Ice cream horror

 He stopped in his tracks, bending his head towards a familiar sound. Faint in the distance but growing louder with an occasional stop in time as it grew closer. He tried to run towards his house, but his legs wouldn't respond to his brain's call as he joined the others screaming that he was coming, and the noise grew louder. With his legs now in a full-out sprint, he barged through the kitchen door, causing his mom to jump and scold him not to run up on her like that. He tried to form the words as his mom removed a quarter from her apron pocket, which he snatched up, giving her a quick kiss on her cheek. DON'T SLAM THE DOOR, she yelled after him, but he was already joining the other kids, ears tuned to that sound every kid wants to hear on a hot summer evening. THERE HE IS, one kid yelled. I see its head. The music grew louder as it inched closer: the painted-red mouth and the massive blue-and-yellow head, a young kid's worst nightmare. And just like that, the ice cream truck stopped and a man dressed as a clown opened the window, taking orders from kids of all ages. It's the simple things that give us pleasure, like waiting for an ice cream truck, that have all the ingredients of a PG-rated horror show.

Mike 2026                                                          

American dreams and promises

 The year was 1933, a few years into the great depression, and he remembered it well. Thousands were going to bed hungry, only to get up again, searching for any job that might pay enough for a loaf of bread that you'd have to stand in line for, hoping they didn't run out as you waited. Children still played in the streets, girls playing hopscotch while boys too young to work used discarded pieces of board as bats and well-guarded baseballs. Across the river, life was sweet, as those of privilege rode in fancy cars, ate at fine restaurants, and wore anything but the finest clothes. He remembers sitting on the docks, where, in the distance, music played, and the twinkle of bright lights lit the sky. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine it was you over there, a man of success with a cigar sticking out of your mouth, sitting at a shoeshine stand where the attendant had black, stained hands from years of applying polish with his fingers.

Reality found him back on his side of the river and the endless pursuit of employment. Hundreds of men pushing at the gate where a guy with a clipboard selected five of them and said, " That's all for today. You lucked out one morning getting chosen for a road crew to dig dirt that paid two dollars for nine hours of hard work. With those two dollars, he bought a loaf of bread and six potatoes, with enough left for a bottle of milk, something his kids had gone without. That night they gave thanks for the food and to the man who worked so hard, but knowing tomorrow would be another day of empty stomachs and hope.
Time moved forward, and life began to improve as he dug on the road project, becoming a foreman with a six-dollar-a-day paycheck, which allowed his family better food and shelter. From there, change became the norm as government jobs became more plentiful, and the endless days and nights were just memories soon to be left behind. Years passed, and his country was at war. And like thousands of other men, he joined up to fight. But by the grace of God, he came home and started a new life, where times got better, and the American Dream became reality.
He passed away at home, his family beside him, leaving behind a legacy of a man who never stopped looking after his family, never gave up on his promise always to provide the best he could, and never once thought only of himself. He was the poster guy for dreams and promises kept.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026

What Ive done in life

 I've known love a hundred times over, each time the best time. I've climbed many a mountain only to climb another taller. I've seen war and peace, highs and lows, all of which taught me more about life in some manner. I've had good thoughts and bad, reminding me of good angels and bad, a constant battle going on in my soul. I've taught lessons and was taught by others. I've bared my very soul and begged others to share theirs. I've tried to be a good man, but sometimes I veer off course, lost for a minute until I straighten myself out. I've grown to accept the things I can't change, but I don't have to like them. I've aged with my dignity intact and my mind still sharp enough to recall the happiness I've been blessed with. I've written tens of thousands of words, some morphing into books, some read, others forgotten under layers of dust. I've traveled to faraway places, each one a notch on my belt, a scar on my heart and another story pulled from somewhere in my mind to be shared. I've lived a life I'm mostly proud of, with some reservations about its status as good or evil. I've learned that life is a road with many turns, all of which I've traveled through words I've sometimes thought were magic falling from the heavens and landing on a blank piece of paper. I've only had one true love that's always there for me: my writing, when my heart and mind open up, and my addiction rears its head trying to hide the results. It comforts me in times like that to write happy stories and leave the darkness on the other side of the door. I've found myself wondering at times what will become of my life's work of spinning tales and writing words with an impact that touches like I've been touched. I don't suppose I'll ever have that answer, but I'll never give up until I do.

Mike  2026                                                            

Silent until beckoned

 I keep the broken glass in a multitude of colors, a reminder of the countless bottles that have been washed ashore after decades of being tossed around. I  only wish I could find a way to keep ships from spilling a single drop of oil into the sea, so hundreds of newborn turtles could have their first taste of oil-free saltwater. I wish I could swim with the dolphins and be in awe of the coral reefs in all their many colors, a safe shelter from predators. I would dream I found King Neptune and his court, who waved me on, as it wasn't my time, and mermaids guided me back to the beach, only to be awakened by the sound of small waves gently lifting my body with every passing one pushing me back out to sea, where I long to be living the Navy way of life. Faded tattoos and more salt in my socks than most will ever sail in a lifetime. From sea to shining sea, I can actually smell each port, a lasting memory I can relive at any time. The smell of unknown meat on a stick you'd eat after a drunken liberty, the smell of an alley rich in history, with the smell of noodles and sauce seeping through the bricks. From the coast of Africa to the rock of Gibraltar, from the shores of Spain, Italy, and Greece, smells are preserved in my memory that I will call upon when other memories fade to black. I will remember the smell of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, and homemade bread. I will remember the smell of a baby after a bath and the smell of someone very special, her perfume forever etched in my heart. Hot dogs and cotton candy, apple pie and fresh mowed grass.Campfires and a springtime rain.The smells of Christmas and scented candles. The smells of my life are neatly tucked away in my memories, where they will live on in harmony alongside other memories, staying silent until beckoned.

Mike  2026                                                         

for the love of pedal cars

 He was seven years old when Santa brought him an orange pedal tractor. It was love at first sight, and very difficult to get him off. For hours, he'd go up and down the driveway, shifting the throttle that was just a piece of metal you could push and pull as his mom watched from the kitchen window. She later told him that thing was the best babysitter known to man. He kept it clean by using the same cloth his dad used to wash his car, who could have been upset if it wasn't so cute. Day after day, he rode his tractor until the day he went outside and found it gone. He let out a scream heard around the neighborhood as his Mom came running outside, thinking the worst, like he had been hurt. She found him running around the yard under the picnic table and behind the trash cans, all to no avail, as his beloved tractor was nowhere to be found. She tried to console him by saying they'd take a walk around the neighborhood and look for it, and when dad got home, they'd take the car and look some more. They went from door to door asking people if they'd seen an orange tractor, but no one had, so they went back home just as Dad was pulling in. And so began the search. It seemed like forever with no sightings until Mom yelled, THERE, THERE IT IS as she pointed to a house where an orange tractor was parked on the porch. Dad parked, and they walked up to the house wanting to be sure it was his, as Santa may have brought another little boy a tractor just like his, but he wasn't buying that because when he first got it, he ran into the barbecue and put a scratch on the right side, and the scratch was right there, he pointed to his dad. Just then, the front door opened, and a lady appeared, asking what she could do for us as He spoke loudly, asking why they stole his tractor. The lady, speaking in a low voice, told us her daughter was a special child who sometimes believes everything she likes belongs to her and has, in the past, brought home ice skates, bowling balls, a little red wagon, and more. She meant no harm, the lady said; she's just lonely, as none of the neighborhood kids wanted to play with her because she was different from them. Then a girl brushed past her mom and headed straight for the tractor, which she quickly got into and wouldn't get out of as she began to cry. Dad suggested he let her take one more ride to the corner and back, then we'd put it in the car and go home. He watched as she peddled and worked the throttle, smiling and waving to cars that sometimes honked and waved back. She sure likes it, doesn't she he asked his folks. It was difficult to get her to stop and bring the tractor back, and she cried when Dad started loading it into the car. He thought for a minute, then asked his folks if he could give it to her as a kind of late Christmas present. They agreed that if that's what he thought was the right thing to do, then Dad pulled it out of the car and set it down in front of her as she jumped in and began her trips up and down the street, happier than her mom had ever seen her. He was quiet on the ride home, but noticed they weren't going home as dad parked the car in front of the toy store. Let's go have a look and see if Santa might have left a couple more pedal cars for them to look at. Once inside, he saw a fire-red firetruck with a bell and a working siren. It had a working fire hose and a genuine firefighter's helmet. WOW, he said, "Would you look at that?" The other was a race car with stickers all over it and a set of racing tires. It had just a driver's seat, real harness belts, and a roll bar. So which one do you like dad asked, pointing to the firetruck. Back home, he put on the captain's helmet, filled the water tank, and turned on the siren as he rang the bell that never quit ringing. His folks said he'd done the right thing, and after a conversation with the girl's mom, they agreed to load his firetruck into the car and come over to play. Up and down the sidewalk they'd go, bells ringing, sirens blaring, and smiles as bright as the day itself. A few years passed, and he outgrew his pedal truck, but he made it a point to stop by and visit her, chasing after her cat or just being together as friends. His old tractor now sits on her porch, filled with toys and other treasures she just had to have.

Mike  2026                                                              

Paper boats and airplanes

 It took forever for him to make his paper boat the way his older brother had taught him. Just the right creases and folds to be perfectly level as it floated down the gutter after a good rain. When the rains came, and the street became a fast-moving river, or so it seemed to him, he set the boat carefully down and counted to three as he let it go speeding down the street not far from a sewer drain that he hoped wouldn't swallow it up. He ran beside it as it dodged small branches and debris like leaves and discarded pieces of trash like candy wrappers and empty cigarette packs. It was a fine boat that stayed upright for almost the entire length of the street. He almost lost it when a passing car made a wave that seemed like a tidal wave to him, but it remained upright, continuing its journey until it reached the end of the street, and he had to make a decision if he'd let it continue across the street where cars went by every few minutes, and the odds of it making it across were slim to none. Or picking it up and taking it safely home to sail another day. He made up his mind to go for it, set it down, and looked both ways for cars. He let it go, watching as it picked up speed and raced across the street, hopefully to the other side, where victory would be his. He was halfway across when he saw a neighbor's dog running towards him at breakneck speed, taking a giant leap into the gutter, grabbing the boat in its jaws, and setting it at his feet, its tail wagging, thinking it was a game of fetch. All in all, it was a fun time for him as he headed home into the garage, where at least ten paper boats waited on a shelf to be launched after the next rains came. And sitting next to the paper boats were another dozen paper airplanes his older brother had taught him to build for sunny days with just enough wind to make them soar around the backyard, sometimes doing loops and other maneuvers he longed to try. The perfect day arrived, with conditions as close to ideal as he could hope for. His brother took a plane and held it ready to let it go up into the sky, catching a thermal that kept it climbing, then nosediving straight down that would surely cause him to crash, but at the last moment, another breeze caught up to it, and it came to rest in an apple tree unscathed and ready to fly again. Then it was his turn as he went over in his mind the lessons he received, and without hesitation, he let it go straight at first, surely going to crash until a sudden gust took hold of it and sent it high in the sky, nearly being knocked out by a flock of passing birds. His paper plane was doing loops and dives until it crashed into a light pole too high to retrieve. He remembers looking up at his plane every day, hoping it would fall, and it did just that on a cold winter's day, when iced wings sent it crashing. Today, he and his brother sit in lawn chairs with a cold beer and fond memories, seeing their kids float boats and fly paper airplanes, a family tradition never to be forgotten.

Mike  2026                                                                       

Where have the comments gone?

 I don't often experience writer's block. It's just that sometimes I don't believe I have any more stories to tell. With well over one thousand already written, how many can there be? In my younger years, I'd get a thought and write it down on bar napkins, paper bags, or anything I could find before it left me. I was spitting out tales like a broken copy machine on the brink of a meltdown.

I've written about every emotion, every age, eternal love, and endless ideas that roll around in my head, just waiting to be chosen and brought to life through my characters. My mind and heart work together to form the words that led to a story that led me to write. It became easy for me to sit down and write two or more tales in one sitting as candles burned out and the sun rose, my fingers trying to keep up with words waiting to be written through my eyes, with no sense of time.
When I decided to write a blog, I imagined a book of very short stories one could read in mere minutes from beginning to end. But who could read just one and stop? Some of my readers told me they would read four or five stories and set the book down to return to later. Someone else told me he had read a few stories on a plane and planned to read that night when he was back at the hotel. It made me extremely happy that people from all walks of life were reading my work, but I couldn't understand why readers weren't commenting on the stories they'd read.
I'm not a computer-friendly person, but I'm just curious why this is happening. My settings are correct, I think, as I have received a few comments from the same few people, very few. I have about 1500 viewers on my blog, and you'd think at least a few would comment, good or bad. If anyone has an answer to my dilemma, reach out to me. I'd appreciate your help.

Mike 2026    mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com                                                                                                                             

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Mike  2026                                       mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com

Just one mug

 Just one mug of Decaf coffee this morning, the kind that comes in individual packets. No side effects, I just like the taste. I believe it brings me back when I'd drink a pot of go juice, which we called coffee in the Navy, when you could scrape me off the ceiling by the end of the pot, and eventually, my doctor telling me to switch to Decaf, but I didn't listen.

I remember how I woke up to coffee brewing, the smell growing stronger with every perk of the percolator, which had a glass top so you could watch as clear water turned brown, dark brown. That first cup was nectar from God; if you didn't drink it, the rest of your day would be incomplete, and not to mention you'd better steer clear of me, as I could be violent.

As a teenager who wanted to seem older, I'd have half a cup of coffee, the other half milk, and at least ten packets of sugar. It was a sweet cup of warm sugar with a hint of coffee. As I grew older, I weaned myself off the sugar drink and went straight to coffee with two creamers and two sugars, which seemed just right until it wasn't. I found my way back to my navy days when too much caffeine found me back on the ceiling.

Now, and more likely forever, you'll find me having one mug of decaf in the morning, believing I can smell it brewing in the microwave. I'll savor every last drop and lick the spoon of my warm cup of creamy sugar, calmly wishing I were back on the ceiling.

Mike 2026                                                               

Mike 2026

Remembering Grand dad

 I remember him in his faded overalls and a John Deere ball cap that he always wore, except at the dinner table or when he placed it over his heart as the American flag passed by him at the Fourth of July parade. He didn't smile very much, but a kid like me didn't mind asking him why. Hed reach down and ruffled my hair, saying one day I'd understand, but for now I should just think about things that made me smile.

I remember him taking me fishing out on the lake in a boat he and his dad built a very long time ago. It took in a bit of water, but that's what the old coffee can was for, and it was my job to bail us out every so often. He seemed at peace on the lake, and if I was quick enough to look his way, I might catch him with a very brief smile.
He loved to walk in the woods, where he said the quiet was nice and the air smelled of pine. We walked in silence as I reached for his hand, which felt like sandpaper, and he squeezed it gently, as if he never wanted to let go. I learned a lot from him, and I thought he was the smartest man on earth. He showed me how to appreciate what nature gave us and how fragile it was. He sat us down on a fallen tree to be still and listen to the trees speak to us through the breeze.
I remember asking a thousand questions, and he always found an answer in simple terms I could understand. We would spend entire days observing the sunrise, the sunsets, and every moment in between. We'd eat jelly-and-butter sandwiches, sitting by the lake or sometimes in the boat, not going anywhere. My mom later told me I was the only person who could turn his heart from stone to that of a happy man who cherished our times together, and that she once saw him quickly wipe away a tear as I left to go back home.
I think of him often and the times we shared, and I can never pass by the feed store without seeing a pair of overalls displayed in the window.

I wear my own John Deere ball cap these days, and I patched the hole in the boat I take my son fishing in. He asks me a thousand questions about my granddad, which I try to answer as best I can, as he asks why I smile so much.

Mike  2026                                                                                                    
                                                                 

Strait up

 The beautiful thing about memory is that it lets imagination fill in the blank spaces.

Mike

If you were to watch him sitting quietly in his favorite chair, looking out the window, you might think he's just old, and that's something old folks do, and you would be so wrong. It's 1942, and we are at war. He proudly wore the uniform of an army pilot, chasing death and saying prayers, lots of them. He flew a P-40, a single-prop fighter plane fast for its time, able to maneuver quickly but sometimes hit by enemy fire that punched holes in the skin. He observed that, back on the ground with thanks, it wasn't worse, and he lived once more to fly.
If you were to watch him, you'd see his closed eyes twitch a little, and his fingers occasionally tap the arm of his chair like he was at the controls of his plane, lining up his targets and firing fatal shots at enemy planes as they slammed into the ocean like a cigarette being snuffed out in a glass of water. You'd see his head tilt from side to side as he did a barrel roll, earning another painted star on the fuselage. You'd hear a slight sigh as he managed a smile, landing to the cheers of his fellow pilots and the knowledge that another mission was completed.
If you were to watch him in his recliner, which serves as his cockpit in his dreams, you'd see him high in the sky, where the cold was numbing, and his vision, scanning in all directions, was like an owl's. You'd see him touching the photo of his one true love waiting back home, smudged by his touch on every take off and landing and everything in between. If you were to watch him, you wouldn't see just an old man; you'd see a hero who dared to give up until every enemy plane crashed in balls of flame. Walk away now and leave him with his dreams and memories, and let him fly once more straight into the heavens.

Mike  2026                                                          

Mike  2026

Down in the valley

 His hair was long, his beard a shade of white, his feet were bare, and his flannel shirt faded. His cottage was small, nestled in a valley where fireflies danced all night, and stars fell from the sky. He didn't need to stay busy because he'd already done that decades ago. He smoked a pipe he had since his dad passed away, leaving him with a collection from around the world. His favorite is a clay pipe from Ireland. He let each new day decide what to smoke, sometimes a blend and other times a bud or two. He chopped and stacked wood daily, adding to the mountain that quickly went up in smoke, but that was cool with him, as it kept his guns hard. His tattoos were old and faded, yet he remembered when he got each one, mostly in his navy days when ink, booze, and youth were the soup of the day. He still had his Harley back in the shed, where it's been since he rolled it in, broken and silent, after he laid it down to avoid being hit by a logging truck. As years passed, he slowly got it running again, and when the roads were free of snow, he'd ride. To this day, his favorite sounds are birdsongs, a child's laughter, and the growl of his Harley. You have to understand, he didn't run away back then; he chose to leave the world he was forced to live in after fulfilling his obligations to his family, who finally understood why he had to go. In the valley, voices aren't heard, and nightmares don't occur; the only crime is burning the bisquets. Everything around and about him is old now, and that's okay with him. He doesn't mind that his cottage needs a coat of paint, which he will never get around to doing. He doesn't care if a hundred animals eat from his garden as long as he has enough to sustain himself. No more haircuts or beard trimming, no more traffic or the noises of the city he left behind. Just a white clay pipe, a rickety chair on his front porch, waiting for the evening show to begin down in the valley.

Mike  2026                                                           

Dan the Donkey

 I was standing on the safe side of the pasture where an old donkey lived out its final days. He became a favorite spot to stop on a sunday drive when I was just a little boy filled with wonder at the sounds it made and a giant mouth that learned over time not to be so impatient as he snached a carrot out of my hand and allowed me to scratch his head as my mom yelled out to me not to get so close as he was a wild animal which couldnt be more un true. One such Sunday, the farmer who cared for him came up beside him with a bunch of carrots, which he handed to me over the top of the fence, and asked if I'd like to know the history of the one he called Dan.

Dan was owned almost twenty years ago by a man who traveled with the circus. He gave donkey rides to children in a round ring that, for a quarter, could ride for exactly five minutes around and around, as Dan, wearing crazy hats made of straw and flowers, went through the motions with an occasional bellow that made some young kids yell to stop and get off his back. Days were long for Dan as the man made him walk in circles well into the night until the circus closed for the day and he could walk in a straight line back to his stall and some much-needed rest. The man never spoke to Dan unless he scolded him for stopping dead in his tracks and refusing to move, which he often did, knowing that he'd get a beating once back in his stall. One day, a farmer asked the man to sell him, Dan, for one hundred dollars, which was much more than the man could make at a quarter a ride, so he agreed.
The farmer let Dan roam several acres of lush pasture, where he learned to run, play, and bellow at passing cars, which led some to stop and feed him all sorts of treats, which he grabbed and ran away with as if it were a game. When the word got out about Dan the donkey, school buses full of kids would stop as Dan ran to the fence, happy to see the kids. Over time, as he got older, he didn't run much anymore, and his appetite wasn't what it once was. But he continued to come to the fence and drop most of the treats to the ground, bellowing his thanks for their kindness. On any given Sunday, Dan would come to the fence wearing a straw hat with flowers on it to pose for pictures, which he loved. He was a big ham. Dan was showing off his huge smile as kids stood on the other side of the fence and parents snapped pictures. The farmer thought how great it would be if he made a gate so kids could come into the pasture and play with Dan, and play they did. Dan let the kids think they could catch him as he ran back and forth, tucking his tail so they wouldn't grab it. Then he would stop and turn towards the kids who weren't quite sure what his next move would be. Then, with a loud bellow, Dan charged as kids scrambled away and chased by Dan at half speed, never intending to harm them, as they were all his friends. And that's the story of Dan the donkey, who for years brought joy to kids and adults looking for a place to stop on a Sunday drive. And as we pulled away, I stared out the back window of our station wagon, and I heard Dan bellow a goodbye as his straw hat with flowers faded into my favorite childhood memory.

Mike  2026                                                       

   

All you can be

 He stumbled in the darkness as he made his way to his home office. One word of profanity was stifled by his hand, which smelled of the homemade chocolate cookies he had eaten before going to bed. It was too late to go back for a flashlight, so he hugged the wall until he felt an open space that was his office. He didn't turn on the overhead light as his eyes adjusted; he lit a couple of candles and sat down at his desk. As he stared at his desktop and the numerous home screens of pin-up girls, he remembered being woken up with words that had to be written, but, as luck would have it, he didn't remember which words. They must have been important to wake him from a deep sleep, maybe a vivid memory or a verse he knew from a novel he had read. Could it have been from a conversation, or a podcast, maybe a passing billboard, or a magazine he browsed while waiting to see the doctor? He had braved the darkness, stubbing a toe on a quest to write something powerful, but the words stayed at bay, and he grew tired. He woke up to a sunny day, the smell of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, soft music playing as his wife came into his office and set a mug of coffee on his desk. "Miss April," she asked as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Indeed, he answered as he moved the mouse to unveil yet another blank screen. Maybe today, he thought to himself, he would be inspired by a passing billboard, perhaps one that asked if he could be all that he could be, and then it hit him that those words were exactly the ones he'd been searching for.

Mike  2026                                                           

A midsummer day

 Time seemed to stand still like that of a midsummer day when even the dust isn't moving. You look out at the corn crops mid-high by the fourth of July and jokingly tell yourself you hope they don't start popping. Inside the house, your grandkids visiting for the summer get their bathing suits on as he finishes blowing up the pool with what he believes could take his last breath.

As sunset arrived, he gave silent thanks for a slight breeze enough to watch the curtains dance and hear crickets sing an evening song. Bowles of ice cream for the grandkids and an iced tea for him and the wife sitting on the front porch watching for lightning in the distance, heat lightning some would say. Sticky hands are washed as another day comes to a close, and a bedtime story is read to sleepy faces soon to be in dreamland.
Darkness arrives, with fireflies in the distance dancing across the field, enjoying their short lifespan, like a snowflake, he supposed. She asked if he was coming to bed, and he said in a minute as he lit his pipe, the one he got for his last birthday. Smoke rings and the smell of captian black tobacco were the only movement as the night wrapped him in her arms to say goodnight.

Mike  2026                                                             

Red bricks and memories

 They walked hand in hand down the streets of a small town that many had never seen. Red brick buildings he helped build so many years ago now stand vacant, with windows boarded up, and a few somehow manage to stay open, like the pizza parlor that made deliveries by a kid on his bicycle, even in the dead of winter.  Mr. Rizzo opened his pizza palace some 50 years ago, first with his two sons as helpers who eventually went their own ways, leaving him to run things alone. But he didn't mind that as long as people called for a little slice of heaven. And there was the old hardware store with no new inventory. Mr. Jones ran the place and lived upstairs in the apartment where he and his late wife had lived a comfortable life together for over 60 years. Now he sits in his store, jolted awake by the bell on the door when the occasional customer would stop by to chat, checking in on him and sometimes buying something they had no real use for.

Urban renewal caught up with their town when the county decided to build a bypass that cut off the little town, with no need to go there unless you called it home. Very soon now, the once-quaint town would be demolished to make way for new development, including apartment buildings, restaurants, and a couple of box stores that would draw from interstate traffic. As they walked hand in hand past the empty storefronts, each in their own way remembering days gone by. She remembered the dress shop where she worked for 30 years, only stopping when her hands stopped working as well. She remembered the corner pharmacy where Mr. Lang would open in the middle of the night to fill a prescription that had run out and needed to be filled quickly. And then there was the hub. An old railroad car converted into a diner that never closed. A place you could go at three in the morning and order steak and eggs or a pile of pancakes, known as comfort food. Mr. and Mrs. Brown fulfilled their dream by opening this place so folks could come and eat or just have some coffee any time, day or night. They saw young lovers sharing a milkshake, planning their futures, or a husband apologizing for his wandering ways. The diner was the middle ground where everything under the sun could be fixed with a stack of buttermilk flapjacks.
He stopped in front of a building that brought back feelings he thought he had buried a long time ago, when it was a toy store. They took their boys there occasionally on a Saturday morning, being first in line to buy the latest model airplanes or the newest editions of their favorite superheroes. The owner was Mr. Williams, a happy-go-lucky man who never missed a meal, as evidenced by the way he huffed and puffed to get out of his chair. He loved kids, but never married, so he treated every kid who came in like the kid he never had. At Christmas, Mr. Williams dressed like samta claus and didn't need to stuff the suit with pillows, as he was a natural. All those places are soon to be gone when the wrecking ball hits its mark, as thousands of red bricks are reduced to rubble and memories.
They walked hand in hand through the heart of their town, shedding some tears, some laughter as they remembered things that left their mark on the last of the residents who hadn't moved away, and the few who stayed, wishing they could have one more cup of coffee at the diner that's been bulldozed away to a waiting pile of red bricks and memories.

Mike  2026                                                                     

Summer was the best of all

 Like most kids, the lazy days of summer meant having one adventure after another. Swimming in either your own or a neighbor's pool, cookouts, and fireworks on the Fourth of July. It meant getting dirty didn't matter, and going barefoot was common until you stepped on too many stickers and mom made you put something on your feet, preferably the flip-flops you just had to have. Summer meant watermelon and spitting the seeds at anyone near you. It meant squirt-gun fights and water balloons, slushies and pop-cycle stick bombs. For those who aren't familiar with that, you simply fan out five popcycle sticks in your hand and carefully weave one through the next and so on until you can let go and the sticks don't fall apart. Then you throw it up in the air, and when it hits the ground, it explodes back to single sticks.

Summer meant baseball games at the field that served as a ballpark and an ice rink for winter skating, and when the fire department flooded the field, it was just another thing to watch for fun. Summer was going shirtless, and on the first day, you got the sunburn from hell, and mom helped by applying vinegar to ease the burn. Who thought that one up? Summer meant family vacations and the county fair, where you ate cotton candy and caramel apples, then washed your hands in the kiddy boat ride. You finally met the height requirements to ride the monster roller coaster, as your mom closed her eyes and your dad cheered you on. You blew through the ten dollars dad gave you trying to win a purple stuffed monkey, with a one-in-a-hundred chance. And the day came, you actually won, giving the monkey to your baby sister, who kept it in her room for many years.
Summer was like a speeding locomotive that flew by so quickly that if you blinked, it was gone. Ice cream cones you bit the bottoms off of and sucked dry, root beer floats, and frozen Kool-Aid cubes made in an ice tray. Summer meant falling asleep after a full day of fun, resting your head on mom's lap as the sun set, the moon rose, and a thousand stars came to life. The perfect ending to another summer that would always be as carefree as those who lived it.

Mike 2026                                                                  

One in a million

 She kept looking for him to pull into the driveway, shutting off the radio only after the game was over. She knew when his team won, as he let out a whoop-whop, tossing his thermos bottle in the air and doing a little jig. But when they lost, he slammed the truck door shut, kicking up dust, and slammed the door behind him. That was just the kind of man he was, and she loved him for that.  Once inside, everything that had happened outside would vanish as he put his arms around her, giving her neck a little nibble that she brushed away, telling him to go wash up because he smelled like a hard-working man if he wanted a kiss.

She stood at that window day after day for over forty years, watching for him to drive up, but only memories made the drive as she managed a smile, remembering the countless times he'd walk inside, a hand behind his back, holding a dozen roses that she put to her face and smelled. Come to think about it, she never once pretended to be surprised.
He was a kind man, a thoughtful man who lived a life of devotion to her, always looking for a good morning kiss when he left for work and another when he came home. He once told her that anything in between was just icing on the cake. They had no children, a fact they lived with, knowing if they had been able, they'd have a dozen kids running around. She supposed that was one reason he was always chasing her around the yard as she tried to hang clothes or weed the garden. Every day was full of laughter, and she knew the reason but never brought it up.
He was a high school football coach, teaching kids not only about football but also serving as a dad figure to many whose lives could be complicated. She lost count over the years as to how many times he'd bring home a kid for supper or have a backyard cookout for the entire team. There were dozens of kids he mentored over the years who brought her peace of mind, knowing he had them. The day of his funeral, hundreds of kids, parents, colleagues, and friends drove up that dusty road as she stood looking out the window, knowing he was loved in so many ways.

Mike  2026                                                              

Happy birthday America

 HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA, NOW 250 YEARS OLD.

In the scheme of things, our country isn't that old. Not when you consider the time when dinosaurs roamed the land millions of years ago. We are still adapting to new ideas to improve our way of life every single day. We heed new scientific discoveries and marvel at our space programs, which allow us to travel to places no one has ever been. Who would have thought that just a few decades ago, we would say that someday we would go to Mars? America is the land of the brave, where we witness new technologies designed with open minds that work outside the box to make our lives better. Let us remember, on this birthday, those brave men and women who left something behind, each of those 250 years a lesson we learned from and made better, with liberty and justice for all.

Mike 2026                                                                

Seasons in the woods

 The woods and their magic are something I never grow tired of. The moss is rich and green, the air has a hint of moisture, and trees stand at attention as if guarding a fortress. The summer months, when activity is limited as the heat peeks through the canopy, a passing thunderstorm interrupts the quiet, raindrops quench the thirst of the creatures who call it home, and the woods fill with a musty yet welcoming smell.

The Autumn woods are a splash of color, with tired leaves waiting their turn to fall. Red, yellow, and orange drift together towards the waiting earth, where countless others who came before them rest as the ground swallows them, changing their colors to the forest floor, forever forgotten.
The springtime woods are a rebirth of countless species of plants and saplings that lie dormant until the last of the snow melts away, giving the newborns a chance to grow and the bulbs that have transformed into tulips like an artist's palette of colors splashed across the valley, where wildflowers grow and dance to the music of a gentle breeze.
Winter's woods are my favorite woods. The extreme silence, except for the crunching of my boots on a blanket of white or the snap of a branch letting me know I wasn't alone. The winter woods beckon me to walk deep into the trees to a valley where I see a six-point buck doing its best to forage in an unforgiving landscape. I watch him for a few minutes, then take a napkin from my pack and unwrap some carrots, celery, and an apple that I set on top of a large stone, then retreat to continue my quest. I think another reason I like the winter woods is the smell. That smell is coming home with me, and the Christmas tree that will fill my house with winter. Not to forget pine burning in the fireplace, adding to those special winter nights in the woods.
Winter, spring, summer, and fall, you'll find me in the woods marveling at God's handiwork and doing my part to share it with others like myself. By the way, let it be known that every scrap of food I sat on a rock was taken with nothing left behind except for footprints in the snow.

Mike  2026                                                            

Eight to Eighty

 I was somewhere between eight and eighty when I realized I was a writer of words, a spinner of tales with stories to tell. Everywhere I looked was a story waiting to be told. As a young boy, I was always on an adventure, whether it be in the woods or on the river, but mostly in my own backyard using sticks for swords to fend off the mighty pirate captian hook. I used an old bedsheet as my cape and painted the letter S on it with spray paint under close observation by Mom. I ran like the wind, jumping up to fly while humming, "UP UP AND AWAY."Sometimes I was a clown or a ringmaster in the traveling circus, standing on a chair, snapping my invisible whip, and barking orders at the furious lions. My yard was the center of my universe, my book of tales, my domain where my mind ran free, and the words that I would someday write were just memories begging to be told. I could be anything I wanted to be as I grew up, sitting on a lawn chair, the one I once stood on to snap my whip at the lions. I watch my grandkids running around the yard playing their versions of superheroes and dangerous pirates, and my favorite, the tree house I built for them, where they'd spend countless hours as the Robinson family from the classic Swiss Family Robinson, a book I read to them a hundred times. I'm still somewhere between eight and eighty, looking for more adventures, but now I reach into my memory book and write about them from the comfort of my desk. The gift that keeps on giving is as clear as day when I let go and dive headfirst into another story to tell. Another memory pulled back from the darkness, to once again be written. Another story to be told to my grandkids, who will hopefully hand them down to new generations who still believe in backyard adventures as I do, as my 80 years grow close enough to touch.

Mike  2026                                                                   

A summer storm

 He heard the gentle wind as it entered through a window and brushed his cheek on its way to silence. Unlike most, he kept the window open just enough to let in a mist, which led to a shower. He sat and watched as trees bent, leaves dropped, and the sound of thunder startled him for a brief moment. He was a patient man, waiting for the sky to open, throwing bolts of lightning all around him. The best show in town, he said to himself, as the storm got closer and the rain snuck under the cracked window and into the cat's bed, who ran for cover under the couch. It was upon him now, the winds howling and blowing the old swingset down the block. The rain came down sideways, beating on the tin roof and sounding very much like a 12-gauge shotgun. Ear-shattering thunder and arrows of fire from the sky hitting their mark on a tree hed planted decades ago, now a burning testimony of the power unleashed by nature's fury. Then an eerie silence came in through the window, unfelt but a warning of things to come. He quickly got up and made a bag of popcorn, then returned to his seat and waited for the show to continue.

Mike  2026                                                      

Summer memories

 Riding in the back seat of Dad's 1957 Chevy wagon, along with my sisters, sticking my head out of the window, eating the air with a puffy face, and laughter from everyone. In the summer, with school closed, it was time for a family vacation. The wagon would be loaded up, and a cooler with sandwiches and other goodies remained untouched until Dad said it was time and pulled off to the side of the road under a big tree that offered shade on a hot July afternoon. Back then, the counties placed picnic tables every few miles on the two-way road, as fast food restaurants weren't something you'd see on every corner. Sometimes we'd see a sign for home cooking, and Dad would surprise us and make a quick turn into the entrance. One in particular I remember was just an old wooden structure in need of a good white wash. It had a front porch where a couple of old-timers were smoking their pipes and playing checkers. Inside looked like a scene from Fried Green Tomatoes, nothing fancy, just one waitress in a long dress and high-top sneakers welcoming us with a smile. Hot one, isn't it? She asked, dabbing the tip of her pencil on her tongue, what are we having, but before we could answer, she said, "Burgers, pulled pork, or the special of the day: country-fried steak with potatoes and green beans. "That's your choice, " she said. It was burgers for everybody and five glasses of iced tea to wash them down. Somewhere in my collection of picture postcards, there's one from that old restaurant. I recall there was a rotating stand with postcards, sold for a dime each. It had a picture of the place painted white, which looked nice and inviting.

After driving hundreds of miles, the guessing game of where we were headed ended when we could hear the sounds of the beach and the boardwalk we would grow to love for many more years. We had our own cottage just a short distance from the sandy beach and a stone's throw away from the arcade. There were vendors selling ice cream and burgers, and a small restaurant for a family dinner without having to drive anywhere. Days of fun in the sun, going from looking like a Q-tip to a bronzed statue with sun-bleached hair. We made friends our age and became inseparable as the days passed all too quickly, watching them pull away as they headed home.
When our time came to an end, and we had to leave, we remembered everything we did, storing memories away in our own private vault, things we kept secret, like meeting a girl with jet black hair and the whitest teeth you'd ever seen. We stuck together like glue, finding time to be with each other as time ticked away, but not without one very special kiss you'd been holding inside, realizing you may never see her again. You remember seeing her walk towards her family, who were finishing packing their car, touching her lips, and turning around to look and wave goodbye. I really hoped I'd see her again, maybe next summer, but that didn't happen, and all I have are the memories. I was fifteen years old back then, and like many things, time erases moments you'd probably forget unless you're like me and keep a secret box with momentos like a picture of two kids holding hands in front of an arcade at the beach.                                                            

Mike  2026

The dancers

 I watched as he sat in his favorite chair, his stocking feet shuffling in a sort of pattern, like a dance move. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling the kind of smile reserved for someone special. There was a picture on the mantel of a young couple, he in uniform and she in a wedding dress. Aside from others in the family who knew love. He used to tell me how much they loved to dance and how they met at a USO dance, and didn't yet know what an amazing love story they were going to write as the years passed. He told me they never missed a chance to dance to the old school songs they remembered. He would smile that smile and admit dancing with her meant another chance to have her in his arms. Sixty years together, each one celebrated with a dance and another memory in the making. Their children, all grown now with kids of their own, stand in the shadows, watching what true love means when two become as one, leaving age behind with graceful movements and smiles reserved for someone special. I would see him shuffling his stocking feet and visualize him in shiny shoes and her in heels, gliding across a dancefloor, oblivious to anyone else, alone in the moment until the music stopped. It warms my heart to watch him as he sleeps and shuffles his feet to a special song they must have called their own. I want to believe she's somewhere, waiting for her dance partner to join her on a heavenly dance floor where the music plays forever, and smiles are reserved forever for someone special.                                                                   

Mike  2026

Shadow dancer

 It started at an early age when I first saw my shadow dancer. My newborn eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing movement that must have been mine. In the toddler stage of life, I saw a shadow of my hand next to the nightlight that I insisted be left on, and I watched as my hand could be contorted into shapes resembling animals, which began my lifelong love for shadow dancers. I must admit I got very good at making shadows do as I said, creating something I shared with my sisters, who clapped after every shadow leaped from the wall to disappear into the night, only to be replaced by one of many requests. Jumping ahead to my teenage years, my shadow grew alongside me as we danced in my room to the latest songs, each move a mirror of my own, dancing the night away. I recall a time at a school dance when I desperately wanted to ask Mary to dance and finally did. As we danced, my shadow dancer joined us, dancing flawlessly with my every move. I grew up and became a dad who seldom missed a night of tucking my own kids into bed and showing them my shadow dancers to the music playing on the radio. It was like a stage show with dozens of animals and other shapes I learned to make years ago. Now, as time ticks away and the shadows don't come calling like they once did, I keep trying with aged and tired hands to make one last shadow that will sustain me until I walk into the shadow of death, followed by my shadow dancer beside me, who just wants to dance one more time.

Mike 2026                                                    

More than a block of wood

 I remember my dad helping me build a race car out of a small kit that included a block of wood about 12 inches long, two axles the size of a wooden match, and 4 tires no bigger than a silver dollar. It was a Cub Scout project, with the first prize being a trophy and a $20 check, a considerable amount back then. We had a month to finish and register our cars, so we couldn't dilly dally. Dad worked a lot, and finding time to help me with the car was limited, but he somehow found it, as he had so many times before. I wasn't stupid; I knew that doing this project with my dad was meant to be so much more. It was a time we could spend together, talking, listening, and learning. No two cars were alike, so a good amount of thought went into the design. Some of the dads had degrees in design, so they always came up with a car that was scientifically correct, taking into account aerodynamic airflow and other factors that the kid could only watch. As for me, I just cut out the block of wood with a place for the single seat, where I put one of my sister's dolls to act as the driver. And Dad punched out holes where the axles would be. I hand-sanded the block of wood until it was perfectly smooth while listening to dad tell a story about him and his dad doing the exact same thing years ago. Then, painting it fire-engine red with the number 11 in white. It wasn't a thing of beauty by any means, but it was ours, and we were proud of what we had done.

Race day arrived, and we headed to the park, where other dads had set up a racetrack. It was six feet tall at the start, then stretched out for the twenty-five feet of track that ended at a finish line. There were two lanes for two kids to race each other, with the winners advancing to the next race and the losers going home with a race-car key chain and the date. We watched as fancy cars you knew were built by the dads roared down the track, finishing first every time and eliminating cars like ours, but we didn't care because our car was built by both of us, and in our minds, it didn't matter if we won because we did something together that we'd remember for a long time.
When it was our turn, you could hear the kids and their dads laughing at our block of wood with wheels and a paint job done with mom's nail polish. At the sound of the whistle, I gave our car a push, and what happened next surprised everyone, including us. You see, the block of wood was heavy, and when I pushed it, the weight took a second to move, but once it did, it was unstoppable. Something no one expected to happen, as our car not only crossed the finish line first, but it flew off the track and came to rest fifteen feet past the track and onto the grass. We didn't win any more races, but everybody, including the doughty dads, applauded our efforts.
We went home with a keychain that, to this day, sits on a shelf next to the car we built together, a constant reminder of a kid and his dad, and of a block of wood that turned into something special in so many ways.                                                        

Mike  2026

Timeless carousels

 I remember the wind in my face as I sped by my folks on a carousel ride. It was my first time alone on the black stallion I had carefully chosen. A slight jerk, and the ride began to go around, slowly picking up speed to the delight of the riders. The hand-carved figures of not just horses but the likes of ostriches, swans, giraffes, and a few seats disguised as tea cups for weary parents were on their way. The music box played on as the familiar tune repeated over and over until it was burned into my memory, where it remains today.

What does a lad of six feel as he rides the mighty steed, a dark knight, you say, or maybe a bad guy galloping away from the sheriff as I let go of the pole and with one hand and a finger as a gun, I shoot all the bad guys, blowing smoke from the barrel as I pass my folks. Round and around we went for a longer time, if I recall, as the older man in greasy coveralls who sat on a chair in the pit woke, startled, for a minute, then pushed down on the throttle to slow the ride. I got off my fearless horse and ran to my mom's open arms as dad snapped another picture for the family picture album.
I loved the magic of the carousel as a boy, and I still marvel at the magnificence of the figures. The ornate carvings and bright colors, and the slits on the floor where pennies falling out of pockets ended up. These days, when everything is computer-operated, the older man has been replaced by a circuit board and an operator who controls everything. The music still sounds like old organ music, but it's lost its old-school feel, replaced by a continuous loop of programmed music. I suppose everything changes with time, like the figures once hand-carved by true craftsmen are now made of plastic, but to a kid, it's still a carousel ride where they chase bad guys on a mighty steed or go on safari seated on a giraffe. Tired parents still sit on benches disguised as teacups, and the magic of a carousel lives on.

Mike  2026                                                           

Saturday morning noise

 A lawnmower a couple of doors down distracts my writing, I mean, who cuts grass at seven in the morning? Probably a kid doing chores he forgot to do yesterday. I guess I'll have another cup of coffee and glance through the morning paper to see who's killing who and other tidbits of news that go in one ear then out the other. I set it down and looked out of my kitchen window at the kid barely tall enough to get a grip on the lawn mower, cussing under his breath, leaving me to wonder what he did to deserve this so damn early on a Saturday morning. Then I saw his dad on the porch with a glass of something, he handed to his kid, who drank it down in a couple of gulps and handed the glass back to his dad, who I thought was going to relieve him of the lawn cutting, but he walked back inside, and the kid kept mowing.

As I sat looking at him, my writer's mind went to work, trying to figure out what led to this early-morning chore. Maybe he hit his younger brother or stole some change from Mom's cookie jar. Maybe he skipped school and got caught or found behind the house smoking a cigarette he stole from his dad's pack. I don't suppose I'll ever know the reason, but at last the noise sputtered out, meaning he ran out of gas. I said a quick prayer; he didn't have any gas left in the can and would have to make a trip to the gas station to fill it up. But no such luck, as he retrieved the can from the garage and filled the damn thing up.
I'd have to say the kid kept going until every blade of grass was cut, and he shut down the Saturday morning monster that invaded my ears and my brain. Truth be told, the silence that eluded me seemed eerie as I kept waiting for some other distraction to prevent me from writing. But nothing did. I tried to be creative, but my paper was blank, along with the imagination that usually didn't disappoint me. Then, without warning, the sound of a couple of my neighbors cutting their lawns, and, as if in harmony with each other, the dueling machines roared to life, invading my ears again. Well, there was just one thing to do, so I got dressed and went to my garage where my 1947 Harley-Davidson sat covered with a tarp. It was illegal as hell with straight pipes that could wake the dead when throttled up. I backed it out onto my driveway and, with a sinister plan, started it up. Almost instantly, kids started screaming as windows rattled and birds flew away to safety. People stood on their porches screaming over the noise, telling me to stop or they'd call the cops, who I knew would take a good twenty minutes to show up. which they did and told me to shut it off or take a ride to the station. I wholeheartedly agreed to go with them. Once in a cell by myself, with the only noise being my own breathing, I continued to write the next best seller that came with coffee and silence.

Mike  2026                                                           

One wild ride

 

Windchimes hanging from a rusty hook chime a song born of wind and pending storms.  Old spoons of silver plate dangle and collide, growing louder as they test the hook, and you remember days of a chime or two on a quiet Sunday morning.
The sky is shades of gray, and a black line on the horizon speeds towards you with no mercy. You're no stranger to storms, and each one becomes a memory filled with fear. The chimes now break the hook, and spoons blow across the porch, scattered here and there, forever forgotten as their melodies go silent.
You face the fear inside as you grab hold of the arms of your chair, your beard blowing backward, and your ball cap ripped off your head, joining other airborne debris in a race to get far from home.  You know you should escape and seek shelter somewhere safe, but you're glued to your chair by the fury of its strength, and you realize this is how it ends.
You know what a jet pilot must feel like as he ejects from his aircraft, as a violent blast propels him up and out of his seat. Your chair is shaking violently, but you somehow manage to stay seated as a deadly gust of wind pulls you and the chair into a swirling mass of destruction. You should be dead by now, but you and your chair are as one as you brace yourself for the worst that's surely going to come.
Some may call it a miracle, and others just dumb luck that the chair came to rest on a bale of hay upright and unscathed. As for you, you sat there for a minute before your hands came unglued from the arms of the chair, and you could walk away in search of your home. It was one hell of a ride, you told yourself with a grin on your face. I think I'd like to go again, he said out loud, but not today.

Mike  2026

Maple leaf cycle

 A maple leaf floated to the ground from which it was born. Rich soil untouched by man or machine, alone in birth and alone in death. What purpose did a leaf serve as it grew into maturity, clinging to its union with the tree? It wasn't alone, as hundreds of others like itself grew and died with who knows how much time in between. I wonder what they felt as they changed from green to crimson and gold, and in that split second when their lifeline snapped, sending them down to lie together at the foot of the mighty tree. In time, their colors would fade into the ground and be forgotten until the snow gave way to a new generation of baby buds that held on tightly when the winds blew, and the rains pelted them; some were knocked down, while the strong survived to grow another day.

A maple tree fell in the forest today, a victim of God's light show, as lightning slammed into its trunk and fire burned into its very core. Some of the leaves were spared as they unhinged themselves on the way down, floating away from the destruction, while most went up in flames that would eventually become dust from which, in time, new growth would climb upward as a young sapling struggled to take the place of its ancestor. It took hundreds of years to become just another tree, surrounded by elders who had survived what nature threw their way for unknown years. They provided shade for the saplings and wrapped their limbs around them to protect them from the wind. Slowly, and with no one watching, the little maple became a strong, beautiful adult tree. Filled with countless leaves that would honor it with a parade of colors floating downward, some touching in a final goodbye as one by one they detached and floated back to the ground from which they came. And the cycle continued.

Mike  2026                                                       

Remembering Dad

 You've been gone a while now, Dad, but I still have countless memories of us together. I recall the crazy little things, like trying to roll up a cigarette pack in my t-shirt sleeve or opening a bottle with my jackknife—the important things you taught me.

I remember you teaching me how to shave with a kids' shaving kit, which included a shaving mug, a bar of soap, and a wooden-handled brush you used to lather your face. I'd stand next to you at the sink, watching what you were doing so I could do the same. When we were finished, you would pat my face with a few drops of aftershave so I smelled good for the ladies, he'd say in just a whisper.
I remember going to church on Sunday and dressing up. I guess God liked well-dressed women, men, and even kids. You tried to teach me how to tie a tie, but after many failed attempts, you bought me a new invention called a clip-on tie, pure genius. Shined shoes were a must at our house. Mom was in charge of my sisters' patent-leather shoes, wiping them off with a damp rag, but yours and mine had to pass inspection. It seemed your military life taught you to make your shoes shine with two fingers wrapped in a soft cloth, usually an old T-shirt cut into small pieces. On Saturday evenings, you'd get the wooden box filled with several tins in different colors: black, brown, cordovan, and natural. Different colors for different colored shoes. There were several sizes of brushes with wooden handles that you'd dip into a tin, slowly work around the shoe, and then set aside to dry. While one shoe was drying, the other shoe went through the same thing. Then came the big brush, made of horsehair. You would show me how to get your rhythm, like the sound of a locomotive, as you brushed and brushed until the shoe began to shine like glass. Next came the toes. Using the pieces of cloth you'd wrap around two fingers, dip them into the polish, then into the tin filled with a little water. Slowly, you got your rhythm as you went around the toe over and over until it began to shine, but it had to outshine the rest of the shoe, which took a long time to accomplish. When my shoes were done, I put them next to yours at the door. Let me tell you, I had the shiniest shoes in school.
I could go on and on about our times together, but anymore and I'd have to write a book. You were a great dad, and I still love and miss you every day. Happy Father's Day in the sky, Dad. You are missed.

Mike  2026                                                                                                                

Whats a Dad?

 This is just one man's opinion of what it means to be a dad. My childhood was memorable to me in many ways. My dad was mostly around, except when he traveled for his job, but he never forgot to bring my sisters and me a little gift he'd buy at the airport store. A coloring book or puzzle, and always a Whitman sampler box of chocolates. And he never once forgot to get my mom some perfume.

My dad was someone I could always depend on to be seated at a band concert or school play, and sometimes showed up breathing hard as mom took his hand and squeezed it with a smile on her face. I can remember seeing him, still in a suit and tie, leaving his office, trying not to be too late.
My dad spoke quietly most of the time, especially when he was trying to get a point across to us. To me, that was worse than yelling, but he didn't believe in yelling unless we did something really bad, like kicking out the streetlights and getting caught by the town policeman, who was larger than life and very scary. He yelled about that, and if you think a five-foot-seven man couldn't instill the wrath of God, you'd be mistaken.
My dad listened to my questions and always gave it a minute or two to answer. I suppose he was just searching for the right words, not just making up a response. He could be firm and didn't shy away from giving me a good whooping with his belt, but I believed he went easy on me out of love that always trumped violence.
My dad was a fair man, a loyal man, and a man I aspired to be and follow in his footsteps the best way I could. I'm older than dirt now, and my dad's been gone for a long time, but his face is always on my mind as I play back all the moments, we shared, and I'm always thankful for the time we had together. What inspired me to write this was an empty Whitman's chocolate sampler I found in my treasure box of memories. I'll admit I wiped a tear away but did so with a smile. Happy Father's Day, in heaven, Dad. I love you every day.                                         

Mike 2026