream of a large bowl of ice cream with two cherries on top, only to realize it was just a dream, and now craving ice cream.
The old fridge gave its all but was no match for the heat, and the bowl of her dream had turned to a melted and lukewarm drink. Waste not, she said out loud as she got a straw and sipped her drink down to the gurgling sounds she made as a kid with her first milkshake.
Tomorrow will bring on the heat again, as it has for several days. Fans made in China will fan faces, kids will play in the sprinklers, and dogs will find a place under the house lying on cool dirt. Will this day be the day the sky opens up and rain comes crashing on the old tin roof? Will the almost dead plants and grass find relief as droplets of god's nectar splash the cracked earth? One can only dream and hope that the old fridge comes alive again with ice cream, no straw needed.
Mike  2026

Unfaded squares

 Unfaded squares on a wall where pictures once hung. A family's memories gone to where I don't know. A dusty shelf on a left-behind dresser holds a pair of bronzed baby shoes, somehow forgotten in a rushed move.

A backyard swing set eaten with rust sits idle with the occasional creaking as a breeze passes by, and you swear you hear the voices of children at play.
A makeshift doghouse, decayed and crumbling, once a shelter for a loyal friend.Remains of a chewed-up stuffed animal, half buried and lost forever.
A dilapidated shed with a rusted metal roof draws you inside as sunlight turns to darkness, the last few rays letting you see the forgotten tools of a trade someone used to earn a living. The walls, once filled with hanging tools, are empty except for a pair of pruning shears and a lantern, probably to give light to projects done at night.
A well-disguised old tractor, covered with vines and tall grass, catches your eye as you climb onto the metal seat and imagine you're a farmer who used the machine like his father did until the day it stopped working and was left where it sat from then on.
A chicken coop without chickens, a barn with no hay, an old tire hung with a rope to make a swing. A dried-up pond, once a place for kids to swim or catch a first fish, now just another unpainted square of a family's memories.
Mike  2026

I could write about whatever

 Even when the page is blank and my fingers hover over the keys, I remind myself there is always something to write about. I could write about the beautiful sunrise this morning or the star-filled night sky. I could write about my next-door neighbor, most likely sleep-deprived, pacing back and forth on the porch as she tries to lull her baby to sleep, as she keeps singing to her child in a soft mother's voice.

I could write about my grandson's visit the other day, dumbfounded by how tall he has grown and his plan for his future. We would look through pictures from when he was just a wee bit of a thing, as I looked at his expressions of remembrance and happiness.
I could write about the loss of a good friend recently, but my tears are dried now, I think. I did write something the day I learned of her death, but that's tucked away in a special collection I've written over time and don't share.
I could write about all the love I've had and all I've given, subtle reminders of my life and its blessings. I could write about all the places I've traveled and endless roads I've thundered down, the sound of my Harley music to my ears. Sunday rides going from one bar to another, always a brotherhood of bikers there to greet me with a cold one.
I could write about my youth, my adulthood, and now old age, each part of me as was the plan from the beginning. I can indeed write about anything, with plenty of topics all boiled into a pot of words waiting for me to tap a key.
Mike  2026

Memories of a sailor

 He was alone with his memories as the ship sliced through calm seas on its way to another port of call. Midnight watch on the signal bridge far above the main deck, with nothing to see but blackness and an occasional pod of porpoises illuminated by phosphorescence as they sped past us on their own mission, he supposed. He liked the midnight watch and looking at the stars so close you try to touch one, believing you can but only making a fool of yourself in front of nobody. Hours pass with nothing to do except stargaze and the occasional footsteps of a sailor stopping to say hello and offer a hit or two from a joint. He leaves after a while, and his footprints fade into the quiet of the night as you play connect the stars in living colors until your high wears off.

Darkness slowly replaced with light as your eyes adjust, and the endless black is burned away by the rising sun, and an ocean of bluish green greets you. In the distance, much further away than it looks, you see a landmass somewhere off the coast of Spain growing in size as the ship makes way for the port of Barcelona. 0800 hours, and you're relieved of your watch as you head for breakfast and then to your rack and sleep. You wake to the sounds of the ship and work parties unloading crates at the docks, filled with items like electrical components and plumbing parts, just some of the items given to Spain as gifts from the US. Sailors are granted liberty with two things on their minds: women and booze, usually spending their entire paycheck the first day with 30 more days of being broke.
I loved being a sailor and all the stories told by the old salts—tales of mermaids and Davy Jones' locker. King Neptune and lost cities at the bottom of the oceans. I felt proud wearing my uniform, the old-school 13 buttons on your pants and bell bottoms. Taking hours to shine your dress shoes and a Dixie cup hat you positioned perfectly on your head. That uniform was the cause of many a woman's knees going weak. Going home on leave was another thing I liked. Especially after graduation from boot camp, where you gained ten pounds of muscle, had a nice haircut, and stood tall and proud of the uniform. People greeted you on the streets back then, telling you how good you looked, which also made you proud. Mom made a big fuss, inviting the entire neighborhood over for a barbecue with banners welcoming me home. Things were different back then.
Now all that remains of my time in the Navy. A golden shellback certificate framed on a wall, a belt buckle with the ship's name I served on, and a bunch of photographs, mostly faded but still visible. A couple of cruise books with pictures of all the ports we visited throughout the world. But the most important thing I brought home was my memories of fellow shipmates and the brotherhood we shared out in that bluish-green vastness of the sea.

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

The Colonel

 His last apartment before the stroke was unkempt to the naked eye, but to him, it meant home. Back in the day, people bought old houses and converted them into small apartments, usually a total of four, and all barely big enough for you to get around in. It had a tiny kitchen with a stove, small fridge, and four cabinets to keep everything you might need. There was a small bathroom, so small that if you were over six feet, you'd have to cut a hole in the door to put your legs through. The first of two small bedrooms had a single-size bed and a stand-up closet to hang clothes, with a shelf for underwear and socks. The second bedroom was his collection/writting room where he spent a good portion of his time. Back in his day, he was a writer, mostly for the big newspapers, and achieved some fame with his column titled "Thinking it over."In his later years, when the words wouldn't come easily, he just sat at the typewriter and wrote whatever came into his mind. I always thought it was the sound of the keys that gave him hope he'd write again.

He drank too much, and too often, as evidenced by weekly garbage pickup consisting of dozens of bottles clanging as one when tossed into the garbage truck. He smoked like a furnace and found it less expensive to roll his own cigarettes, which he did by buying cans of tobacco, then spending hours rolling enough to fill a plastic holder he kept in his pocket, along with a few airplane-size bottles he put in his coat pocket when he ventured outside his apartment. The walls of that room were stacked to the ceiling with empty tobacco cans; only he knew the answer to that. Looking back, I recall him walking down the street, clanging as the bottles moved around. He taught himself to talk again after the stroke, and he never gave up after 13 years of trying. He was born in the same town where he lived for 80-some years, and he knew almost everybody and mourned the loss of too many to count.
He would take walks no matter the season, always ending up at one of his watering holes where he'd drink with old veterans like himself, reliving the war and toasting to those who never made it home. When he came upon a bar or restaurant he'd never gone to, he had index cards written out, each telling things like how he wanted his drinks made or how to cook his steaks. The local police knew him and often offered him a ride home after a night of heavy drinking, sometimes having to wake him up from a park bench, sometimes covered with snow, amazed at his stamina and his I don't give a crap attitude.
When it became apparent he couldn't live like that any longer, his daughter found him a place to live out his days at a Veterans facility. He balked at first but eventually made friends with other vets, all sharing war stories and hand salutes to the Colonel, who was the highest-ranking officer in the entire place. He wore his ball cap with eagles on the brim so there would be no mistaking him for a lower-ranking soldier. I think he enjoyed his time there right up to his last days. He received a full honors funeral and was buried alongside family members who passed before him. I was gifted the American flag, which to this day is displayed on a shelf along with his medals and two Purple Hearts.
He was a good man when sober and a handful when not, but he was my dad, and I have chosen to remember him as a strong man who served his country with honor and lived his life with hidden monsters living in his head for so long. Whenever I visit home, I'll stop at his grave in the veterans' plots and talk to him. I always leave a cigarette on his headstone and toast him with an airplane-sized bottle of booze and tell myself he'd smile at that small gesture of my love and respect.
Mike  2026

Going back one last time.

 Her long white hair blew in the wind as she walked into the forest. Her grandson drove her there at her request, as she wanted to see the place she loved one more time. She was just seventeen years old back then, when she and some friends answered nature's call and ventured into a valley so beautiful it took her breath away. The world was changing back in the 60s, with Vietnam raging on as protestors made their voices heard to stop the war. Young men grew their hair long, and girls wore flowers in their hair. The different genres of music, like Zeppelin and Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, and Jefferson Starship, filled your inner self with music you still love to this day. Music you shared with your grandkids, hoping they, too, would understand and love it as you do.

They walked slowly in the woods as she would stop and hush him to hear the call of the whippoorwill singing to her babies. As they reached the valley, a sense of calm came over her as she closed her eyes, trying to remember what this place had been. She recalled the music playing as free souls caught fireflies in mason jars, lighting a well-worn path to the camping ground where tents were pitched and campfires set off an orangish glow, as an ember occasionally cracked and shot upward like a rocket.
She blushed a bit when her grandson asked if the rumors were true that people went around in their birthday suits, to which she replied, "Yes, we did." And is it true drugs like marijuana and acid, along with mushrooms and opium, could be purchased like penny candy? She replied All true. They sat down on a fallen tree as she tried to explain what the drugs really meant to them. Acid was a gateway to pictures often distorted, and objects looked like slithering slugs working their way towards your face. Shadows followed you, but weren't you just a figment of your distorted imagination? She recalled doing what was called "traces," where you'd move your hand from side to side, leaving a trail of colors that could entertain you for hours. She told him she never tried the hard drugs but absolutely loved the high from weed and hashish.
They sat on that fallen tree, letting the gentle breeze flow through their hair hers totally white and his jet black- resting past his shoulders. She once asked him why he grew his hair long, and he replied that he didn't think anyone should be told how to wear their hair, how to dress, or what type of music to listen to. Nobody should tell you how or where to hang your hat because nobody but you knows your inner self and where it will lead you. As darkness made itself known, they took out the mason jars they brought along and caught enough fireflies to light their way back from the valley to the waiting VW bus his grandpa gifted him when he passed on. It had a peace symbol on the front and a lot of weed-induced art now all but faded away. She thanked him for the day as he lit a joint, passed it to her, and put in a Janis Joplin cassette. Ready to cruise? He asked, and with one last look at the smoke rising behind her, she wiped away a tear and said she was ready.

Mike 2026                                                       

Mike  2026

A farms demise

 Today marks fifty years since he opened his farm to passersby in search of farm-fresh fruits and vegetables. He purchased the land with his GI bill after returning home from war. He built a house and a barn with his brother's help and married his high school sweetheart. The money he saved while on active duty was used to purchase very used equipment, like a tractor and a combine, which he had to rebuild from the ground up. It took them a year to build the house and another year for the barn. Sometimes a truck with a half dozen farmers would pull up with their tools and join in, something seen often in farm country. Neighbors helping neighbors just because they could.

His first crop was corn and soy, divided into four-acre plots and two long rows of apple trees, sixty trees, if he remembered correctly. In the far back acres, ten in all, he planted Christmas trees that someday, years from then, he'd sell to city folk wanting the whole experience of trudging through snow, wielding axes to hopefully chop down the perfect tree. Most usually, they just picked one out in a fenced-in area close to the road, where trees of all shapes and sizes were ready to be tied to the roofs of cars.
The years passed, and more crops were planted, like pumpkins big and small and everywhere in between. Their eldest boy was tasked with keeping the patch weed-free and putting prices on everything they would sell a couple of weeks before Halloween. The apple trees bore fruit, which their daughter and a few friends picked, bushel after bushel, and loaded onto a trailer to take to the barn, where they were sorted, with the bad ones. Mom would make apple butter and applesauce, preserved in mason jars with fancy ribbons attached for looks. The good apples were counted and put in either a bushel or half-bushel basket, with a free sample for anyone who asked. They even had a press that squeezed apples to make apple cider, which was always a big seller.
Now, in their fifty-fifth year, his sweet wife and he sit on the front porch, watching the cars and trucks pull in or park beside the road, kids running to the pumpkin patch where his grandkids wore Halloween costumes, to the joy of the kids with their eyes on a free apple. Their son's wife ran the stand filled with mom's pies and breads, along with apple butter and apple sauce, and, of course, jugs of apple cider. For them, this place was home and always has been. They watched their children frolic in the corn rows and climb the apple trees when children could be children among the acres. Soon people will come to get the perfect tree and mom's gingerbread cookies. They will warm up by the fire in barrels scattered around, with the smell of pine filling the air. One day he and his wife will retire, leaving everything up to their kids and grandkids to oversee. But until then, Mom came up with the idea of offering hot chocolate free of charge. They set up a table next to the pumpkin patch, greeting their customers with a sweet hot cup of chocolate to warm them up. Hundreds of people came to the farm during autumn and winter; some they knew who came every year, while others brought their grandkids for the first time. The farm eventually closed its doors when it could no longer compete with the big stores that could offer a wide variety of fruits and vegetables at discounted prices. Today, the farm is but a shadow of what it once was: empty bushel baskets worn through time, rusted farm equipment, and fields now fallow parcels of land. They still live in the house they built. Not really caring if it sells. A for-sale sign hangs from a tree limb, swaying in an autumn breeze, as cars rush past, and parents point and tell their kid, " That was the place we told you about when we were your age. "

                                                                                  

Mike  2026

A love story

 She wasn't a perfect 10, except in his eyes. And she thought him a rugged 8. Their hands fit perfectly together, and he thought her the perfect size when her head rested upon his heart. Talking to each other came easily, and sometimes they even finished each other's sentences. They'd spent hours on the phone, often out of things to say but not wanting to hang up, with the only sound being their breathing. He would walk her home from school even in the dead of winter, then walk himself home in bitter cold winter winds thinking only of her and how much he already missed her.

Some called it puppy love, but they knew it was more than that. Together, they were each half of something whole meant to grow with each passing day. Every second together proved their love would withstand anything life may throw their way. Together they discovered the beauty of their first kiss and the warmth of their bodies as they explored the wonders of their love, which grew more with every passing day.
Theres was a true love story envied by many who longed for such a love, hoping one day they too would find that one person who stops the world for just a fleeting moment when eyes meet, and hearts skip a beat. Call it what you will, but no words will ever express what they felt inside as two halves became one heart beating in unison with no words needed.
Mike  2026

When school starts

 School started today as kids shed their swimsuits for uniforms. Bicycles and school buses competed for the road, and crossing guards smiled and asked each child their name. Backpacks looked like a sea of colors winding through the neighborhoods on a mission to carry the weight of books and assorted necessities. Some contained bagged lunches and comic books to share with buddies during study hall. Girls' packs held enough makeup to open a cosmetics counter. The first day meant locker assignments that sometimes meant a popular kid getting the locker next to a nobody and sometimes a perfect match who could end up king and queen at homecoming. The top shelves and the inside of the locker door were filled with pictures, good luck charms, stickers of a favorite band, and emergency cans of deodorant needed after gym class.

Homeroom was when everyone sized each other up, scouting out potential new friends and welcoming back those who had just returned from summers spent at grandparents'.Teachers were either returning for another year and pointing out the brothers and sisters they had taught last year or, in some cases, the parents they had taught years ago. Some were just your average teachers, the men in sport coats and ties, crew cuts and shined shoes. The lady teachers in dresses they probably made themselves and medium-heeled shoes that made a thudding sound as they moved around the classroom in search of violations. And then there was that one first-year teacher who would stop you in your tracks. She walked into the room, and everything got very quiet as she wrote her name on the blackboard, while every red-blooded boy fell in love.
Lunchtime was chaos as older kids shoved you out of a chair they wanted or took your dessert. It was like a big version of musical chairs. But once the dust settled, everyone knew their place and sat where they belonged. The jocks at one table, the nerds at another. The really smart kids, and of course the bullies, tucked away in the back, ready to strike at any moment.
Back in school days, you felt so many emotions that had nothing to do with book learning; it was a time when you were thrown to the wolves and expected to survive, all while being pressured by parents to try harder. Year after year, as you climbed the ladder to senior year, you grew up both physically and emotionally, eventually becoming the leaders of the pack that first-year students strove to become. Senior proms and backseat make-out sessions, getting sick on spiked fruit punch, and dreaming of futures that meant college for some and the trades for others. Some chose the military; others chose a semester abroad or a year off backpacking across Europe.
Now, as decades have passed, I'll bet I'm not the only man or woman who stops in front of the school or schools we both hated and loved. Listen hard, and you'll hear the bell and the sounds of shoes going from class to class, sometimes the sound of books falling to the floor, only to be picked up by the boy you've secretly liked from the beginning. Think about the crossing guards and maintenance people who fought a losing battle to keep things in order. Or the cafeteria workers who smiled at you, thinking you were having a bad day, and gave you an extra dessert.All those moments in time you wouldn't change for anything.

Mike 2026

Mike  2026

Hearts and bubble gum

 He rubbed his hand across the old desk, something he picked up on trash night decades ago. When he got it home and into his workshop, he felt like he'd gone back in time to the days of innocence and puppy love. Dozens of initials were carved into the top, as well as crudely gouged hearts that appeared to have been made with a nail or screw. On the underside were dozens of dried-up pieces of gum probably stuck on in a hurry as a teacher was fast approaching, holding out her hand where she expected you to spit in it, but you were faster than her and claimed a spot under the desk—imagined what each piece tasted like, maybe bubblegum flavored or Spearmint, Juicy Fruit or pin stripe, one of his favorites. I wondered just how many pieces there were under the desks, and when I estimated the number of desks in every classroom at every grade level, I came up with 75 desks, with a dozen pieces of gum under each desk, for a total of 900 pieces of gum. No wonder the janitor didn't smile very much. Every classroom had a show-off who would stick a jawbreaker bubble gum in his mouth, trying his best to chew the entire thing and blow the world's biggest bubble. With purple ooze running from the corners of his mouth, he spotted the teacher coming his way. Hence, he had to act fast as he slammed the wad under his desk, and that solved the mystery of a select few wads the size of a small apple.

I remember on summer break the maintenance people would attempt to sand down the tops of the desks, all 75 of them. Still, they never finished before summer ended, so when school started up again, some kids got a clean slate and christened them with hearts and initials as their predecessors did in years past. The desks became like time machines, telling stories with every heart gouged into the wood, some leading to everlasting love, some lasting forever. I suppose almost everything back in the day, like defacing desks, was just how life was. It took guts to cover up what you were doing, holding a book over the spot you were carving and watching for any sign you'd get busted and sent to see the principal.
I didn't sand down that desk I found at the curb. I dusted it off and put it in my youngest son's room. A few days later, I looked in on him as he did his homework and noticed he had plastered stickers all over the top of the desk. Maybe someday his kid will inherit the desk, peel off those stickers, and replace them with whatever's popular then. One thing is certain: I bet wads of gum will still be discarded on the underside when parents are heard coming towards their kids' room.

Mike  2026                                                      

Mike  2026

The rebirth of a bicycle

 He walked down a winding dirt road on the way to and from school. There was no school bus for him to ride, since his house was just across the city line, so he walked.  Sun, rain, snow it didn't matter; he walked. His dad said he wasn't raising a crybaby, didn't want to hear him whine, and that he was lucky to have legs. That comment stayed with him for a long time and is probably somewhere in his memories he hopes never surfaces.

On the last day before summer break, he kicked a can down the dirt road, not in any hurry to get home, as he knew his dad had left a note with his chores listed, all to be done each day before he could do what he pleased. He didn't mind helping out; after all, he ate his dad's food and put a roof over his head. Cut the grass once a week, weed the vegetable garden every other day, and took the trash down to the street on Tuesdays and Fridays. He took the note to his room and taped it to his mirror so he'd see it every morning, knowing what chores he had that day.
There was a bright side to doing all those chores: he got an allowance he'd save for a new bicycle. The one his folks got for him at the start of school last September was stolen, and his dad said he'd bet him a hundred dollars he forgot to lock it up at school, so now he'd walk until he could get another, which he would pay for on his own. Dad left for work before the sun rose, and Mom didn't drive, so he had to wake up hearing Dad's truck leave, giving him forty-five minutes to eat some breakfast and run out the door, taking a deep breath and walking at a fast pace until he finished the toast Mom handed to him on the way out. The walk turned to a brisk run, only slowing down if he spotted something interesting along the way.
He recalls an autumn day when something shiny caught his eye deep in the field, forcing him to retrieve what turned out to be his lost bicycle. It had been stripped of both tires and handlebars, making it hard to recognize, except for the small license plate that had his name on it, which he had bolted on as a gift from his folks on the first day of school. He slung the bike over his shoulder, or at least what was left of it, and carried it home. His dad was coming down the dirt road, coming to a stop next to him, telling him to throw it in the back and he'd cut it up for scrap, but he told his dad he wanted to rebuild it and he'd pay for everything on his own. Every day, when his chores were done, he'd go to dad's workshop and fill a wagon with tools he would need, like rakes, shovels, and saws, and anything else he'd need, as he walked from neighbor to neighbor, offering his services in rain, heat, and snow.
He finished rebuilding his bicycle in late January, but it wasn't your average bicycle. He put on off-road tires that could ride through even the deepest ruts and an old lawnmower motor that produced enough horsepower to reach a top speed of 20 mph. He installed a seat from his old banana bike he rode as a kid, as well as ape-hanger handlebars and iron pegs for a passenger to stand on. Lastly, he took the last of his savings for two cans of black spray paint and a heavy-duty lock and chain to make sure it stayed put where he left it. It was a work of beauty, and when he showed it to his folks, their reaction was one more thing he'd lock away in his memories.
On the first day back at school, he slept in after hearing his dad's truck pull out, as he wasn't in too much of a hurry. He sat down and ate his breakfast as Mom handed him the lunch bag that he put in the saddlebags he had made out of two old military bags just growing dust in the garage. Be careful on that thing his mom yelled over the noise of the lawnmower engine. He put on his helmet and, with a few bursts of dark smoke, began his journey to school. One of the biggest thrills was him passing the school bus as kids waved to him, which he acknowledged with a toot of his horn. The one he had taken off his sister's bicycle, unnoticed by her until it wasn't. He rode that bicycle throughout his senior year, giving rides to kids and sometimes letting his buddies ride it solo. In the end, he got his driver's license and put the bicycle in the garage where it remained for many years. Every so often, he'd catch his dad removing the tarp, showing off his son's invention with pride in his voice and love in his heart. He grew up to be a race car driver and eventually an IndyCar champion. But he never forgot that bicycle built from pieces and parts that waits for the right moment for his son to climb on and be crowned the king of the dirt road.    

Mike  2026                                       

                                                                               

Mike 2026

The end of a train depot

 For the last time, he had a seat on a bench that bore the initials of a generation. Somewhere, he said to himself as he rubbed his hand across the bench, searching but to no avail. In the near distance sat the wrecking ball that would erase any sign of the old train station whose tracks were removed years ago to make way for asphalt roads, and to close the station that once bustled with travelers who now chose faster means of transportation.

He got up and walked inside, the wooden floor buckling as he made his way to the ticket counter, something he remembers doing to purchase a ticket to the city on more than one occasion. Rust-stained porcelain sinks and unhinged restroom doors were just a couple of things that were vandalized over time. He remembers the benches inside where you'd sit, waiting for the train, as people spoke to those beside them, sharing stories of their travels that day. Some sad news, but more often than not, talking about going home for a special occasion with the kids who would ride their first train, claiming the window seats.
He stood in silence, broken by the sound of a flock of birds guarding their nests, and wished he could somehow warn them of the impending doom. He saw the broken newsstand, once filled with the day's newspapers, travel guides, and dime novels to pass the time on a long journey. He returned to the outside bench and once again rubbed the surface, looking for his heart, but it wasn't meant to be. Darkness fell, and soon the police would shine their lights, looking for any looters, even though the place had been all but destroyed.
Morning came, and he returned to join a group of people standing behind the yellow tape as the wrecking ball started up, black smoke billowing from its engine, waiting for its cue to proceed. Then, with the swing of the ball, it landed blow after blow until all that remained was a pile of wood and twisted metal. Other machines moved in, filling dump trucks one load after another until all that remained was a dark spot of nothing. The tape was removed, and the people went on with their day- well, almost everybody- as he walked slowly around the dark spot when perseverance paid off. He stooped down, brushing dirt from an object he believed to be the outside bench. It was a small heart-shaped carving on a piece of that bench, maybe three inches in size. He put it in his pocket and slowly walked away, turning around one last time, rubbing the heart to remember the station, now forever in the memory book of his life.

Mike  2026                                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                        

Mike  2026

Christmas in July remembered

 It never mattered to me if I wrote about Christmas in July or August. I'd crank up the A/C and start writing. I have memory overload when it comes to the holidays: the sights and sounds, the food and colored lights, and the smell of pine that filled the house. Sometimes I feel as if I have a never-ending loop of those memories going round and round in my head, making me smile on my worst days. I sometimes find myself so deep into a memory that everything around me stops, like the smell of pumpkin pie invading my nose. It's the smallest of things, giving back to me from my youth, that brings me joy, if only briefly. A dish of ribbon candies in a glass bowl, sitting on a table at Grandma's house, the smell of her starched apron, a breath of freshness as she scurried around her kitchen, baking Christmas treats like only she could do.

My youngest holiday memories are of when Santa was very much real, as I stood in line at a department store to tell him my wishes, which took so long I'd have to pee, which Mom told me happened every year I stood in a line. She could hardly stop laughing, telling Dad how every kid waiting was jumping up and down, grabbing their privates and hoping they wouldn't burst. It was a great day when one of Santa's elves held your place in line so Mom or Dad could take you to the restroom, and a sigh of relief even Santa could hear.
I peel back another layer of memories, taking me back to my youth, when my dad took me to his brother's toy store for the holidays. Can you imagine, a kid in a toy store what could be better? I remember being told in a stern kind of way I wasn't allowed to unwrap any boxes, but I was welcome to go in the basement, where I'd find a dozen, if not more, boxes marked "missing pieces." I'd get lost for hours, taking pieces apart piece by piece and making them into something that looked good to me, so I took one of my creations and showed it to my dad, who placed it on a shelf with the good toys and marked it at $3.00. When my dad and I got back after lunch, my uncle handed me $3.00, saying he had sold my creation. I know that wasn't the case, but at the time it was something I told everybody with great pride.
As I grew up and certain truths became known, I kept those memories safely locked in my memory book. Every so often, a grandkid would ask me if Santa was real, and I assured him he was as real as you and me. One year, we wrote letters to Santa, which we took with us to the big-box store, where Santa greeted the kids and heard their wishes. The line was long, and kids began to jump about, grabbing their privates, and I looked down at my grandson, standing quietly, saying he was glad I made him go before we left the house.
It was a sad day for me when the youngest of my grandkids told me he wouldn't be going to see Santa this year because kids in his class laughed at him for believing he was real. I could have let it go, but instead I rented a Santa suit with all the trimmings that, in my opinion, was the best I'd ever seen. There was no way possible I'd be recognized, so I opened his classroom door and, with a few loud HO hO HOS, I saw all of them quickly writing down their Christmas wishes. One by one, the kids sat on my knee, swearing they'd been pretty good this year and asking if I would please bring that new bicycle and life-size doll house? When it was time for Santa to go, he reached into a red sack and tossed candy canes into the crowd, wishing everybody a Merry Christmas. As he was almost out the door, he turned around and told my grandson to tell his dad he appreciated his help this year, and he'd see him again next year. His grandson became a sort of legend around school after that, and I had another memory I'd tuck away in my holiday memory files.

Mike  2026                                                          

  

Mike  2026

A church in the valley

 The empty church sat in a country valley with peeled whitewash and creaky floorboards. Pieces of glass, broken over time, allowing squatters to enter with cans of spray paint, are covered with weeds and vines that crawl up the walls in an attempt to hide the evil somehow let inside. Overturned pews, some used for firewood, others as carving boards of crude images depicting wayward youth with too much time on their hands. Litter strewn across the floor like empty bottles and cans, the last drops long since swallowed, and faded newspapers maybe used as covers on cold nights. The pulpit, once a place to hear the words of God, became a place where mockery and darkness brought applause from an audience of traveling nomads searching for anything but answers. I look around at faded walls and shadows of the cross, a reminder he's still here and crying with me.

Mike  2026                                                                        

Their song

 Have you ever been stopped abruptly by a song playing off in the distance? Not just any top ten hit, as there are hundreds of those that you could listen to while doing laundry or vacuuming the floors.  I'm talking about that song, the one you remember dancing to with the girl of your dreams, holding you tight as you softly sing her the lyrics. The song that withstood time as years passed you by. It sometimes plays on an oldies station, and you try to sing along because you still know all the words, but trying to sing it out loud doesn't work out too well, and you blame it on the two packs of cigarettes you've inhaled every day for decades. But it doesn't bother you, and you sing along out of key and out of breath. It all comes back to you seeing her in a red dress, her hair flowing down her back, and a hint of her perfume lingering in the air with every twirl she makes.

She greeted him at the door, home from work, asking why he was late, and he handed her a package, which she opened with curiosity and found to contain an old 33-rpm vinyl record titled Johnny Mathis Greatest Hits. Wait before you play it, she said. I'll be just a jiffy. He dusted it off and set it on the old record player he's had for years. Looking at the list of songs only Johnny could do justice to. Coming out, she said, as his heart skipped a beat seeing her in that red dress, her long hair falling down her back, and the scent of her perfume filling the air with every twirl she made. He lowered the needle to the third groove, and Chances Are began to play. It was the song they danced to long ago, but the feelings remain as strong as they were when love filled the air and time stood still for a fleeting moment.

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                         

The love for grandma

 When I was a boy, my grandma would sit down with me and share stories of her youth. She was born in 1898 and witnessed firsthand the passage of time and all it brought.  I couldn't imagine living without electricity or not being able to get in a car and drive. She remembered when the Wright brothers flew like a bird and how she lived through world wars and depressions as she made do with what she had. She told me she accepted life because wishing for a better life wasn't up to her, and her faith got her through the roughest times. She had four children to raise on her own, and she worked two jobs to feed and house them. She told me the hardest part was watching them go without things other kids had. She had a coffee can that she kept her spare pennies in, hoping that come Christmas she'd have enough to buy each of them a gift. She remembered how on Christmas Eve she'd hang their stockings, and each one got an orange, an apple, and a peppermint candy cane. The big surprise was a new baseball for her oldest son, a jump rope for one daughter, and a game of jacks for the other. Her youngest got a baby doll that she never let go of.

I loved her stories, and because of her, I learned to love writing. We'd sit at her kitchen table, and she'd give me a topic to write about as she baked some cookies. The words just flowed onto the paper, and when I was done, she'd read what I wrote, choking back tears and telling me I had been given a gift straight from God. From that day on, I'd write about anything and everything, and she read each one, telling me my words would someday be known by many and my legacy would be my stories. As we all do, my grandma passed away, and my heart was broken. I tried to write, but the sorrow blocked the words, and blank sheets of paper and a couple of sharpened pencils went untouched for quite a while. Then one springtime day, as I was walking home from school, I heard her voice, clear as a bell, telling me to write again. It was her speaking to me, and nobody could tell me otherwise as I ran the rest of the way home, without a minute to spare. The words began to flow again, on multiple sheets of paper with a nub for a pencil. I wrote about her and the times we shared, like long walks and sitting on the front porch, as she once told me everything out there has a story in the making, and all I had to do was open my mind and my heart to do what comes naturally.
Many years have passed since those days of sharing stories, but when I'm feeling down and the paper is just a blank sheet, I recall a memory or two, and the words begin to flow again. I believe that every so often someone enters our life and we are changed for good. My grandma was that person, partly because she saw things in me I didn't know existed, and she knew one day, like the Wright brothers, I'd take flight, and I did just that.

Mike 2026                                               

                                                               

Mike  2026

Boating memories

 I can still smell the marina in spring, when tarps put on last fall are removed, allowing for new bottom paint as wood surfaces are sanded down and varnished to a mirror gloss. Down below, the cushions and curtains are taken home to be washed to remove the musty smells trapped there during the winter months.

New sparkplugs and filters are replaced, and bilge pumps are tested to assure they're ready in case we spring a leak that is always a possibility with a wooden hull. Mom arrived with boxes filled with paper products and non-perishable goods stored below, as well as bed linens and blankets for those cool nights in late spring.
When the day arrived, we'd watch as the forklift lowered the boat into the water, then grab the lines and tie up alongside the dock to fill up with gas and keep a lookout for excessive water in the bilges. When everything checked out, Dad called everybody on board, and the ropes were cast off as we motored out of the harbor on our way to the river and open waters. Our boat was a classic wooden-hulled cabin cruiser that drew a lot of attention from passing craft, which gave us the thumbs-up as we passed. As spring turned to summer, we took the boat out every weekend, exploring new places some we could dock at and have a meal in a waterfront restaurant. And as usual, we drew a crowd of admirers who all had good things to say.
I remember both day and night cruises on the river as I learned how to navigate in both light and darkness using charts and Dad's knowledge of the waters. Eventually, Dad let me man the controls more often as he and Mom sat back and enjoyed the ride. As I became a young man, I was allowed to take her out by myself sometimes with a few friends on board, where we'd find the perfect swimming hole and drop anchor for a day in the sun. Now, as a grown man, Dad signed the boat over to me, claiming he was too long in the tooth to keep up with the maintenance a boat demands. I taught my boys how to care for it, seeing them fit right in as they did the things I did under my dad's supervision. I imagine one day my wife and I will be invited on a nice cruise, sitting back and watching with pride as the boat Dad and Mom saw potential in motors down the river we all love so much.

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                           

Mike  2026

Mr. Fix it

 His old work boots caked with dry dirt should have been tossed out, but there they sat in a corner of the mudroom calling out to him. He was never one to use things up then throw them away; he'd re-sole his boots many times and put in new laces when needed. He kept the leather well oiled just as he did his old baseball mitt that actually looked like a hand. He learned from his dad that it pays to take care of things because in return they will take care of you. He found it interesting to take broken things, figure out what was wrong with them, and use his brain to find the fix. He chuckled a bit when he remembered his wife telling him she demanded a new washing machine because hers was so outdated. She even went so far as to loosen a couple of screws, which made a horrible noise the neighbors probably heard. He came in with a screwdriver, tightened those two screws, and the machine sounded like brand new. She huffed and puffed a little but then questioned her own sanity, thinking he would admit some things were beyond repair.

He loved working with wood and built new kitchen cupboards nicer than the ones she showed him from the Sears catalog. He made bookshelves, furniture, and a dining room table from cedar. Each piece a labor of love and another test of his craft. Many years ago, when the kids were still young, he could be found in his workshop late into the night, transforming sheets of plywood into all kinds of Christmas decorations. Reindeer and Santa's sleigh, elves and carolers, candy canes and even a Christmas train. Every year he'd add something new, and before long people were coming from miles around to see the spectacle he crafted by hand.
The kids are older now and live quite a sleighride away, but on the chance they come to visit, he puts the decorations out, though not as many, as his old bones don't do so well in the cold anymore. This past Christmas, he surprised his wife with a brand-new washing machine. The man at the appliance store showed him a few machines that had arrived with missing parts and would be scrapped later that day. He offered to take one for twenty dollars and was told to load it up. Once back home and in his workshop, he took the machine apart and found that a seal was missing, which meant water was gushing out like Niagara Falls. He rummaged through his shop and found a seal he'd saved who knows when, and it fit perfectly. He wiped it off, put a red ribbon on it, then went back inside and took off his boots.
The following morning was Christmas, and he awoke to the sound of his wife, who had obviously found the new washer, yelling with joy as he prepared himself for a bear hug and a kiss. You'd think he'd given her the Hope Diamond. And this is for you," she said, handing him a small, wrapped package containing a new pair of laces. He immediately changed out the old for the new, oiled them up, and headed out to his shop to begin another project. Maybe a heart-shaped end table for Valentine's Day, he thought to himself. Maybe not.

Mike 2026                                                             

Mike   2026

Chocolate smiles

 Saturday with Dad

Two Saturdays a month I got to spend with my dad. Why only two? Well, that's when we got our hair cut. The year was 1958, and Dad was home from the war a while ago, but he still carried the hidden scars he'd live with forever. He didn't talk about it with us, but when he went to the VFW and had a few beers with other veterans, he seemed to calm down inside for a few days anyway.
After our haircuts, we'd sometimes go to the drugstore where he'd test the fuses on a machine that would tell you if the fuse was bad or still good. Another stop was at the hardware store owned by our neighbor, a WWII veteran. I loved that store, with dozens of wooden boxes filled with any screw, nut, and bolt you could ever want. The walls were lined with tools hanging by hooks all the way to the ceiling, which the owner would reach with a long pole, hooking it to a hook and pulling the tool down to the floor. I can still smell that store, mostly the wood that lay in bins, cut to size, and the open cans of house paint being mixed by a shaker machine the owner himself designed. In the very back of the store were bags of fertilizer, seeds, and manure that smelled like the ground, if there is such a smell.
My bi-monthly Saturdays also meant having lunch with Dad at the soda fountain that he told me was where he proposed to my mom. Each booth had its own tabletop jukebox where, for a dime, you could play a record. Dad would play a couple he liked, saying they brought back beautiful memories. Lunch was a greasy cheeseburger and fries, washed down with a chocolate shake, and when we left, he'd pick out a small box of Mom's favorite chocolates, then let me give it to her as she kissed his cheek and then mine. The rest of our Saturday we spent tossing a ball or working on his car, which always seemed to need some work. He would teach me how to change a flat tire and remove a radiator cap so that I wouldn't get burned by the hot steam. After supper, he'd sit in his chair reading the evening newspaper while I sat close by reading the latest adventures of Superman he bought for me at the drugstore. Then it was bath time and time to get ready for bed. I hated saying goodnight because I never wanted our day together to end. He'd pick me up onto his lap and whisper how much he enjoyed spending time with me. Then he brushed my cheek with his unshaven face, which got me off his lap and running for the safety of Mom's arms.
I remember all of those Saturdays as if they were yesterday, and although he's been gone for a long time, I try to carry on traditions today with my son. The barber shop is still where it's always been, but the owner gave it to his son, who is pretty old but keeps on cutting hair and still has the old wooden pony he uses for kids getting their first haircut to sit on. The smell of Wildroot and talcum powder fills the air, and just like his dad, every kid got a nickel to get a gunball on the way out. The old hardware store closed its doors, as competing with the big-box stores was impossible, but we'd stop in front and look in through a dirty window at a small selection of hand tools that would probably end up in the town's historical museum.
One thing that never changed is the soda fountain where I'd take my son just like my dad took me. We'd have greasy cheesburgers, fries, and a chocolate shake, and stop on the way out to pick up three boxes of chocolates for my two girls and my wife. It's the simple things in life that matter to me, and as I look at my son with chocolate on his young face, I set the napkin aside and hope he will always remember this day with a chocolate smile.                                   Mike 2026                           

       

                              

Mike 2026