The smells of life

 I will never forget certain scents that were all a part of who I am. The smell of mom's perfume is my first smell and will probably be my last as she guides me to the heavens. The smell of Dad's pipe and the sweet smell of captian black tobacco.A smell that has sometimes lingered in my room.The smell of clothes drying on a backyard clothesline, sun-drenched with the scent of lemons.The smell of fresh cut grass and burning pine from a campfire. The smells of the mountains are a smorgasbord of scents, like wet moss, dying leaves, wildflowers, and hidden patches of homegrown herbs. The scent of sweat in the forest, disguised with patchouli oil, spread across the land like wildfire. The smell of a new album and the smell of electricity coming from a group of hopeful songwriters.

The smell of gasoline and motor oil dripping from my Harley, and the scents of the roadside that passed by too quickly as I rode through them, too fast to notice. The smell of a greasy 24-hour diner, with smells on a plate that turned into smiles.Bacon and eggs, pancakes with smily faces and coffee brewed just right. Ashtrays overflowing with burned-out butts and a handful of scented mints from a bowl at the checkout counter. The unforgettable smell of new leather and fringed jackets.
The smells of the ocean and a warship that took me to far-away places. The smell of jet fuel and paint. Waiting in line for a tray full of what I'm not sure of, but soon learned that powdered eggs have no smell. The countries I traveled to, each with its own unique smell. A sidewalk cafe in France that smelled of warm biscuits, opened bottles of wine, and blocks of cheese. Spain with smells of bullfights and scooters everywhere, leaving behind clouds of exhaust. Greece that smelled like centuries ago, the aromas of carefully prepared foods, the scents pouring through windows with no glass.
For four years, I traveled the globe and experienced countless smells of cultures trying to hang on to the old ways. Some places in the Middle East had a smell all their own, a combination of smells that had been around for generations.  I was amazed by the scent of moisture from tropical forests and by the sheer number of different scents in just one place.
Growing old now, my sense of smell has all but left me. Guess I used my nose to the point of being used up. But the strange thing is I may not smell things like I once did, but I can call upon a memory any time to relive the smells of children playing and laundry drying. I can smell the inside of the ice cream truck as lawn sprinklers shoot out well water that smells like rotten eggs. I can smell my wife's perfume and kids with mouthfuls of captian crunch. I can smell the chocolates in a heart-shaped Valentine before it's opened, and when I feel the need to be alone, I go to an empty church and smell the incense and candles slowly wafting into my nose, giving me a sense of calm and quiet reflections of scents I hold close to my heart.

Mike  2026                                                               

A dog named Ralphy

 As I walked down the alley I used to take to school, I caught that musty smell, which I later found to be rotting wood and decay. There was someone's German Shepherd in a fenced area that contributed to that smell, and for some reason, I could smell it no matter how far away it was. The dog is long gone, but its collar lay almost hidden under a pile of debris, so I picked up a stick, and after several attempts I got it to the fence and pulled it under where I wiped off the tag that read, name-Ralphy-address 1212 filmore st. phone-ludlo5678.That told me old rRalphy was in his prime about sixty years ago. Just around the time I walked down that alley and passed him on my way to school. I found the house he belonged to and knocked on the door. An elderly lady answered, and I introduced myself and showed her the collar. Oh my she said, old Ralphy. A tear ran down her face as she told me the story of her 15-year friendship with him. They were inseparable; no matter where she went, Ralphy was by her side. Her dad built the caged area Ralphy stayed in when she was at school, and I told her we must have known each other back then, as I saw him every day to and from school. She said her name was Mary Wilkes but changed it to Mary Silverman when she married. I introduced myself as Mark Willis. She excused herself for a minute, returning with a school yearbook she'd kept all these years. She pointed to herself and then to me, both about eight years old. From that day forward, Mary and I have stayed in touch thanks to a dog named Ralphy. The collar is hanging on the hook she used to hang his leash, a reminder of countless walks and fetching sticks. Belly rubs and wet kisses. And a grade school yearbook that was saved for just that moment in time.  

Mike  2026                                                            

Mike  2026

Dreams of flight

 When asked what I wanted to be as a kid, my answer was quick to come out of my mouth: a bird. I practiced flying by jumping off the doghouse, but only hit the ground time and again. I'd try running as fast as I could wearing a sheet off the clothesline, which got me in trouble and still no air. So I went into my dad's workshop to look for anything I could use to soar in the sky. I came across a box labeled "school play" and opened it. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the angel wings my sister wore in a class play. I quickly got to work making alterations to fit me properly, then I devised a system of ropes attached to the wings so I could control them. I climbed onto the garage roof, which gave me a longer takeoff area, as it was a two-car garage. I decided not to jump off the roof of the house, as it could end up being a nasty fall to the ground below.

As I was just about ready to go, my folks and my sisters came outside and saw me standing on the garage roof, wings spread and all controls working properly. My mom grabbed her chest as Dad made a marathon run to the garage. I knew if he reached me, I'd never get another chance to fly. So I took in a deep breath and began running as fast as I could, and then it happened. My feet left the ground, and with a tug of the ropes, I began to fly. I was as high as the apple tree; I barely missed hitting it, then I soared around the yard watching as my family below grew smaller. Using some very off-color commands, my dad ordered me to come down at once.  I knew I was probably in for a good whooping, but it would be worth it, as my dream of flight had really happened.
I wanted to take my wings to school for show-and-tell, but my mom put her foot down, saying she didn't want to get a call from the principal telling her I was jumping off the school's roof. The wings went back into the box labeled Mike's wings and were put up in the attic for good. I never lost my dreams of flying, and when I learned the local college was offering flying lessons, I signed up, and within a short time I was behind the controls of a Cessna plane. I can't really describe the feelings I had while soaring with the birds and looking down at our garage roof, where it all began. All I know is I'm at my best, high above the ground, laughing like a kid whose dream came true. 

Mike  2026

Things that go BOO in the night

 A pair of baby shoes swings slowly on the rearview mirror. A small statue sits on the dashboard, which Mom would touch every time she drove.

A horseshoe hung above the front door for luck, and never did you step on a crack, or you'd break your mother's back. There were four-leaf clovers encased in plastic for a keychain and a shiny new penny tucked into your shoe to keep you safe from evil.
A pinch of salt thrown behind you at the dinner table and a sprig of sage to rid the house of uninvited guests. Baseball players making the sign of the cross and tapping their cleats twice before going to bat. Placing stones on a headstone for a speedy ascent to the heavens.
Everyone has some fears we half-believe, usually handed down from generation to generation and accepted as fact. And what about those scary things handed down like monsters under the bed, spirits in the closet, and faces at the window? Nightmares so real you might wet yourself as your screams could wake the dead. Parents run to your rescue, soothing you and having Dad look under the bed and in the closets anywhere a monster could be hiding.
Eventually we grow out of monsters but never let go of maybe seeing one, so you make sure every night your legs and feet aren't dangling off the bed no matter your age. You carry your lucky charms without anyone knowing and panic when you've forgotten them. It's a scary world we live in, and I, for one, can never have enough lucky charms to ward off anything that goes boo in the night. Pleasant dreams.

                                                                          

Mike  2026

Vacation on the farm

 Coming inside for lunch, he'd proudly show off his dirty hands to his grandma, exclaiming, "Just like grandpa's," as she led him to the sink. And what did grandpa have you doing, she asked as grandpa himself came through the screen door. He let me put dirt from one bucket to another one using just my hands. Then I went to the stream and filled the buckets with cool water, enough to water all the dirt buckets. But first he had me dig small holes using my fingers to plant some special seeds. Then I had to hunt for earthworms, which he taught me to find by wetting the soil and digging up handfuls, looking for anything moving. It took a long time to catch a worm, but after a while there were enough in a tin can that they could use for bait to go fishing once the chores were done. "You've had a busy morning," his grandma said as he nodded and showed off his clean hands.

With summer break over, he'd ride the school bus that picked him up and dropped him off at the start of the long dirt road that led to the house. Some days he'd see his grandma waiting for him, and they'd walk slowly as he told her about his day, stopping for a minute to show her the award he'd gotten for being the student with the best summer vacation. " I'll read it to you he said.
My summer vacation was so much fun. I got up early like my grandpa did, even before the sun came up. He would make a thermos of coffee for him and a thermos of orange juice for me. We'd put on our coveralls and work boots and head for the barn where our six cows were milked, three by me and three by Grandpa, who I knew from times before he'd look for any excuse to squirt me with warm milk. When a machine broke down, as the tractor did, I'd hand him the tools he needed, usually the wrong tool, but he was patient as I learned by doing. He taught me how to drive the tractor, letting me sit on his lap and try to steer in a straight line that wasn't straight at all. Back in town, other farmers would see us and ask if those zigzag rows were some new way to yield bigger crops.
He wrote about sleeping in a tent, night fishing, filing down a horse's shoe, and shearing a sheep. He told how, when it rained, he'd take his time walking down the dirt road, stopping to play in mud puddles and arriving home looking like he'd been dipped in chocolate. He wrote about collecting eggs for his grandma, who always prepared a hearty breakfast late in the morning, even if eight o'clock is late. He wrote about the magic seeds that transformed into rows of pumpkins and the zigzag rows of corn he helped harvest. Other kids wrote about trips to a theme park or weeks spent at the beach. But only his told the stories of learning and doing, trying and succeeding. It told of the bond he had with his grandparents and squashed the notion that playing in the dirt was, well, dirty.

That award is proudly displayed on the fridge, where he put it for all to see, and Grandma left the dirty little handprints alone as a reminder of their time spent together and the grandsons' summer vacations on the farm.                                                              

Mike  2026                                                              

Mike  2026

Life 360

 I'd sit with my granddaddy on his front porch, looking out over his fields of corn, and I asked him how they could live as they did with so few conveniences. He would finish lighting his pipe, settle back in his chair, and then speak to me.

Back when I was brought into this world in a bedroom by a midwife, you didn't travel for miles in a wagon to the nearest hospital; the woman and girls tended to the new mother's needs. And once the dad heard the babies' cries, he smiled and went back out to the fields as it was harvest time.
We never thought for a minute we were poor, as there was always food to eat and a roof over our heads. We had two sets of clothing and two pairs of shoes that would last until your toes were coming out of the shoes and the trousers couldn't be let down anymore. There weren't any department stores, but we got a Sears catalog in the mail every month that Mom could order things from, like cloth for making pretty dresses for the girls and slip covers for the good furniture, off-limits to anyone who hadn't taken a bath first.
You see that old steam tractor sitting out yonder rusting away? That was your great-granddad's first piece of machinery, which replaced the team of mules used to plow acres of land. You see that tractor just over there? That was my dad's, who was one of the first farmers to buy a diesel-powered machine that most laughed at, but soon changed their tune when they saw how fast and efficient it was.
Now we have combines so big they can harvest a crop and shoot the grains through a giant tube into waiting trucks to be filled and sent off to the mill to be stored and sold. One day's work today was a week's worth of work yesterday. Change takes time, he told me, drawing on his pipe, blowing smoke rings to my delight. When I was a boy, we had no indoor plumbing, just an outhouse that, believe me, was a cold and dark place you didn't look forward to visiting, especially in the dead of winter. But you did have a Sears catalog to read while you waited for that morning constitution.
There were no televisions or flat screens, just a movie theater in town where every Saturday evening folks would dress in their finest and eat popcorn Mom had brought along, in our own paper bags. And we'd each get a bottle of Coke-a-Cola from the vendor outside the doors. We'd watch the newsreels of the war overseas,s sometimes Mom shielding our eyes from the violence on the front lines. The movie was silent, but with actors like charlie chapman and others who didn't need to talk, as their gestures spoke volumes.
But what did you do for fun, I would ask him, and he would think for a minute, then speak. Our lives were mostly spent outdoors, working long days, starting before the sun came up and often well into the night to plow new fields, milk cows, deliver newborn calves, fix machinery, put up fences, and handle many other tasks required on a farm.
We'd go to the chapel on Sunday mornings, and when the last amen was spoken, we were off to the farm, where we'd change out of our Sunday go-to church clothes and into our rag-torn clothes. Different seasons meant different kinds of fun, like summer when we'd go to the pond and swim for hours, swinging on the rope swing back and forth, then letting loose and falling into the water. We'd catch fireflies at night along with night crawlers we'd use for bait when doing a bit of night fishing.
Winter meant sledding, snowball fights, ice hockey, and snow forts. We'd play all day if Mom hadn't called us in by ringing the dinner bell. A late supper was well worth the wait, as Mom always outdid herself in the kitchen, turning simple ingredients into masterpieces. Most of the time, Dad would take me hunting for deer or elk, which he'd dress out, teaching me the proper ways to do things. A nice slab of deer meat topped off any meal.
I asked him how he liked things today, with all those computers doing your thinking for you and all the social networks manned 24 hours, 7 days a week, spilling out any information you could ever want. I asked him if he'd ever see himself chatting or texting and maybe even finding a date. Mom yelling from the kitchen, over my dead body.
Well, my boy, I'd have to say, with complete truth, it wouldn't bother me one bit if there was a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning and the world went black. Those throngs of city people would panic as cell phones went silent, cars quit running, and the box stores locked their doors: no DoorDash or food trucks, no ATMs, no cash. There would be a world of overeducated, underworked masses of people lost within the world they created.
As for us, we'll light the lanterns and sit around a campfire. We'd live off the land, which provides us with everything we'd need. We'd still go to church on Sundays and play outside. Mom would keep cooking with vegetables from her garden, and the smokehouse would always be full of meat. I pondered what he said, then said, "Life goes around 360, doesn't it, Granddad?" He stoked his pipe again, blowing smoke rings into the star-filled night just as Grandma rang the dinner bell.

Mike  2026

Mike  2026

Wildflowers and bumblebees

 She lay in a field of wildflowers as a warm breeze kissed her face, leaving a scent of jasmine behind for just a fleeting moment. A bumblebee flew around her head like a helicopter, looking for a place to land and finding nowhere, so it buzzed off into the distance.

She softly sang a song her mom would sing to her as they walked hand in hand in this very valley, letting the stems of flowers slide between their fingers as a summer rain shower came out of nowhere. They twirled around and around, their faces lifted upwards, letting the falling drops of heaven's nectar quench their thirst.
She had brought her journal with her, which sometimes remained just a blank sheet, but other times, like this day, the words came to her with a speed she could barely keep up with. She wrote of the valley and the wildflowers, the bumblebee looking for a place to land and holding her mom's hand in hers as they walked, sometimes in silence, taking in the wonders of the world around them, right here in their valley.
Out of nowhere, the rain began to fall, and that nectar from the heavens fell upon her face as she twirled around and around, knowing her mom was right there with her, dancing in her linen dress, spinning around and around, her laughter like a song you don't ever want to stop hearing. Tomorrow she'd venture back to the valley where the wildflowers showed off their colors and bumble bees found places to land. She'd open her journal and share her stories with her young daughter as they danced in the sudden summer rain.
Mike  2026                                                             

Orange colored picture books

 Fireflies danced across the meadow as wildflowers swayed to a gentle breeze. The car is packed with tired kids and an empty picnic basket as darkness makes way for a billion stars. It's a quiet ride home, the radio softly playing as Mom sings along at barely a whisper. Dad points to a deer on the side of the road, our headlights scaring it back to the woods to the delight of the kids not asleep. Sunburned faces and a few cuts and bruises, all in a day's fun captured by Dad and the camera that stayed glued to him like a third arm. He would take the film to be developed tomorrow, and 24 hours later we'd sit down and look at everyone smiling and laughing at how we looked, like the one with Mom trying to hide her face, claiming she didn't even have her lipstick on. Each picture was a treasure, protected inside an orange-colored picture book and tucked away in Mom's big red trunk in the attic. As an adult, I looked through those little orange books, remembering picnics and days at the beach. Little league baseball games with me up to bat and Mom caught on film yelling and cheering me on. There were pictures of every new car Dad bought over the years, usually with him washing them. There were decades of birthday parties caught on film, as well as first communions, first haircuts, and every holiday known to man. I believe Dad was the only guy with a camera who took pictures of before-and-after things, like a shot of Thanksgiving dinner in all its splendor, then another shot of after dinner was over that could have been described as a bomb going off. Half-eaten slices of pumpkin pie and chewed dinner rolls. The turkey, once a thing of beauty, now a carcass Dad just had to take a picture of.This obsession of his held for every holiday before and after, but I'll admit that as I looked at all those pictures, I was happy he was so obsessed.

There's something special about those old pictures, a kind of window into our lives when time stood still long enough for him to capture each moment as a memory. I was gifted Dad's camera after his passing, a simple, inexpensive, no-frills camera, not even a timer he could have set to go off as he ran to get in the picture. I guess that's why he wasn't in too many of the orange colored picture books, except for a bunch of shots Mom took, like him getting an award for his work in advertising and him in uniform when he fought in Korea. I finished well into the night, looking at my life in black and white, then closing the red trunk that will remain closed in the attic until someone else dusts it off, sits on the floor, and opens the orange-colored picture books.

Mike  2026                                                  

Mike  2026

My ship

 I served on the U.SS KOELSCH DE-1049 FROM 71-75.

Our home port was Mayport, which we didn't see much of, as we were always taking six-month cruises to places like the Med and the Indian Ocean. As a young man of 18, life aboard a naval ship was an experience like crossing the equator twice and becoming a golden shellback. I visited too many places to remember, but many have stayed with me in memories I hold close to my heart. France, Italy, Spain, Majorca, South Africa, Gibraltar, and many more ports of call; I made brothers for life and visualize their faces some 50 years later. I can remember many cold nights on the signal bridge as a signalman, a rating that no longer exists. On a visit to Buffalo, New York, I visited the Sullivan brothers, a WWII ship now a museum, where I could roam the decks and get as close as I could to the Navy way of life. She's been decommissioned a while now and sails the oceans no more. But the Koelsch will forever live on in my memories as I feel the salt spray on my face and the endless seas of blue.

Mike 2026

                                                                               

 

     

Just once more

 Just once more, I'd like to walk through a winter forest where all is quiet. To sit on a stump and wait for a fallen branch to snap under the weight of a woodland animal.

Once more I'd like to sit on golden sands as small waves break around me and the smell of the sea lingers.
Once more I'd like to hold my children when they were babies and tell them I'd always be there for them, then see if I was.
Once more I'd like to be in love, if only in my dreams. I want to feel her softness and taste her lips as we stroll hand in hand on a street made of bricks. Once more, I'd ride the steepest rollercoaster and ride my Harley through the mountains in autumn splendor.
Once more, I'd like to remember my childhood and all the parts I played, from superhero to baseball legend. I'd relive my life in slow motion so as not to miss one precious moment.
Once more I'd tell myself I did okay on this earth enough to earn my place above where the angels soar.
I would go fishing with my son and have a grown-up tea party with my daughter. I would sit on a front porch looking out over the endless fields of corn we played in as kids. I'd hold my mom's hand wherever we were and always see my dad as my hero. I would write one more story the world would read, and one kept close to my heart for my eyes only. There are way too many things I'd like to do just once more, but the one that tops my list is I'd like to dance with the girl of my dreams, to hold her so close I'd hear her heartbeat just once more.

Mike  2026                                                                       

The old Oak

 He sat under the old oak tree his great grand dad planted as a sapling almost one hundred years ago.  It was a tree kids would climb as they grew, along with it with sturdy branches and challenging limbs to navigate the highest of climbs. Each generation of kids dared their friends to go higher and higher until one such brave kid reached the top, sticking his head out of the tippy-top branches, where he yelled loudly. He could see the whole town from up there. To his reckoning, nobody else ever climbed that high again.

As the years passed, tree houses were built in the old oak shelters to camp out in or pretend to be lookouts for the enemy. They were constructed with materials found around the farm and, on more than one occasion, fell apart, sending wood and boys falling to the ground below, causing one broken arm and bouts of poison ivy. Dad, who was a carpenter by trade, built a tree house unlike any other, with a floor, sturdy walls, a roof with shingles, and a trap door. A rope was lowered to the ground to let someone climb up if invited, and an emergency ladder kept inside just in case a wise guy took the rope off.
That old oak tree had a rope swing hanging from a sturdy branch that could hold the weight of the fattest kids, who, in most cases, chose it instead of trying to climb the rope up to the tree house. That tree was a part of kids' lives, including his, who could close his eyes and see the joy and laughter it brought on any given day. As he stood next to the oak, he saw the carvings of hearts and initials, dates and notches, showing the growth of kids as they grew up. A tear rolled down his face as he saw his kid's name on the mighty oak, a babysitter he thought of as a never-ending source of happy times.
Lightning struck that old oak, scorching some of its bark and catching fire, which was quickly put out, but not before leaving a scar that never healed. It wasn't strong enough to climb anymore, but it still stood as a reminder of its once mighty self, ready to take on the best tree houses and lookouts from low-hanging branches. Much like himself, it refused to acknowledge old age and would probably outlive generations to come who would hear the stories and look up to the heavens, where the shadow of a boy could be heard yelling that he could see the whole town from up there. And he smiled, remembering he could.

Mike  2026                                                                

    

Mike  2026

Ice cream horror

 He stopped in his tracks, bending his head towards a familiar sound. Faint in the distance but growing louder with an occasional stop in time as it grew closer. He tried to run towards his house, but his legs wouldn't respond to his brain's call as he joined the others screaming that he was coming, and the noise grew louder. With his legs now in a full-out sprint, he barged through the kitchen door, causing his mom to jump and scold him not to run up on her like that. He tried to form the words as his mom removed a quarter from her apron pocket, which he snatched up, giving her a quick kiss on her cheek. DON'T SLAM THE DOOR, she yelled after him, but he was already joining the other kids, ears tuned to that sound every kid wants to hear on a hot summer evening. THERE HE IS, one kid yelled. I see its head. The music grew louder as it inched closer: the painted-red mouth and the massive blue-and-yellow head, a young kid's worst nightmare. And just like that, the ice cream truck stopped and a man dressed as a clown opened the window, taking orders from kids of all ages. It's the simple things that give us pleasure, like waiting for an ice cream truck, that have all the ingredients of a PG-rated horror show.

Mike 2026                                                          

American dreams and promises

 The year was 1933, a few years into the great depression, and he remembered it well. Thousands were going to bed hungry, only to get up again, searching for any job that might pay enough for a loaf of bread that you'd have to stand in line for, hoping they didn't run out as you waited. Children still played in the streets, girls playing hopscotch while boys too young to work used discarded pieces of board as bats and well-guarded baseballs. Across the river, life was sweet, as those of privilege rode in fancy cars, ate at fine restaurants, and wore anything but the finest clothes. He remembers sitting on the docks, where, in the distance, music played, and the twinkle of bright lights lit the sky. If you closed your eyes, you could imagine it was you over there, a man of success with a cigar sticking out of your mouth, sitting at a shoeshine stand where the attendant had black, stained hands from years of applying polish with his fingers.

Reality found him back on his side of the river and the endless pursuit of employment. Hundreds of men pushing at the gate where a guy with a clipboard selected five of them and said, " That's all for today. You lucked out one morning getting chosen for a road crew to dig dirt that paid two dollars for nine hours of hard work. With those two dollars, he bought a loaf of bread and six potatoes, with enough left for a bottle of milk, something his kids had gone without. That night they gave thanks for the food and to the man who worked so hard, but knowing tomorrow would be another day of empty stomachs and hope.
Time moved forward, and life began to improve as he dug on the road project, becoming a foreman with a six-dollar-a-day paycheck, which allowed his family better food and shelter. From there, change became the norm as government jobs became more plentiful, and the endless days and nights were just memories soon to be left behind. Years passed, and his country was at war. And like thousands of other men, he joined up to fight. But by the grace of God, he came home and started a new life, where times got better, and the American Dream became reality.
He passed away at home, his family beside him, leaving behind a legacy of a man who never stopped looking after his family, never gave up on his promise always to provide the best he could, and never once thought only of himself. He was the poster guy for dreams and promises kept.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026

What Ive done in life

 I've known love a hundred times over, each time the best time. I've climbed many a mountain only to climb another taller. I've seen war and peace, highs and lows, all of which taught me more about life in some manner. I've had good thoughts and bad, reminding me of good angels and bad, a constant battle going on in my soul. I've taught lessons and was taught by others. I've bared my very soul and begged others to share theirs. I've tried to be a good man, but sometimes I veer off course, lost for a minute until I straighten myself out. I've grown to accept the things I can't change, but I don't have to like them. I've aged with my dignity intact and my mind still sharp enough to recall the happiness I've been blessed with. I've written tens of thousands of words, some morphing into books, some read, others forgotten under layers of dust. I've traveled to faraway places, each one a notch on my belt, a scar on my heart and another story pulled from somewhere in my mind to be shared. I've lived a life I'm mostly proud of, with some reservations about its status as good or evil. I've learned that life is a road with many turns, all of which I've traveled through words I've sometimes thought were magic falling from the heavens and landing on a blank piece of paper. I've only had one true love that's always there for me: my writing, when my heart and mind open up, and my addiction rears its head trying to hide the results. It comforts me in times like that to write happy stories and leave the darkness on the other side of the door. I've found myself wondering at times what will become of my life's work of spinning tales and writing words with an impact that touches like I've been touched. I don't suppose I'll ever have that answer, but I'll never give up until I do.

Mike  2026                                                            

Silent until beckoned

 I keep the broken glass in a multitude of colors, a reminder of the countless bottles that have been washed ashore after decades of being tossed around. I  only wish I could find a way to keep ships from spilling a single drop of oil into the sea, so hundreds of newborn turtles could have their first taste of oil-free saltwater. I wish I could swim with the dolphins and be in awe of the coral reefs in all their many colors, a safe shelter from predators. I would dream I found King Neptune and his court, who waved me on, as it wasn't my time, and mermaids guided me back to the beach, only to be awakened by the sound of small waves gently lifting my body with every passing one pushing me back out to sea, where I long to be living the Navy way of life. Faded tattoos and more salt in my socks than most will ever sail in a lifetime. From sea to shining sea, I can actually smell each port, a lasting memory I can relive at any time. The smell of unknown meat on a stick you'd eat after a drunken liberty, the smell of an alley rich in history, with the smell of noodles and sauce seeping through the bricks. From the coast of Africa to the rock of Gibraltar, from the shores of Spain, Italy, and Greece, smells are preserved in my memory that I will call upon when other memories fade to black. I will remember the smell of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, and homemade bread. I will remember the smell of a baby after a bath and the smell of someone very special, her perfume forever etched in my heart. Hot dogs and cotton candy, apple pie and fresh mowed grass.Campfires and a springtime rain.The smells of Christmas and scented candles. The smells of my life are neatly tucked away in my memories, where they will live on in harmony alongside other memories, staying silent until beckoned.

Mike  2026                                                         

for the love of pedal cars

 He was seven years old when Santa brought him an orange pedal tractor. It was love at first sight, and very difficult to get him off. For hours, he'd go up and down the driveway, shifting the throttle that was just a piece of metal you could push and pull as his mom watched from the kitchen window. She later told him that thing was the best babysitter known to man. He kept it clean by using the same cloth his dad used to wash his car, who could have been upset if it wasn't so cute. Day after day, he rode his tractor until the day he went outside and found it gone. He let out a scream heard around the neighborhood as his Mom came running outside, thinking the worst, like he had been hurt. She found him running around the yard under the picnic table and behind the trash cans, all to no avail, as his beloved tractor was nowhere to be found. She tried to console him by saying they'd take a walk around the neighborhood and look for it, and when dad got home, they'd take the car and look some more. They went from door to door asking people if they'd seen an orange tractor, but no one had, so they went back home just as Dad was pulling in. And so began the search. It seemed like forever with no sightings until Mom yelled, THERE, THERE IT IS as she pointed to a house where an orange tractor was parked on the porch. Dad parked, and they walked up to the house wanting to be sure it was his, as Santa may have brought another little boy a tractor just like his, but he wasn't buying that because when he first got it, he ran into the barbecue and put a scratch on the right side, and the scratch was right there, he pointed to his dad. Just then, the front door opened, and a lady appeared, asking what she could do for us as He spoke loudly, asking why they stole his tractor. The lady, speaking in a low voice, told us her daughter was a special child who sometimes believes everything she likes belongs to her and has, in the past, brought home ice skates, bowling balls, a little red wagon, and more. She meant no harm, the lady said; she's just lonely, as none of the neighborhood kids wanted to play with her because she was different from them. Then a girl brushed past her mom and headed straight for the tractor, which she quickly got into and wouldn't get out of as she began to cry. Dad suggested he let her take one more ride to the corner and back, then we'd put it in the car and go home. He watched as she peddled and worked the throttle, smiling and waving to cars that sometimes honked and waved back. She sure likes it, doesn't she he asked his folks. It was difficult to get her to stop and bring the tractor back, and she cried when Dad started loading it into the car. He thought for a minute, then asked his folks if he could give it to her as a kind of late Christmas present. They agreed that if that's what he thought was the right thing to do, then Dad pulled it out of the car and set it down in front of her as she jumped in and began her trips up and down the street, happier than her mom had ever seen her. He was quiet on the ride home, but noticed they weren't going home as dad parked the car in front of the toy store. Let's go have a look and see if Santa might have left a couple more pedal cars for them to look at. Once inside, he saw a fire-red firetruck with a bell and a working siren. It had a working fire hose and a genuine firefighter's helmet. WOW, he said, "Would you look at that?" The other was a race car with stickers all over it and a set of racing tires. It had just a driver's seat, real harness belts, and a roll bar. So which one do you like dad asked, pointing to the firetruck. Back home, he put on the captain's helmet, filled the water tank, and turned on the siren as he rang the bell that never quit ringing. His folks said he'd done the right thing, and after a conversation with the girl's mom, they agreed to load his firetruck into the car and come over to play. Up and down the sidewalk they'd go, bells ringing, sirens blaring, and smiles as bright as the day itself. A few years passed, and he outgrew his pedal truck, but he made it a point to stop by and visit her, chasing after her cat or just being together as friends. His old tractor now sits on her porch, filled with toys and other treasures she just had to have.

Mike  2026                                                              

Paper boats and airplanes

 It took forever for him to make his paper boat the way his older brother had taught him. Just the right creases and folds to be perfectly level as it floated down the gutter after a good rain. When the rains came, and the street became a fast-moving river, or so it seemed to him, he set the boat carefully down and counted to three as he let it go speeding down the street not far from a sewer drain that he hoped wouldn't swallow it up. He ran beside it as it dodged small branches and debris like leaves and discarded pieces of trash like candy wrappers and empty cigarette packs. It was a fine boat that stayed upright for almost the entire length of the street. He almost lost it when a passing car made a wave that seemed like a tidal wave to him, but it remained upright, continuing its journey until it reached the end of the street, and he had to make a decision if he'd let it continue across the street where cars went by every few minutes, and the odds of it making it across were slim to none. Or picking it up and taking it safely home to sail another day. He made up his mind to go for it, set it down, and looked both ways for cars. He let it go, watching as it picked up speed and raced across the street, hopefully to the other side, where victory would be his. He was halfway across when he saw a neighbor's dog running towards him at breakneck speed, taking a giant leap into the gutter, grabbing the boat in its jaws, and setting it at his feet, its tail wagging, thinking it was a game of fetch. All in all, it was a fun time for him as he headed home into the garage, where at least ten paper boats waited on a shelf to be launched after the next rains came. And sitting next to the paper boats were another dozen paper airplanes his older brother had taught him to build for sunny days with just enough wind to make them soar around the backyard, sometimes doing loops and other maneuvers he longed to try. The perfect day arrived, with conditions as close to ideal as he could hope for. His brother took a plane and held it ready to let it go up into the sky, catching a thermal that kept it climbing, then nosediving straight down that would surely cause him to crash, but at the last moment, another breeze caught up to it, and it came to rest in an apple tree unscathed and ready to fly again. Then it was his turn as he went over in his mind the lessons he received, and without hesitation, he let it go straight at first, surely going to crash until a sudden gust took hold of it and sent it high in the sky, nearly being knocked out by a flock of passing birds. His paper plane was doing loops and dives until it crashed into a light pole too high to retrieve. He remembers looking up at his plane every day, hoping it would fall, and it did just that on a cold winter's day, when iced wings sent it crashing. Today, he and his brother sit in lawn chairs with a cold beer and fond memories, seeing their kids float boats and fly paper airplanes, a family tradition never to be forgotten.

Mike  2026                                                                       

Where have the comments gone?

 I don't often experience writer's block. It's just that sometimes I don't believe I have any more stories to tell. With well over one thousand already written, how many can there be? In my younger years, I'd get a thought and write it down on bar napkins, paper bags, or anything I could find before it left me. I was spitting out tales like a broken copy machine on the brink of a meltdown.

I've written about every emotion, every age, eternal love, and endless ideas that roll around in my head, just waiting to be chosen and brought to life through my characters. My mind and heart work together to form the words that led to a story that led me to write. It became easy for me to sit down and write two or more tales in one sitting as candles burned out and the sun rose, my fingers trying to keep up with words waiting to be written through my eyes, with no sense of time.
When I decided to write a blog, I imagined a book of very short stories one could read in mere minutes from beginning to end. But who could read just one and stop? Some of my readers told me they would read four or five stories and set the book down to return to later. Someone else told me he had read a few stories on a plane and planned to read that night when he was back at the hotel. It made me extremely happy that people from all walks of life were reading my work, but I couldn't understand why readers weren't commenting on the stories they'd read.
I'm not a computer-friendly person, but I'm just curious why this is happening. My settings are correct, I think, as I have received a few comments from the same few people, very few. I have about 1500 viewers on my blog, and you'd think at least a few would comment, good or bad. If anyone has an answer to my dilemma, reach out to me. I'd appreciate your help.

Mike 2026    mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com                                                                                                                             

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Mike  2026                                       mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com

Just one mug

 Just one mug of Decaf coffee this morning, the kind that comes in individual packets. No side effects, I just like the taste. I believe it brings me back when I'd drink a pot of go juice, which we called coffee in the Navy, when you could scrape me off the ceiling by the end of the pot, and eventually, my doctor telling me to switch to Decaf, but I didn't listen.

I remember how I woke up to coffee brewing, the smell growing stronger with every perk of the percolator, which had a glass top so you could watch as clear water turned brown, dark brown. That first cup was nectar from God; if you didn't drink it, the rest of your day would be incomplete, and not to mention you'd better steer clear of me, as I could be violent.

As a teenager who wanted to seem older, I'd have half a cup of coffee, the other half milk, and at least ten packets of sugar. It was a sweet cup of warm sugar with a hint of coffee. As I grew older, I weaned myself off the sugar drink and went straight to coffee with two creamers and two sugars, which seemed just right until it wasn't. I found my way back to my navy days when too much caffeine found me back on the ceiling.

Now, and more likely forever, you'll find me having one mug of decaf in the morning, believing I can smell it brewing in the microwave. I'll savor every last drop and lick the spoon of my warm cup of creamy sugar, calmly wishing I were back on the ceiling.

Mike 2026                                                               

Mike 2026

Remembering Grand dad

 I remember him in his faded overalls and a John Deere ball cap that he always wore, except at the dinner table or when he placed it over his heart as the American flag passed by him at the Fourth of July parade. He didn't smile very much, but a kid like me didn't mind asking him why. Hed reach down and ruffled my hair, saying one day I'd understand, but for now I should just think about things that made me smile.

I remember him taking me fishing out on the lake in a boat he and his dad built a very long time ago. It took in a bit of water, but that's what the old coffee can was for, and it was my job to bail us out every so often. He seemed at peace on the lake, and if I was quick enough to look his way, I might catch him with a very brief smile.
He loved to walk in the woods, where he said the quiet was nice and the air smelled of pine. We walked in silence as I reached for his hand, which felt like sandpaper, and he squeezed it gently, as if he never wanted to let go. I learned a lot from him, and I thought he was the smartest man on earth. He showed me how to appreciate what nature gave us and how fragile it was. He sat us down on a fallen tree to be still and listen to the trees speak to us through the breeze.
I remember asking a thousand questions, and he always found an answer in simple terms I could understand. We would spend entire days observing the sunrise, the sunsets, and every moment in between. We'd eat jelly-and-butter sandwiches, sitting by the lake or sometimes in the boat, not going anywhere. My mom later told me I was the only person who could turn his heart from stone to that of a happy man who cherished our times together, and that she once saw him quickly wipe away a tear as I left to go back home.
I think of him often and the times we shared, and I can never pass by the feed store without seeing a pair of overalls displayed in the window.

I wear my own John Deere ball cap these days, and I patched the hole in the boat I take my son fishing in. He asks me a thousand questions about my granddad, which I try to answer as best I can, as he asks why I smile so much.

Mike  2026                                                                                                    
                                                                 

Strait up

 The beautiful thing about memory is that it lets imagination fill in the blank spaces.

Mike

If you were to watch him sitting quietly in his favorite chair, looking out the window, you might think he's just old, and that's something old folks do, and you would be so wrong. It's 1942, and we are at war. He proudly wore the uniform of an army pilot, chasing death and saying prayers, lots of them. He flew a P-40, a single-prop fighter plane fast for its time, able to maneuver quickly but sometimes hit by enemy fire that punched holes in the skin. He observed that, back on the ground with thanks, it wasn't worse, and he lived once more to fly.
If you were to watch him, you'd see his closed eyes twitch a little, and his fingers occasionally tap the arm of his chair like he was at the controls of his plane, lining up his targets and firing fatal shots at enemy planes as they slammed into the ocean like a cigarette being snuffed out in a glass of water. You'd see his head tilt from side to side as he did a barrel roll, earning another painted star on the fuselage. You'd hear a slight sigh as he managed a smile, landing to the cheers of his fellow pilots and the knowledge that another mission was completed.
If you were to watch him in his recliner, which serves as his cockpit in his dreams, you'd see him high in the sky, where the cold was numbing, and his vision, scanning in all directions, was like an owl's. You'd see him touching the photo of his one true love waiting back home, smudged by his touch on every take off and landing and everything in between. If you were to watch him, you wouldn't see just an old man; you'd see a hero who dared to give up until every enemy plane crashed in balls of flame. Walk away now and leave him with his dreams and memories, and let him fly once more straight into the heavens.

Mike  2026                                                          

Mike  2026

Down in the valley

 His hair was long, his beard a shade of white, his feet were bare, and his flannel shirt faded. His cottage was small, nestled in a valley where fireflies danced all night, and stars fell from the sky. He didn't need to stay busy because he'd already done that decades ago. He smoked a pipe he had since his dad passed away, leaving him with a collection from around the world. His favorite is a clay pipe from Ireland. He let each new day decide what to smoke, sometimes a blend and other times a bud or two. He chopped and stacked wood daily, adding to the mountain that quickly went up in smoke, but that was cool with him, as it kept his guns hard. His tattoos were old and faded, yet he remembered when he got each one, mostly in his navy days when ink, booze, and youth were the soup of the day. He still had his Harley back in the shed, where it's been since he rolled it in, broken and silent, after he laid it down to avoid being hit by a logging truck. As years passed, he slowly got it running again, and when the roads were free of snow, he'd ride. To this day, his favorite sounds are birdsongs, a child's laughter, and the growl of his Harley. You have to understand, he didn't run away back then; he chose to leave the world he was forced to live in after fulfilling his obligations to his family, who finally understood why he had to go. In the valley, voices aren't heard, and nightmares don't occur; the only crime is burning the bisquets. Everything around and about him is old now, and that's okay with him. He doesn't mind that his cottage needs a coat of paint, which he will never get around to doing. He doesn't care if a hundred animals eat from his garden as long as he has enough to sustain himself. No more haircuts or beard trimming, no more traffic or the noises of the city he left behind. Just a white clay pipe, a rickety chair on his front porch, waiting for the evening show to begin down in the valley.

Mike  2026                                                           

Dan the Donkey

 I was standing on the safe side of the pasture where an old donkey lived out its final days. He became a favorite spot to stop on a sunday drive when I was just a little boy filled with wonder at the sounds it made and a giant mouth that learned over time not to be so impatient as he snached a carrot out of my hand and allowed me to scratch his head as my mom yelled out to me not to get so close as he was a wild animal which couldnt be more un true. One such Sunday, the farmer who cared for him came up beside him with a bunch of carrots, which he handed to me over the top of the fence, and asked if I'd like to know the history of the one he called Dan.

Dan was owned almost twenty years ago by a man who traveled with the circus. He gave donkey rides to children in a round ring that, for a quarter, could ride for exactly five minutes around and around, as Dan, wearing crazy hats made of straw and flowers, went through the motions with an occasional bellow that made some young kids yell to stop and get off his back. Days were long for Dan as the man made him walk in circles well into the night until the circus closed for the day and he could walk in a straight line back to his stall and some much-needed rest. The man never spoke to Dan unless he scolded him for stopping dead in his tracks and refusing to move, which he often did, knowing that he'd get a beating once back in his stall. One day, a farmer asked the man to sell him, Dan, for one hundred dollars, which was much more than the man could make at a quarter a ride, so he agreed.
The farmer let Dan roam several acres of lush pasture, where he learned to run, play, and bellow at passing cars, which led some to stop and feed him all sorts of treats, which he grabbed and ran away with as if it were a game. When the word got out about Dan the donkey, school buses full of kids would stop as Dan ran to the fence, happy to see the kids. Over time, as he got older, he didn't run much anymore, and his appetite wasn't what it once was. But he continued to come to the fence and drop most of the treats to the ground, bellowing his thanks for their kindness. On any given Sunday, Dan would come to the fence wearing a straw hat with flowers on it to pose for pictures, which he loved. He was a big ham. Dan was showing off his huge smile as kids stood on the other side of the fence and parents snapped pictures. The farmer thought how great it would be if he made a gate so kids could come into the pasture and play with Dan, and play they did. Dan let the kids think they could catch him as he ran back and forth, tucking his tail so they wouldn't grab it. Then he would stop and turn towards the kids who weren't quite sure what his next move would be. Then, with a loud bellow, Dan charged as kids scrambled away and chased by Dan at half speed, never intending to harm them, as they were all his friends. And that's the story of Dan the donkey, who for years brought joy to kids and adults looking for a place to stop on a Sunday drive. And as we pulled away, I stared out the back window of our station wagon, and I heard Dan bellow a goodbye as his straw hat with flowers faded into my favorite childhood memory.

Mike  2026                                                       

   

All you can be

 He stumbled in the darkness as he made his way to his home office. One word of profanity was stifled by his hand, which smelled of the homemade chocolate cookies he had eaten before going to bed. It was too late to go back for a flashlight, so he hugged the wall until he felt an open space that was his office. He didn't turn on the overhead light as his eyes adjusted; he lit a couple of candles and sat down at his desk. As he stared at his desktop and the numerous home screens of pin-up girls, he remembered being woken up with words that had to be written, but, as luck would have it, he didn't remember which words. They must have been important to wake him from a deep sleep, maybe a vivid memory or a verse he knew from a novel he had read. Could it have been from a conversation, or a podcast, maybe a passing billboard, or a magazine he browsed while waiting to see the doctor? He had braved the darkness, stubbing a toe on a quest to write something powerful, but the words stayed at bay, and he grew tired. He woke up to a sunny day, the smell of coffee brewing, bacon sizzling, soft music playing as his wife came into his office and set a mug of coffee on his desk. "Miss April," she asked as he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Indeed, he answered as he moved the mouse to unveil yet another blank screen. Maybe today, he thought to himself, he would be inspired by a passing billboard, perhaps one that asked if he could be all that he could be, and then it hit him that those words were exactly the ones he'd been searching for.

Mike  2026                                                           

A midsummer day

 Time seemed to stand still like that of a midsummer day when even the dust isn't moving. You look out at the corn crops mid-high by the fourth of July and jokingly tell yourself you hope they don't start popping. Inside the house, your grandkids visiting for the summer get their bathing suits on as he finishes blowing up the pool with what he believes could take his last breath.

As sunset arrived, he gave silent thanks for a slight breeze enough to watch the curtains dance and hear crickets sing an evening song. Bowles of ice cream for the grandkids and an iced tea for him and the wife sitting on the front porch watching for lightning in the distance, heat lightning some would say. Sticky hands are washed as another day comes to a close, and a bedtime story is read to sleepy faces soon to be in dreamland.
Darkness arrives, with fireflies in the distance dancing across the field, enjoying their short lifespan, like a snowflake, he supposed. She asked if he was coming to bed, and he said in a minute as he lit his pipe, the one he got for his last birthday. Smoke rings and the smell of captian black tobacco were the only movement as the night wrapped him in her arms to say goodnight.

Mike  2026                                                             

Red bricks and memories

 They walked hand in hand down the streets of a small town that many had never seen. Red brick buildings he helped build so many years ago now stand vacant, with windows boarded up, and a few somehow manage to stay open, like the pizza parlor that made deliveries by a kid on his bicycle, even in the dead of winter.  Mr. Rizzo opened his pizza palace some 50 years ago, first with his two sons as helpers who eventually went their own ways, leaving him to run things alone. But he didn't mind that as long as people called for a little slice of heaven. And there was the old hardware store with no new inventory. Mr. Jones ran the place and lived upstairs in the apartment where he and his late wife had lived a comfortable life together for over 60 years. Now he sits in his store, jolted awake by the bell on the door when the occasional customer would stop by to chat, checking in on him and sometimes buying something they had no real use for.

Urban renewal caught up with their town when the county decided to build a bypass that cut off the little town, with no need to go there unless you called it home. Very soon now, the once-quaint town would be demolished to make way for new development, including apartment buildings, restaurants, and a couple of box stores that would draw from interstate traffic. As they walked hand in hand past the empty storefronts, each in their own way remembering days gone by. She remembered the dress shop where she worked for 30 years, only stopping when her hands stopped working as well. She remembered the corner pharmacy where Mr. Lang would open in the middle of the night to fill a prescription that had run out and needed to be filled quickly. And then there was the hub. An old railroad car converted into a diner that never closed. A place you could go at three in the morning and order steak and eggs or a pile of pancakes, known as comfort food. Mr. and Mrs. Brown fulfilled their dream by opening this place so folks could come and eat or just have some coffee any time, day or night. They saw young lovers sharing a milkshake, planning their futures, or a husband apologizing for his wandering ways. The diner was the middle ground where everything under the sun could be fixed with a stack of buttermilk flapjacks.
He stopped in front of a building that brought back feelings he thought he had buried a long time ago, when it was a toy store. They took their boys there occasionally on a Saturday morning, being first in line to buy the latest model airplanes or the newest editions of their favorite superheroes. The owner was Mr. Williams, a happy-go-lucky man who never missed a meal, as evidenced by the way he huffed and puffed to get out of his chair. He loved kids, but never married, so he treated every kid who came in like the kid he never had. At Christmas, Mr. Williams dressed like samta claus and didn't need to stuff the suit with pillows, as he was a natural. All those places are soon to be gone when the wrecking ball hits its mark, as thousands of red bricks are reduced to rubble and memories.
They walked hand in hand through the heart of their town, shedding some tears, some laughter as they remembered things that left their mark on the last of the residents who hadn't moved away, and the few who stayed, wishing they could have one more cup of coffee at the diner that's been bulldozed away to a waiting pile of red bricks and memories.

Mike  2026                                                                     

Summer was the best of all

 Like most kids, the lazy days of summer meant having one adventure after another. Swimming in either your own or a neighbor's pool, cookouts, and fireworks on the Fourth of July. It meant getting dirty didn't matter, and going barefoot was common until you stepped on too many stickers and mom made you put something on your feet, preferably the flip-flops you just had to have. Summer meant watermelon and spitting the seeds at anyone near you. It meant squirt-gun fights and water balloons, slushies and pop-cycle stick bombs. For those who aren't familiar with that, you simply fan out five popcycle sticks in your hand and carefully weave one through the next and so on until you can let go and the sticks don't fall apart. Then you throw it up in the air, and when it hits the ground, it explodes back to single sticks.

Summer meant baseball games at the field that served as a ballpark and an ice rink for winter skating, and when the fire department flooded the field, it was just another thing to watch for fun. Summer was going shirtless, and on the first day, you got the sunburn from hell, and mom helped by applying vinegar to ease the burn. Who thought that one up? Summer meant family vacations and the county fair, where you ate cotton candy and caramel apples, then washed your hands in the kiddy boat ride. You finally met the height requirements to ride the monster roller coaster, as your mom closed her eyes and your dad cheered you on. You blew through the ten dollars dad gave you trying to win a purple stuffed monkey, with a one-in-a-hundred chance. And the day came, you actually won, giving the monkey to your baby sister, who kept it in her room for many years.
Summer was like a speeding locomotive that flew by so quickly that if you blinked, it was gone. Ice cream cones you bit the bottoms off of and sucked dry, root beer floats, and frozen Kool-Aid cubes made in an ice tray. Summer meant falling asleep after a full day of fun, resting your head on mom's lap as the sun set, the moon rose, and a thousand stars came to life. The perfect ending to another summer that would always be as carefree as those who lived it.

Mike 2026                                                                  

One in a million

 She kept looking for him to pull into the driveway, shutting off the radio only after the game was over. She knew when his team won, as he let out a whoop-whop, tossing his thermos bottle in the air and doing a little jig. But when they lost, he slammed the truck door shut, kicking up dust, and slammed the door behind him. That was just the kind of man he was, and she loved him for that.  Once inside, everything that had happened outside would vanish as he put his arms around her, giving her neck a little nibble that she brushed away, telling him to go wash up because he smelled like a hard-working man if he wanted a kiss.

She stood at that window day after day for over forty years, watching for him to drive up, but only memories made the drive as she managed a smile, remembering the countless times he'd walk inside, a hand behind his back, holding a dozen roses that she put to her face and smelled. Come to think about it, she never once pretended to be surprised.
He was a kind man, a thoughtful man who lived a life of devotion to her, always looking for a good morning kiss when he left for work and another when he came home. He once told her that anything in between was just icing on the cake. They had no children, a fact they lived with, knowing if they had been able, they'd have a dozen kids running around. She supposed that was one reason he was always chasing her around the yard as she tried to hang clothes or weed the garden. Every day was full of laughter, and she knew the reason but never brought it up.
He was a high school football coach, teaching kids not only about football but also serving as a dad figure to many whose lives could be complicated. She lost count over the years as to how many times he'd bring home a kid for supper or have a backyard cookout for the entire team. There were dozens of kids he mentored over the years who brought her peace of mind, knowing he had them. The day of his funeral, hundreds of kids, parents, colleagues, and friends drove up that dusty road as she stood looking out the window, knowing he was loved in so many ways.

Mike  2026                                                              

Happy birthday America

 HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMERICA, NOW 250 YEARS OLD.

In the scheme of things, our country isn't that old. Not when you consider the time when dinosaurs roamed the land millions of years ago. We are still adapting to new ideas to improve our way of life every single day. We heed new scientific discoveries and marvel at our space programs, which allow us to travel to places no one has ever been. Who would have thought that just a few decades ago, we would say that someday we would go to Mars? America is the land of the brave, where we witness new technologies designed with open minds that work outside the box to make our lives better. Let us remember, on this birthday, those brave men and women who left something behind, each of those 250 years a lesson we learned from and made better, with liberty and justice for all.

Mike 2026                                                                

Seasons in the woods

 The woods and their magic are something I never grow tired of. The moss is rich and green, the air has a hint of moisture, and trees stand at attention as if guarding a fortress. The summer months, when activity is limited as the heat peeks through the canopy, a passing thunderstorm interrupts the quiet, raindrops quench the thirst of the creatures who call it home, and the woods fill with a musty yet welcoming smell.

The Autumn woods are a splash of color, with tired leaves waiting their turn to fall. Red, yellow, and orange drift together towards the waiting earth, where countless others who came before them rest as the ground swallows them, changing their colors to the forest floor, forever forgotten.
The springtime woods are a rebirth of countless species of plants and saplings that lie dormant until the last of the snow melts away, giving the newborns a chance to grow and the bulbs that have transformed into tulips like an artist's palette of colors splashed across the valley, where wildflowers grow and dance to the music of a gentle breeze.
Winter's woods are my favorite woods. The extreme silence, except for the crunching of my boots on a blanket of white or the snap of a branch letting me know I wasn't alone. The winter woods beckon me to walk deep into the trees to a valley where I see a six-point buck doing its best to forage in an unforgiving landscape. I watch him for a few minutes, then take a napkin from my pack and unwrap some carrots, celery, and an apple that I set on top of a large stone, then retreat to continue my quest. I think another reason I like the winter woods is the smell. That smell is coming home with me, and the Christmas tree that will fill my house with winter. Not to forget pine burning in the fireplace, adding to those special winter nights in the woods.
Winter, spring, summer, and fall, you'll find me in the woods marveling at God's handiwork and doing my part to share it with others like myself. By the way, let it be known that every scrap of food I sat on a rock was taken with nothing left behind except for footprints in the snow.

Mike  2026