Tabletops to laptops

 He sat at the bar,  first stool from the left, just like he's done for fifty-some years. His old man owned the place up until his death at sixty-seven from a bad stroke. He can still remember the exact spot he fell to the floor, and every time he goes behind the bar, he steps over nothing but sees his old man lying there plain as day. He had left the joint to his wife, who ran things the best she could but hated every minute, so he took the place over, and the decades that followed became a place of a thousand stories, each its own best seller and fuel for his own writing that one day would be published, or so he could only imagine.

There was a table in a corner where all the goings on could be seen, a perfect place to watch and listen as another story was told. The four men at that table came in every day unless one got sick or had to go out of town for one reason or another. They grew older together, at that table, a part of each other's lives, if you could call it a life. They all had notebooks where they'd write down a particularly good story, thinking one day they'd have enough material to put together a book. They even named their possible book The Tales of Four Drunks.
Life does go full circle; that was evident with a younger crowd coming in to have some drinks in the dimly lit old place, where craftsmanship could be seen everywhere you looked, and the chance to see the old timers sitting where they always sat before one died and then another until only two chairs were left. The once somewhat quiet bar now catered to the younger crowd, not because they were wanted there, but because their money was a good enough reason to put up with the noise that drowned out the old jukebox playing songs their grandparents listened to. Taking a break, he would sit at the corner table with his two lifelong friends, trying to hear a story, but there were no stories, just noise and power drinking that often found two banty roosters pretending they could fight, which ended when he intervened and broke it up.
Then one day, he hung a closed sign on the old bar for reasons of his own. He had had enough noise, rudeness, and disrespect that repeated itself daily. He spent the next few weeks restoring the bar to its original state while adding several tables. There were a few bottles of his best booze and a keg of beer poured with the same tap his dad and he used. But the biggest change was the availability of desktop computers for anyone to use to write their stories. Little did he know at the time that he had opened a place where old-timers, along with some younger writers, began telling life stories and memories that spanned almost a hundred years. The click of fingers on keys replaced the old jukebox, but it remained where it had always been, only silent and unplugged.
The place was renamed to A Place to Write. And writers came from everywhere to capture the look and smells of a dimly lit bar transformed into a place where every table was full, as was the bartop, where, not long ago, mugs of beer were slid across to a waiting customer. He did write his book, and it sold a million copies. The title, Tabletops to laptops with respect.

Mike 2026                                         

Getting results

 I took my son fishing when he was old enough to hold a pole. Down by the river in a spot I've been fishing for a long time. There were good-sized rocks all around us, and being a kid, he liked to explore everything around him. I noticed him getting bored with just standing there in one spot and tuning out whatever it was I was talking to him about, so I turned him loose, and off he went. A little while later, he came up to me holding a stick he had found and asked if he could make his own fishing pole. Why not, I thought to myself, he didn't know I spent a small fortune buying him the best rod and reel available. He took a spool of fishing line and wrapped it around his stick, then tied on a hook and a bobber. He baited the hook and tossed his line about ten feet offshore, then jammed the stick between two rocks, and once satisfied, he wandered off again.

Alone with my thoughts, I glanced beside me and noticed I didn't see his bobber, and the line was taught. I yelled for him to come check his line, and as he unwedged the stick and gave it a good tug, a good-sized trout showed itself. He held on tight as he walked backward until the fish was on shore, and he wore a smile that's forever etched in my mind and my heart. I suppose there is a moral to this story that it doesn't matter what you use to get results as long as you have fun getting them.

Mike 2026                                                            

Waiting for Mom

 We waited for our mom to get home from the city, but she didn't come. The snow was falling, and the cold seeped through us as we watched the school bus driver try to keep the bus on the slippery road. She asked us if we'd be okay, and we assured her our mom would be here soon. My sister was just a couple of years older than me, and I looked to her to get us inside, away from the now-blizzard conditions. But the doors were locked, and we didn't have a key. I guessed that Mom knew she'd be home in time to meet the school bus, but we thought she'd been stranded in the city as the snow kept coming.

There was a corner store named Ben's Grocery just under the railroad bridge, and my sister said we should walk there and ask to use the phone to call our dad. She produced a small piece of paper with his work number, which she kept tucked into her boots as we trudged through what felt like an eternity before reaching the store.

The frozen bell on the door clanked rather than rang as we entered the store, as Ben got off his stool behind the counter and hurried over to us, grabbing a couple of blankets off the shelf, giving each of us some welcome warmth. Ben's wife came downstairs and, seeing us, sprang into action, climbing the steps to her kitchen and putting the kettle on to make us some hot cocoa. We told them that our mom hadn't come back from the city, and the school bus dropped us off in front of our house, leaving us stranded. My sister remembered the piece of paper and asked to use their phone to call our dad, but Ben told us the lines were down and the phone didn't work. He said we were better off to just wait there until the blizzard was over, and we could only hope our mom would turn up.

Then the bell clanked, and the door opened, and my sister and I stared at the tall man with a long coat covered in snow. He had to duck down to get inside and introduced himself as our uncle Larry. Our mom's brother, whom we'd heard about over the years but never met. He told us our mom called him from the city where the phones worked and asked him to go to our house and get us until she could get home. It seemed that Uncle Larry was just passing through for a couple of days, and she knew he'd be at the neighborhood bar he had always frequented when he was passing through. Thankfully, he was there.

Our parents had always told us to never go anywhere with a stranger, and he was just that, a stranger. Ben and his wife didn't know what to do or say to the tall stranger, except maybe that the kids could stay there and wait for their mom. Uncle Larry agreed and offered us some candy, but our parents always told us to never take candy from a stranger. He tried to make conversation, but we remained silent because our parents had taught us never to talk to strangers. Then, after what felt like a lifetime, our mom came through the door, hugging both of us so tightly we could barely breathe. She hugged Uncle Larry, and when he told her he had tried to get us to go with him, they refused because of everything they had been taught.

Later on, back in our warm home, Dad finally made it home, and we all had dinner together, including Uncle Larry, who, it was said, never grew tired of telling the story about my sister and me and a frigid day waiting for our mom.

Mike 2026                                                           

Missing Mom

 My mom would soothe me back to sleep after a nightmare. She would stroke my hair and sing a lullaby, softly, the one her mom sang to her. I remember how her face looked and imagined she was wishing it was her and not me with the nightmares.

I remember her telling me my school drawing of our family was as good as she had ever seen and sticking it to the fridge with a magnet from someplace we went on vacation.
I remember standing on my tiptoes, looking over the counter as she made bread, and she surprised me by putting some flour on the tip of my nose. Then there was the special treat she made for me with leftover dough. She would roll a ball, then flatten the middle, fill it with grape jelly, and bake it to a golden brown.
I remember her chasing me around the house with the vacuum cleaner, laughing all the while as I desperately tried to outrun her. I remember sitting on the front porch as she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and all I could think of was being her son.
She's been gone six years now, and all I have left are some pictures and a heart full of memories. But she's close by, and I relive as many moments as I can to see me through another day without her.

Mike 2026                                                            

Laughter and tears

 I feel her presence almost daily. I see her smile and hear her endless bouts of laughter. I picture how she must look as I fight time and wonder if she will look the same as I remember. My memories have brought me back to forgotten times and places we once shared when we were young and so much in love. And for that I'm grateful.

I feel her presence when a soft wind blows, and her perfume fills the moment, if only briefly. I feel her with me as I say goodnight to an empty space beside me, and I shed tears until sleep eventually comes.
I feel her presence in simple things like a monarch butterfly resting on a branch of the tree I planted for her on her 30th birthday. Or a songbird singing a song when she hushed me so she didn't miss a note. She would clap at the end of its song, laughing that laugh I grew to love and cherish.
I feel her presence everywhere I look, every place we ever went, and every second spent with her for the time we had together. There is such a thing as falling in love at first sight because we did just that. Two hearts beating as one until two became one, along with the memories of laughter and tears.

Mike 2026                                                      

A fisherman's story

 His wife said he was possessed by the fishing bug. Not a day went by since he retired to the lake house they built decades ago that he didn't shove off in his small boat right at sunrise with rods and reels, a cooler, and a favorite cigar. He valued the silence on the lake and therefore didn't have a motor, just oars to move him around to a few choice spots where catching fish was guaranteed. He seldom kept what he caught, throwing them back to grow larger and give him a better fight should they meet again.

The years passed, and he kept fishing, catching his fair share of lake trout and other species, all of which were put back to grow. Occasionally hed see another boat on the lake, usually on weekends when the weekend warriors drank beer and talked loud enough to scare any fish for miles. They would get close enough to him and hold up stringers of dead or dying fish, a few barely legal in size.

He would pull up his anchor and row away as quickly as he could, as the sight of them made him sick to his stomach. He knew they wouldn't eat what they caught, as it was all about bragging rights to them, and he bet that when they called it a day, they tied up at the dock and threw the fish away.

 He had an idea he shared with his wife, who agreed it would be a valuable and expensive lesson for the weekend warriors. He had a good friend who worked for Fish and Game, and he told him about the weekend fish slayers and that he thought they needed a quick lesson in fishing etiquette. The warden hid around a bend until he saw firsthand how they treated their catches, like letting them roll around the deck of the boat until they died from lack of oxygen. Or how one guy put a lit cigarette into a fish's mouth and watched as it looked like the fish was smoking. He had had enough and hit the blue lights as he sped towards the weekend warriors.

He tied off to the boat and pulled out his violations book, asking for ID from everyone. " What's wrong?" one guy asked. "All we're doing is having some fun."Yeah, me to the warden replied and began writing tickets. Seeing as how all four of you violated the law, I'm going to give each of you the same fine. He handed each of them a ticket with a two-thousand-dollar fine.

What happens next he asked his friend. Well, they will have an interesting ride home trying to explain to their wives how their bank accounts are two thousand dollars less. But is what you did legal, charging them so much? Oh, I'll wait a few days and resend the tickets, giving them some time to realize not abiding by the law can be costly. I'll drop the fines to one hundred each, but one thing I'm fairly certain of, you won't be seeing them on the lake for a while. And you can go on fishing in peace and quiet.

About two months later, as he was sitting in his boat, a line out and his favorite cigar nearing the end, he felt his line grow taut, and he grabbed his rod and began what would later be told over breakfast tables across the county, the biggest fight of his life was on. He fought the giant for an hour, his small boat being pulled right alongside it, until finally it wore itself down, allowing him to net the biggest lake trout that had ever been caught in the lake. He carefully removed the hook, and with a few rubs on its belly, the giant swam away to be caught another day.

Mike 2026                                                              

A tale of the sea

 The sea was rough, violent at times, like a fisherman's bobber when getting a big hit. The swells grew to great heights as the captain fought to keep her upright, knowing that at any time a rogue wave could appear out of nowhere and send the ship to Davy Jones' Locker.

Down below, the crew latched themselves to anything to keep from being tossed around like rag dolls as cargo shifted, posing a great danger to life and limb. The smell of vomit and the cries of the youngest shipmates echoed against the wind that passed through the wooden vessel.
On deck, the giant sails lay scattered and torn, the masts bending with every powerful gust of Neptune's fury. The captain and first mate, blinded by the salt spray, tied themselves to the helm every second, a challenge to stay afloat.
Minutes seemed like hours and hours like days as the crippled ship beat the odds and survived the journey. A new day arrived with calming seas and gentle winds, and the tasks of repairing what they could with what little they had. Portholes were opened, letting the fresh air in, and decks were scrubbed by the youngest of sailors who now knew the meaning of sea sickness.
The ship made port on the seventh day after the storm. Battered but not beaten, and sailors long to feel the ground beneath their feet. Weeks passed, and the ship was repaired and ready to sail once again as supplies were brought on board and a few new sailors replaced the lads whose stomachs couldn't take another round of Mother Nature.
Back at sea, the captain leaned against a rail, smoking his pipe, looking at the calm seas and guiding stars, wondering what this journey would bring. But that wasn't of concern as he knew he and his crew would face anything the gods of the seas threw at them. They were sailors, and sailors would accept nothing less than to be buried at sea should their ship succumb to nature's fury.

One month passed, and one more storm was approaching. Another Nor'easter, more powerful than their last encounter with an angry sea. The captain kept his composure as he shouted commands to the deckhands, some with fear in their eyes, and to other old salts, who sang seafaring songs to ease the fear of the unknown.
It was a rogue wave that beat them. The wooden ship was battered by forces that couldn't be beaten as masts snapped and tons of crushing sea came down upon them with a vengeance. All that remained of the ship were splinters of wood bobbing up and down like that fisherman's bobber. Screams of drowning sailors turned to silence as one by one they found themselves in Davy Jones ' locker, where they remain to this day.
Some say the ship can be seen in all its glory sailing the sea, its captain leaning against a rail, smoking his pipe, as sailors line the deck, singing sea-faring songs. Probably just another tale of the sea, but who's to say?                                                                 

Mike 2026

Old truck new life

 He didn't look up from the task at hand. He had to finish fixing the truck he uses every day around the farm. Mom said he should replace it with something newer, but he argued that his old truck only needed some TLC once in a while, usually sooner rather than later. Today it was the starter, so yesterday he hitched a ride into town, where the auto zone came up with a replacement starter. The kid behind the counter was blowing the dust off the box and laughing when he whispered to him that, from now on, he'd have to special-order any more parts for his old truck.

As he left the store, he saw a couple of his old buddies lingering around the store. It seemed to have become a meeting place to swap stories about their farms, equipment, and the rising prices. He stopped to chat for a minute, but needed to get the truck running again, so he said goodbye and left.
His son, who just turned eleven, was waiting for him as he got home. It seemed he told him he could help fix the truck, which he had forgotten, but it was okay, as he valued the time they spent together. The boy was learning about the various tools and their uses, and he soon became very well-versed in every tool in the toolbox. The garage became like a surgery room as tools were requested and quickly handed to dad, never once giving him the wrong tool." Fire it up," his dad said as the kid slid into the truck and turned the key, to the sound of a healed victim of age.
Five years passed, and the kid got his driver's license and also inherited the old truck he knew inside out. Some of the kids pointed and laughed as he pulled into the parking lot, asking whether the scrapyard had reported it missing. He didn't respond, but little did they know he had saved enough money from his chores to send it off to the body shop for a complete makeover. New sheet metal and body filler were used, along with primer, and everything was sanded by hand until it was as smooth as a baby's rear end. He had chosen a dark cherry-red color with a black leather interior. A set of deep-dish chrome wheels finished it off, and it was ready to show to his family and friends.
Dad was more excited than anyone else as he walked around the old truck, rubbing its glossy shine and acting like a kid at Christmas. That can't be the same truck, he said as he climbed in and marveled at the chrome instruments and the soft leather seating. The cherry on the cupcake was an antique license tag that only vehicles over twenty years old could display.
On Monday morning, as he pulled into the school parking lot, kids turned towards a rumbling sound some knew as dual exhaust with cherry-bomb mufflers. Some ran towards it in awe at what they were seeing, as he parked and took out a soft towel to rub away any handprints. Even the principal and a few teachers came over to have a look at the beautiful truck, the one he had been asked about, to see if the scrap yard was missing a truck.
His truck rode in the town's parades as well as custom cars and trucks events around the county. He took home his fair share of trophies, and when he went off to college, he wrapped it in a tarp and stored it in the barn. Four years passed, and with a diploma in hand, he returned home and uncovered his truck. His dad helped him change oil and put the tires back on while his little brother softly wiped every inch of it with a soft cloth. The three of them hopped in and headed for town, where people shouted hello with thumbs up and whistles.
He kept that truck to someday give to his son, but that was years away, and he couldn't take it to his new job five hundred miles away, so he put the tarp back on and stored it once again in dads barn where its been said he would start it up sometimes listening to the rumble of the cherry bomb mufflers and the smell of leather. He smiled as he saw a picture of himself and his eldest son standing next to a rusted, almost always broken truck, paperclipped to the visor.

Mike 2026                                                            

Over 1160 very short stories

 Over 1160 very short stories

THAT NUMBER GROWS EVERY DAY.
Are you a lover of stories who is always looking for something to take you away from reality, but the stories are sometimes too long to read in a single sitting? I believe I have that answer.
Over the past years, I have tapped into my creative side and written over 1,000  very short stories on my blog, mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com. Unlike most, which have dozens of paragraphs, mine contain only a few that cover many different life memories from days past.
Go back in time and relive the memories, the friendships, love, and sorrow. and many more topics. Discover times in your life that you've forgotten but can now bring back through my very short stories. With so many different topics, I believe everyone will find something that takes them back in time and evokes memories of long-forgotten people, places, and times we thought were lost forever.
Take a minute to visit my blogs and see why so many readers have chosen my very short stories over lengthy ones. When, after reading a few paragraphs, your memories kick in and leave you wanting to read more.
Thank you to all of you who have commented on my work, telling me how, after reading certain stories, you traveled back in time, reliving times in your life you thought were gone forever. Please leave me your comments, as each story I've written was written with you in mind.

Mike 2026  mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com 

The long road

 I sat on the front porch of the house my great-grandad built over 100 years ago. As a kid, I had to leave the house an hour before the bus arrived because the dirt road to the stop was over a mile from the house. I often wondered why there was so much distance from the house to the county road, and my dad told me that Granddad wasn't very fond of people in general, so he built the house as far back as his property would allow.

On either side of the long road were row upon row of corn that my dad said were grown during the Great War to feed the troops, and to this day still produce corn for worldwide hunger programs. Granddad may not have cared for people, but he cared for his country.

When I sit in silence on the porch, I do hear nature like the songs of birds and croaks of frogs. I hear the cows mooing and chickens cackling, and my dog barking at the wind. Unlike today, when granddad tilled the earth, he used mules and manpower, quite a lot of manpower,  and the only sounds were him giving commands to the mules and the occasional curse words when they didn't listen to him.
Today, I spend hours on a tractor or combine, noisy machines that would have granddad rolling over in his grave and covering his ears. But when my day is done, and the machines go silent, the peaceful moments return to me, sitting on the porch granddad built, and I understand why that road is so long.

Mike 2026                                                             

                                               

A lifestyle

 He was shy as a boy, tall and lanky with a heart of gold, his mom would say. His dad was strict but fair and always had the last word. His hair was cut by a barber, not a stylist, and his clothes were only replaced when a growth spurt seemed to happen overnight. His Mom would buy him blue jeans that had plenty of room to be rolled down as he grew. Little did she know that rolled-up jeans were all the rage. He remembered the day he went into school wearing what was called a Dickey. He saw it in a magazine and thought how cool it would be to be the first one in school to have one, but that wasn't the case. Dozens of boys began wearing them in all kinds of colors. Just another fad that diminished over time.

Time passed, and the lifestyle changed in many ways, including the rise of bell-bottom jeans and fringed shirts. Tye dyed everything, and peace signs were everywhere you looked. Book covers were plastered with stickers, and long hair for boys and girls was seen on almost everybody. His Dad strongly opposed the hair, but somehow Mom convinced him to let it go, saying he'd outgrown that fad, too. Eventually, it did pass as I was sworn into the Navy after high school and stood in line as ten Navy barbers made quick work shaving my head so short I looked like Mr. Clean.
More time passed, and I was discharged from the Navy, returning home to decide what was next for me. It was 1974, and the hippy lifestyle was still very much alive, something I had wanted to experience since getting a taste of it before my enlistment. With money I had saved in the Navy, I bought a van and tricked it out with a bed and a small fridge. It had a black light, posters everywhere, and a sound system that shook the windows. That first year, I traveled to places I had read about but never seen, like the mountains of Montana, with stars so bright you could read from their brightness.
I'd come upon others like myself in clusters, often joining them around a campfire where guitars filled the night air with song and joints were passed around until daylight broke through the darkness, and most were fast asleep until being woken by someone yelling the cops were coming up the mountain. It was a mad dash to gather your belongings and hit the road as quickly as possible. On one such occasion, I wasn't fast enough and was blocked in by the police and arrested for having weed in my van. They laughed among themselves at the ways we dressed and our long, sometimes braided hair done by a stranger around the campfire. And I didn't do myself any favors by calling them pigs and other choice names. I spent three days in jail and was released after the judge said it was my one and only time, and that he better not ever see me in his courtroom again. I was escorted to the county line by the oinkers and headed down the road to my next stop.
1977 and still on the road. I passed through dozens of small towns where the lifestyle remained a part of the culture, meeting many new friends along the way. I met a girl hitching and picked her up, asking where she was headed. She said her grandma had passed away and left he a cottage in the woods where she planned on living the simple life. I told her I'd love to see her cottage and offered to take her the five hundred miles to get there. We took our time, stopping along the road at places worth seeing, like giant waterfalls and redwood trees. Occasionally, other free spirits who lived in small towns and villages were more than happy to share a meal or a song.
We arrived at the cottage, set on several acres with woods and a small pond, and the peace and quiet we both loved so much. It needed some tlc but I was handy and offered to stay for a while and help her get the place in order. A while turned out to be six months, with a special closeness our hearts felt for one another. I took on carpentry work, and she sold herbs and spices to tourists passing through town. We were happy, and in time, we had a child we named Arrow. When we were target shooting with a bow and arrow, she went into labor, and we delivered baby Arrow in the bathtub, where the warm water soothed both him and his mom.
Many years passed, and the three of us made a good life together. We held on to our free-spirited way of doing things and taught our son the ways of the land and all who inhabited it. The old van finally pooped out and now serves as a modified chicken coupe, providing us with many eggs that we sometimes sell in town or trade for rock candy. I believe I speak for all of us when I say that happiness is a daily emotion we never take for granted. Love is forever, and freedom of choice is so much more than a lifestyle; it's who you are, and that's what's important.

Mike  2026                                                     

Joys of simplicity

 Only those of us who lived this far can truly understand the happiness of simplicity, or the joy of lifelong friendships that weren't solicited on some chat room. We grew up in a post-war society when family was everything and friendship was earned. Manners were expected, as was discipline when a wrong must be made right.

Men walked on the outside of a lady just in case a passing car hit a puddle, and always held her car door open, while tipping their hats was a show of friendliness and nothing more. Cat's calls and whistles were all in good fun, as the construction workers just wanted her to know she was a looker.
Don't mistake me: there are a lot of beautiful women today who go to great lengths to look amazing through surgery, but back then, natural beauty was in the lady herself. The way she carried herself and the confidence she had in her clothing choices. Like June Cleaver on the Leave It to Beaver television show, always wearing a simple dress, high heels, an apron, and a stylish hairdo.

It was a time when Saturday night meant dancing at a large dance hall with a live band that played all the day's hits. No screaming guitars or fireworks, just couples in love, others looking for it. It was always crowded as a slow dance brought couples closer and the smell of perfume and aftershave collided in mid-air.
Those days of courting a girl and asking her father for permission to marry her made more than one guy gulp his words as he came face-to-face with a father's stern warning: have her home by eleven, not one minute later.

Friday nights at the drive-in movies meant some heavy kissing, but no meant no, and stop meant stop as she fixed her lipstick and brushed her hair, asking him to get her some popcorn and a Coke. which he did, talking under his breath as he walked away, knowing even first base wasn't going to happen.

Back then, after the war, men who served came home to offers of new jobs in many factories that had been converted to the war effort, now producing steel, paper, and dozens of other things the country needed to rebuild. Others dressed in business attire searched for jobs in the business sector, where many succeeded. New houses sprang up like tulips on a late spring day, creating row after row of cookie-cutter houses nestled together in what was named subdivisions.

Backyard swimming pools and Sunday picnics, brand-new automobiles proudly shown off as the men gathered around the owner, explaining every little detail. While inside, a new bride shows off all the modern conveniences, like an electric coffee pot and an automatic ice maker in the freezer. And her most prized possession was the washer and dryer that made her life so much easier.
From there, as the years passed and things began to change, life seemed to get easier, maybe even too easy. More gadgets that saved time and less time with family. Although many of us tried to go along with the changes, we also tried to keep certain traditions alive for the next generations.

Then everything changed at lightning speed as the computer arrived in our world. A magical machine capable of solving complex mathematics and allowing scientists to explore new horizons they never could before. In the scope of things, every home had a computer, making schoolwork much easier and shopping possible without going to a store. Video games were designed, and every kid in America and around the world would soon have handheld controllers in their hands as zombie-like looks replaced backyard games, ushering in the age of obesity.

But I realized in time that if I was going to live in this new age, I'd have to adapt to certain things. My grandson did his best to show me how to send emails, browse, and Google, and even hooked me up with a dating app for seniors looking for love. That backfired when I saw the picture he posted on the site, taken when I was 20 years younger. Needless to say, the first meeting didn't go very well.

I'm 72 years old now and content with living the way I always have. I like the simple life of opening a lady's door, and I always walk on the outside in case of a passing car going through a puddle. On occasion, I put on my best suit, splash on some Aqua Velva, and head to the old dance floor, still standing with a thousand stories. With any luck, I'll ask a lady of my age to have a dance or two.

Mike 2026                                                            

The sky as I see it

 To most, looking at the sky means little. But to me, it's like looking at an artist's renderings of barnhouse animals or a rabbit chasing something. The sky is a gathering place for stars and the ever-changing shades of blue. The sky can be calm, with clouds as soft as a pillow, but it can also become angry, surging over the calm, crushing it with darkness and the roar of thunder. It moves quickly and with a purpose until it runs out of juice and disappears, sometimes leaving behind destruction and heartbreak.

The sky will make you pause as you look upward and see jet trails and flocks of birds.  It gives off a scent as rain begins to fall, sometimes on one side of the street and not the other. It's like a child at times, turning the bathroom faucet on, off, and on again.

At night, when a million stars are visible, we look up and try to understand just how vast the sky really is and how small we are. We make wishes on a shooting star whose lifespan is over, dropping from the heavens in one last ball of fire, soon to be extinguished somewhere around the globe, as it no longer belongs in the sky.

To most, looking at the sky is just something that's there, but to me, it's a place where earth meets sky, and imaginations run wild.

Mike 2026                                                     

Days of Summer

 Lazy days of summer have arrived. Swimming pools are uncovered, and bicycles are out of the garage. The grill master dad has had for years finds its spot in the backyard, and work resumes on the project boat that's been taking up too much space. Fresh coats of paint and storm windows are replaced with screens. Picnic baskets are taken down from the attic, along with a box labeled 'kids' beach stuff'.

Lawnmowers are heard every Saturday, and the aroma of fresh-cut grass is one of your favorite smells. Cars and trucks in the driveway get a good cleaning as girls in their bathing suits get whistled at by boys passing by in a souped-up car. The Fourth of July meant a day at the beach with burgers and dogs cooked on a small grill that Dad brought from home. Endless fun in the lake and the two words that stayed with you for a week, Marco, Polo.

Darkness brought with it fireworks displays and sparklers, you would try to spell out your name with before they burned out. Fire crackers, M80S, mortars, and cherry bombs so loud that small kids cried. The ride back home was quiet as kids fell asleep after a full day of fun in the sun. The car radio played softly as Mom hummed along to one of her favorite songs, while Dad looked through the rearview mirror and smiled at his sleeping angels.

Summer meant iced tea and lemonade, potato salad and ice-cold Cokes. It meant a slip-and-slide in the yard and chasing mom with a garden hose, while dad laughed until it was his turn to be chased. It was warm nights on the porch as crickets sang their songs and countless stars shone in the heavens. But all good things come to an end, and summer's end always came too soon. But the memories stay with you as snow tires are put on the car, and picnic baskets and a box full of beach toys are put in the attic. The pool is covered, and Dad's grill is tucked away in the garage along with bicycles as dreams of summer lull you to sleep.

Mike  2026                                                         

Rich soil and pine

 Since I was seven years old, I have usually spent summer vacation on my grandparents' farm. They were only ten miles away, but to me it seemed like another country. The days leading up to my leaving, Mom washed and packed most of my clothes, even though once I arrived, I changed into my coveralls like granddad wore, except for going to church on Sunday. On the morning I was leaving, Dad pulled me aside as Mom loaded the car, telling me to mind my manners, since Granddad was old-school and sometimes demanded a lot. I assured him that my granddad and I got along just fine, but I said it to myself as I nodded and promised to do as I was told.

The car ride to the farm took only about twenty minutes, but Dad seemed to drive more slowly than usual. I think maybe he didn't want to see me go for the next two months. As we pulled onto a dirt road that led to the farm, I looked out of the window at cows grazing and fields of corn that seemed to go on forever. As we got closer, I saw granddad and grandma standing on the front porch, waving as dad honked the horn to announce our arrival. I jumped out of the car as Lucky, my granddad's dog, jumped up on me, almost knocking me to the ground, and gave me sloppy kisses.
One of my fondest memories of going to the farm was the clean air and the smells of the country, like rich soil and pine. But the best by far was the smell of Grandma's cooking. Don't ever be told there's no difference in the way a country lady cooks than that of a suburban home maker. Mom always said she could never understand why Grandma would go through so much work in the kitchen when all she had to do was go to the supermarket and get everything needed to cook a proper meal.
Mom and Dad left to go home after a nice visit, and I settled into my room. I put on my coveralls, which Grandma had washed and folded on my bed, and headed out the squeaky screen door at a full-on run to catch up with Grandpa, who was climbing onto his tractor on his way to plow for the next crop. Jump on, he said, and next time run faster. Yes, sir, I said, knowing full well he wasn't angry, it was just his way. Fast forward nine years, my 16th year, and my continued vacation on the farm turned into weekends throughout the seasons. Granddad had a mild stroke a few years back and couldn't do some things he took for granted. None of which he admitted to as he climbed on a tractor, spending entire days doing what he loved best, but slower than he once was.
After I graduated from high school, I had the opportunity to attend college and decided to take night classes studying agriculture, so I could learn how to properly run the farm. My folks weren't too happy with my choice, but they supported my decision, and in Dad's eyes, I saw a kind of relief, as I often heard him talking to Mom about what would happen when Granddad could no longer run things. And now in his will, he left everything to me. We'd spend hours on the front porch after a delicious meal, talking about my plans for the farm. Some he agreed would be good, while some things that have proven to be in good working order would be left as is.
I was twenty-six years of age when we buried granddad alongside grandma, who left this earth for a better place. Lucky the dog rested with them, living a full life over the rainbow bridge, where he could chase rabbits as often as he liked. As for me, well, I never did find a wife or have children of my own, but I found a calling by offering kids a place to learn. Several times a month, a school bus would come down the dusty drive to the farm, with Lucky Junior running beside the bus. I'd show them life in the country and all that goes along with it. And wouldn't you know. Some of those kids became farmers, neighbors, and friends.
My days of farming are nearing an end, but the farm lives on through a grant I started so kids from all walks of life can work the ground, plant the crops, and harvest the fruits of their labor. Today, the farm belongs to every kid who wants to learn and, hopefully, become a guy or girl in overalls, with a great love for rich soil and pine.

Mike 2026                                                         

The struggles of words

 One of my bigger fears is not being able to write anymore. As I age, my brain keeps some memories alive, but at other times I feel as if small bits are forgotten and cast aside, lost forever. I suppose it's just how life works for some; words flow with a graceful transition to paper, and for others like myself, we have to reach deeper to remember even the simplest of thoughts.

I never want to forget things like my children's births or their first tooth. Homecoming dances and trophies for Little League Baseball. I want to recall without the struggle of having to remember so hard, trying not to admit defeat. It's like a star that burns out among a million others, but if you look closely, you'll see it still struggling to be bright one more time.
I want my visions to always be a part of me, as they are real, even larger-than-life at times. I see my Mom and Dad, lost loves and first dates, and my first kiss with my one true love, who may be gone but still comes to me so vividly. I reach out to touch her, but hear only a whisper telling me that one day we'll soar through the heavens together again.
I suppose I chose to write something every day because I don't know when it will be my last entry. I've penned thousands of stories and published three books that never gained any traction beyond family and close friends. But that's okay, as in many cases, a writer's fame comes after the pen runs dry and the stories are discovered in dusty boxes.
I get up every morning and have a seat ready to write the next bestseller, but my mind remains quiet as I click the pen time and again, as if to wake it up to join me on my quest for lost thoughts. One thing is certain: I will never stop trying to stay one step forward, where new memories await me, as others rest peacefully behind me.

Mike  2026                                                      

Sunday memories

 Lying in bed on a Sunday morning, I could smell coffee and the sizzling of bacon coming from the downstairs kitchen. I hear mom humming a tune as she tries to be quiet, knowing soon we'd wake up and may already be, as we struggle with going down or staying in a warm bed, covered to the chin, and breathing in the smells of Sunday morning.

Then the house came alive as siblings raced to be the first downstairs, where mom greeted each one with a cheerful good morning and a glass of orange juice. Dad was the last one down, smiling and giving Mom a kiss on her cheek with a whisper that made her blush. Our mouths were watering as we said grace, then dug into bacon and eggs, biscuits and homemade strawberry jam. Sometimes, Mom would go the extra mile and serve up a batch of pancakes and warm maple syrup.
Sunday morning meant lying on the living room floor with the comics as Dad read the entire Sunday newspaper. At ten thirty, we went to church, smiling at friends and saying prayers for those in need of some heavenly help. Sometimes after church, we'll take a ride in the country, usually in autumn when the trees put on their best show of colors. A stop for ice cream topped off the day as we returned home and changed from Sunday best to playing clothes in our backyard.
Sunday evening meant another feast as mom baked a ham, complete with yams and mashed potatoes, baby peas, jello, and warm dinner rolls. The conversation ranged from talking about school grades to the names of school crushes, making a sibling blush, and flicking a pea at the tattle-teller. After helping mom clean up and take out the trash, we'd all settle in to watch a Sunday program like the Ed Sullivan Show, which we all enjoyed.
Another Sunday back in the day went down in the history books as the kids went to sleep and mom and dad shared some much-deserved quiet time together. Tomorrow would soon arrive, and the bustle that went with it, as I was already thinking about next Sunday and the smell of sizzling bacon.

Mike  2026                                                     

Imaginations of childhood

 I remember, as a boy, letting my imagination run wild and untamed as I turned everyday objects into whatever my mind saw them as. A metal trash can became an army tank with me as the gunner, using a stick for a machine gun, complete with sound effects. The garden hose was used to fuel my tank, and two-by-fours laid under the tank served as the tracks with different sound effects.

Sometimes I was a big-game hunter, climbing a tree to set up my sniper nest. I'd cover my clothes with small branches, hiding my location from the big cats and other predators hunting me as I hunted them. There was an apple tree I liked to hide in and eat the sweet apples as I patiently awaited an approaching animal below. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large jungle cat as our eyes locked, and I readied my shot. With precise and controlled movement, I aimed and took my shot. With an award-winning sound effect, the neighbor's cat, Missy, ran for safety under the porch.
Another adventure found me standing on the bank of a mighty river, fishing gear included a pair of dad's rubber boots that turned into waders, a pool cue for the pole, and one of mom's empty flower baskets slung around my shoulder where I'd put the fish. I found some string in dad's tackle box, along with a cork bobber I tied to it that would disappear beneath the water, letting me know something had taken the bait. Patience was required when fishing, so I didn't speak when I heard Mom calling me in for lunch. Then, with a mighty tug on my line, the bobber floated to the surface as the monster fish broke loose and disappeared into the murky water. Mom spoke again, telling me to get out of the puddle, put my dad's boots back where I found them, and get inside right that minute.
Every kid wants to be someone they admire at some point. Girls become ballerinas and princesses, dressing up in old Halloween costumes, while others are homemakers like mom, baking award-winning pies at the county fair. Some want to be nurses using their baby dolls as patients as they wrap their arms and legs in rags they found in moms rag box. From astronauts to firemen, police officers to army generals, there was no end to the imaginations of a child. As for me, well, I ate my lunch and went back outside to venture further than anyone had gone before, as long as I stayed in my own backyard.

Mike 2026                                                  

Looking through the glass

 In days past, in the small town where I was born, I would walk the streets, looking into the windows of local bars. Men after their shifts at the factory gathered to tip a few after a hard day's work, some just looking to waste time before going home to a houseful of kids and a wife who went from prom queen to housewife, exchanging high heels and peek-a-boo blouses for a well-worn housecoat. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to prop myself on a stool and order an ice-cold beer served in a frosted glass mug. As I continued to watch through the window, I'd see someone playing the jukebox so loud that the glass I was standing by vibrated until the bartender turned it down. The bar itself was very old and had been in one family since it was built sometime in the 1890s. The walls and the floor were made of wood, as was the long bartop, which the bartender seemed to wipe every few minutes. Sitting on the bar were several large glass containers filled with hard-boiled eggs and pigs' feet that made me gag just looking at them. I don't think I ever saw anyone actually eat one.

There were wooden tables, most scarred with cigarette burns, and at some tables black indentations of a girl's name or a heart that said Mom. A little carving and a lot of drinking. I saw men playing checkers for money and poker games that sometimes went on well into the night, some smiling, and one leaving the bar wondering how he'd tell his wife he'd gambled his paycheck away. I looked into that bar through rain and shine, seeing the same old faces that to this day sit on the same stool they did when they turned 21 and looking the same as they do now, fifteen years later.

Remembering back when I finally became of age, I walked into that bar that I had only been able to look inside for so long. I picked out a stool, looking around and avoiding being anywhere close to pigs' feet and hard-boiled eggs. The bartender asked for my ID, which I gladly showed him, and asked, "What will it be, son?" Your first one is on the house. Sitting there, I smelled the smells of a bar, something I could only imagine as smells don't pass through glass. The smell of cigarettes and cigars, old wooden floors, and the scents of hard-working men that couldn't care less how they smelled.

I became a regular at that old bar right up to the day the city claimed the place would have to shut down as a new highway was going to cut right through there. The owner got a hefty offer to buy him out, and that was that. I stopped at the closed bar one more time, looking through the glass and remembering the faces, the smells, and the genuine laughter of hard-working men tipping a few cold ones and possibly eating a pig's foot or hard-boiled egg that made me gag one last time.

Mike 2026                                          

I grow weary

 I grow weary at times, redoing the day before and the day before again. My eyes serve as my guide now, red with time and endless glances and glares.  My weathered hands with throbbing veins are a testimony of hard work for decades until they softened and hard-earned calluses vanished.

I grow weary at times, wondering what could have been and spending too little time thankful for what is. I find myself thinking out loud as my memories refuse to be silent, and I am grateful for being called upon.
I grow weary listening to the noise of mouths that should never open and actions that should never have taken place. But no one says I have to conform because I refuse to listen to words; I just ignore them with both ears.
I grow weary because I chose to be, and I've earned that after decades of following the leader before learning that I had the right to walk away from things that prevented me from smiling.

Mike 2026                                                                      

Slower pace

 There are times I'm good with being old. The fast-paced world we live in can all become a blur, and that's when I close my eyes and write about the things I remember at a much slower pace.

Sitting down and writing a letter to a friend by candlelight in cursive, careful to spell everything correctly, or having to toss it into the trash can and start again. We've all seen pictures of a person surrounded by crumpled-up balls of paper strewn across the floor, with a look of frustration on the writer's face. But the end result was a beautifully written work of art, complete with a wax stamp and vintage stationery.

It seems to me my generation and those before me took more pride in things that today aren't as important at all. Handwritten recipes handed down by grandmothers and Christmas cards containing a heartfelt message. Birthday cards carefully picked out that were kept forever in a box of special things you'd take out sometimes to read over and over again. Each one is a memory you wanted to keep close to your heart.

Family time together with no phones or games, just each other and conversations about school, work, and that feeling of closeness every family should have. Family nights with bowls of freshly popped popcorn, with four hands digging into the bowl at one time, while a black and white movie played on the black and white television.

Kids didn't grow up as fast as they do today, finding time to sit and talk and going into town with a parent was just how life was back then. Teenagers still voiced their opinions, but the parents had the final say, and that was that. But some had to chance it by sneaking out of the house to meet up with a boy or girl friend and usually got caught during a routine check by a parent who was once a kid too. This meant being grounded, no matter what was going on, like school dances and football games.

Life was simpler back then, and although we had our share of problems, everything seemed to work out in the end. Kids didn't disrespect their elders or bring guns to school, except for hunting rifles on a gun rack in a lot of pickup trucks. Killing something meant hunting for that elusive buck or shooting clay pigeons with dad.

I don't mind getting old as long as I can keep remembering my younger days brought to me in black and white at a pace I control.

Mike 2026                                                    

Best of friends

 He walks close to me and follows wherever I go. Since a pup, he's done that, and it made me wonder if it was the breed or just him being my shadow. It's been 12 years now since I fell in love with him as a pup, and his devotion to me is something I didn't even have with two wives.

We're growing old together, and our once bounding through the tall grass days are reduced to a slow walk, and I wonder if he's missing that as much as I do. The way he looks at me tells me he does.

His hearing is all but gone, and he doesn't move around as fast, but if there's a snack to be had, he's up and moving as he gently takes the treat from me, holding it by a corner as he goes back under the table to slowly enjoy it.

He used to chase lizards and bark at the ducks in the pond, but he never hurt one, and I wonder if he was just asking if they wanted to play. He could talk when he wanted to, kind of hard to explain, you just had to hear it as he barked in different tones trying to sound like his human being, me.

Like most dogs, he loved being brushed and always fell asleep as I spoke softly to him. I'd finish brushing and softly sneak away, but he senses that and wakes up to be by my side as usual. We both liked the warmth of a late spring day and sitting outside me on a chair and him as close to it as he could manage.

He would whimper every time I closed the door behind me, going somewhere he couldn't, but I'd make it up to him by taking him for an ice cream cone, vanilla being his flavor of choice. He'd finish his first, then stare at me until I gave him the rest of mine. I think he knew me more than I thought.

I thank God for giving me such a great friend, and I carry more memories of him than I could ever remember in a lifetime. As I look at him, I still see that bouncy puppy running to fetch a stick, always to big hanging out of his mouth and dropping it at my feet. I see him staring at me when he had to go outside, and never once in all these years did he mess in the house.

Sometimes when we sit in silence, I wonder what he's thinking. Is he flashing back to our younger days and all the fun we had, or is he thinking what I am, that 12 years isn't enough? One thing I do know is that one day we will run those fields again together forever.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                     

Last breaths

 Those few last breaths fighting not to end but to begin again in a place where it's springtime every day you want it to be. When you've picked a million wildflowers, then place them onto a waiting cloud.

The last few breaths are free of pain as the memories flood back, seemingly exhaling all the wrong you did, but are forgiven with a gentle touch on your shoulder that lets you know the end is near, and you need not fear.

Your loved ones stand by you, taking turns holding your hand now, too weak to squeeze back as painted-on faces hold back the tears, the best they can, walking swiftly out of the room to cry a river unseen and so much alone.

Those few last breaths make some wonder if he knows these are his last few moments, and whether he will be gone when everything goes quiet. Will he know the machines have stopped, and only sobs of sorrow now fill the room?

They will all leave now as his body is prepared, and his last wishes are remembered. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. No casket, no memorials, and above all else, no grave. He chose cremation, fast and final, and his ticket to eternal peace.

Those last breaths released his soul as it let his human self to follow the angel leading him into the light and eternal rest. All his questions were answered at one time before he stood at the gate alone, waiting for them to be opened or closed for all eternity.

The massive white gates opened slowly as a softly spoken man with a kindness the likes of which he had never known extended his open hands as a gesture to enter. Stepping into the light, he came through to a softer light where he could see millions of souls, both human and animal, together with no cares and endless memories

There were no greetings, only a feeling of that very moment when he knew he belonged. A microsecond of remembering a face or a place, a special event, or a motherly hug to stay with you for just a moment on your journey.

Beautiful doesn't do justice to the pillow-soft clouds you could feel free to hitch a ride with to yet another place, leaving you in awe. More beautiful than a field of roses or stars, you could touch as they welcomed you anytime.

Oceans of blue, clear water, you could look into at the millions of sea life swimming free with no chance of hooks. Some of the larger creatures that once scared you become friends, allowing you to jump on for the grand tour of God's creations.

Death isn't something to be afraid of if you've tried your best to live a good life. God knows this and so much more. All of your fears, your questions, and doubts vanish into another realm where every day is one more truth spoken, one more chance to question anything. And one last breath to take you there.

Mike  2026

AS A WRITER, I FEEL THE URGE TO WRITE WHAT I'm FEELING, AND I MEAN NO DISRESPECT TO ANY RELIGION AND THEIR BELIEFS.

                                                              

Where do the words go?

 Where do the words go when the fingers stop moving? Are they gone forever or just playing possum to get the creative juices going again? Where do the memories go when you believe you've written about all of them?

Where do the stories go when they've all been read time and again, and new ones are in a corner of your mind refusing to come out? Maybe it's time to stop looking.

I'm 72 years of age, and I believe I can say I've spent over thirty years of that writing about this or that, mostly about memories I didn't want to forget, and it turned out I have a gift for remembering pieces of my past from infancy to the present. To me, their building blocks and then a game of fill in the blanks.

To date, I've penned over one thousand very short stories, published three books, and thrown away scraps of jibber jabber not worthy of sharing. And what saddened me at first is that most of what I've written hasn't been read. There may be some truth to the saying, " You have to be dead before your work is noticed. Don't panic, I don't plan on going anytime soon.

Even though there are a few cobwebs in the old melon, I continue every day to find something new to write about. And it amazes me that I can still tap the keys and let my fingers do the talking. I've visualized a loud voice saying, STOP, that's enough but I ignore that voice, believing it's a bad angel who I can banish with just one sentence.

So I suppose I'll forge on, digging deep into my mind and my heart to try and find new meanings to old memories that I can turn into something when read, which will stir some memories for you, bringing a tear or two, maybe some laughter, and above all, will take you to places long forgotten.

Mike 2026                                                          

Bottoms up

 Louis Armstrong played on the juke box as a generation of post-war revelers danced the night away. They never forgot where they were when the bombs fell and how the world changed before their eyes. Most were in their late teens, early twenties, and answered the call to duty both here and abroad. The men who worked in the factories left those jobs for the women to take over, while the men marched off to war with promises to return, but so many didn't.

In base camps just miles from the action, a make-shift nightclub was made. A place with a wooden bar top made from pallets covered with the tops of ammunition boxes. Somehow, a juke box made its way there, and no one asked how. Some say it disappeared from an officers' club. Booze was rarely an issue, as certain supply personnel made sure a few bottles destined for various commands came up short that no one ever missed.

It was a happy place where thoughts of loved ones back home were eased with a couple of shots and a dance with a cute nurse.  That makeshift bar helped many of them cope with the ravages of war as they remembered dancing with their best girl back home in a smoke-filled bar and stolen kisses.

Now here they are again in a club with a polished bar top and glasses suspended from the ceiling. Soft lighting and a juke box allowed to be played until happy hour ended, when the band showed up to play well into the night. One by one, the aging soldiers and nurses danced to the juke box and the songs they can't forget and don't ever want to. They let their minds recall the good times that seldom outweighed the bad, like kicking up their shoes to a jazzy number on the jukebox, dust flying on the dirt dance floor, and that eighteen-year-old soldier who wouldn't take no for an answer when he asked the cute nurse for a spin around the floor.

Now, even though their years are limited, the few remaining heroes climb up on a barstool and order something strong. The bartender flicks a switch, and the juke box comes alive with all the songs they remember from those dark days they tried to forget but still can't, and soon there are none.

 I like to believe their minds are at rest and have forgotten the bad, the young men lost, and the timeless scars they carried with them for so many years. I hope they're all together again in a place they dreamed about, where the jukebox plays, and dust flies off combat boots and nurses' shoes. Smiling faces and whiskey toasts to make it feel more like home.    Bottoms up

Mike 2026                                              

Autumn by choice

 Winter's white gives way to springtime green, overtaken by the summer's heat and the colorful months of autumn, waiting to explode in all its splendor. I find beauty in every season, each flooding me with memories I keep locked up until I choose to remember them on a cold winter walk, a springtime rain, or a summer's night on a swing built for two. But it's autumn that has always held a special place in my heart, as cool air fills my lungs, gasping at the beauty of the leaves in autumn's finest colors. It's autumn, and I remember taking walks with my mom in a forest of amazement, where falling leaves floated to the ground, creating our own carpet of colors we slowly walked on as we talked about most anything, like moms and sons often do.

Autumn brings back memories of burning leaves and carving pumpkins. Raking piles of leaves only to jump into them as dad pretended to be angry. Trick or treat and warm pumpkin pie. Apple cider and picking apples in Mr. Jones ' orchard. Autumn meant sleeping with the windows open and covering yourself with a blanket grandma made years ago. I do find love in all the seasons, as each holds memories of its own embedded deep within my heart, but it's autumn that captured the most heartfelt memories that will lead me to the heavens as I gently walk on a carpet of colors, reaching for my mom's outstretched hand just ahead of me, where the light awaits and I never have to leave.

Mike 2026                                                      

suicide hill

 He wasn't scared, he told himself as his buddies cheered him on from the bottom of the hill. They looked so small down there, like small versions of themselves. This was the first time for him sledding down the giant hill, as he was younger than they were by a couple of years, and all of them had already taken the plunge several times. It was known as Suicide Hill, the drop to hell, and more names to describe this rite of passage every kid seven years and older had to bravely do or be labeled a chicken and worse.

He'd never been so high up before sledding down the much smaller hill for as long as he could remember. It was fun, unlike the pictures in his mind of him racing down a mountain so fast that the runners on his sled caught fire, ending with him crashing into a tree and passing out.
His friends continued cheering him on, telling him that if he didn't go right now, they would leave him and label him the chicken of the day. But he wasn't the only kid up there, he noticed. There were four of them, all getting the courage to jump on their sleds, and all being cheered on by the little versions of themselves at the bottom of the massive hill.
He spoke to the other kids, saying they should all go down together after all, there's strength in numbers, right? They all agreed and laid out their sleds next to each other, close enough to touch mitts and wish each other good luck. Within seconds of nosediving over the edge, they separated, one crashing at take off, another hitting a kid on a toboggan, and the other kid screaming his head off as he reached the bottom, where his buddies slapped him on the shoulders, congratulating him and welcoming him to the big boy hill.
As for him, well, he shot over the edge like a missile, using his arms to try to steer the runaway sled, but it had a mind of its own as his speed increased and his thoughts were all panic and the realization that he'd never see his family again. He heard himself screaming like a little girl as the ice from the sled's runners threw snow on his face, covering his goggles and leaving him blinded for the rest of the way down. His life passed before him as he waited for the worst to happen. But something was wrong. He quickly wiped the snow from his goggles just long enough to see he had crossed over the yellow tape warning of extreme speeds, possible injury, and even death.
Then, like a slow-motion movie, he felt the sled coming to a stop. His buddies were running to him, asking if he was all right. They couldn't believe he would sled the extreme hill that couldn't be used because so many people had been hurt racing down at breakneck speeds. He even heard that one older kid attempted the massive hill, and his runners separated from the sled, sending him screaming down the hill on a sled with no runners.
He became a sort of legend that day when a 7-year-old kid sled down Devil's Peak and lived to tell about it. He is in his thirties now and often brings his kids to the smaller hill, telling them, once upon a time, there was a massive hill that caused many injuries, and because of that, the county came in and leveled the hill and built a hill just for skiers.
Did you sled down that big hill, Dad? His kid asked him. Let's just say not only did I sled down, but I crossed over to the massive hill, at forty miles per hour and with snow-covered goggles, and did it with my eyes closed and my heart in my throat. Would you ever do that again his kid asked. Oh yeah, he said in a heartbeat.

Mike 2026                                                   

Age is more than a number

 At one point in my life, I never saw myself as being old. I'd see the older folks sitting on their front porch, visiting with a neighbor they've probably known for more years than I've been alive. I'd like to know what they talk about, and what their generation faced, like wars that took hundreds of thousands of lives, most just boys who left a heartbroken family behind. I often found myself trying to imagine all the changes they went through, but the numbers are too great.

The great depression, standing in bread lines and hording pennies to buy a treat for the children. Hand-made toys carved with a pocket knife, so there would be something under the tattered Christmas tree, a throw-away left behind, and hand-me-down clothes that rarely fit. Men standing on corners through every kind of weather, hoping to be picked for a day's work. But usually goes back home to his family empty-handed.
I look into the faces that time, weathered with tear ducts long ago dried up, no more to give. So many stars in the windows telling the neighborhood their boys had served, and the pride they feel can't be put into words.
I feel the emptiness they feel every day as I see them looking toward a place I guess only they can see and feel. Their own private slide show of carefree days of their youth, before time took over, catching them off guard as it did to me.
I can't tell you where the years went as they all blended into one life, my life. Aside from the white hair and skin that don't fit anymore, I feel like I did as a young man, out to conquer the world one day at a time, but a little bit slower. Soon, I imagine I'll have a place on the porch and wave to my neighbor as I've done for too many years to recall. I'll stare into space, where my memories seem scattered as I try to remember the good and the not-so-good.
Growing old isn't a curse; it's a blessing we've been given, a chance to look back to the spring dance where you met your soon-to-be wife. The birth of your children and that new house you had built, where you'd live for sixty-five years, making memories all along the way.
Mostly, as I look into the eyes of an elder, I believe they are seeing the faces of family and friends that have entered the light before them. I believe they see them as they remembered them when their hair was brown, and their skin was tight. When they could dance the night away and steal a kiss under the street light. Now I see myself as I once saw others, and it's all okay.

Mike 2026                                                 

 

Tears at the train station

 By the light of a silvery moon, he softly touched her face. The train would soon be leaving as countless tears fell to the ground and goodbyes were spoken with shaky voices.

Military uniforms as far as the eye could see, mixed with young brides and weeping mothers, waving until the train couldn't be seen or heard as it chugged along to the next stop and more waiting soldiers.
Months passed slowly, as did the mail, which usually arrived weeks or more after it was sent. Tear-stained, dirty envelopes didn't matter, as the envelope was ripped open, and his voice jumped off the pages and into her heart.
She read his words over and over until she had memorized every word that she repeated to herself during her waking hours until sleep came and her dreams were only of him. She dreamed of him looking so handsome in his uniform, his smile, and piercing blue eyes that saw their way straight into her lonely heart.
His last letter came saying he'd be home soon, and the postmark told her it would be in just two more days. Not enough time to prepare for his return, but she managed to look like his million-dollar baby, something he said often.
She dressed in a springtime outfit he had bought for her, with powder-blue shoes and a matching purse. A stylish hat and silk scarf around her neck, she made her way to the train station, joining at least fifty other wives and moms all filled with the anticipation of their loved ones finally coming home.
From the opposite end of the depot, a faint voice could be heard that the train was coming. Compacts were everywhere as the ladies powdered their faces and applied a bit more lipstick that would soon be kissed away.
As it pulled into the station, the faces of young men appeared through open windows as they scanned the crowd, looking for that special someone. The air was filled with the smell of perfumes that erased the smells of war and the fact that they really were home. She got lost in the crowd as she frantically searched for him, walking quickly through the sea of soldiers until she stopped and saw him looking at her just feet away.
She ran straight into his arms as he lifted her into the air, his strong arms holding her so tightly she almost couldn't breathe. Their lips met, and the first kiss was more like a thank you for bringing them back together. The second kiss was the one they both dreamed of in their dreams.
He hadn't told her in his last letter that he'd be going back for a second tour. He wanted her to feel nothing but happiness in the moment and every day they'd have together, to be what dreams are made of, until it was time for him to go again.
She joined the other wives and moms at the station, holding his hand, feeling his strength as he tried to control a single tear he hoped she wouldn't see. They didn't talk much as they both knew everything they wanted to say had been said. She kissed him, leaving the shape of her heart on his cheek, then a long, tender kiss on the lips that would help her remember his taste for the many months he'd be gone.
She was a military wife and knew what she had signed up for, but it wouldn't stop the loneliness or the endless waiting for a tear-stained envelope. She'd be waiting, as she always did, memorizing every word in his letters and repeating each one throughout her days until another letter arrived, weeks after he'd written it, saying he'd soon be home again.
She lived the life she had chosen and never let him see her deepest longing for him to be home for good. He was a soldier, and she was his wife, and they both had jobs to do. One day, he would retire, and on that day, she would kiss his cheek with ruby-red lipstick that would never wipe away.

Mike  2026