Moments in time

 I remember, as a child, taking slow walks with my grandma to the end of the driveway, which seemed endless when I was just learning to walk. I clung to her thumb as she steadied my unsteady steps, her gentle voice guiding me toward the world ahead.

I remember being a child, and my own superhero, spending countless hours as the Lone Ranger, Superman, a crusty pirate, and the lion in The Wizard of Oz. My backyard, the stage; my imagination, the script.

There was no money for fancy costumes, but improvisation came in the form of old bed sheets, a broomstick, and a small trash lid that, when tied around my waist, served nicely for my body armor. Granddad showed me how to make a pirate hat using a paper bag that he folded in creases, then another one until it fit me perfectly.

I remember the Fourth of July challenge of climbing the big tree in our yard, which was a rite of passage for the older cousins. Their reward was watching the fireworks displays across the town and beyond from their perch high in the tree. I dreamed about the time it would be me inching up through the branches, each step a challenge mixed with an abnormal amount of fear.

I remember walking in the fields of corn, hearing my dad say, " Knee high by the fourth of July, and all is looking good. But it was his knee-high, not mine, as I struggled to keep up with him. Looking as far as the eye could see at the endless rows of corn, I was beginning to feel trapped, so he hoisted me upon his shoulders and slowly continued our quest.

I remember endless summer days playing baseball with the neighborhood kids on the town field that doubled for an ice rink in winter. We used worn-out berlap sacks stitched together and filled with sand as bases, and the biggest thrill of all was getting to wear a uniform. The woman held baked good sales and other crafts to raise the money for the uniforms, which made you feel like the real deal when you stepped off the bus at your first away game.

I remember going to mass at the most amazing church right in the middle of town. Walking through the heavy wooden doors that creaked whenever opened or closed and made a distinct thudd when fully closed. I was baptized there, received my first communion, and attended funerals too many to remember. It was the only time I saw my dad cry.

I remember the kindness of strangers who helped when help was needed. I remember the switchboard operator who knew your name and the fireman who blew the horn as they passed you by. I remember getting caught stealing a piece of bubble gum while shopping with my mom, who made me give it to the biggest policeman I'd ever seen.

I remember making popsicles in ice cube trays and Kool-Aid, and catching earthworms at night when the grass was damp. I go back in time, remembering everything that ever meant something to me, and I hold on tight to all of them as I walk down the driveway in my dreams, letting go of Grandma's thumb at the end and moving toward a life filled with cherished moments.

Mike 2026