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                                                    

Treasured family moments in the forest

 The campfire crackled as pieces of fire raced towards the heavens, only to be snuffed out by opposing winds. Once large logs are reduced to glowing embers, the heat, once intense, becomes warmth.

Sticks that pierced marshmallows lay on the edge of the fire, igniting as their sticky remnants caught fire and were swallowed by flames.
Light from a lantern inside a tent eases the children's fear of the darkness as scary stories are told, and they hide under covers, while Mom and Dad share a glass of wine under the star-filled night.
It's getting cold as the fire is now just a pile of smoking ash, and the ground is the only thing that feels any heat. They get into their tent listening for laughs and giggles from the tent next to theirs, but the children are quiet and sleeping soundly, tired from a day of exploring.
Sharing a large sleeping bag, they cuddle together, their bodies providing warmth and other feelings that come to life in the quiet of the night. Sunrise says good morning as a fire is made and a coffee pot from an old thrift store percolates, transforming clear water into brown coffee, showing its colors as the glass top allows a look inside.
As Mom prepares breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon and her famous biscuits slathered with honey, the smell awakens the children as they wipe the sleep from their eyes and join their parents around the fire. They'd be heading home today, but not before they took one last hike through the forest they all loved so much. And not before they took their dirty dishes, pots, and pans down to the stream and washed them clean.
This would be the final hours to gather what the forest gave, memories of their time there that would be the source of conversations for months and sometimes years. Six arrowheads, Dad claimed, were at least one hundred years old, along with several fossilized leaves, small creatures like lizards, and even a small footprint that only left them wondering. The best find, agreed upon by everyone, was a very old, rusted axe. Their minds were working in overdrive as they searched through the book of rare finds. And there it was, looking back at them from a page, the exact axe his daughter found as she tripped on a fallen log, and a patch of moss dislodged the ancient tool.
All packed up and heading home, there were a lot of mixed emotions, but more memories than anything else. Three days and nights together in the magic of the forests, the glow of a campfire for warmth, and the best cooking ever. Scary stories read under the covers and screaming when the flashlight's batteries wore down. Then, when pulling into their driveway, a collective sigh knowing it was over at least for a while.
Mike  2026                                                                 

Old man on the lake

 Small ripples lapped on the boat's side as the anchor line held firm. The gentle rocking made his eyes heavy, and he wanted to take a nap, but his days on the lake were running short, and every tug of the line was another possible trophy that he'd end up throwing back in the water to live another day.

He was brought up on this lake, as were his parents, in a place where nature reigned, and the city seemed a million miles away. When they passed just five months apart, he moved into the cottage some forty-something years ago. Math tells him he's lived there a total of seventy-five years and never changed a thing about it.
The hardwood floors were swollen in places as the lake's moisture took its toll. Kitchen cabinets didn't open or close as easily as they did when he was a kid, opening and closing a thousand times in search of a treat or a box of oat cereal. It showed character, he thought, like the pieces of driftwood hanging on the wall and the collections of small, smooth rocks his mom would find on her morning walks.
His line grew taut, and he jerked the pole up and hooked a monster of the lake, maybe the one legends are made of. It put up a fight as the old man grew tired and his arms felt like rubber. Then, without warning, the line snapped, and the would-be trophy dove deep and escaped. He sat there for a minute, cursing that no one would hear except maybe another fisherman around the point who saw what happened and held up his hands in a gesture of dismay.
He took his time securing his gear and pulling up anchor, then rowed the quarter mile back to the dock, also in need of repair. He thought about that and hoped it would hold up just a few more fishing trips, but he wouldn't bet on it. No fish for dinner tonight, he said to himself, but that was okay as he didn't really acquire a taste for it. Strange, isn't it? A kid who was brought up fishing almost daily for decades didn't like fish.
The daylight was sinking, and darkness would follow, dropping the temperature by twenty degrees, so he built a fire and took a hungry man's dinner from the freezer. Salsbury steak, mashed taters, green beans, and an apple crisp for dessert. Life was good, and no washing dishes either, just a two-point shot into the garbage can.
It didn't take long as the warmth from the fireplace filled the cottage with the smell of wood burning as he gave in to sleep sitting on his dad's favorite chair, something else he left as it was so long ago. He'd repaired that chair too many times to count with duct tape and pieces of cloth that ended up looking like a patchwork quilt. But he wouldn't change a thing.
The old man had three more fishing trips that all went well, except on his second trip, when the old dock finally collapsed, sending the small boat to the bottom of the lake and plunging him into the cold water. He was able to retrieve most of his gear, but some things were gone forever, and that was okay with him.
Now he sits in a chair at the foot of the lake tossing out his line. He saw the neighbor around the point, passing him by with his arms held up in dismay and a smile on his face. The old man gestured back with his middle finger held high, adding a few choice words from one fisherman to another.

Mike 2026                                                                    

The writing room

 He wrote in his home office, a small room with a window not much bigger than a large broom closet. The walls were covered with pictures he liked, some of family, others like a World War II fighter pilot, and several pin-ups from days gone by. Fishing rods in one corner and a broken printer that he intends to get rid of one day in another. His desk was saved from the jaws of a garbage truck, old school with years of use everywhere you looked. Initials with hearts and dates that meant something to someone. He'd sometimes catch himself rubbing a heart and wonder if the carver was still among us.

His chair was decades old, with one roller gone and replaced with cardboard and duct tape that did the job. The armrests were worn from years of use, much like the desk, and he often found himself wondering who the person was, assuming they were a writer of some kind. Maybe they wrote for a newspaper ages ago, wrote children's books, or wrote graphic novels.
Many nights when the urge to write overcame him, he'd light a couple of candles and turn on a vintage lamp with an amber bulb, just enough light to write. He never knew what he would write until a word turned into a sentence and sentences into paragraphs. Write, delete, write some more, delete, and try again until he was satisfied that a story was told.
He never thought of himself as a great writer; he just believed it was a gift of sorts that he didn't take lightly. Years passed, and countless stories were written in that small room with fighter pilots and pin-ups on the walls and a seldom-used fishing pole gathering dust in a corner. He had carved his own heart and the dates he wanted to remember on the top of the desk, and every so often, he rubbed his hand across it as memories flooded back and lost loves filled his mind.
He wrote his last story sitting at the desk saved from the jaws of the garbage truck, rolling his chair with the broken wheel to take a break and look out the window, he hoped would inspire him one more time, until the words no longer flowed and one last story was written.

Mike  2026                                            

County fair memories

 We stood in line to ride the carousel on a cool autumn day. Puffy clouds and blue skies made for the perfect day for my grandson and me. I looked at him as he looked around his small hand in mine, and I wondered what it would feel like to be him one more time.

It was a Saturday in 1960, and the county fair was in town. Like most seven-year-olds, I had saved some money all year for just this day when our family would head for the fairgrounds, ready to enjoy all it had to offer. Funnel cakes and cotton candy, popcorn and candy apples, and all those rides.

Dad stood in line to buy our tickets, while my sisters and I couldn't stand still as we watched the many rides and screaming kids. I remember my Mom telling us the usual mom things like don't touch the water fountains and don't lose sight of each other. 

Every year at the fair, Dad would give each of us a ten-dollar bill to do with what we wanted, but when it was gone, it was gone, and there would be no more. Most of the rides were three tickets each, worth a quarter, so we chose the rides carefully so we didn't use them up too fast.

Running from one ride to the next, we'd wait our turn at the Ferris wheel and bumper cars. Giant swings and slides so high that they gave me butterflies. Every once in a while, we'd report back to mom and dad, who sat in the big tent where dad drank some beers and mom talked to friends. She would see us and wave, which was her signal to go ahead and have fun. I remember there was a dance floor in the tent, and when the sun was about to set, the band would start playing, and the large group of parents and grandparents put on their dancing shoes and danced to their favorite songs, bringing back memories of their own.

I loved the fair at night, when all the rides lit up with colored lights, and I was sure they could be seen for miles away. As the night began to wear on, my sisters and I headed for the main attraction, the wooden rollercoaster. A true beast with hairpin curves and speeds up to 50 miles per hour. This year, my little sister just made the mark on the wooden policeman that showed your height, and if you were as tall as his mark, you could ride the monster coaster.

Standing in line to wait your turn was pure terror, as the coaster cars screamed past and above you, kids screaming their heads off, until it finally came to a stop. Each car sat two, so my sisters rode together, and I, well, I rode alone. Once seated, the cars were locked, and we began the slow climb to the top of the tracks. The clanking of the chains filled you with even more fear, and then the moment you'd been waiting for all day was about to happen. The cars took a nosedive, pointing straight down and moving so fast your lips quivered and your stomach did somersaults as you headed for dead man's curve. Around and around you flew the screams of my sisters in the car behind me, sounding like sheer terror as the mighty ride came to a stop and everybody got off, vowing to ride it again.

We left the fair tired and fulfilled, and dad even won a giant stuffed bear at the shooting gallery that he gave to my younger sister, who named it Bob for reasons unknown. One tradition we had was that before we left, we would ride the carousel as a family. Mom and Dad sat on a colorful bench while my sisters and I picked out a mighty steed with flared nostrils, a large ostrich, and for me, a jet black stallion. Round and around we went, the music of the carousel ringing in our ears. and the realization that our day at the fair had come to an end.

My grandson was too small for the big-boy rides, but we had great fun in kiddy land, riding the mini versions of bumper cars and small boats that circled in the water. We took a mini train ride around the fairgrounds, and my favorite part was the six jets that flew in circles on chains, with toy guns mounted on their wings that made gunshots. We finished our day at the fair by riding the carousel. He chose a lion, and I chose a jet-black stallion with flaring nostrils. As we left the fair, my grandson stood next to the wooden policeman, looking at the mark he had to reach to ride the coaster, and said, " Grampa, next year will be my year.

Mike  2026                                                     

One word at a time

 She kept a journal of her life overflowing with words written on gold paper. By all accounts, her life was a simple one, filling her days and nights with precious moments, smiles, and tears of both joy and sorrow.

She often wrote about her husband. A simple man who trusted God with everything and had a genuine fear of hell. He treated her like a princess and brought her flowers for no reason other than he loved her.
They raised two children to be happy and trust their heads and their hearts because both would be a part of their lives. They were tough at times when lessons had to be given for crossing a line, but they never went to bed mad and always got a good-night kiss.

Their home was cozy, with homemade curtains and tablecloths; knick-knacks filled a corner stand, mementos of places they went, mostly no more than a few miles away. A snow globe from the general store with a small Santa and his reindeer looking back at you as snow danced around inside. A small salt and pepper shaker with two farmers, each holding a small sign telling you which was which.
She wrote something every day in that journal, no matter what was going on with her life, good or not so good. Class plays, concerts, and Halloween costumes made in the light of a single bulb. Senior prom and more time spent sewing for a dress that made them cry as she came down the stairs.

She lost count of the pets, but she believed there were seven dogs, five cats, two turtles, and a couple of hamsters, all cherished and buried in a pet cemetery out behind the giant oak tree. Dad made wooden crosses for all of them, and it wasn't uncommon to find him standing looking over them and remembering the joy they brought into their lives.
Her journal, written on golden paper, is heavy now, as thousands of words, sentences, and chapters fill its pages. Who knows, maybe nobody will ever read them, and that's okay, as the memories belong to her. She didn't write it for anybody but herself. But if it's read, she hopes they will know the woman, the wife, the mother, and a friend to many who wrote her life's story one word at a time.

Mike  2026                                            

History lessons

 Time slipped away from me, taking me off guard. One minute I was in my prime, then BANG I was a history book. But that's important for the little ones who never run out of questions about anything and everything under the sun, and somehow, I've always been able to quench their thirst for answers. 

What makes the sun so bright? How do birds fly? What makes a waterfall fall? As adults, we just chalk it up to age and learning is just a tool we use every day, but then I think about their little selves with a virgin brain screaming for answers for anything and everything they question. They see the world around them but don't understand much of what makes things tick. So nothing is off-limits when their volley of questions is shot out with the expectation of answers.

Why do the wheels on a car on television spin backwards? Why can't I spin my head around like an owl?  As they begin to grow and their questions sometimes challenge a scholar, I realize one day I won't have all the answers they seek. How does a penny sink in the water, but a huge ship floats? Why does my stomach growl when I'm hungry, and how can Cousin Bobby shoot milk out of his nose?

Then, as they grow older and the questions keep coming, I fear my usefulness is winding down, and they see it and sometimes ask others to answer the tough ones, like, "Why are there wars when peace can be achieved through talking?" Why do the important things in life come with a cost, and why does what we say and how we look determine our destiny in this century?

I believe the old saying, out of the mouth of babes, holds true. I listen to conversations at the Sunday dinner table, those young minds growing faster and faster, talking over one another until someone throws down their napkin in protest. Just how smart are they? I've asked myself, and my answer is simple. They learn over time that all the seemingly simple questions have seemingly simple answers learned by asking, and they stick with them as their minds grow in capacity to comprehend more difficult questions that boggle your mind and make you want to retreat into your quiet place with a glass of wine and a good book.

Some of these younger people will go on to do great things and ask the really serious questions. I wonder if they will remember asking about what makes a waterfall fall, or why they can't rotate their head like an owl? Were my answers locked somewhere deep down in their mind where they've remained for years? Maybe so because I just saw my eldest grandchild toss a penny into the pond.

Mike  2026                                              

Master boat builder

 He built his first boat at the age of twelve. It sank quickly. But he learned from his mistakes and vowed the next one would be carefully thought out, and he wouldn't hurry. His grandfather, a master boat builder, saw the potential in his grandson at an early age. It was said he let the young boy make mistakes on his first attempt so he'd never repeat them. Taking the boy under his wing, he taught him the proper kind of wood to use and how to use wooden pegs rather than metal screws to prevent rust and corrosion. He showed him how to steam the wood and bend each plank to the exact size needed. It was something that couldn't be rushed, as was every piece of trim, every single coat of varnish, and an eye for detail throughout the boat.

It wasn't just a lesson in boat building; it was many life lessons the boy learned from his grandpa throughout the build. How to think long and hard if the plans he drew up were the very best he could do, and realizing if they were almost perfect, he'd start over until everything was. He instilled into the boy the meaning of patience, as rushing anything could mean the difference between floating or sinking. He wasn't a man of many words, but when he had something important to pass along, he demanded that the boy listen with both ears.

For eight months, the boy learned, believing he had mastered the craft, only to be reprimanded for rushing and failing to consider every detail that could cause the boat to sink during its first water trial. He learned how to sand the wood until he could run his hands across each plank and deck board with no slivers to be had. He learned that the more coats of varnish applied, the better the appearance, so it was sand and varnish, then repeat until it looked like a thick layer of caramel that shone in the light.

On its first maiden voyage, standing beside his grandpa, they listened for leaks, which every wooden boat would have until the wood swelled and created a seal between the planks. He had a pail of tar, which he'd use to plug the seeping nothing that can't be fixed; he'd say, keep moving forward. The boy, now a young man, rowed to the rhythm of the waves, each movement of the oars a test of strength, as the boat plowed through them, the bow rising higher and higher until it would surely come crashing down hard and damage itself. But she performed like every boat his grandpa had built, and the smile on his face told the young man he was satisfied.

He and his grandpa built many boats together in the years that followed, with his grandpa giving him more responsibilities as he observed each wooden peg and steamed boards with keen eyes, pointing out what his grandson had forgotten to do, and the lessons never ended. He kept building boats of all sizes and purposes, each reflecting his grandpa's vision and attention to detail. People waited years sometimes to commission a boat, some as small as a dinghy, others cruisers powered by large engines to go further out to sea. Grandpa passed away, but his grandson carried on the traditions he had learned from the master boat builder. Now each finished boat has a plaque next to the helm that reads " built by a master boat builder and grandson.

Mike 2026                                                  

Where I belong

 The smell of a forest takes me back to when I was living with the stick soldiers, ancient trees that shared their shade in the summer and their heat in the winter. The smell of burning campfires an invitation for others to sit down and be warm.

As I hiked through the forest, the smells captured me and stirred my senses with every step. Damp patches of moss and decaying leaves, a musty reminder I was an uninvited guest who tread lightly on sacred land, as not to wake the spirits who slept deep into the ground.

As I continued, it was not the smell but the sound that brought me to a river, its raging water deflecting rocks and boulders as it rushed to a waiting calm that silenced its rage and gently flowed onward.

Once again, I found myself deep into the white birch and mighty oaks that had smells of their own. Deserted nests cradled in the crook of a pine, a smell of life born and a mother's care until the day of reckoning when wings spread, and freedom just a few flaps away.

I loved climbing the trees and looking out at the distance that seemed to have no end. The fear of falling was just a passing thought as I climbed higher, and I found a nest as large as any I had ever seen. The sound of a baby's cry followed by the scream of an eagle on a kill mission, and that mission was me. I climbed down the tree and lost my footing as gravity got me to the ground quickly and without injury.

To me, the time I spent in the forest was better than any book or campfire stories. It was my one-room schoolhouse that invited me in to walk beside the teachers who shared their knowledge of earth, sky, and life as old as time itself.

When I walk out of the shelter of the trees and the smells of hot dogs being grilled await me, a sadness fills my heart, and I wish I could retreat back into the ancient trees, the smells of damp moss and decaying leaves filling my senses, and the understanding that this is where I was meant to be.

Mike 2026                                                  

Winters memories of fun

 My mom would get me dressed for a Nor'easter with layers of clothes and no skin showing except for my eyes. I looked like the Michelin Man. In those days, there were no video games or the internet. No television except for cartoons on Saturday mornings and family night to watch a black-and-white movie.

Our backyard was my playground with everything a kid needed to entertain himself. Winter had its challenges, especially if you were by yourself, but if a couple of friends showed up, well, that was a different thing altogether.

After an all-night snowfall, the back yard was an undisturbed blanket of white with everything buried with drifts of snow, some as high as the tip of the swing set, and the fun began. After freeing a swing from the grips of the snow, I'd swing higher and higher, then jump off into a drift, burying myself in the powder and laughing to myself.

Hours would pass as I found new things to do, like climbing a fruit tree with low-hanging branches and taking a minute to find a sturdy branch while wearing a space suit. Eventually, I reached my destination, looking all around me and over the fence, seeing nothing but snow-covered mountains. 

Lunchtime came around, and I headed inside, where Mom had a bowl of my favorite tomato soup waiting. She partially undressed me, taking my space suit off and setting it next to the heater to thaw out. My ice-coated mittens were replaced with a fresh pair, and new bread bags were put into my boots. I was fueled up and ready to go back outside when the doorbell rang, and my next-door neighbor greeted us, asking if I'd like to go sledding. He was several years older than me, but my folks liked and trusted him enough to put me in his care.

With our sleds in tow, we ventured out beyond the confines of my backyard to a huge pile of snow in the city park. It was the biggest pile of snow I'd ever seen as we slowly climbed to the top behind other kids, then sat on our sleds and raced towards the bottom at breakneck speed. Over and over again, we sled down that hill until our frozen selves were tired and cold.

As the daylight began to fade, we headed home, laughing at the times we wiped out, doing face plants that froze our eyelashes, and barely getting run over by older kids on toboggans. I thanked my neighbor for taking me along, then headed inside where Mom was waiting with dry clothes and a slice of freshly baked bread and butter.

Dad got home, and I told him about my day, especially the parts where we sled so fast our eyes froze shut, leaving us blind and flying by the seat of our pants. He laughed and told me how he remembered sledding down that very same hill when he was much younger. You know it's supposed to snow again tonight he said with a grin on his face. And its saturday, so no work. How about we tackle the hill together, he asked. I think my old sled is in the garage.

After mom's ritual of stuffing me into the space suit, my dad and I ventured out to the park, and seven more inches of snow fell during the night. To me, winter was my favorite time of the year, and my memories are vivid. Dad's laughter as he captured his inner kid and me smiling, knowing I'd always remember those times together. And do you know the best part of it was knowing that someday I'd race down that hill with my own kids, taking a deep breath and racing them to the bottom, praying not to be run over by a screaming bunch of kids on a toboggan.

Mike 2026                                             

Defying the odds

 He lived in a small apartment with poor heat and drafty windows. The carpet was stained beyond help, but he didn't seem to mind. His easy chair was threadbare and tilted to one side, but he didn't care. The small kitchen had a stove with just one working burner and a fridge that barely kept things cold, but he didn't care. A black iron skillet was where he cooked every meal, fried eggs and bacon for breakfast, and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Supper was either a cheap steak or a couple of pork chops cooked in the skillet with grease from previous meals, which he said gave them flavor.

There was just one bedroom that he did his best to keep in military fashion. Crisp and sharp corners on the sheets and a blanket folded at the foot of the bed in case he got cold in the night. A bedside stand next to where he slept was an alarm clock he bought at the drugstore years ago, a glass of water that held his dentures, and, of course, a pack of hand-rolled cigarettes that he would wake in the night to light up and watch the orange glow until snuffing it out and going back to sleep.

The tiny bathroom was just big enough to do his business and look in a cracked mirror when he shaved. It was only showers as a tub would never fit in such a small space, but he didn't care. He spent his days reading the newspaper from cover to cover, always interested in what was happening outside his weathered door. He owned two pairs of pants and two shirts, all of which he purchased at the Goodwill store just a short walk from home. His grown kids often tried to give him new clothes, but he always said no, so eventually they gave up and let him do as he pleased.

Decades had passed since his military life as a highly decorated officer that was cut short when he had a stroke, and doctors said he'd never speak again or be able to communicate easily. He worked every day on his speech and movements, writing his thoughts on endless sheets of paper and putting notes in his pockets that had his recipe for a perfect martini or how he wanted his steak.

He rarely had company, and that's how he liked it. But when one of his kids showed up to check on him, he seemed to have a glow that welcomed them. Against all odds, he eventually began to speak again and could walk with a cane, kissing the wheelchair goodbye. He loved to walk and could often be seen in the summer, winter, fall, and spring making his way to his favorite bar and grill, where he met other veterans and became good friends.

He left this world; he chose to live on his terms with a greasy skillet on the stove and hundreds of hand-rolled cigarettes stashed away in empty coffee cans. His son had kept his father's military dress uniform, and he was buried in that, along with full military honors. The flag was presented to his son and, to this day, is proudly displayed on the mantel of his fireplace.

He may have lived in a cold, drafty apartment with little to show for the bravery he displayed throughout his life, but he died a hero to us and an example of defying the odds, walking the path he had chosen even when it was said he'd never be the same man again.

Mike 2026                                               

Words are timeless treasures

 I've walked a million miles in my lifetime. I've sailed the ocean hundreds of miles from land. I rode my Harley on mountain roads and slept under the forest skys. I've told a thousand stories and listened to many more. I've loved and been loved in return and cried tears of joy and sorrow. I saw the miracle of life tenfold and the heartbreak of loss, too many to remember.

I've traveled the globe and seen the wonders of time unfold before my eyes, and I've walked on dusty country roads, seeing crumbling barns once filled with life now lying silent as birds make it their home.

I've accepted old age and give thanks I can remember my youth with clarity. I picture my mom and her gentle ways, and hear my Dad whistling his favorite song on the radio as we, as a family, took Sunday drives with the car windows open, the dust just a part of the drive.

I've tried to remember all that I can by putting words on paper seldom read by anyone but me, but that's okay, as my words are timeless, and one day, one of my great, great grandchildren will discover a box in the attic and spend hours under the light of a full moon discovering who I was.

I suppose if my beliefs are true and I'm able to look upon life in death, then I'll watch that child put pen to paper and begin her journey, following my footprints into her tomorrows, with me as her guide.

Mike 2026                                                 

A walk with pops

 He walked more slowly now, his footing carefully placed, stepping over exposed roots and other hidden obstacles. His grandson walked close to him, ready to catch him if need be. Can you smell the wildflowers he asked, and the rainbow of tulips on both sides of the path? Can you hear the running water from the same stream I swam in as a kid? I do, Pops, I see it all through your eyes.

They stopped by the stream, cupped their hands, drank the cool water, and rested for a minute before moving ahead. I made this walking stick, you know, I found it on a Sunday walk with your mom. True, it's just a stick, but I saw something more than that. I saw the face of an angel, nature-carved, and I had to have it. You can have it when I'm gone.

They were halfway home when they came upon the fire pit, the place where a fire was built, and bones were warmed. A thermos of hot chocolate and a PBJ tasting better than any fast food. I built this pit, he told his grandson. When you were just a gleam in your daddy's eyes. The night air was getting colder by the minute, so they put out the fire and headed home.

Here's the wandering man, Grama said as she helped take off his coat, replaced with a warm blanket she had set near the fireplace. Did you have many adventures she asked. But sleep caught up with him, and there was no answer. He said goodbye to his grama and bent to kiss his pops' forehead, whispering a thank-you for the wonderful day.

As he got into his car and began to drive away, he looked back and saw his pops waving goodbye from the window, probably wondering the same thing he was, as he returned the wave and kept on going.

Mike 2026                                                 

A man and his mountain ways

 Sitting by the fire, he traveled back in time when life was an open book of discovery. He strokes his long white beard and remembers throwing away his razor on his forty-fifth birthday. It was the same year he left the city behind, choosing a life of quiet solitude on a mountain, where wildlife became his friend and the seasons his clock and calendar.

In the quiet night, as the fire spat out tiny sparks of light, it reminded him of headlights down below, where the people of the city blew their horns and yelled at the traffic as if it would matter or make it possible to move a few inches forward.

As he sat in the cold of the night his face warm from the fire he remembered his first time smoking some weed with friends deep in the darkness of the forest where the sounds of nature and a lone guitar filled the air as that sweet smell of pot filled his lungs and opened his mind to the true meaning of what he wanted his life to be.

He could have followed the masses and become another sheep following the rituals of those around him, but his true self couldn't allow that, no matter how hard he tried. He was a solitary man who craved the mountains and forests and the sweet smell of weed filling the air as his imagination ran wild and his spirit soared with the eagles.

At seventy-two years old, he had become a legend in the mountains. His cabin was a welcome station for hikers passing by, who sat by his fire as he passed the pipe around and told them stories of yesteryear, capturing their attention as their minds opened to the true reality of his life and what he had given up by choice.

Years later, a simple wooden cross marked the spot where his cabin once stood. It's said he fought off a grizzly bear but lost. Others said he ventured down the mountain for reasons unknown, made it halfway, sat against a tree, and fell asleep, but never woke up.

I sat by his fire once a long time ago, where he shared the pipe with me, telling stories, some real and others a byproduct of decades smoking the weed he loved so much. I never met such a man whose life was a story many would never read, but he was as real as it gets, and his legend will live on as long as there are those who choose to believe in a mountain man with a very long white beard and a well-smoked pipe.

Mike  2026                       

Spring times arrival

 The smell of Spring's arrival stirs creatures big and small. Reminders of winter's wrath are seen in small patches of snow, holding out, melting into the ground. Nests are made in trees and in the safety of caves and holes. Love fills the air, awaiting the births of new generations.

Tiny buds appear on the trees. They replace the few old leaves that held on through blizzards and frigid temperatures. Now those leaves fall to the ground without fanfare.
It's out with the old and in with the new as rugs are beaten and windows are opened, saying goodbye to stale air and letting in the fresh air, with the scents of nature's rebirth. Soon, the wildflowers will appear, and gentle breezes will scatter their seeds in a palette of colors. The tulip bulbs will burst out of the ground in a rainbow of reds and yellows, some in a vase on the table to be enjoyed.
Brown grass will give way to lush green, and the season's first picnic will be welcomed as family and friends gather beneath the old oak tree, while children run free for the first time since winter's long, dark days.
Tiny cries are heard as the springtime babies are welcomed into the world, always hungry and keeping parents busy gathering enough food for the hunger that never seems to end. The woods are like a symphony of voices as evening approaches, and the insects join the concert, serving as alarms warning of predators nearby.
Rows and rows of fields are plowed and planted, nurtured and tended to in the hope of a bountiful harvest to come. April showers don't disappoint and quench the thirst of parched crops as the kids and the first litter of puppies are introduced to mud puddles, fetching sticks, and rubber balls.
Soon, the wonders of spring will give way to the heat of summer when crops can whither under the sun's glare, and there's never enough water to satisfy all the needs of both man and creatures, who can be seen licking up the last few drops of muddy puddles.
The seasons collide as summer gives way to autumn and bountiful harvests that will be preserved in root cellars for the long winter ahead. Bonfires will be built as neighbors gather, knowing that soon enough the bonfire will fizzle out, only to return when called upon.
Springtime is just a memory now of tiny voices in the woods and all the dazzling colors that remain in your mind as you paint a watercolor that hangs on a wall, and you smile every time you see it alongside the others. knowing that you've once again captured spring and never have to let it go.

Mike 2026                                                   

Bar of heroes

 His ball cap was faded and worn, but he wore it proudly as he had for many years. He bought it at the veterans hospital, where he attended group meetings for ptsd with other vets who marched to the same drummer. Looking around the bar, he noticed other ball caps from all branches of the military, some staring into bottomless glasses in silence, while others talked about their time serving, embellishing their stories in a way that seemed to make them remember just the good times.

It was a military bar, for sure, with every wall space filled with black-and-white photographs of duty stations and ports of call, and shadow boxes filled with patches and medals once proudly worn. In a corner was a table that no one ever sat at, and every man in this place knew the reason.
The barmaid was married to a soldier who never came home many years ago, and she shared that pain with others who bought her shots as she listened to their stories about brothers in arms who had given their lives as so many had. She did so much more than pour drinks and keep the bartop clean; she spoiled them like a mother would do, reminding one not to forget his appointment tomorrow or making sure another had a ride if needed.
There was an air of respect in that bar, especially when an old-timer came in wearing his ball cap that read "Korean war veteran."Or another in a wheelchair pushed by his grandson on leave from boot camp. Glasses were raised and salutes given as they found a place to sit, as plastic chips, good for one drink, piled up in front of them. The barmaid kept bowls of peanuts and pretzels full, happy with her tip jar filling up fast.
Unlike most bars, this one closed at eight o'clock. Taxies were called, and relatives came to take their loved one home, some needing help out, but never a harsh word was spoken as heroes said goodnight and see you tomorrow. He finished his last drink and was heading out when he saw a faded ball cap on a stool. He handed it to the barmaid, who hung it on the wall behind the bar, knowing someone would claim it tomorrow when the doors opened again, and heroes marched in.

Mike 2026                                       

A Fathers love

 A father's love for his children far surpasses any other love. The daughter whom he spoils with no regrets from her first breath to his last. The way she held your finger as the first steps were taken, and how her voice remained in your head when you were apart. A father's love for his daughter continued to grow as she became a teen and a young lady living her life, but always finding time for an ice cream cone with daddy. He smiles as he remembers her as an infant lying on his chest, her little breaths gently rising and falling with his every breath. Tea parties in a chair he barely fit in, and bedtime stories when he caught her staring at him with a smile on her beautiful face. She grew up, and he grew old, but the bond between them never faded; it grew stronger as he watched her dreams come true. Now it's a tea party with chairs he fits and stories from the heart, not a bedtime tale. She was, and always will be, his little girl. He was meant to spoil her with pink canopy beds and princess bikes. She is his reason for wanting to grow old and spoil her daughter, his granddaughter, who looks remarkably like her mom. I read her bedtime stories and see her mom's eyes staring at me, as if it were yesterday, and I fall in love all over again.

A father's love for his son goes beyond toy trucks and baseball games. It's understood that dad is the teacher and the son is the student. Dad becomes larger than life, and every lesson learned is locked away in a vault to be opened only if needed. You smiled as he grew, wanting to dress like you, talk like you, and even walk like you. One memory you held onto was you changing the oil in your truck with him right beside you, lying on the garage floor, handing you the tools you needed, proud of himself for remembering which tool was what. With the job completed, father and son wiped the grease from their hands and went inside, as mom laughed with love, seeing her men covered in oil stains and with two huge smiles. As he grew up and being with dad wasn't always the first choice, he saw some of himself in his son, and pride filled his heart. As a young man, he knew his calling and pursued it until he mastered it, climbing the ladder to success and reaching the top at a very young age. They didn't talk every day because he had a career and two children that kept him busy, but out of the blue, he'd call his dad, catch up on life, and ask if he needed anything. Again, his pride swelled, and his love grew. Time flies past you, and one day you find yourself in need of some help that he gives without thinking about it. You realize that your son has grown up to be a good man, a good dad with a huge heart, and you hold back tears realizing the lessons taught were truly learned, and you couldn't be more proud.

Mike 2026                                              

Memories fading light

 He smiled more when he remembered more than he forgot. It was like a light switch that toyed with him, going on, going off, and that space in between when his mind rested, not by choice.

It was hard work recalling his life, and even harder to keep the memories, as those pesky little memory crashers were always ready to strike again.
Doctors said his advanced stage of memory loss was common, and although there were some medications that may help to slow it down, he chose to let things happen as they would.
I watched him slow to answer questions, but I believed it was because he didn't want to miss anything, and if it took a bit longer, so be it. I often found him outside in the yard, looking left to right and back again, taking baby steps towards the road, but stopping short. He wasnt trying to hurt himself, he just wanted to remember the road, that simple.
Over time, he got worse, but we sat every day, sometimes in silence, letting facial expressions speak for themselves, which eventually became a sort of game between us. A touch to his mouth meant he was hungry. A tug on his ear meant turn up the programs he liked.
At bedtime, I'd hold his hand in mine, the wrinkles like a roadmap of his life, and the realization that the body wears out as the mind does, each fighting to be the last survivor.
At the end, we were holding hands as he slowly went to sleep, hopefully remembering all the memories he fought so hard to remember. He blinked twice, which meant he loved me, and tears fell from both our eyes as his journey was complete.

Mike 2026                                        

The secrets of the forest

 Deep into the forest, there were secrets untold to most. Secrets that dare not be spoken in casual conversation, or it's said demons will intervene, striking you down where you stand.

It was a beautiful autumn day with cool temps and colors like those of an artist's palette. My plan for the day was to drive to the state forest and hike the trails like I'd done many times before. Parking my truck in the visitors' parking area, I unloaded my backpack, checked for water bottles, and set off into the waiting arms of ancient grounds. It was like jumping into a shade of darkness as I took my first steps onto the trail I had no intention of walking on. I climbed over the rope and walked deeper into the unknown, now surrounded by darkness, with only pinpoints of light behind me.
Rumors said an ancient coven of witches lived in this forest as far back as the 1500s. They were a peaceful people who spent their time concocting nature's bounties into salves, creams, drinks, and potions, which they stored in an underground cave. The witches roamed the forest helping strangers in need, never asking for anything in return except total secrecy as to where they were seen. Legend has it that one peaceful day in the forest, the witches were ambushed and tried to escape, but all were caught and sentenced to death by fire. Someone had drawn a map of the burning spot so others could see where it began and ended. There were many maps, some old, others more recent, but the map he had purchased was from a local thrift shop. The shopkeeper, a unique kind of fellow with a knack for storytelling, told me that somewhere in the hundreds of items lining the shelves was the one true map of the forest. He told me to look around as he walked away into a curtained room with a sign warning people to stay out.
I spent hours on my first visit looking through old scripts of ancient lore. I leafed through hundreds of pages of local history, but so far, I have found only old newspapers depicting the times of witchcraft in the area. On my second day, I dug deeper and found a family journal written by a writer from a Northern state. It told of a covenant of witches that he and his family encountered while navigating the forest. They appeared out of nowhere, dressed in gray robes. One witch touched the horse's head, instantly calming it as she touched the rest with the same results. I continued to read the journal as the shopkeeper approached me and said that if I wanted to purchase the journal, I'd have to swear I'd never show it to anyone, never. And if my intent was to find the covenant, I'd have to use the map hidden within the pages of the journal.
The following morning, I set out for the forest and, with the journal in hand, began the almost impossible task of finding the convenient and the witches who called it home. On page twelve, a clue was written about a twisted, hundreds-of-years-old tree with a branch pointing due north. Page nineteen showed a clearing with people dancing around a fire, and on page twenty-seven, a cabin stood alone, surrounded by giant trees that had no branches. I followed the clues and, several hours of walking later, stopped in my tracks as I spotted a small cabin with smoke rising from the chimney. It was barely visible nestling among the heavy vines that almost covered the place entirely.
I was about to leave when the door opened. Five witches dressed in gray appeared. I don't know why I stood up and made myself visible, but I did. Suddenly, they floated toward me, their feet hovering inches above the ground. I wasn't exactly scared, but I was curious about the unknown. They circled me, guiding me toward the cabin. My voice was useless; my mouth wouldn't work, screams gone unheard. Inside, the cabin smelled of nature. Bunches of plants hung from the rafters, drying, I supposed. One witch touched my head, and I fell to the floor, unable to move my legs. Another forced me to drink from a clay cup. Within seconds, I was on an acid trip—or so it seemed, as I’d experienced in younger days.
Night arrived, and dozens of gray-clad witches gathered around the bonfire. They chanted words I couldn't understand. One took a mouthful of something and, like a circus fire breather, spat it in my face. It was warm yet cold. Another chanted inches from my face. Their words felt like the beginning of my end. I was trapped in a nightmare, unable to escape. I lost consciousness and did not know how long. When I woke, I was tied to a pole with vines. Fire circled at my feet, climbing higher. I tried to scream, but my mouth was sewn shut. The pain rose. Heat became a weapon. The last thing I remembered was screaming hard enough to break free, filling the night with cries no one would ever hear.
The rangers found my truck days later. A note on the windshield read, If you find this truck, I am dead. Use this copy of the map to find where I lie. The ranger showed his deputy, and they both laughed at another prank. There had been many. 'Call for a tow, deputy,' the ranger said. 'Let's get lunch. Something smells good.'                                       

Deep in the forest, there were secrets unknown to most. Secrets that dare not be spoken in casual conversation, or it's said a demon will intervene, striking you down where you stand.

Mike 2026

Jacks Harley shop

 I was just a kid when my love for the motorcycle bit me. The looks and unmistakable sound of a Harley grabbed me with a passion I'd yet to feel for anything or anyone in my young life. My uncle Jack owned a small motorcycle shop in town where he repaired bikes as long as they were Harleys. My uncle was a Vietnam veteran who learned his trade there, working in the motor pool. He once told me he could take a Harley apart and put it back together blindfolded. The army used bikes mostly to run messages from headquarters to battlefields, taking hits from snipers along the way, but in most cases made it safely back to camp, leaking oil and gas, and even riding in on two blown tires.

Upon his return, Jack used the GI bill to get a loan to start his business. He found a place in town that was once an automotive repair shop and had an apartment above it where he could live. I'd help him out on weekends, fixing the place up, nothing like a fresh coat of paint to make everything better. My uncle had already made a name for himself fixing bikes at a small storage facility, but it became too small, and the demand was too great, so he moved into town.
Uncle Jack loved Harleys, and knowing he would be a valued customer, Harley sent out a crew to paint his shop inside and out in black and orange, hang posters with the Harley logo, and even display a Harley show bike for the grand opening. When the big day finally arrived, my uncle gave me a new t-shirt with Harley across the back and the name of my uncle's shop on the front, reading Jack's Harley repairs.
It didn't take long as the sounds of Harleys roared down the street, coming to a stop at Jack's place. It seemed that the word had gotten out. Some of the bikers knew and respected Jack and his expertise, which was a valuable asset in Nam. It was like old home week as bike after bike roared into Jack's Mosely to wish him luck, but some were there for repairs or some custom work. It was a huge success with Jack booking fifteen bikes for various services next week.
A lot of people know how the Vietnam veterans were shunned at airports and down south still had to sit in the colored seats and drink out of colored drinking fountains. I forgot the exact date when a group of biker vets joined together to form a motorcycle club. It wasn't a weekend riding event; they even had their own clubhouse where they gathered to set plans in motion to make money, drink the human limit of beers, and grow the number of men wanting to join up. Their name was The Dark Angels. And they were all Nam vets. Over time, several chapters of the Dark Angels popped up, and when in need of anything Harley-related, they knew who to come to
The town folk didn't care much as Harley after Harley roared into Jack's shop, especially when they saw the club's logo of a Harley in a war zone, dodging sniper fire. Often, a bike is brought into the shop as a result of a crash. The owner, on crutches, spoke to Jack, asking him to restore it to its original beauty. Jack said he could, but don't rush him; it would be done when it was done. Business was crazy good, leaving little time for anything else but getting those bikes back on the road in his shop. I was a big help, Uncle Jack would say, changing oil and doing inspections so Jack could order parts when needed. He showed me something simple, like changing plugs or stripping down the engine for a complete rebuild.I learned by doing, and Uncle Jack never once yelled at me for not doing something right. He just calmly showed me again, and from that moment on, I could do most things blind folded.
Years passed, and I was a full-time mechanic at Uncle Jack's shop. I got to know the customers: some were very demanding, while others went with the flow, knowing their bike might be off the road for a while. The dark angels were as loyal as anybody could be. They spread the word about Jack's place, and on any given Saturday, you'd hear the roar of dozens of bikes coming to a stop in front of the shop. It was pickup day for an angel who had been waiting six months for his bike to be finished. His crutches were gone, and he was more than ready as he approached something covered with a tarp. That it, the biker asked. Jack just nodded it was, and pulled the tarp away. When I say you could hear a pin drop, I was serious. For a split second, I got a lump in my throat thinking the angel hated what he saw, but in a nanosecond, he began jumping up and down, fist-pumping, and even some manly hugs that passed quickly. It's amazing, Jack, you did well, no, amazing, whatever it was, perfect in his eyes.
More time passed, and Jack applied to open a Harley-Davidson dealership on a now-vacant patch of land about three blocks from his existing location. He had a half-million-dollar down payment and a reputation that was priceless in the biker community. After a couple of months and several meetings with Harley, Jack was approved for the dealership. On most days after closing up, my uncle Jack and I would walk to the dealership construction site to see what progress was being made, and, believe it or not, they were the fastest construction team we ever encountered. Jack hired shop workers, sales teams, parts managers, and office personnel, as well as a finance manager who did an amazing job getting people approved for a new or pre-owned bike.
Two days before the grand opening, a semi pulled up, loaded with 15 brand-new Harleys. We helped move them into the showroom, where the salesman dusted them off, removed the stickers, and arranged them throughout the showroom, where the overhead lights made them almost sparkle. Then we unloaded our own creations we'd built over the past four years. Two vintage pan heads and two Vietnam-era workhorse Harleys, Jack could tear down and put back together blind folded. As years passed and more and more people started riding Harleys, the business had to expand, so Jack bought the lot next to him and built a second showroom for antique bikes and military bikes, some with sidecars. He also displayed custom bikes he had designed for those weekend riders who didn't mind spending tens of thousands of dollars to be noticed. Unfortunately, some of those guys had never ridden before, except maybe on their neighbor's kids' dirt bike. On more than one occasion, Jack brought the wreck to the shop, negotiated a sale price with the owner, and then rebuilt it as new.
Uncle Jack retired years later, and I took over as the operations manager, a position I didn't take lightly. The business flourished, and it seemed like Harley was unstoppable as new models arrived daily. Bikes for rookie riders, old road dogs, and weekend warriors, all ready to catch the fever that burns brightly in all of us who belong on the road on two wheels. And that's about it, my friends. We were rated the number one Harley dealership in the entire state, but instead of cashing in and selling the place, Uncle ack and I raised a glass to everybody throughout the years who helped us get to where we are today. So what do you say, young man, another five years?
Mike  2026                                          

The window

 I sit looking out the window at the distant fields. In my mind, I see myself as a boy running through the cornfields. When my youth and strong legs once seemed limitless. Eventually, I ran out of breath and had to rest. The house was at least a mile away. The walk was quiet, except for the wind racing through the corn. As I got closer, my dog Randy came running. He was 14 now, no longer fast. His once-athletic body had fallen prey to old age, as it had us all. He walked beside me like he had done his entire life. Randy passed away the next year, and with great sorrow, I buried him on the hill he loved to climb overlooking the farmhouse that he called home.

Looking out the window again, I can see my dad working on a broken-down tractor, cursing like a drunken sailor until Mom came out on the porch, pointing upwards, meaning god was watching him. Dad laughed but promised her he'd tone it down. I can clearly see fresh-cut grass under an oak tree, where picnic tables were set up as a Sunday picnic was taking shape.

I sit at the window and see rows of cars and trucks coming up the dirt road, going slowly so as not to stir up the dust. Handshakes all around and kisses on the cheeks for the little ones, some escaping under a picnic table to avoid a pinch on the cheek that left a mark the entire day.

I can smell the meat cooking on the grill and dish after dish of good cooking, all brought together today to celebrate and give thanks for the bounty they have been blessed with. I sat looking out the window, the shadows began to fade, and the old picnic table, now pieces of the past, returned to the ground from which it came. The cars and trucks drove into the future with well-fed and tired kids falling fast asleep for the long ride home.

My life was outside that window, the good and the bad, the lessons learned, and the word of God. Mom reminded all of us at any given time. My races through the cornfields with Randy, both of us in our youth and unstoppable. Standing outside, cameras clicked countless times as my date and I said goodbye on our way to the Spring dance with a stern warning from her father to me that there would be hell to pay if she wasn't home by midnight. Pictures of a first tooth lost, a new bicycle for a birthday, and a few pictures mom didn't approve of, like when she was working in her garden.

As the years went speeding by and death appeared at our door on numerous occasions, I lost something inside of me, with every one but my memories were strong, and I called on them every day as I looked out that window and replayed my journey over and over again. wondering who would look out my window when all they would see was a pane of glass and a few smudge marks where I pushed my nose against it as Randy went running by.

Mike   2026