Crazy days of summer

 As the late great Nat King Cole sang, break out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. I remember all too well the last bell before vacation and trading in my school clothes for a pair of shorts and sneakers. We kept a T-shirt in our saddlebags strapped to our bicycles in case we had to go into a store or the soda fountain, which we did a lot. I close my eyes and open my memory bank to withdraw moments in time that seemed to stand still so I could revisit them.

I remember long, hot days and muggy nights, praying for a breeze to enter my bedroom through the window, with a fan that made more noise than it blew air. With my eyes closed, I can go back in time, listening to the neighbors up late, gathered with friends on the porch, and ladies fanning themselves with a folded magazine. The clanking of empty bottles as another ice-cold beer was opened, and would eventually be disgarded with the others already stacking pretty high on the porch.

I recall the first day the public swimming pool opened for the summer as dozens of kids waited in line with their towels and goggles, talking among themselves to see who would be the first one to brave the giant slide that emptied into the deep end. The lifeguards were mostly high school seniors making a couple of dollars as summer jobs, and there was always a group of giggling girls around them. Some were going to extremes, faking they were in trouble, so a lifeguard had to jump in and get them back to the deck, where they miraculously made a full recovery.

Summer meant baseball, and every kid old enough to hold a bat and throw a ball joined the city leagues. We received uniforms donated by various companies and businesses, and we got to pick our team names. Our uniforms could only be worn for games, but our hats stayed glued to our heads the entire summer. We would practice almost every day in a field that, over time, had been trampled down and looked just like the city field except for the absence of chalk lines and sand-filled bags as bases. For those, we used flat rocks.

With my eyes still closed, I wandered back in time once again to camping out in the woods, where we pitched our tents, handed down by older brothers who pretty much wore them out. My dad was in the army reserves, and one day he surprised my friends and me with almost-new tents he claimed were only slightly damaged. We left it at that. Camping meant eating too many snacks and reading comic books with a flashlight that some of us won by answering questions on the back of a cereal box. We would usually go exploring in the darkness of night on the hunt for trools and other scary things that went boo in the night

In the morning, we'd go to the lake and wash off the sticky mess that s'mores left on our hands and mouths, then it was time to mount our steeds and head out exploring parts unknown, but always an adventure. We came across an old field that had once grown corn but now lay in waste, with four rusted tractors just sitting there. We played on those until the thrill wore off, then headed into town, where we put on our t-shirts and stepped inside the soda shop for a burger and fries smothered in brown gravy.

My times as a kid will be with me forever, as will the faces of my friends who scattered across the country seeking their callings, just as I did, ending up thousands of miles away with a wife and three kids. We've made our own memory book, and sometimes I'll pull out my photo albums, mostly in black and white, that once had my daughter asking me why we didn't have colored clothes and cars.

I feel so lucky to remember those lazy, crazy, hazy days of summer spent with some lifelong friends, and to have a memory like a steel trap.

Mike 2026                                                                         

Closepin memories

 The sheets are drying on a backyard clothesline. A gentle breeze and golden sunlight, a mixture of clean and fresh late into the day. Tomorrow, the colored clothes will take the place of linens, trying harder to catch the breeze, and some will need extra clothespins. The bag they are kept in is just a simple bag Mom put together from old sewing materials and hangs on the line for easy access. There were two different kinds of clothespins, the basic wooden ones and the ones with a spring that, as a kid, would pinch your fingers sometimes by accident as you handed one to mom, and other times when nobody was around, and you tried to be a brave little soldier and pinch one on your nose.

On windy days, you'd run through the clothes, smelling the freshness as mom watched from the kitchen window, remembering doing the same thing as a young girl. It's funny how we recall childhood memories that are somehow passed down from one generation to another with little change. Your great-grandmother used wooden clothespins that her husband made by carving sturdy sticks into equal lengths, then slicing them down the middle so they fit snugly on the line.

Your grandma used those until seeing a bag of clothespins in the hardware store, all pre-cut and sanded, ready to use. It even had a handle on top to hang on the line, ready when needed. Your mom used store-bought ones like her mom, but one day, while window shopping, she saw the latest in clothespin design, made of plastic and available in a multitude of colors. Truly a great invention, not just for hanging clothes but also for toy soldiers: some in colorful uniforms and others in no color at all, engaged in battle until mom needed one or two, and we had to choose which fallen soldier would give its life.

My generation doesn't hang clothes outside when they have a gas or electric dryer to do the job, unlike most people. But call me old school because my wife and I still hang clothes to dry in the fresh air and golden sunlight. Our kids make toys from clothespins, mostly wooden, by the way, with a bag of colored ones, so they can play soldiers just as I did. I would imagine that my kids' kids will be left wondering just what in the world those odd-looking wooden and plastic things they found in a box in the garage were used for. I'll search my memory bank and tell them we used wooden pins to attach baseball cards to the spokes of our bikes so we'd sound like a bunch of wannabe bikers. Good times, good times. I'll let their mom and grandma tell them the other side of the coin in their stories.

Mike  2026                                                       

Childhood memories of Aunt Elda and uncle joe

 As a boy, when my dad went off to the army reserves in the summer, my mom and I, along with my two sisters, went to Michigan to visit my mom's aunt, Elda, and uncle, Joe. They lived quite a ways back from a country road in a modest but very nice house. They had a few acres that bordered a corn farmer, who let us run through the rows and rows of corn so sweet we ate it until our bellies ached. Uncle Joe had a small tractor that he used to cut the large yard with, and he would hoist me up and sit me on his lap as we mowed and mowed until Aunt Elda called us in for lunch. Any meal Aunt Elda served was a three-course meal. Breakfast consisted of fresh eggs from her chicken coup, toast made with her homemade bread, and her homemade jellies. Fresh orange juice or tomato, if you prefer. And Uncle Joe's favorite: a thick slab of Canadian bacon. Aunt Elda knew my mom's favorite was a nice, hot bowl of grits with a dab of real butter, prepared just for her.

Lunch meant a huge bowl of fresh-cut fruit, a selection of lunch meats and cheeses from the butcher shop, as pre-packaged meats never saw their table. Each of us kids got a tall, chilled glass of whole milk with a spoonful or two of chocolate syrup to wash everything down.

Dinner was a work of art, featuring an entire turkey or a glazed ham that Uncle Joe had hand-carved, along with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, a dinner salad, and fresh corn from the neighbor. Homemade dinner rolls and fresh-squeezed lemonade. The desert was a cake Aunt Elda baked with whipped cream frosting, topped with an assortment of her famous chocolate chip and butter cookies, another of Mom's favorites.

Uncle Joe was a successful businessman who owned a large plumbing business, which afforded them a comfortable life. He was a hunter and owned a trailer in a private hunting club that we went to for the weekend. Nestled deep into the woods, the trailer had everything Aunt Elda needed to prepare the same wonderful meals the same way she did at home. All of us wore bright orange vests so we could be seen by other hunters, even though his plot of land was over five acres and posted with a no-hunting sign. If I remember, I heard Aunt Elda tell my mom Joe didn't plan on killing a deer when we were there, he just didn't want us kids to believe he shot Bamby.

I loved our visits to Michigan, the sights and sounds of country living, and the sound of crickets and star-filled nights. Waking up with the sound of a rooster and bellowing cows waiting to be milked. Our time there went by too fast as we talked about next summer and how it couldn't come fast enough. With bags full of sweet corn and a variety of foods, Aunt Elda made sure we ate well on the ride home. As for Uncle Joe, he handed each of us kids a twenty-dollar bill, more money than any of us had ever had. He slipped mom a small wad of cash, pressing it into her hand, knowing she could use it.

The ride home was long, giving us the time we needed to recall all the great things we did and the food, oh my lord, the food. Some years later, we stopped going to Michigan. I suppose time caught up with us, and hanging out with friends was more important. But they came to visit us once a year, and our time together was as wonderful as always. Aunt Elda took over Mom's kitchen, and Dad took Uncle Joe to the firing range to shoot paper targets. He still gave us each a twenty-dollar bill and pressed a wad of cash into Mom's hand. Memories are a beautiful thing, especially when you have an aunt, Elda, and an uncle, Joe.

Mike 2026                                                           

                                                                                                                                                           

The smells of each season

 The smells of any given season are etched in my mind as I walk down a country road. In winter, the air is crisp and pure with a scent that's frozen in the ground until Spring arrives. Springtime creates a botanical garden of countless plant species and grass. Tulip bulbs planted in the fall crash through the ground and come to life in splashes of colors as wildflowers fill an entire valley with a fragrance to rival any high-priced perfume. Springtime rains that smell fresh make you want to stand in them as tiny drops shower your gardens, helping everything in the ground grow.

Summer brings with it the smells of everything outside. The charcoal grill and fresh-cut grass houses are being painted, and the swimming pools that smelled of chlorine. Summer means the smell of tanning lotions in many scents and the intoxicating smells of fair food. Summer means trail rides through the woods, smelling the ancient pine trees and layers of moss that carry the scent of something old.
Autumn smells like colored leaves, if that's even possible. The hay bales now stacked away in a barn leave behind empty fields plowed under with the dead corn husks that will enrich the ground for the next planting. Piles of raked leaves will be burned, the smell traveling from one house to another until only black spots on the ground are all that's left. Autumn smells like a pumpkin stand, an apple orchard, and sticking your head out the car window to let the smells fill your nose.
Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall each have their own scents that we can enjoy throughout the year if we take the time to breathe deeply, slow down, and savor every little thing that's ours to smell.
Mike  2026                                                              

Uncertainty of time

 He sat at his kitchen table, the one he found curbside. He didn't understand why someone would throw it away, as the legs were sturdy and the surface only needed some sandpaper and elbow grease. He worked on it until he was satisfied, then replaced the old table with another curb find he had come upon years ago.

He ate a bowl of oatmeal with the maple or brown sugar flavor, which was his favorite. The box said to add hot water and stir until a creamy texture appeared, but he liked the little clumps, so he didn't stir it too much. And it wasn't uncommon for him to find some of those clumps later in his beard, pick them out, and eat them.

He didn't do much these days, probably because he'd done about everything a person could do in seventy-some years. A circle of life, he said, the joys of childhood and the years leading up to adulthood, filled with memories in the making. Successes and failures too numerous to say and falling in love more times than he cared to remember. Now, as he enjoys his life with few distractions, all that remains is the uncertainty of time.

He once told someone that old age allowed you certain privileges, like sitting around all day in your pajamas, not showering for days until you smelled yourself, and putting on more deodorant just because you had to run some errands. It meant eating in front of the television and yelling at the news caster that he didn't know what he was talking about. One time, so upset he'd knock over his drink that splashed the cat, who went screaming away.

He knew the trash pick-up days and planned accordingly, which days he'd back up his old truck out of the garage and head to an area he knew all too well, as it was where he once lived a long time ago. He would keep a sharp lookout for hidden treasures buried in piles of unwanted items being thrown out just because something had quit working. He never had to buy small appliances; he'd just fix the ones he found, making them as good as new.

His was a simple life, one he chose with little regret, even though he sometimes found himself drowning in memories he couldn't erase. Joys that turned to sorrow, love that turned to hate, and time that wouldn't slow down. Today, he sits at the old table he found on the curb and, with a pocketknife, carves his initials into the sanded surface, a reminder of who he was for the guy who picks it out of his trash.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                                     

RUN!

 When I close my eyes, I see you alone in a small wooden room painted white with only a straight-back chair for you to sit. Your long hair lies perfectly still across your shoulders, and your eyes half open or closed, looking out the only window at the freedom you know awaits you.

I speak softly, just loud enough that I know you can hear me, and inch closer to you so I can smell your scent of wildflowers that you must have bathed in before I arrived.

They had you dressed in white, which made it seem you blended with the room itself, a peasant dress, I believe it's called. No slits or short lengths, just white clinging to your body like a windblown sheet that's as still as the room itself.

I whisper your name, but you remain with eyes half open or closed, looking straight at that window as if planning your escape. I thought for a brief moment I saw your lips part just a bit as if wanting to speak, but no words were spoken, just as it's been for six months. I take your hand in mine, feeling your softness as no fingers move, no words spoken, and no idea if you'll ever come back to me.

A nurse comes in asking if I'd like the window open for some fresh air, and I saw her turn ever so slowly, only visible to me. Her lips parted, and she whispered RUN!

Mike  2026                                               

A writers mind

 The flame from a candle danced across the room as he tried to find the words that were eluding him for the moment. He watched the flame, which he could change with a soft blow in its direction. It became a sort of game he played watching the flame dance to the right and then to the left, bending too far with the fear it would snuff itself out. Childish, he thought to himself as he picked up his pen and searched some more for his next sentence that refused to show itself.

Then his eye landed on the glow of the fireplace. A beautiful orange in color, glowing one minute and dimming another. The crackling of the burning wood keeps time like a base drum as the falling embers crash down to the floor in one big final. It amused him for a moment or two, but the words still wouldn't show themselves.

He glanced at the window, the pane frozen with a hundred ice crystals that, one by one, began to melt in the heat of the fireplace. Sliding across the glass as if it were their own skating rink. In his mind, he heard their voices like those of the munchkins on The Wizard of OZ, causing him to laugh out loud at his own foolishness. But the words wouldn't come.

He grew tired and blew out the candles, stoked the fire, and went to bed. Lying in the darkness, he suddenly sat upright and reached for his pen. The words began to flow like a mighty river with no end in sight. Guess all he needed were some dancing candles, a musical fire, and a bunch of munchkins skating on a frozen windowpane that somehow made sense.

Mike 2026                                                    

The wanderer

 His eyes were hollow from so many years on this earth. His skin was weathered and thin, which happens when you go without food, but he always has enough coins to buy a fifth of cheap booze. He was a wanderer, they say, with holes in the bottom of his shoes and tattered clothing. He rarely took off except for those times he landed in jail, charged with something stupid like drinking in a public park. The guards had a good laugh at his expense, taking bets on who would be the lucky one to take his clothes to be burned. They found some clothes in the donation box that mostly fit him, except for the boots, which were a bit too large. He'd been there before and had asked for some newspaper, which he stuffed into the toe area, and all was well. They gave him a sandwich from the vending machine, a stale egg salad sandwich that he gratefully accepted. If only he had a snort to calm his nerves, but that wasn't happening.

The following day, he went before the judge. He stood staring ahead as the judge read the charges against him and asked how he pleaded. I don't know," he answered softly. You don't know, the judge asked in a tone that was anything but nice. Well, your honor, I drink a lot, don't know why, really. I suppose because it helps me forget the things that have haunted me for some time now. And that would be what the judge asked.

I went off to war a long time ago. He began. I wasn't prepared for the things I saw and had to do. Each round that exploded around me took a little piece of me, and the fear welled up inside of me, and I ran off the battlefield and never stopped until the military police found me hiding in a burned-out truck. They threw me out of the army, giving me a ticket home and seven dollars, which I used to buy a fifth. The judge was silent for a moment, then softly spoke, saying he found it wrong the way they treated me. I was just a kid fighting a man's war with no compassion at all. He found me not guilty and released me back into the world I seemed to have found peace in. The guards confronted him at the door, handed him a bag filled with clothes and a pair of boots that fit him, and an envelope with one hundred dollars in twenties that they knew he would drink up in no time.

He's still out there somewhere chasing something he will never catch, as the memories will always be with him and the longing for an egg salad sandwich forever on his mind.

Mike  2026                                                  

The wooden monster

 The once mighty rollercoaster, a wooden wonder of engineering back when, now sits abandoned among the other rides that brought so much joy and laughter to all who dared. He walked around in the silence, with only the occasional squeak of a kiddy ride moving slowly in the breeze. He came here often growing up. First, with his family as he waited with great expectation for the day he would reach the proper height on the big measurement sign and be able to ride. On his twelfth birthday, as he grew several inches, he was ready. His dad reluctantly agreed to ride with him, but no amount of asking would change his mom's mind as she watched in horror as they climbed the first giant hill, preparing to do a nose-dive that would take them on a journey of both excitement and sheer terror. When the ride was over, and Dad looked like Casper the Ghost, he begged them to let him go again, but his mom said she couldn't bear to watch that ever again.

The years passed, and trips to the amusement park were spent with friends who rode the coaster over and over until they felt perfectly safe holding their hands in the air as the force of the ride lifted them a couple of inches off their seats. He continued his walk, remembering the sights and the smells of popcorn, candy apples, and corn dogs all blending together to create the perfect menu. As more time passed, attendance at the park dwindled because a very large water park was being built just on the outskirts of town. Aside from the giant slides, there were a few rides meant for season riders, and a kiddy land as well. It didn't take very long, and the park he loved shut down. Some of the rides were sold, but some remained just as they were on the last day. Rust had claimed many of the rides, and once colorful signs lay in the weeds, forgotten forever.

As he was about to leave, he took one last walk to the wooden coaster, and hanging by one screw was the measurement sign that either allowed or forbade you entrance. He took the sign with him and would give it a good home in his workshop. Right alongside his other treasures, he found as he walked through the closed and now quiet park of his youth.

Mike  2026                                         

Through the eyes of a 6 year old

 It was 1959, and I was six years old. My memories of that time are vivid and often revisit me in dreams. One such memory was getting out of bed, hearing my mom and dad softly talking and laughing as a Johnny Mathis record played on the phonograph. I opened my door a crack just enough to see them slow dancing, holding each other close, as my mom looked up to Dad's face and they kissed. I held my hand over my mouth so they couldn't hear me giggling as they stopped dancing so dad could put on another record. I can remember the deep red color of the carpet and the smell of cigarettes forming a cloud of smoke, as that was commonplace back then, when nobody knew the dangers of smoking.

The next morning, as I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, where Mom was making breakfast, I heard her humming that Johnny Mathis song, a smile on her face as she stirred the pancake batter a bit too long. She bent down and kissed my cheek, saying good morning, the only way she could say it as dad came in and put his arms around her waist, pulling her to him like the way they danced last night. She brushed him away, laughing and whispering something I wasn't meant to hear.
Dad went off to his job, and Mom got me ready for school, saying we had to hurry so I wouldn't miss the bus that always stopped in front of our house at precisely eight o'clock. So, with my Superman lunch box in hand, I climbed onto the bus and found a window seat where I could look out and see Mom waving and blowing me kisses, like the half-dozen other moms waving and blowing kisses to their kids while wearing housecoats of many colors. I watched as she grew smaller, then disappeared from my sight, and I wondered if she went back inside, put on that Johnny Mathis record, and danced by herself, remembering last night's memories with a smile and a sigh. I was just six years old, but something in my heart told me I had witnessed what true love really was, and it made me feel good, but still made me giggle when I thought about it.

Mike 2026                                                                

Caretakers of the land

 She looked around her at the land they worked so hard for together. She remembers the first time they saw it, sprawling hills and meadows, a stream running North to south, and fields as far as the eye could see. It was untouched land, free of humans and machines that would one day carve out a living for them. It was government-owned land to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, and on auction day, only a small group of potential buyers showed up.

He had saved every dollar he made as a carpenter and a government check from injuries he sustained in the war that never should have happened. She worked in town as a schoolteacher and did some sewing and any other work she could find. And in six long years, they were ready to begin a different kind of life, farming the land they hoped to buy when the land auctions were posted in the newspaper with pictures of every parcel being auctioned off. This year's postings were slim, with just three locations up for grabs.
The small group gathered around as the auctioneer began taking bids for the land they wanted, starting at $4,000. "Can I get four thousand?" he asked into the microphone. "Let's go, folks." Do I hear four thousand? He raised his hand, and the auctioneer acknowledged his bid, asking for five thousand, but no hands were raised. Going once, twice, sold to the man in the John Deere hat for four thousand dollars. An amount much less than they ever thought possible. The remaining six thousand they had saved would be put to good use: clearing the land, buying seeds and plants, building a house and barn, buying some livestock, and providing enough fencing to span a six-acre plot where the cows could graze without risk of predators.
In total, they purchased forty acres that really wasn't that much, considering they wanted to plant twenty of those acres with corn and another twenty with soybeans. But they needed a few acres for their vegetable garden, where several kinds would sustain them through the hard winter months. The house and barn would sit on three acres, with lush grass and a stand of ancient oak trees that would provide shade during the hot summer months.
The first year came and went, as did the second, as their dreams and hopes for their land continued to grow with every cut board and every nail pounded. He finished their house in late summer, giving them time to prepare for the harvest, the most important time of the year, as market prices for corn and soybeans were at an all-time high. Day after day, he would harvest the fields sometimes by using the tractor's headlights to guide him through the row upon row of crops. She would bring him his lunch and supper, making him stop long enough to rest a minute, but slowing down wasn't in his nature as he kissed her cheek, wiped the strawberry jam from his mouth, then climbed back on his tractor to continue until he was done.
Time passed, and their dreams kept growing as fast as the crops. The adjacent property, about thirty acres, came up for auction, and they were determined to purchase it if the price wasn't too high. As luck would have it, nobody was interested, and they were the sole bidder as the auctioneer asked to open the bidding at ten thousand dollars. He responded with a five-thousand-dollar bid, and by law, if only one bidder submitted a number and he had the cash on hand, he would be awarded the land. all thirty acres.
Their intentions were to let the land be until they decided the best use of it, and after two years had passed, they decided to separate the land into five-acre plots, which they would lease to other farmers and even a couple of city slickers, as it turned out, who wanted a place to grow vegetables and take them back to the city where fresh vegitables were scarce at best. This plan worked for everybody, and as time passed, they had fenced off even more acreage until all that remained of their corn and soybean fields were more five-acre plots and a waiting list to lease.
Eventually, all but five acres where their house and barn stood became fenced-off parcels containing dozens of varieties of vegetables and fruits. Harvest time became a steady flow of weekend farmers bringing in their crops, with some making a trip to the buyers to sell off all they had grown for a nice chunk of change. Others preserved their bounties by canning almost everything and storing them in root cellars, where they'd stay until needed, especially when they were the only source of fresh vegetables in the cold winter months.
Over time, the farm, which was mostly run by part-time farmers, became a tourist attraction as city folks stopped in to see what all the talk was about. They bought bags of everything and often needed more than one bag to hold it all. Not long ago, they took a ride on an airplane, looking down at row after row of fenced-in parcels, creating a sort of maze filled with the colors of lettuce, green peppers, tomatoes, and strawberries. Carrot tops and cabbage. pumpkins and watermelons, onions and sunflowers.
With hundreds of plots all bringing prosperity to both the lessee and the lessor. They had an average annual income of $2 million, plus a never-ending supply of vegetables and fruit. Now, after a long and often hard life, they sat back and waved to the city folks, most of whom they knew by name. But they still had one more surprise. Years ago, when they first got the land, they walked the tree line until they came across three acres left untouched, except for the Christmas trees they planted. Over one hundred trees, to be exact. And this was the year they would open the tree farm on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. People came from miles to find the perfect tree that they could cut down themselves, just another way a city slicker could brag to his buddies. As it turned out, they purchased another 5 acres and planted more trees.
Decades passed, and the two of them grew tired. They looked out over the many plots they had leased and the acres of planted trees, and a light came on when they talked about selling the individual plots rather than leasing them. The cost, based on her calculations, would bring in over $5 million, more than enough to sustain them until their dying days. And so it was that, when she passed away, with him not far behind, their land became a protected state park where, for many years to come, park employees would watch over everything, making sure the farm would never change. People would travel from miles away to see and purchase only the freshest produce and beautiful Christmas trees that grew right along with their dreams.                                               
Mike 2026

Snow globes for Mom

 If I could design snow globes, each one would hold a memory of my Mom. I could shake one gently as tiny snowflakes began to fall, and there she was in her kitchen, a place she loved to be.

I'd shake another globe, and when the snowflakes all fell, there was Mom waiting for me at the school bus. She wore a smile, her face filling my heart with an endless love for her.

Another globe shaken, and there she was walking down a snowy field, her head upturned, catching snowflakes on her tongue.

There could never be enough snow globes to capture her style, her class, and her never-ending love for her family. I give thanks every day for having had her as my Mom. 

There will be no shortage of memories she would tell me as she hangs another picture on the walls with little space left. Those pictures and dozens of old-time photo albums told her life story, bringing laughter and sadness, joys and success, all neatly pressed into the pages of her life.

All of us hold on to memories, some just a little more vivid, but even in a fleeting moment of remembrance, it can take you back in time, to having just one more day together with your Mom.

Happy Mother's Day in heaven, Mom.                             

Mike 2026

Ladder to the attic

 He slowly made his way to the room where the magic of his life and memories became stored in a cloud. For over fifty years, that room was his sanctuary, filled with mementos he'd picked up along the way. A snow globe of a small-town Christmas, pictures tacked to the wall that gave him inspiration to write, and a family rocking horse that goes back one hundred years and was eventually passed down to him. His son would take the reins one day and lug it around from house to house, like he had done, because that's what you do with anything handed down to you.

It was a small room in the attic with exposed beams and a pull-down ladder in the laundry room that led up there. He referred to it as his stairway to heaven. He also knew it wouldn't be too long before climbing the steep ladder would be forbidden by his wife of sixty-some years. But for the time being, he made his way up the ladder to his writing room, where rays of daylight poked through the rafters and beams, welcoming him.
The attic held many memories for him. In a corner were a couple of bicycles his now-grown kids had ridden, their laughter ringing in his ears and putting a smile on his face. A red flyer snow sled, a push cart, and snow skis. There were boxes too many to count, mostly labeled with the names of those who had passed on from this life. But also boxes that held Christmas lights, Christmas decorations, grade-school homework, Halloween decorations, and more than one diploma.  He remembers the day he got a railroad set with all the cars and an engine, you put a pill-looking thing in the smokestack, and it blew out white smoke, and a whistle that never grew silent. He closed that box, hoping one day his grandson would find it and cherish it as he had so long ago. There were boxes postmarked between 1941 and 1945, letters of love and promises to come home soon.
Generations of forgotten or misplaced memories he tried to capture with written words. Some boxed up and labeled with his name, hopefully to be found and read when the rays of light sifting through the rafters and beams grow dim, and his stairway to heaven can only be reached with a red rope swinging in a summer breeze, just out of his reach.

Mike 2026                                                                          

Love remembered

 He didn't care if he fell asleep in his chair; the bed they shared for so long was half empty now, and all he could hold onto were memories. His days were just movements he'd learned over time, nothing of any importance, or so he kept telling himself.

He didn't take notice when his neighbor saw him dancing through an open window, his slippers gliding across the parlor floor to music only they could hear.
He didn't care when people said he had lost touch with reality, because when he lost her, reality became etched in stone. A constant reminder of a love that had a beginning but never an end.
He would still watch sunsets from the porch, slowly rocking in the swing he built for her decades ago, with memories of her bare feet rubbing against his work boots, her hand in his as the night creatures woke in harmony.
He didn't care that he was old as each passing second brought him one minute closer to holding her again in his empty arms, dancing to their favorite songs, in slippered feet, and mending his broken heart.

Mike 2026                                                                

Picture perfect

 She sat alone, a look of anticipation on her beautiful face. She checked her watch every few minutes, looking at every opening and closing of the door. A fleeting moment of joy, scanning the crowd for someone she only knew from a picture he sent to her from the front lines. It all began when she answered an ad on the chalkboard at the USO asking for pen pals to write letters to scared and lonely servicemen who wanted desperately to hear from home. Most wanted a picture to keep in the lining of their helmets to look at when the battles grew quiet, so she had one taken last summer with her in a bathing suit, smiling a million-dollar smile. She found out later that the picture was shown to war buddies everywhere, and her face became the face of the United States Army sweethearts.

He knew it was her at first sight as her image was scorched into his head, and although it was wrinkled and mud-stained and had survived countless battles, the lady in that picture was sitting just a few feet away. He watched as she held his picture tightly to her heart as more military came and went, but not the man in the picture. He couldn't wait another second, so he slowly made his way to her table and asked her for a dance. Words wouldn't come to her as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and he handed her the picture he'd carried with him for such a long time." " It's really you," she whispered through flowing tears as he held her closer than any picture could ever do.

Mike 2026                                                    

The farm revisited

 I've always enjoyed walking through fields of wildflowers. Letting the stems glide through my fingers and the scents filling my nose with a smell so slight but one that stays with me as I walk further into the meadow.

It's quiet here except for the concert of birds and the chirping of a happy frog on the edge of a hidden pond. My mind races back in time to when this beautiful place became a mecca of rock 'n' roll, and free spirits gathered in huge numbers, all a part of history now but never to be forgotten.

So many decades later, the farm has been reborn, with seemingly endless rows of crops and vast meadows I now walk through. The mud has dried up, and the huge stage is gone, and farmers' great-grandkids search with metal detectors for anything left behind and forgotten over time.

Those days of expression live on with others like me, as cars full of looky-loos stop to take pictures of the farm dressed in tie-died shirts bought at Walmart. One teen ran up to me and asked for a picture. Are you a real hippy? She asked. I removed a love bracelet and handed it to her as she placed it around her wrist and ran back to her group, claiming she had seen the real thing.

Soon, the light of the sun will say goodnight, and the people will go home. As for me, I'll hang around in the meadow and catch fireflies, putting them in mason jars that will give me light to read by as I write a song about longing to live right here in a meadow where my ashes will scatter across fields of wildflowers where birds sing the same soothing songs and fireflies guide me through the darkness.

Mike 2026                                                            

Moonshine express

 As a young boy, I was allowed to go exploring in the woods that surrounded our house. And in no way was I to go down the steep inclines where many a moonshiner crashed and left his car or truck to rust for all eternity.I followed the rules until I turned 16 and decided I was old enough to venture down the hillside, reaching the first car that seemed to be the remains of a 1932 Ford three-window coupe. The trunk was gone, but dozens of glass jars were left behind, some amazingly still intact, wrapped in heavy tarps that could have prevented them from breaking. I dared myself to open a jar and taste the moonshine that some say could fuel a car, as it was just that strong, but I wasn't sure if the shine was worth a potential bout of vomiting or worse. So I took one jar and put it in my backpack and continued on down the revine to find more treasure.

The next thing I came across was a police car that seemed to be from the same era as the Ford coupe. It was lying on its side with faded words I could barely make out, but my guess was that it said police, and that's it. I looked under the hood and found a rusty siren. I added to the jar, telling myself I'd get it working again and put it on my bicycle to scare everybody around me. I found an old wooden Billy club and wondered how many moonshiners felt its wrath after being stopped as the cops smashed their shine and carried them off to the county jail.

The day was wearing down when I abruptly stopped smelling burning wood and a sickening odor of corn mash, and god knows what else. I heard men's voices laughing and took shelter a few yards away, where I could see what was going on. I saw a copper vat with lines running through it. A gruffy-looking man stirred the concoction, tasted it, then jumped up and down as the shine burned its way down his throat. Yes, sir, I believe it's another good batch," he said. Let's get to bottling it and get it to town.

I'd always heard a good moonshiner would come up with secret ways to transport the shine, like taking out the floorboards of a truck and filling the truck with hay or straw or filling a false gas tank with shine. But let's face it, everything depended on the driver. Someone who started driving about ten years old, learning the curves and slopes of the mountain roads that he would eventually master, driving at speeds that would be deadly if he crashed. I watched from afar as they loaded the truck and the teenage boy sped off to make the deadline in town, where a buyer waited to receive his cases of shine.

It was now 1989, and most counties had lifted the dry county label long ago, allowing hard liquor to be sold but not shine. That had to be snuck in with souped-up cars and drivers with some extra-large balls. Unlike the 1930s, when shine cost two dollars a jar, the going price today for a single jar is twenty-five dollars a good reason to keep on shining.And to this day, bar owners keep a supply of shine behind the counter for those country boys to prove their manhood or a city slicker trying to win a bet with his buddies, which usually ended with projectile vomiting. Shine is not for everybody, but for many, it's etched into their heritage, with memories of rusted old cars and trucks scattered along the mountain roads and a ten-year-old behind the wheel.

Mike 2026                                                         

Tabletops to laptops

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

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

Mike 2026