Morning flood

 I woke to the sound of rain on my tin roof. It was gentle and soothing at first until the volume turned up and the sound became a bombardment of hail, and drops became like bowling balls striking at will. I looked out the window and saw debris of every kind passing by like it was on a schedule. Broken branches and palm fronds clogged the drains until something larger broke them free. I watched as water rose to historic levels, submerging vehicles up to the tops of their tires as, one by one, they reclaimed their identities as boats. The sun tried to shine, but curtains of water blocked everything bright from getting through, as the darkness demanded its presence.

School buses were empty, and the mail trucks broke their promise of delivery no matter what. Through the rain-streaked window, I saw blurry figures in orange coats trying their best to clear sewer drains, but for every handful they took, more took their place, and the battle went on. Children's toys and remnants of tipped-over trash cans floated past me, leaving me to wonder where it would stop. I was on my second cup of coffee as the local news station reported any little thing, always gloom and doom, it seemed, but it took the place of political news, and that was ok with me.
What seemed like forever, I waited and watched out the window as the rain tapered off and the war on my tin roof grew silent. Distant thunder moved further away, a nightmare headed somewhere else while we ventured outside to see the damage, always on the lookout for alligators and snakes. Eventually the rain stopped completely, and life got back to normal after the water receded, leaving behind a trail of items, some gone forever but never forgotten. The sun did eventually shine again, and life carried on as it was meant to be. As for me, well, my trailer didn't end up floating away, and the only thing I lost was a quiet night's sleep.

                                   Mike 2026                                          

Mike 2026

First communion

 I remember receiving holy communion for the first time as a young boy. My mom and dad watched proudly as I joined the others, walking down what felt like a million steps to the altar. I wore my first suit, which Mom had to alter a little because it was a hand-me-down from an older cousin. My hair was cut the day before at the neighborhood barbershop, where other boys my age were having the same thing done as proud dads held their emotions, but no one fooled anyone, because they all felt the same.

I remember kneeling before the priest named Father Mathew, whose robes smelled comforting to me, and the softness of his voice as he placed the body of Christ in my mouth, which had frightened me for days, hoping I didn't drop it out of my mouth to gasps of horror from my parents. Then, as he passed me the chalice to drink the blood of Jesus, I wondered for a split second if it would taste like blood from a cut knee the day before.
When Father Mathew blessed us, and we went outside to meet up with our families, I felt a deep sense of being filled in a way I never had before. We went for breakfast at the pancake house where I noticed some friends had the same idea. It looked like a convention of little business people in suits and ties. Pictures were taken quickly, as those ties were coming off sooner rather than later. Back at home, Mom told me to hang up my suit and change into play clothes as soon as friends and family arrived for a picnic. We played horseshoes and lawn darts that made most of the moms nervous, and baseball on the vacant lot next door.
I was proud of myself for learning the catechism and memorizing the three prayers I still pray today. I had a little trouble learning the Act of Contrition, but with Mom and Dad's help, I nailed it. I believe religion is a personal belief, one that you keep inside your heart and that stays with you throughout your life when, at any given moment, you call upon for help when your world seems dark, and you seek the light. I believe in God from the deepest part of myself, and I've spoken to him through whispered prayers in a vacant church. I light candles on bended knees on a wooden floor to try and imagine the pain Jesus felt as he suffered on the cross.
My faith remains strong sixty years after my first communion. As I grew up, my prayers became more complex. When once upon a time I prayed for Mom and Dad and my sisters, my grandma, and all my friends, now I pray for peace in the world, the end of violence and crimes so horrific I cry. I ask God why he takes the lives of children while killers run free. I ask why we have so many homeless people and why some go hungry while others throw out food. But mine is not to question but to believe there is a reason; we will get answers when we enter his kingdom.
I passed by the church I've attended for six decades and saw all the little boys in suits and girls all in white. I feel their anxiety as they say to themselves one more time the three prayers they will have to recite in front of family and god. I couldn't hold back, so after finding a parking spot, I quietly entered the church and had a seat. It took me back with clarity as candles burned, and Father Tom, who took the place of father Samual, who took the place of Father Matthew, said the Mass of Communion today. The smells were the same, like incense and starched robes. I watched with a feeling of peace as the children received the body and blood of Christ, who would guide them throughout their lives and follow on God's path he's already chosen for each of us long before this day.
The church emptied as Father Tom prepared the altar for the next Mass. I softly asked him if I could receive communion, as I'd asked for forgiveness at confession the day before. He removed the last wafer and placed it on my tongue, then offered me the chalice to drink the blood of jeasus christ. I left the church on a beautiful springtime day, filled with the Spirit and the wonder of the God who lives inside me every day of my life.

Mike 2026

p.s
All of my stories are based on things I remember clearly, but I've added content to give the story something to capture the reader's attention. Hopefully, open-minded readers will understand that these are stories of one man's imagination and his faith that nothing can take away. Most people believe in something, while others don't believe in anything, and that my friend is your God-given right.                                                                    

 right.

Memories of Halloween

 There was a pumpkin patch right over there, he pointed out to his children as they drove down a country road on a sunny autumn day. Over there, he pointed again, was the old general store where, as a kid, he'd go with his buddies when they had pennies to spend on candy, and sometimes they'd pool their coins and buy the latest Superman comic. They'd find a place to sit, usually under that giant oak he pointed out for the umpteenth time, and take turns reading it until it was read; then they played coin pitch, and the winner got to keep the comic for a week, then it was passed on to the others, and so on, he said.

And just over there, behind the trees, was a pond where we'd fish and swim on hot summer days, when our only care in the whole world was wondering what Mom was making for supper. Then Mom spoke up, telling us there was an old train trestle that went over the pond, and it was a kind of rite of passage to jump off the trestle into the pond below. Everybody jumped; she laughed well, most everybody. She looked at him and smiled, knowing he'd kept their secret for so many years.
Up ahead was a country market just before the exit to the highway, where you could buy farm-fresh produce, fresh honey, apples and cider, not to mention homemade crafts and a huge selection of pumpkins as far as the eye could see. The car had barely stopped to park when my sisters and I started our search for the perfect pumpkin to carve into something happy, maybe sad, and quite possibly something only the carver knew. Mom filled her basket with so many things that Dad had to hold another basket for her.
Back on the highway, we drew pictures of what our pumpkins would look like, and Mom used a clean cloth she always had handy with three kids to wipe off apples so we didn't have to wait to eat one until we got home. Even Dad ate one down to the core that he started to toss out the window, but Mom stopped him and took the core and placed it in the garbage bag she always brought along, knowing full well there would always be something sticky, mushy, or just downright dirty she'd have to dispose of.
When we got home, we unloaded our pumpkins and set them on the front porch, where they'd stay a few more days before we carved them as close to our drawings as possible. Dad helped us carve, especially my youngest sister, who whined because she couldn't use the kitchen knife as we did, but once she saw the carved-out pumpkin, she clapped her hands in approval. We spooned out what we called the pumpkin guts, and we dried the seeds and soaked them in saltwater; then Mom baked them until golden brown and ready to eat. It was quite the treat.
Halloween finally arrived, and we put on our costumes Mom and Grandma made by hand: me as a swashbuckling pirate, my older sister as an Egyptian princess, and the youngest sister as an apple tree with plastic apples from Mom's decorative fake fruit. Dad made branches out of paper towel rolls he spray-painted brown. We were quite the sight, to be sure. Then, after what seemed like a hundred knocks on doors, we headed home with bags of goodies, some a bit strange, like caramel popcorn balls, shiny pennies, and one homeowner gave out dental floss; I suppose he thought it was funny.
I remember those times as if it were yesterday, and I do my best to pass those memories on to my own kids and grandkids, who I'm happy to say enjoy them as much as I do, and to all you ghosts and goblins, HAPPY HALLOWEEN AND DON'T FORGET TO FLOSS!

                                                                           Mike 2026

Mike  2026

The caretaker of the trees

 The shack in the woods, covered with vines, hadn't seen a living soul in decades until today. It sat nestled in a valley surrounded by Christmas trees, most planted years ago by his grandfather, who built the shack after his wife passed at an early age, and others were gifts from above as pinecones fell from the sky onto the forest floor. Over the years, as the trees grew and needed thinning, he had the idea of hauling fresh-cut trees, mostly pines, down the valley road to a crude roadside stand he would build a couple of weeks before Christmas.

People began showing up, mostly on the weekends, city folks stopping at the crude stand with a sign he made and hung from the stand simply saying Christmas trees, written in green paint left over from when he painted their house that has sat vacant since her death, and he built the valley shack where he would live until he joined her high into the sky where stars shone, and the moon guided him to wherever she may be.
He lived a simple life in the valley, tending to the trees, always saying a few words as he bent down to replace the trees he'd taken with saplings that, over time, would grow into trees of many shapes and sizes. In the days leading up to the start of his busy season, he'd make wreaths from the droppings of branches, each a little different than the others, some decorated with red ribbon he found in her sewing basket he had brought with him to the shack, never knowing when something would need mending.
He lived out his days in the valley, a man at peace with clear memories and a heart that never really healed. He spoke to his trees, and they answered as the winds whistled through the branches, thanking him for caring for a place he loved so dearly. Today the roadside stand is just a pile of wood scattered about, and the shack in which he lived, a reminder of a man who carved wooden animals, mostly reindeer, he'd give to the children when a smile on their faces was all the payment he required.
It gave me chills to see two large branches draped across the roof like they were protecting him, or maybe hiding him from anyone who wanted to take him out of the valley. But  I scattered his remains throughout the place he called home. I made my way back to the road, where, looking down, there was an old and weathered sign with the words " Christmas trees painted with faded green letters. As I began to leave, a sudden burst of wind touched my face, and I knew it was him saying goodbye and thanking me for bringing him home to his valley of trees. 

Mike 2026

                                                                                      

                                  

Mike 2026

Tiny dancers of candlelight

 My eyes slowly burn as I try to write by candlelight, forgetting for a while that with one click of a switch I'd be fine again. Still, the story wouldn't have the same meaning; the characters wouldn't stand out in my mind with fluorescent lights piercing the darkness, a direct hit on the monitor, while candlelight creates movement and a calm that lets me write words worthy of writing.

As I continue to write by candlelight, tiny dancers make their presence known as a result of the strain, and my eyes feel them as I try not to blink too often, at least until I finish this paragraph or two. I'll admit there have been moments when I stop and close my eyes, still seeing the tiny dancers in shadow form under my eyelids. I stay still, waiting for them to finish their dance before I continue writing.
Refreshed, I continue as the flames from the candle come alive again, more dancing, more shadows, and more images to capture as words flow like a lazy river. At last I'm finished, and I save the final draft of my story and put it away, hoping someday it will be read by candlelight as tiny dancers perform for you as they do for me.   

Mike 2026                                                         

Mike  2026

Growing older pros and cons

 Sometimes, growing older isn't always a good thing. We find ourselves remembering the past and those who've gone before us, leaving scars too big to mend. We look in the looking glass and smile a crooked smile at the face staring back at us, but can't be, as we aren't that old, are we? It's said youth is wasted on the young.

Growing older has no pause button we can turn on and off; it keeps on running until it just stops when we realize there is no going back. What we did in our younger years carved the path we follow today, and we hope we made a difference in the scheme of things. We hope our counsel has worth, as those we taught passed our knowledge on, never to be forgotten but admired.
Growing older finds us listening more than we speak, trying to grasp new technologies that often feel lost on us, and sitting quietly with a painted-on face. It's always been a mystery to me how an eight-year-old can navigate complex topics on complex devices. I remember when, back in my younger days, children learned from parents and teachers what we needed to know, and receiving a high school diploma was a major accomplishment.
To me, growing older meant staying mentally strong and physically challenged, and walking on a treadmill could end you. When growing old, the medications you take every day outnumber the days themselves, and you panic when trying to remember if you lost count and skipped one, which would haunt you all day long.
On the bright side of age, you have plenty of alone time to browse old photographs, and you stop to stare at one particular photo and relive the day it was taken. It amazes me that my memories still want to come out and play. Don't be fooled into believing eighty is the new forties, as that will only speed up your final destination.
Growing older can be a memorable time in your later years if you allow it to be. Just don't ever challenge your grandchild to a video game; they will smoke you every time. Don't feel left out of conversations; nod and smile like you understand everything, when in reality you're deep in your memories, trying to remember whether you shut off the stove and turned out the lights.

Mike 2026

                                                                              

The winter boxes

 Soon the ground will lie to rest as winter's breath blows across the land. Trees stripped of leaves; green is only a memory. Firewood is stacked high as winter knocks at the door like a cunning wolf—your first steps on frozen grass sound like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

Inside, cedar chests: you open them to bring back winter's clothing, and fur-lined boots make an appearance for a fighting chance against the cold. Boxes come down from the attic marked as Halloween and Christmas, put in a corner as a reminder it's almost time to decorate.
You decide one cold winter's day it's time to splash colors around the house, so Dad climbs a ladder and hangs the holiday lights, holding off turning them on until the last piece of turkey is gone and the switch is thrown, to the family's delight. Nextdoor neighbors applaud your labor of love for the season, with hundreds of lights and figures on and around the house, as cars filled with families drive through neighborhoods and beep their horns in approval.
It's a time of year when world troubles stay hidden for the time being, and neighbors wave and smile a genuine smile they mean, not a fake gesture expected from them. Cookies and fruitcakes sit on porches with a note that reads, "Happy holidays from your neighbors." Holiday parties are open invitations, a time to reconnect with people who lived feet away but seldom spoke, as they do when they smile and wave when the trash goes out to the curb.
Moms are dressed in festive dresses, often getting approval from someone she didn't know but later learned to be a neighbor, the same one she caught staring over the fence as she sunbathed last summer. The alcohol flowed well into the late-night hour, and kisses on the cheek and many thanks for the invite ended the party, leaving you and your man to clean up the mess, but looking at it all, deciding to let it wait until tomorrow. Dad teased her about her admirer but agreed she did look darn good in a bikini.
The holidays passed too quickly, and the day arrived when Dad took down the lights and put the boxes back in the attic until next year. There was a sadness about it, but that vanished as a huge snowstorm came rushing in like a locomotive racing by on frozen tracks. When the darkness passed and the sun came out, a winter wonderland greeted you as you looked outside at a world turned white. With hot oatmeal gone in four bites, the kids put on their winter clothes, and the door opened to a dream day. Sleds were brought out of the garage, ice skates were sharpened, and a family of snow angels appeared all around the yard.
At dinner time, the kids came inside frozen to the bone, with ice crystals hanging from their frozen brows and pounds of snow that somehow infiltrated into every nook and cranny on their snowsuits. Rosy red cheeks and endless smiles as they swapped stories about a snowball fight with neighborhood kids and a six-foot-high snowman knocked over by a misguided sled racing down the hill, while the dog grabbed the carrot nose and ran to safety. Summer time couldn't hold a candle to winter's fun, at least not in that moment. But that would change when the first warmer days of Springtime said hello; they watched baby saplings grow as spots of green pushed through the thawing land, and they thought about fishing in the stream, camping outside in tents, and eagerly awaiting summer to come knocking. But somewhere in the cool months of October, they talked about more than one occasion, and that was winter and boxes pulled from the attic.

Mike  2026                                                                                   

                                               

Alone or loneliness

 Don't you get lonely? I was asked. I thought about that for a minute, then said that, at one point in my life, I was never alone. There were friends with friends drinking and singing karaoke and day drinkers hiding from the light. There were wives and girlfriends, not at the same time, that always had an agenda for things I was expected to do. Meet so-and-so for brunch, meet up with friends for a picnic, or a car full of kids headed for the beach. Decades passed, and I only experienced being lonely when someone dear to me found peace, bringing me closer to being alone but not lonely. I grew tired of crowds that seemed to choke the life out of me and the canned laughter my ears became deaf to. I found that by searching my memories, I could go back in time, choose where and who I wanted to be, and brush aside what held no meaning for me. The truth is, I didn't find peace until I was in my seventies, when I no longer needed alarm clocks or deadlines. When I quit drinking, I never heard from my fellow drinkers anymore, reading the obituaries daily to see who had passed on and taking a moment of silence to wish them a safe journey to the big bottle of whiskey in the sky.

Do I get lonely? Sure I do, but it passes quickly as I reach into my past and relive times that were, for the most part, happy and filled with love of many kinds. For some reason, unknown to me, I was given the gift of memories, which I decided would make for a good book if I could find a way to write, even though I'd never put pen to paper for any other reason than to see my words woven into sentences. Then the unexpected happened, and I found myself far from lonely as my words spoke to me, and any hint of loneliness vanished altogether. Writing became my friend, my editor, my peace of mind in a troubled world. It helped me find those bar buddies again, as I gave them places in my writing. As time went on, hundreds of people I once knew found themselves planted among others who had left their mark in my mind and heart, finding a place in my words.
So no, I don't ever find myself being lonely because I can always come up with new players with their own identities for me to greet and write into a story. I've been asked what I do for fun, and that's an easy answer: I write every day. I sit down somewhere, maybe the porch or in my favorite chair with a cup of coffee, and I let my mind and my heart go to work. No need for business attire or clothes, for that matter, just my desktop and me tapping the first key to what I hope will be worth writing. My current blog has over one thousand short stories, all conceived by my gift of remembering and a touch of fiction to make things interesting. That my friends are my joy, my happiness, and my fun, knowing someplace out in the world someone is reading my work and relating to my stories written by a man who's alone but never lonely. 

Mike 2026                                                     

Mike 2026

Rocking chairs and smoke rings

 He sat in the chair she used to sit in. Remembering the talks they had about life's happiness and sorrows. They talked about everything until the silence kicked in, and the only sounds were her rocking and him making smoke rings from his pipe on a still August night. In the distance, a train's whistle blew, and he wondered what his life would have been if he had pursued his dream of working on the railroad. He rocked in her chair when she wasn't there, hearing her voice tell him about the times they worked the land together and what it meant to her to be by his side through the good years and the not-so-good years. He heard her laughter and dried her tears when something broke her heart. He would kneel beside her chair back then and stop it from rocking, look into her eyes, and give her a tender smile, which she met with a smile and a squeeze of her hand in his.

When the snow began to fall, he brought her chair inside and sat it by the fireplace so she'd be warm, remembering how much she disliked the cold. He couldn't count the times he watched her rocking away and tending to her knitting, her fingers doing the work but her mind a thousand miles away. He remembered one such night when he stood up and asked her if he'd done something wrong, nervously watching his pipe smoke disappear into the darkness. She stopped her knitting and smiled at him, saying the only thing he was guilty of was being the best man she'd ever known.
Springtime arrived, and her chair went back outside where she could feel the warmth on her face and smell the flowers she'd planted everywhere. They ate almost every meal outside, laughing at times and other times as silent as the air itself, beckoning her to walk off the porch and dance in a valley of wildflowers. He clapped his hands and stomped his boots as he watched her spin around, her long hair swinging in the breeze and her laughter as pure as honey. Then she took a mason jar and chased fireflies, trapping them inside and lighting her way around her private dance floor.
They were as one, living their perfect life together through the good and the bad, the joys and sorrows that belonged only to them. Her chair quit rocking one summer day, the same day his heart broke into pieces. He spends most days now sitting in her chair, slowly rocking as smoke rings float up to the stars, where she will poke a finger through one and smile.

Mike 2026

                                                                                     

MIKE 2026

Only have eyes for you

 He knew this would be one of his last rides before the snow came. It was already cold enough that the wind froze his eyebrows and the heat from the pipes warmed his legs. It was early Friday night as he headed for the family-owned bar tucked away on a stretch of road just across the county line. That meant that while bars closed at two am in one county, we could stay open until four am. By two thirty we were at full capacity, and then some, as diehard drinkers came in for those last couple of drinks and hopes of a hookup for some lucky few.

His dad joined him behind the bar, serving up drinks as fast as they could pour while cutting some off and calling a cab, holding on to their keys until tomorrow. He'd just been discharged from a four-year hitch in the Navy and worked the bar until something better came along, but the months passed, and he found himself liking life as a bartender. There was no shortage of girls who came in, an assortment of just-legal to seasoned women who were always offering him a drink or a warm bed on a cold night. His sister told him his tough appearance and the Harley he rode made him desirable. He just laughed and kept on pouring.
Then one late Friday night she came inside, followed by a small group of friends, all good-looking and a little baked as their laughter filled the bar. He watched her approach the bar, her long jet-black hair halfway down her back and white slacks that spoke for themselves. Her smile hit him right in the heart as she leaned over the bar and ordered a drink; her perfume smelled like a siren's call as their eyes locked and every other woman in the place became invisible. A song came on the jukebox titled I Only Have Eyes for You, and he came out from behind the bar and approached her, asking for a dance. His dad threw up his hands and yelled for him to get back behind the bar, but nothing was going to stop him as she accepted. The crowd cleared out as last call was called, some heading for the 24-hour diner a couple miles down the road to drink coffee and sober up enough to drive back to where they lived.
He asked to see her again, and she told him maybe she'd come back, maybe not. A couple of weeks passed, and she came in alone that time, took a seat, and caught his smile as their eyes met across the bar. He asked his sister to watch the bar as he sat beside her, the smell of her perfume filling his senses as the same song played that had been playing when they first danced together. She stayed at the bar until closing, and he asked her to go to the diner with him, but she'd have to drive her car as it was way too cold for her on the back of his Harley. She told him to follow her to her apartment where she'd make some coffee, and he could warm up. The only thing was she lived on the second floor, which, of course, had steps, but he was determined and told her to open the door upstairs and stay clear as he revved the throttle and rode up the stairs straight into her apartment.
That was the beginning of something wonderful until a job offer took him out of town and away from her. Time marched on, and memories replaced being together; he heard she'd moved on, gotten married, and started a new life. When he did manage to come back for visits, he'd work a few shifts at the bar hoping to see her walk through the door, but she never did. Now all these years have passed, and life took the turns it was meant to take, leaving him with the smell of her perfume, long jet-black hair, and those white slacks that fit her so well.                              

Mike  2026

The lady and her home on wheels

 She bought it in 1968, the year she retired after forty years as a teacher. Her friend, who claimed he could fix anything and had an eye for value, connected her to the mobile home dealer just outside of town. These houses on wheels were relatively new but offered everything a person could want. She was taken by the room inside, as that one was called a double-wide, much more spacious than the single model. As they looked around, her friend pointed out it wasn't the best construction he'd seen in all his years, but he'd seen much worse. An excited man greeted them and offered to show them other models with various floor plans, but she was certain the one she'd been looking at was her favorite.

She had inherited a parcel of land, tree-covered, with ten acres of grassland and even a small pond; she could imagine a place to sit and read. A short time later, a large truck brought her new home to the property where four men, two days before, laid the slab and hooked up the water lines in preparation for this day. She sat in a chair out of their way and watched, and marveled at their skills at work. She did admit there were times she got very nervous as a man or two climbed underneath the trailer to level it, with only their legs hanging out, a reminder of The Wizard of Oz and the bad witch looking the same way.
That first night without any furniture wasn't terrible, but she admitted she was more than happy when she heard a truck coming up the hill with a load of furniture she had purchased a week ago. Two young, seemingly very strong men went to work unloading and placing everything where she instructed them, and they finished in no time at all. Then she felt more at home, especially when her son showed up with two of her grandsons pulled up in a pickup truck filled with boxes of her personal belongings. After some lemonade and sandwiches, they left her to unpack and put things in place, each piece a part of her past she treasured. The china she got when her grandma passed away, a collection of books, mostly novels she'd read a dozen times, and two standing floor lamps she had found at a thrift store. She tucked away the box labeled Christmas and another labeled My memories that she opened.
She sat down and opened the box containing old pictures of family and friends, with plenty of wall space to hang them and look at them every day. She pulled out a small wooden box where she kept her wedding rings, a St. Christopher pendant, and the scapular she received at her first communion decades ago. Digging deeper into the box, she found her son's baby shoes she had bronzed like so many parents had done back then. Three photo holders held more than pictures: pages of children's drawings from years as a teacher she couldn't let go of. She'd look at each one with a child's name on it, and she could close her eyes and see that child plain as day.
Time went on, and she had turned the land into a sanctuary where wildflowers grew, and butterflies flew free. Sunflowers and fireflies called this place home and never disappointed her, giving her a magical show when the stars came out. She sat on a bench her son made for her, a few feet from the pond, where frogs said hello and curious small animals learned over time that the nuts she scattered were for them. After so many years of telling kids what to do, it was time for the land and all its wonders to teach her.
She lived a peaceful life on her hill in her mobile home, passing away on that bench with a handful of nuts in her hand at ninety-four years of age. In the years that followed, her name became known as the lady who lived in a home with wheels, among the wildflowers and butterflies, at peace with nature and with herself. On a wall in her son's house hangs a picture of an old lady dressed in coveralls, her long white hair never cut after she first moved into her home. She smiled from ear to ear, and the light above her wasn't just daylight but the light of a free soul continuing her journey from teacher to student.

                                                                                Mike 2026

Mike 2026

Trick or treat

 I remember back in my youth, when Halloween was something you started talking about in the last days of summer. The leaves started changing to a hint of autumn colors, and the mornings got cooler. It usually started with talking on the school bus about what we wanted to be this year, then with slow walks home from the stop to our homes. Back then, costumes were basically a cartoon or superhero bought at the five-and-dime for families who could afford one. At my house, Mom listened to what we wanted to dress up as, and she somehow made it happen starting in September. I can still hear her sewing machine deep into the night, piecing together bits and pieces of discarded materials and letting her creative juices run wild. The end results were amazing, as she made me and my sisters' costumes we could only hope for, like Alice in Wonderland for one sister and the Wicked Witch from The Wizard of Oz for the other. My costume that year was a pirate, and it looked so good I won the best costume award at school. 

Today, costumes are mass-produced and displayed in stores and online as early as August, when most kids are still enjoying summer vacation, and parents gasp at the prices. It used to be a couple of pumpkins and a cardboard skeleton hanging in a front window; over time, that evolved into a display of projected goblins with sound effects that could wake the dead. Back when we knocked on a door yelling trick or treat, we meant it. If no one answered the door and hid inside a darkened house, we'd thank them for nothing by decorating their trees with toilet paper and running for dear life as pieces of our candy fell out of our bags. Do that today, and the homeowner would call the police and try to sue our parents.

I remember going home after hours of trick-or-treating with a huge amount of candy and other things like shiny new pennies, apples, and popcorn balls, just to name a few of what some people thought a kid would like. We'd dump our bags on the floor, and Mom and Dad would inspect everything that could harm us. If there was a half-wrapped piece of candy, it went into the trash can because Dad said there are some bad people out there who want to harm us. He told us stories about apples with a razor blade inside and another about pins inside popcorn balls. But after their inspection, they threw away a dozen items and left us with mountains of candy. My sisters and I made piles of the same kinds of candy, like Milky Ways, Butterfinger, Snickers, Reese's peanut butter cups, Chunky bars, and more. Then we'd split them up, and we each had the same amount of every kind of treat. Even Mom and Dad got into the fun, taking a piece or two of their favorites and putting them into a small bag they hid somewhere we'd never look, and it lasted for weeks, maybe more.

I believe the spirit of Halloween stays with us, but it can never compare to the times when we were left alone to join our friends, sometimes with our younger siblings in tow, that slowed us down but made their day as their little hands and mouths were covered in chocolate. Parents who came along with the little ones carried flashlights to light the way for all those princes and Cinderellas who sometimes tripped on their costume dresses and fell down, leaving Dad to wipe away a tear and pick up the scattered goodies. Another Halloween passed, and another memory for kids to relive on the school bus the next day. Kids pulled out a couple of candy bars hidden in their pockets, some trading for something better than they had. Darkened pumpkins sat on the porch, soon to be discarded, and the cardboard skeletons didn't move anymore, packed away in a box marked Halloween stuff. As for those costly costumes, I believe the best was a simple white sheet with cutout eyes and no mouth, hiding a giant smile.                                                                           

Mike 2026

Mountain bikers

 As a young boy growing up in upstate New York, I dreamed of someday riding in competition alongside older kids as they raced down mountain paths where one mistake could send you flying off the edge. Like most sports, mountain biking took a lot of practice and just as many spills to conquer the rough terrain around every curve. The danger was real, and the adrenaline was always present as we challenged every foot of the way, pushing to the finish line and victory.

Most of my friends were about my age, and we all had bikes designed to teach us the skills we'd need to ride with the big boys. Our course was much shorter and had very few dangers, but it was still challenging for beginners. We spent most of our summer vacation on the course, learning from our mistakes and earning scars to prove it. I think the worst thing that happened early on was that Billy lost control when his front tire blew, throwing him into a patch of poison ivy. It seemed like a lifetime, but we managed to master the course and believed we were ready to challenge the older kids. We all had new, mountain-ready bikes with knobby tires and front suspension to absorb the bumps. They were our mighty steeds, and we were ready to ride them to victory.
On the day of the race, people lined the course, mostly family and friends, and even a news crew was on hand to capture the madness for the six o'clock news. After all, it was quite the event for our small town. The older kids taunted us, saying things like You're about to see what winners are made of, and you ain't them. They also made other remarks meant to make us uneasy. But little did they know we were more than ready; all our practice on the smaller course prepped us for victory, and we wanted it badly. Twenty bikes were registered and numbered, and mine was the lucky seven. Then, when everybody was in the starting position, the signal gun was fired, and forty wheels took off. As the race wore on and a biker or two dropped out because of mechanical issues, the field shrank, and others seemed sure they would win.
The hills were brutal, making my legs throb and my breathing hard, unlike the smaller course. But one by one, I passed another bike, with the rider pumping faster as I left him behind in my pursuit of winning the race. The crowd cheered as I fought the steep hills, never losing my stride, flying past every biker except last year's winner, who just happened to be my older brother. He had maybe fifteen feet on me as he struggled to widen the gap, but my determination and desire to beat him far outweighed the pain in my legs as I gained on him and finished first. I went to shake his hand for a race well done, but he just sneered something and walked away—sore loser. The following year we raced again, and my brother won that one while I placed third. We became much closer and eventually taught each other things to improve our races.
I go home as often as possible, but I try to go on race day, when my brother and I cheer from the side of the racecourse as kids who looked so young tackled the hills and the rough terrain just as we did a long time ago. Our old bikes sat in the garage, and on the morning we headed home, we'd dust them off, oil the chains, and pump up the tires for a two-person race on the hills we were born to conquer. True, we didn't give it our all for fear our hearts would burst, or we'd pump our legs too hard and never walk again—just a half-speed competition with no winner, just a bond between two brothers and a love for mountain bikes.  

Mike 2926                                                        

Mike 2026

Chivalry isn't dead

 He was a dapper-looking gentleman with shiny shoes and a fedora hat worn close to the brow at a slight angle. His pocket kerchief matched his tie, one of several sets he owned. He wore a double-breasted navy blue suit, trousers cuffed to touch the top of his shoes, and a Hart-Schnafer and Marks topcoat as the cold winds blew on this otherwise perfect day to be alive. He walked the way he was taught: shoulders back and eyes ahead, scanning the city streets for damsels in distress who might need his assistance. Mind you, he was in no way a pervert, just a gentleman wanting to let people know chivalry was in no way dead. He spotted a young woman nearing her due date, holding on for dear life as strangers' hands brushed against her in a way she tried to block out. He immediately stood and motioned for her to take his seat, which she gladly did, all the while thinking there were still some gentlemen in the world.

As he got off at his stop, he noticed a lady at the newsstand fumbling with her purse to get the money for her favorite magazine, which she bought every week. He noticed a line forming behind her, with people getting loud and telling her to move, but she couldn't find her change purse; she thought she'd put it in her purse that morning. He gently worked his way to the front of the line, smiling at the angry group as he handed the stand worker a crisp dollar bill for the magazine and another dollar as a tip for the inconvenience. Then, with a tip of his hat, he disappeared back into the crowd, leaving the lady behind him and telling herself chivalry was alive and well.
The rain began to fall as people ran for cover, holding newspapers over their heads and running into each other with little concern for anything else, like the older man shuffling along at the speed of a turtle, getting bumped and bumped some more until he ducked into a diner to dry off and have a cup of coffee to warm his bones. The gentleman watched from a distance as the waitress went right past the older man once, twice, three times before he noticed his worn clothes and shoes, the toe area cut off so he'd get more use out of them, at least for a little while. And a dirty coat with missing buttons, a sure sign the older man had no money for a meal. On the waitress's fifth pass without stopping, the gentleman cleared his throat to get her attention. She stopped with a smile and her order pad ready to write up his order. “ What will it be??" she asked. "Funny you should ask," he replied. “ Let's start with your so-called big breakfast." I'd like five of those, with coffee and some orange juice. One is for the gentleman down on his luck that you passed on by five times. The others will be for the four children in the booth, sitting with their mother, drinking water and wishing it could be more, but their well-worn clothes told him they had no money for anything and just hoped they could get out of the rain until it stopped. He paid the bill at the register, leaving the waitress a single quarter as her tip. On his way out, the mom grabbed his coat and, with tears in her eyes, said Chivarly was indeed alive and well.
Back out in the rain, he walked along the edge of the street to shield others from the spray of a passing car. He tipped his fedora, now looking like a waterfall as the rain ran off it, but he didn't mind. He walked straight up like he was taught, meeting eyes with eyes and always on the job to help where he could. In his mind, Chivalry isn't dead; it's just playing possum until another gentleman steps out, rain or shine, to offer his assistance.

Mike 2026                                                                      

One final ride

 He still wore his old engineer boots and Wrangler jeans, a black leather vest and a red bandana around his neck. Tattoos covered both arms, once vibrant, now just drooping ink on gunless arms. His beard was white, and his hair long, which he always tied back when he rode. Today was the day he'd been planning for some time now, the day he'd uncover his bike that had been in the garage for a lot of years now. Today he turned seventy-six, and his gift to himself was to take one more ride on the Harley he bought decades ago, before he couldn't ride anymore. His wife of fifty years watched him finish his cup of coffee, then made his way to the garage, turning toward the kitchen window where he knew she'd be watching. She smiled at him and waved, praying he'd come home safe.

He had prepped his bike the day before, checking fluids and giving it a good cleaning so the chrome shined and the paint was so polished he could see his wrinkled face. Tomorrow arrived, and he started it up; the roar of a Harley was music to his ears as he climbed aboard the leather saddle and gripped the throttle, gave it a few twists, then heard the familiar sound of gears smashing into place as he slowly moved forward, heading for the open road ahead. It didn't take long to go through the gears and find himself riding again. Other bikers passed him, giving the universal two fingers down, a symbol of mutual respect that meant keeping two tires on the road.
He rode through mountain roads, each curve a challenge for even the most seasoned rider, but for him, just another mile traveled like the thousands before. The roar of his bike was like music to him, with no onboard radios blasting Steppenwolf or other rock music just the red-hot pipes of a perfectly tuned Harley. He rode into the late afternoon running low on fuel, so he stopped to fill up, drawing attention from some weekend riders who asked him about his classic bike and praised him for riding at his age. He sat there for a minute or two, letting the youngsters ride off the sound of their rice burners like a swarm of bees. He put out the Camel non-filtered cigarette and dropped into gear, riding towards nowhere but an open road where he could open it up one more time as the speedometer buried itself and had no more to give. It was the feeling he desired so badly as his eyes teared through his goggles and the wind blew his face back. One hundred eighteen mph was all it could give, but that was all he could ask for as he throttled down to a safe speed.
She was at the window as he pulled into the drive, giving her a thumbs up and a smile she hadn't seen in a long while. She prayed and thanked god all in one breath, knowing he had done what he wanted to do, and those pipes would be quiet forever. She went to the garage, a cup of coffee in her hand, which he accepted as he climbed off the saddle for the last time. Tomorrow, a man who answered the ad he ran would be coming to look at the old Harley, a true classic anyone would be proud to own. He felt like he was losing his best friend as the new owner loaded it on a trailer and drove away. With the money, he bought a four-wheeler to ride around his property, and when he felt adventurous, he'd take it to the hills where other riders stared death in the eye to conquer the trails. He still wore his engineer boots and Wrangler jeans with his leather vest and red bandana, chasing the wind once again.

                                                                                   Mike 2026

              

 
Mike 2026

The Christmas tree Santa

 I remember the Christmas tree man who drove through the neighborhood a week before Christmas Day. He had a very old truck that sounded like it might explode, but it never did. People said he lived alone on a farm where he grew corn, pumpkins, potatoes, and watermelons, but tucked away on ten acres of his land, he grew what he truly loved: Christmas trees. His great-grandfather planted them decades ago as saplings, and he told his grandson they would grow and flourish as the years passed by leaving them alone. True to his word, the trees grew up, and he'd thin them out, taking some of them to town in the bed of his truck to sell. People loved his perfectly shaped trees, so he sold out in just a couple of hours, telling folks he'd be back tomorrow with more. Little did he know a great depression was coming, and people couldn't buy a Christmas tree when so many were starving and out of work. He decided he would continue going into town with trees in the bed of his aging truck, but not to sell, but to give away to families who had nothing to give their children come Christmas morning. But he had no idea how many were in need.

So rather than taking them to town, he drove through the poorest parts of the city and gave a tree to anyone who swallowed their pride, asking for one their kids could decorate with paper ornaments and give their shacks a feeling of Christmas. He became known as the Christmas Tree Santa. Year after year, he'd drive slowly down the streets, his old truck rumbling and blowing some smoke but always reliable. After the Depression ended and people got back on their feet, he kept roaming the city streets, his truck on its last legs, giving away trees to anyone who held out their hands. When he was too old to tend his farm and deliver trees, his son, my dad, took over and, with my help, filled the back of Dad's newer truck, which held twenty trees when full. Town folk remembered my granddad and his kindness when things were tough, and repaid him by purchasing every tree we brought to town. When my dad grew older and couldn't work the farm, I took the reins and continued where he left off; by then our economy was flourishing, and I started a nonprofit that gave away free trees to the less fortunate. We had three trucks, each carrying fifty trees, that drove through streets where poverty was the way of life, then stopped and opened the truck's doors, the smell of pine a reminder of Christmas, filling the air. My son runs the business now, with trucks numbering in the dozens that leave the tree farm every year, taking only the trees ready to be cut and replacing them with saplings left to grow alongside their ancestors, who patiently awaited their trip to town and into the hands of a grateful family. Great-granddad's old truck went through a major restoration and now participates in the Christmas parade, waving to the people he once gave a tree so their kids could have a Christmas morning. It still smokes a little, and we half-accept it to explode, but it never has and never will.

Mike 2026

                                                                                          

                                                            

Mike 2026

Awards for kindergarten kids

 Sitting in a school cafeteria where the seats are not intended for adults, the kindergarten class walks into the room, and the claps of hands from parents and grandparents- many electing to be late for work, as these moments are fleeting and you want to hold onto every one you can. The three,- or four-foot-tall little darlings, dressed in their finest clothes, wait for their name to be called so they can come up and get their awards. As each name is called, a parent shouts the kid's name, and for a brief moment, eyes meet, and we smile, finding each other across the room. Imagine being six years old, and people are clapping and yelling your name, and it's all you can do not to cry. You get to say goodbye as the kids head off to their classroom with a quick hug goodbye and a kiss blown in the wind. On the drive back home, you remember your own kids and the countless award ceremonies, Christmas plays and concerts, not to forget dress-up days and theme parties. You help with homework you barely understand, mulling through it to the best of your ability.

Then you wake up one day, and your kid is shaving, dating, and hopefully graduating. You have to deal with grades being acceptable or privileges being taken away until your attitude adjusts and you know your 'parents' word is law. You get caught sneaking out the window in your room, meeting up with your first crush who knew in her heart you would be caught, but love prevailed, and the punishment didn't seem to bother either of you. You earned your high school diploma after two years of summer school and countless weeks of being grounded. And once again you sat in the auditorium and waited for your kid to walk up on stage and receive his diploma. You shouted his name when it was called, your eyes meeting for a second, pride filling your heart as you realized his next step would be leaving the nest.
That's why now you sit on chairs that weren't meant for grandparents, but the memories they brought when it was your six-year-old giggling and talking to their friends in a language of their own are beyond priceless. I wouldn't miss one minute of kids and grandkids gathered to be honored by their teachers, who should all be saints. I believe it's the little things they will remember as they grow up with kids of their own and may be lucky to see an older man clapping with hands of age and love.

Mike 2026

                                                                                 

                                                                                  

         

                                                                        

Family values 1950s

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

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

                                                                                        Mike  2026

Mike  2026

Thumbs up

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

Mike  2026                                                                                   

                                          

Autumn's goodbye

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

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

Mike  2026                                                                        

The perfect pumpkin

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

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

                                                                                     Mike  2026

Mike 2026

The old school

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

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

                                                                              

Mike 2026

Mike  2026

Last leaf of Autumn

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

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

Mike  2026                                                

My attic room

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

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

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