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