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

Just life

 The old trailer he lived in for 15 years has shown signs of wear and neglect. Once there were trimmed bushes and flower gardens he took great pride in, as did his neighbors, who always gave him a thumbs-up or a shout-out from a passing car; things were looking good. As time wore on, his health grew worse, and he watched as his pride and joy became an eyesore he could hardly bear to see. On good days he'd do his best to trim a bush or weed a garden, but as life sometimes does, he grew weary and went back inside. His trailer resembled a thrift store, with mementos from places he went, pictures of family, and a large assortment of knickknacks only he liked. Snow globes, miniature plastic soldiers, a chessboard set up and waiting for his next challenger. But it's been gathering dust for an unknown time. He had a wall shelf filled with books, most of which he had read, sometimes twice. He loved the classics like moby dick, Tom Sawyer, and collections of westerns. But his favorite pastime was writing. Putting words together came easily to him, so much so that it wasn't uncommon for him to write well into the night when he'd turn out the lights and write by candlelight—the softly glowing light, like dancers in a valley, with the winds their music.

He realized he was old now and memories were his companions, called upon to take him back to the days of his youth when just a few lines were visible, mostly laugh lines he said, but now a well-worn roadmap of a life well lived. He was alone, the kids grown, choosing to live many miles away, for his liking, but who was he to tell them how to live their lives? They never forgot his birthday, usually with a phone call rather than a card, and he liked that, as he got to say hello to the grandkids who barely knew him except for the stories their parents told. Holidays came and went with another call or a box of goodies at Christmas. He ate his meals in front of the television, watching a world he didn't understand, sometimes clicking it off to finish his meal in silence.
He kept up with his medications and tried to exercise but usually quit before he should have, as a freezer pop kept calling to him. He knew for certain he wasn't alone in his trailer, as many signs led him to believe the spirits of those who called this place their home before death made themselves known by turning lights on and off, blowing the curtains on a dead-still night, and moving things around where they didn't belong. After a long time, everything quit, and he surmised they had left to haunt someone else.
He sometimes missed his younger days when everything was new, and adventure was his middle name. He longed for trimmed bushes and gardens of wildflowers, the smell of a rose and a home-cooked meal. But he had his mind that could still call out to him, begging to write a story, a memory come alive, and he smiled a toothless grin and began to write.    

Mike 2026        

Mike  2026

Things that go bump

 Walking down the city streets, a shoulder bump can be commonplace unless you bump too hard. That's how we met, although neither of us knew it at the time. Fast forward a few days, and I'm grabbing some lunch at the Woolworths lunch counter and see you doing the same. There was something familiar about you that I couldn't put my finger on. Standing in line at the cashier, I looked and saw her digging in her purse, not looking where she was going, and instead of moving out of her way, I let her bump my shoulder. That was when the lightbulb went on, and I realized it was her I bumped into a few days ago. How could I forget her golden hair and ruby red lips? The way she looked at me for a microsecond as if she was hurt, then walked on faster. What are the odds we meet again, with a bump being our introduction? I helped her pick up the contents of her purse as she apologized more than once, and I assured her no harm had come of it.

Things happen in the hustle of city streets, with hundreds of people trying to get somewhere, dodging each other as cell phones mirror the number of people lost in a maze, with places to go and people to see, all part of their chosen lives in a concrete jungle. So what's the chance our meeting wasn't a sign of some sort, but a deliberate act of bumping shoulders and exchanging business cards? Time answered that question the day I happened upon her card while looking for something in my wallet. With nothing to lose, I phoned her and asked her out for coffee, and she eagerly agreed.
All the people on those city streets with hundreds of shoulder bumps and cross looks, my shoulder chose yours to bump, and in that very brief instant I knew it wasn't a mistake but rather a message from the universe. A message at the lunch counter and a message to see a bump as a sign that some things do go bump in the night, so pay attention as you walk the city streets, wondering if your one true love walks beside you, ready to bump shoulders and see what happens.

                                                                     

                                                                      

Mike 2026

When kids were kids

 When I was a kid, the best times were had at the parks. Not theme parks, just city or county parks where a family could have a picnic and sometimes aunts and uncles, cousins, and friends all met to enjoy a day of hot dogs and burgers on the grill. One park in particular was well known for a slide that was the highest for miles around. There were twenty-five steps to reach the top, barely enough room to sit down, and letting go as you sped down the steel monster at record speeds, all the while praying you would have a soft landing, unscathed. There were two humps on the slide to slow you down a little, and for kids who didn't weigh much, it wasn't uncommon to get some air as they sped down, screaming with joy, then raced around to the stairs for another go.

Back then, parents let kids be kids, and although it was well known that every mom gasped a little looking at their kid forty feet in the air with nothing to protect them but a handrail to hang on to. Somehow, one kid, somewhere in time, realized that if you rubbed the steel down with waxed paper, you'd increase your speed, so naturally we had to try that, and it really did work. If there was a time when your picnic was in the heat of summer, you dare not wear just shorts to go down the slide, as steel gets very hot and your butt would surely be burned. I can still see a kid with his pants down as his mom tended to his burned rear end.
What was it back in those days when parents allowed their kids to play on rides like the slides and go around on a wooden circular platform that, when pushed faster and faster around in a circle, gravity got you. It was all you could do to stay on until you couldn't and were tossed off, crashing to the ground like a rag doll. And who was the genius who invented the sea-saw on a large scale? The trick was to have two kids close in weight, so when one pushed off the ground, the other kid would be twenty feet in the air, stuck there until the other kid went through the same motions, until one kid decided he'd had enough and got off his seat, causing the other to crash hard on the ground. Oh, the good times.
And what about the spring animals? Farm animals were the choice of the person who devised those whiplashed amusements. The object was to rock back and forth and side to side as the heavy-duty springs whipped you around close to the sky one minute and nose-diving to earth the next. The only saving grace was that little kids couldn't bend those springs as the older kids could, so all they got was a gentle ride on their favorite farm animal.
Today, a place like that would never be allowed. Too dangerous, especially since no protective gear was worn, and if you got hurt, Dad would decide if it was bad enough to require stitches. I think today is all about safety, and that's okay, but where did the sense of adventure go?  Playgrounds are all plastic with mounds of mulch to land on. Fiberglass slides and monkey bars that let your feet touch ground. I suppose I'm just old-fashioned, and I proved that a few weeks ago when I drove to the park I went to as a kid. The steel slide was still there, although it didn't look so intimidating as I climbed the 25 stairs, sat down, and let go of the rails as I raced down the steel monster, laughing all the way until my old rear end hit the ground, leaving me to wonder if I was still in one piece and had no broken bones. I thought for a minute I saw Mom running towards me with her first-aid kit, but it was just Mom bringing her kid a happy meal.

Mike  2026                                                                    

                                                

 
MIKE  2026

The smells of life

 I will never forget certain scents that were all a part of who I am. The smell of mom's perfume is my first smell and will probably be my last as she guides me to the heavens. The smell of Dad's pipe and the sweet smell of captian black tobacco.A smell that has sometimes lingered in my room.The smell of clothes drying on a backyard clothesline, sun-drenched with the scent of lemons.The smell of fresh cut grass and burning pine from a campfire. The smells of the mountains are a smorgasbord of scents, like wet moss, dying leaves, wildflowers, and hidden patches of homegrown herbs. The scent of sweat in the forest, disguised with patchouli oil, spread across the land like wildfire. The smell of a new album and the smell of electricity coming from a group of hopeful songwriters.

The smell of gasoline and motor oil dripping from my Harley, and the scents of the roadside that passed by too quickly as I rode through them, too fast to notice. The smell of a greasy 24-hour diner, with smells on a plate that turned into smiles.Bacon and eggs, pancakes with smily faces and coffee brewed just right. Ashtrays overflowing with burned-out butts and a handful of scented mints from a bowl at the checkout counter. The unforgettable smell of new leather and fringed jackets.
The smells of the ocean and a warship that took me to far-away places. The smell of jet fuel and paint. Waiting in line for a tray full of what I'm not sure of, but soon learned that powdered eggs have no smell. The countries I traveled to, each with its own unique smell. A sidewalk cafe in France that smelled of warm biscuits, opened bottles of wine, and blocks of cheese. Spain with smells of bullfights and scooters everywhere, leaving behind clouds of exhaust. Greece that smelled like centuries ago, the aromas of carefully prepared foods, the scents pouring through windows with no glass.
For four years, I traveled the globe and experienced countless smells of cultures trying to hang on to the old ways. Some places in the Middle East had a smell all their own, a combination of smells that had been around for generations.  I was amazed by the scent of moisture from tropical forests and by the sheer number of different scents in just one place.
Growing old now, my sense of smell has all but left me. Guess I used my nose to the point of being used up. But the strange thing is I may not smell things like I once did, but I can call upon a memory any time to relive the smells of children playing and laundry drying. I can smell the inside of the ice cream truck as lawn sprinklers shoot out well water that smells like rotten eggs. I can smell my wife's perfume and kids with mouthfuls of captian crunch. I can smell the chocolates in a heart-shaped Valentine before it's opened, and when I feel the need to be alone, I go to an empty church and smell the incense and candles slowly wafting into my nose, giving me a sense of calm and quiet reflections of scents I hold close to my heart.

Mike  2026                                                               

A dog named Ralphy

 As I walked down the alley I used to take to school, I caught that musty smell, which I later found to be rotting wood and decay. There was someone's German Shepherd in a fenced area that contributed to that smell, and for some reason, I could smell it no matter how far away it was. The dog is long gone, but its collar lay almost hidden under a pile of debris, so I picked up a stick, and after several attempts I got it to the fence and pulled it under where I wiped off the tag that read, name-Ralphy-address 1212 filmore st. phone-ludlo5678.That told me old rRalphy was in his prime about sixty years ago. Just around the time I walked down that alley and passed him on my way to school. I found the house he belonged to and knocked on the door. An elderly lady answered, and I introduced myself and showed her the collar. Oh my she said, old Ralphy. A tear ran down her face as she told me the story of her 15-year friendship with him. They were inseparable; no matter where she went, Ralphy was by her side. Her dad built the caged area Ralphy stayed in when she was at school, and I told her we must have known each other back then, as I saw him every day to and from school. She said her name was Mary Wilkes but changed it to Mary Silverman when she married. I introduced myself as Mark Willis. She excused herself for a minute, returning with a school yearbook she'd kept all these years. She pointed to herself and then to me, both about eight years old. From that day forward, Mary and I have stayed in touch thanks to a dog named Ralphy. The collar is hanging on the hook she used to hang his leash, a reminder of countless walks and fetching sticks. Belly rubs and wet kisses. And a grade school yearbook that was saved for just that moment in time.  

Mike  2026                                                            

Mike  2026

Dreams of flight

 When asked what I wanted to be as a kid, my answer was quick to come out of my mouth: a bird. I practiced flying by jumping off the doghouse, but only hit the ground time and again. I'd try running as fast as I could wearing a sheet off the clothesline, which got me in trouble and still no air. So I went into my dad's workshop to look for anything I could use to soar in the sky. I came across a box labeled "school play" and opened it. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the angel wings my sister wore in a class play. I quickly got to work making alterations to fit me properly, then I devised a system of ropes attached to the wings so I could control them. I climbed onto the garage roof, which gave me a longer takeoff area, as it was a two-car garage. I decided not to jump off the roof of the house, as it could end up being a nasty fall to the ground below.

As I was just about ready to go, my folks and my sisters came outside and saw me standing on the garage roof, wings spread and all controls working properly. My mom grabbed her chest as Dad made a marathon run to the garage. I knew if he reached me, I'd never get another chance to fly. So I took in a deep breath and began running as fast as I could, and then it happened. My feet left the ground, and with a tug of the ropes, I began to fly. I was as high as the apple tree; I barely missed hitting it, then I soared around the yard watching as my family below grew smaller. Using some very off-color commands, my dad ordered me to come down at once.  I knew I was probably in for a good whooping, but it would be worth it, as my dream of flight had really happened.
I wanted to take my wings to school for show-and-tell, but my mom put her foot down, saying she didn't want to get a call from the principal telling her I was jumping off the school's roof. The wings went back into the box labeled Mike's wings and were put up in the attic for good. I never lost my dreams of flying, and when I learned the local college was offering flying lessons, I signed up, and within a short time I was behind the controls of a Cessna plane. I can't really describe the feelings I had while soaring with the birds and looking down at our garage roof, where it all began. All I know is I'm at my best, high above the ground, laughing like a kid whose dream came true. 

Mike  2026

Things that go BOO in the night

 A pair of baby shoes swings slowly on the rearview mirror. A small statue sits on the dashboard, which Mom would touch every time she drove.

A horseshoe hung above the front door for luck, and never did you step on a crack, or you'd break your mother's back. There were four-leaf clovers encased in plastic for a keychain and a shiny new penny tucked into your shoe to keep you safe from evil.
A pinch of salt thrown behind you at the dinner table and a sprig of sage to rid the house of uninvited guests. Baseball players making the sign of the cross and tapping their cleats twice before going to bat. Placing stones on a headstone for a speedy ascent to the heavens.
Everyone has some fears we half-believe, usually handed down from generation to generation and accepted as fact. And what about those scary things handed down like monsters under the bed, spirits in the closet, and faces at the window? Nightmares so real you might wet yourself as your screams could wake the dead. Parents run to your rescue, soothing you and having Dad look under the bed and in the closets anywhere a monster could be hiding.
Eventually we grow out of monsters but never let go of maybe seeing one, so you make sure every night your legs and feet aren't dangling off the bed no matter your age. You carry your lucky charms without anyone knowing and panic when you've forgotten them. It's a scary world we live in, and I, for one, can never have enough lucky charms to ward off anything that goes boo in the night. Pleasant dreams.

                                                                          

Mike  2026

Vacation on the farm

 Coming inside for lunch, he'd proudly show off his dirty hands to his grandma, exclaiming, "Just like grandpa's," as she led him to the sink. And what did grandpa have you doing, she asked as grandpa himself came through the screen door. He let me put dirt from one bucket to another one using just my hands. Then I went to the stream and filled the buckets with cool water, enough to water all the dirt buckets. But first he had me dig small holes using my fingers to plant some special seeds. Then I had to hunt for earthworms, which he taught me to find by wetting the soil and digging up handfuls, looking for anything moving. It took a long time to catch a worm, but after a while there were enough in a tin can that they could use for bait to go fishing once the chores were done. "You've had a busy morning," his grandma said as he nodded and showed off his clean hands.

With summer break over, he'd ride the school bus that picked him up and dropped him off at the start of the long dirt road that led to the house. Some days he'd see his grandma waiting for him, and they'd walk slowly as he told her about his day, stopping for a minute to show her the award he'd gotten for being the student with the best summer vacation. " I'll read it to you he said.
My summer vacation was so much fun. I got up early like my grandpa did, even before the sun came up. He would make a thermos of coffee for him and a thermos of orange juice for me. We'd put on our coveralls and work boots and head for the barn where our six cows were milked, three by me and three by Grandpa, who I knew from times before he'd look for any excuse to squirt me with warm milk. When a machine broke down, as the tractor did, I'd hand him the tools he needed, usually the wrong tool, but he was patient as I learned by doing. He taught me how to drive the tractor, letting me sit on his lap and try to steer in a straight line that wasn't straight at all. Back in town, other farmers would see us and ask if those zigzag rows were some new way to yield bigger crops.
He wrote about sleeping in a tent, night fishing, filing down a horse's shoe, and shearing a sheep. He told how, when it rained, he'd take his time walking down the dirt road, stopping to play in mud puddles and arriving home looking like he'd been dipped in chocolate. He wrote about collecting eggs for his grandma, who always prepared a hearty breakfast late in the morning, even if eight o'clock is late. He wrote about the magic seeds that transformed into rows of pumpkins and the zigzag rows of corn he helped harvest. Other kids wrote about trips to a theme park or weeks spent at the beach. But only his told the stories of learning and doing, trying and succeeding. It told of the bond he had with his grandparents and squashed the notion that playing in the dirt was, well, dirty.

That award is proudly displayed on the fridge, where he put it for all to see, and Grandma left the dirty little handprints alone as a reminder of their time spent together and the grandsons' summer vacations on the farm.                                                              

Mike  2026                                                              

Mike  2026

Life 360

 I'd sit with my granddaddy on his front porch, looking out over his fields of corn, and I asked him how they could live as they did with so few conveniences. He would finish lighting his pipe, settle back in his chair, and then speak to me.

Back when I was brought into this world in a bedroom by a midwife, you didn't travel for miles in a wagon to the nearest hospital; the woman and girls tended to the new mother's needs. And once the dad heard the babies' cries, he smiled and went back out to the fields as it was harvest time.
We never thought for a minute we were poor, as there was always food to eat and a roof over our heads. We had two sets of clothing and two pairs of shoes that would last until your toes were coming out of the shoes and the trousers couldn't be let down anymore. There weren't any department stores, but we got a Sears catalog in the mail every month that Mom could order things from, like cloth for making pretty dresses for the girls and slip covers for the good furniture, off-limits to anyone who hadn't taken a bath first.
You see that old steam tractor sitting out yonder rusting away? That was your great-granddad's first piece of machinery, which replaced the team of mules used to plow acres of land. You see that tractor just over there? That was my dad's, who was one of the first farmers to buy a diesel-powered machine that most laughed at, but soon changed their tune when they saw how fast and efficient it was.
Now we have combines so big they can harvest a crop and shoot the grains through a giant tube into waiting trucks to be filled and sent off to the mill to be stored and sold. One day's work today was a week's worth of work yesterday. Change takes time, he told me, drawing on his pipe, blowing smoke rings to my delight. When I was a boy, we had no indoor plumbing, just an outhouse that, believe me, was a cold and dark place you didn't look forward to visiting, especially in the dead of winter. But you did have a Sears catalog to read while you waited for that morning constitution.
There were no televisions or flat screens, just a movie theater in town where every Saturday evening folks would dress in their finest and eat popcorn Mom had brought along, in our own paper bags. And we'd each get a bottle of Coke-a-Cola from the vendor outside the doors. We'd watch the newsreels of the war overseas,s sometimes Mom shielding our eyes from the violence on the front lines. The movie was silent, but with actors like charlie chapman and others who didn't need to talk, as their gestures spoke volumes.
But what did you do for fun, I would ask him, and he would think for a minute, then speak. Our lives were mostly spent outdoors, working long days, starting before the sun came up and often well into the night to plow new fields, milk cows, deliver newborn calves, fix machinery, put up fences, and handle many other tasks required on a farm.
We'd go to the chapel on Sunday mornings, and when the last amen was spoken, we were off to the farm, where we'd change out of our Sunday go-to church clothes and into our rag-torn clothes. Different seasons meant different kinds of fun, like summer when we'd go to the pond and swim for hours, swinging on the rope swing back and forth, then letting loose and falling into the water. We'd catch fireflies at night along with night crawlers we'd use for bait when doing a bit of night fishing.
Winter meant sledding, snowball fights, ice hockey, and snow forts. We'd play all day if Mom hadn't called us in by ringing the dinner bell. A late supper was well worth the wait, as Mom always outdid herself in the kitchen, turning simple ingredients into masterpieces. Most of the time, Dad would take me hunting for deer or elk, which he'd dress out, teaching me the proper ways to do things. A nice slab of deer meat topped off any meal.
I asked him how he liked things today, with all those computers doing your thinking for you and all the social networks manned 24 hours, 7 days a week, spilling out any information you could ever want. I asked him if he'd ever see himself chatting or texting and maybe even finding a date. Mom yelling from the kitchen, over my dead body.
Well, my boy, I'd have to say, with complete truth, it wouldn't bother me one bit if there was a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning and the world went black. Those throngs of city people would panic as cell phones went silent, cars quit running, and the box stores locked their doors: no DoorDash or food trucks, no ATMs, no cash. There would be a world of overeducated, underworked masses of people lost within the world they created.
As for us, we'll light the lanterns and sit around a campfire. We'd live off the land, which provides us with everything we'd need. We'd still go to church on Sundays and play outside. Mom would keep cooking with vegetables from her garden, and the smokehouse would always be full of meat. I pondered what he said, then said, "Life goes around 360, doesn't it, Granddad?" He stoked his pipe again, blowing smoke rings into the star-filled night just as Grandma rang the dinner bell.

Mike  2026

Mike  2026

Wildflowers and bumblebees

 She lay in a field of wildflowers as a warm breeze kissed her face, leaving a scent of jasmine behind for just a fleeting moment. A bumblebee flew around her head like a helicopter, looking for a place to land and finding nowhere, so it buzzed off into the distance.

She softly sang a song her mom would sing to her as they walked hand in hand in this very valley, letting the stems of flowers slide between their fingers as a summer rain shower came out of nowhere. They twirled around and around, their faces lifted upwards, letting the falling drops of heaven's nectar quench their thirst.
She had brought her journal with her, which sometimes remained just a blank sheet, but other times, like this day, the words came to her with a speed she could barely keep up with. She wrote of the valley and the wildflowers, the bumblebee looking for a place to land and holding her mom's hand in hers as they walked, sometimes in silence, taking in the wonders of the world around them, right here in their valley.
Out of nowhere, the rain began to fall, and that nectar from the heavens fell upon her face as she twirled around and around, knowing her mom was right there with her, dancing in her linen dress, spinning around and around, her laughter like a song you don't ever want to stop hearing. Tomorrow she'd venture back to the valley where the wildflowers showed off their colors and bumble bees found places to land. She'd open her journal and share her stories with her young daughter as they danced in the sudden summer rain.
Mike  2026                                                             

Orange colored picture books

 Fireflies danced across the meadow as wildflowers swayed to a gentle breeze. The car is packed with tired kids and an empty picnic basket as darkness makes way for a billion stars. It's a quiet ride home, the radio softly playing as Mom sings along at barely a whisper. Dad points to a deer on the side of the road, our headlights scaring it back to the woods to the delight of the kids not asleep. Sunburned faces and a few cuts and bruises, all in a day's fun captured by Dad and the camera that stayed glued to him like a third arm. He would take the film to be developed tomorrow, and 24 hours later we'd sit down and look at everyone smiling and laughing at how we looked, like the one with Mom trying to hide her face, claiming she didn't even have her lipstick on. Each picture was a treasure, protected inside an orange-colored picture book and tucked away in Mom's big red trunk in the attic. As an adult, I looked through those little orange books, remembering picnics and days at the beach. Little league baseball games with me up to bat and Mom caught on film yelling and cheering me on. There were pictures of every new car Dad bought over the years, usually with him washing them. There were decades of birthday parties caught on film, as well as first communions, first haircuts, and every holiday known to man. I believe Dad was the only guy with a camera who took pictures of before-and-after things, like a shot of Thanksgiving dinner in all its splendor, then another shot of after dinner was over that could have been described as a bomb going off. Half-eaten slices of pumpkin pie and chewed dinner rolls. The turkey, once a thing of beauty, now a carcass Dad just had to take a picture of.This obsession of his held for every holiday before and after, but I'll admit that as I looked at all those pictures, I was happy he was so obsessed.

There's something special about those old pictures, a kind of window into our lives when time stood still long enough for him to capture each moment as a memory. I was gifted Dad's camera after his passing, a simple, inexpensive, no-frills camera, not even a timer he could have set to go off as he ran to get in the picture. I guess that's why he wasn't in too many of the orange colored picture books, except for a bunch of shots Mom took, like him getting an award for his work in advertising and him in uniform when he fought in Korea. I finished well into the night, looking at my life in black and white, then closing the red trunk that will remain closed in the attic until someone else dusts it off, sits on the floor, and opens the orange-colored picture books.

Mike  2026                                                  

Mike  2026

My ship

 I served on the U.SS KOELSCH DE-1049 FROM 71-75.

Our home port was Mayport, which we didn't see much of, as we were always taking six-month cruises to places like the Med and the Indian Ocean. As a young man of 18, life aboard a naval ship was an experience like crossing the equator twice and becoming a golden shellback. I visited too many places to remember, but many have stayed with me in memories I hold close to my heart. France, Italy, Spain, Majorca, South Africa, Gibraltar, and many more ports of call; I made brothers for life and visualize their faces some 50 years later. I can remember many cold nights on the signal bridge as a signalman, a rating that no longer exists. On a visit to Buffalo, New York, I visited the Sullivan brothers, a WWII ship now a museum, where I could roam the decks and get as close as I could to the Navy way of life. She's been decommissioned a while now and sails the oceans no more. But the Koelsch will forever live on in my memories as I feel the salt spray on my face and the endless seas of blue.

Mike 2026

                                                                               

 

     

Just once more

 Just once more, I'd like to walk through a winter forest where all is quiet. To sit on a stump and wait for a fallen branch to snap under the weight of a woodland animal.

Once more I'd like to sit on golden sands as small waves break around me and the smell of the sea lingers.
Once more I'd like to hold my children when they were babies and tell them I'd always be there for them, then see if I was.
Once more I'd like to be in love, if only in my dreams. I want to feel her softness and taste her lips as we stroll hand in hand on a street made of bricks. Once more, I'd ride the steepest rollercoaster and ride my Harley through the mountains in autumn splendor.
Once more, I'd like to remember my childhood and all the parts I played, from superhero to baseball legend. I'd relive my life in slow motion so as not to miss one precious moment.
Once more I'd tell myself I did okay on this earth enough to earn my place above where the angels soar.
I would go fishing with my son and have a grown-up tea party with my daughter. I would sit on a front porch looking out over the endless fields of corn we played in as kids. I'd hold my mom's hand wherever we were and always see my dad as my hero. I would write one more story the world would read, and one kept close to my heart for my eyes only. There are way too many things I'd like to do just once more, but the one that tops my list is I'd like to dance with the girl of my dreams, to hold her so close I'd hear her heartbeat just once more.

Mike  2026                                                                       

The old Oak

 He sat under the old oak tree his great grand dad planted as a sapling almost one hundred years ago.  It was a tree kids would climb as they grew, along with it with sturdy branches and challenging limbs to navigate the highest of climbs. Each generation of kids dared their friends to go higher and higher until one such brave kid reached the top, sticking his head out of the tippy-top branches, where he yelled loudly. He could see the whole town from up there. To his reckoning, nobody else ever climbed that high again.

As the years passed, tree houses were built in the old oak shelters to camp out in or pretend to be lookouts for the enemy. They were constructed with materials found around the farm and, on more than one occasion, fell apart, sending wood and boys falling to the ground below, causing one broken arm and bouts of poison ivy. Dad, who was a carpenter by trade, built a tree house unlike any other, with a floor, sturdy walls, a roof with shingles, and a trap door. A rope was lowered to the ground to let someone climb up if invited, and an emergency ladder kept inside just in case a wise guy took the rope off.
That old oak tree had a rope swing hanging from a sturdy branch that could hold the weight of the fattest kids, who, in most cases, chose it instead of trying to climb the rope up to the tree house. That tree was a part of kids' lives, including his, who could close his eyes and see the joy and laughter it brought on any given day. As he stood next to the oak, he saw the carvings of hearts and initials, dates and notches, showing the growth of kids as they grew up. A tear rolled down his face as he saw his kid's name on the mighty oak, a babysitter he thought of as a never-ending source of happy times.
Lightning struck that old oak, scorching some of its bark and catching fire, which was quickly put out, but not before leaving a scar that never healed. It wasn't strong enough to climb anymore, but it still stood as a reminder of its once mighty self, ready to take on the best tree houses and lookouts from low-hanging branches. Much like himself, it refused to acknowledge old age and would probably outlive generations to come who would hear the stories and look up to the heavens, where the shadow of a boy could be heard yelling that he could see the whole town from up there. And he smiled, remembering he could.

Mike  2026                                                                

    

Mike  2026