Whispers at the head stones

 When I go home for a visit, I spend time with those who have passed before me, going back from decades to generations. I'll sometimes have to search certain areas obscured by weeds and grass, and others that are kept up by those left behind, maintaining a peaceful spot where heaven's light shines down upon them as they talk to the departed.

My Mom is laid to rest on a slight hill that seems to grow steeper with every year I age. I'll catch my breath and tell her about my life, how big my grandkids are, and how I remember her and miss her every day. I always bring her some lilacs, as they were her favorite. In the quiet of the day, I touch her headstone and whisper my love for her, a love that time can't change or grow less. Saying goodbye breaks another piece of my heart as I walk down the hill, leaving tears that follow me always.
It's easy to find my dad, who is laid to rest in a military section of the graveyard. He rests among the dozens of his brothers-in-arms who fought the great battles of wars and conflicts, some who died in battle while others lived a life filled with hidden pain. I speak to him with the respect he deserves and forgiveness for his anger that was fueled by the bottle and his endless nightmares that often woke me in the darkness of night as I held my pillow over my head to drown out a voice I didn't recognize. I'll brush away the weeds to clearly see his name and salute him, knowing that would make his day.
I make my way across the hundreds of graves and come upon a beautiful place, the resting place for a father and a son lying side by side for eternity. As I sit on a small bench, I can hear them debating on one topic or another, both deep in thought and planning their next move in never-ending chess games. I see their faces as I remember two scholars, a father and son who loved each other more than any lifetime could understand.
My final stop is that of my first love. Taken from this world too soon, leaving a trail of broken hearts, none more broken than my own. She lies beside her parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, together forever, with her name, Tamara Star, etched into the stone that I trace with my finger, hoping a speck of heavenly dust remains with me forevermore. I can't stop my tears as her beautiful face smiles down on me and eases the pain I've felt for decades. I often sit in silence, remembering her in every way I can and knowing words aren't needed; just a little more time until we meet again.
My baby sister, as well as my best friend, chose cremation; their remains on shelves are a constant reminder of their presence and importance, always in view and always in my heart. I speak to them as I did the others who, in so many ways, touched me in ways only I can feel. I will find myself at the ocean, staring out to an endless sea where my best friend blows with grains of sand at the ocean's bottom as I cup a handful of damp sand, wondering if it's him telling me everything is okay. I find myself hoping he will watch over my sister among the grains of sand and stay by her side, like I picture him doing.
Death isn't just a time of mourning; it's a place of comfort for those like me who never really said goodbye just one-way conversations between a man and his whispers to headstones that sometimes whisper back.
Mike  2026

Pumpkin patches and more

 I remember walking through a pumpkin patch that seemed to go on forever.  Odd-shaped gourds destined to sit on a porch with carved-out faces, often from the imaginations of children. I recall drawing the face with a crayon, then Dad taking charge of the knife and carving it exactly the way I drew it. Mom would soak the seeds in saltwater, then bake them to a golden brown, and my sisters and I ate them until our lips were parched. On Halloween night, the candles were lit, and the ghoul-ish faces came to life as another memory was added to my childhood book of smiles. It was always a little sad to see the once mighty pumpkin reduced to mush and discarded. Still, I only had to wait another year for a trip to the pumpkin patch, when I'd search row after row for that perfect pumpkin whose face I would color in crayon. Dad said maybe next year, but not today, as he took the knife and began carving upside-down triangles and jagged teeth sure to scare even the bravest kid. I never liked the day after, when pumpkins sat atop trash cans, deformed and scorched by the candle's flame, looking like defeated soldiers on a battlefield. But on the upside, we had pillowcases full of candy that my sisters and I would trade for Kit Kats, Snickers, pieces of Double Bubble gum, and more. Our thoughts of Thanksgiving and the grand daddy of all Christmas were on our minds. It was fun being a kid back then, when boxes filled the shelves in the attic, each marked for the occasion, filled with costumes to be handed down and paper turkeys cut out using your hand as a template. Box after box of Christmas decorations, filled with ornaments handed down from generation to generation, and dozens of handmade ornaments made by the kids that were hung on the tree every year. But the most important boxes contained hundreds of strings of colored lights Dad would spend hours untangling, swearing this was the last year he'd do it. But there he was, up on a ladder turning our house into a winter wonderland like he's been doing since I can remember.

I count my blessings for the childhood years I shared with my family, and over the years I've found myself doing the same things for my children and grandkids. We've even started our own traditions, like sitting around a campfire on Christmas Eve, drinking hot chocolate, and singing holiday songs. We invite neighbors over to share in our bounty, and every kid exchanges small homemade gifts with one another. We still visit that pumpkin patch where we let the grandkids run from row to row in search of the perfect pumpkin to draw faces on with a crayon, and I finally get the honor of using the knife to carve exactly what they drew, no matter how they looked.

Mike  2026

Dads dream boat

 I was about twelve when my dad brought home a big boat on a trailer, towed by a tow truck. It was quite the show as neighbors watched it slowly make its way through turns and park in the driveway. From the look on my mom's face, this was one of those times when Dad preferred to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. The boat was in fair condition but would need some work to make it seaworthy. As luck would have it, one of the neighbors was a well-known carpenter with years of experience reconditioning boats. I later learned that the carpenter and my dad had met up at the marina on several occasions to plan something that wouldn't break the bank.

Dad grew up living a stone's throw from the Niagara River, which, like most young boys, was a place to learn to swim and help with small chores at the marina. He fell in love with boats and had a few over the years, telling me he was working his way up from smaller boats to a cabin cruiser he had yet to find.  I'll never forget the day he got a call from the harbor master at the marina, telling Dad that a 28-foot Trogen cabin cruiser went up for sale at a very good price. We quickly took the short drive to the marina, where the harbor master showed us to the metal hut where boats were placed on cradles and covered with tarps to protect them from the bad weather.
There she blows, the harbor master said, pointing to a boat covered with blue tarps, which he pulled off, revealing what Dad said was a dream come true. All I saw was a hull and a ton of work to be done before she ever hit the water. On his first visit, the carpenter told my dad it would take about $4,000 to restore it to its original beauty. Plus, the engine would have to be overhauled and all electrical components brought up to current codes. Mind you, my dad wasn't much of a get-your-hands-dirty kind of guy, but he could negotiate with the best of them, eventually getting everything done for 3,500 dollars, which was no small amount in 1963.
The boat took shape in our driveway for a year and a half, and the finished product was one of beauty and grace. Everybody in our family did their part, with Mom making curtains down below in the living area, and my sisters lending a hand. The boat had a cooking stove, a small fridge, a stand-up shower, and a commode. It had a forward berth with a good-sized bed and a table that folded down to form a sleeping area. I'll never forget the smell of new wood and knew why the carpenter was in demand.
We launched the boat on July fourth. Dad and I had already given her a test run, with the mechanic getting out the bugs and giving his stamp of approval. We passed inspection by the Coast Guard, who put a red sticker on the bottom of the windshield dated 1965 through 1966. So with food and drinks stowed away below and sunscreen applied, we headed out of the harbor onto the mighty Niagara River. That was just the first of many voyages we took on that boat as time swam past; Dad couldn't operate the boat anymore due to his failing health. But it didn't stop him from becoming first mate, passing down the captain's hat he wore for many years to me.
Long after my parents left this world, I kept the boat for years, taking my kids on weekend cruises, showing them the places my dad showed us, always with a tear shed. But eventually the upkeep became a burden, and we decided to sell her. I learned that a young couple bought her and treated her with the respect she deserved. As for me, well, I found another boat under a tarp in the marina and called the carpenter straight away.

Mike  2026

Waiting for your next nap.

 It took him a little longer to get to his chair these days, plopping down hard enough that he thought he'd blow out the stuffing. It wasn't always like that he remembered. There were times he could have jumped over the darn thing. These days it's the little things he remembers, like getting his first tattoo and the dozens that followed. Now just a faded ink highway no one would notice.

He smiles as he looks at a picture of himself in his navy uniform, wondering if he really was that age and where the time went. He spends hours looking at old photographs, each a story of his life; he never grows tired of remembering and knowing the day will come when the stories will grow fewer and fade away altogether.
He naps every afternoon, not by choice; mind you, it's just a way of saying he can no longer control sleep as it finds him whenever it pleases. He has one of those new-to-him cell phones his daughter gave to him so she could keep tabs on him. After all, Dad, she would say, you can't be alone all the time without letting me know you're okay. He didn't argue with her, as he knew he couldn't win unless you call turning the damn thing off a win.
As he sat in his chair, he'd put himself into a kind of trance, reliving precious memories of his life, seeing clearly the faces he loved and the laughter of so many, each unique in their own way. Everything was crystal clear, like the time he kicked a can down a country road, hearing crickets and the buzzing of bees hovering over a patch of flowers. Or the time he bought his first car from the junkyard, a 1957 Chevrolet for seventy bucks, and drove it home.
The doorbell rang, and he ignored it, knowing it was just another somebody wanting to mow his grass or shovel his driveway when the snow came. They'd go away, slipping a pamphlet under the door, which he used for kindling in the fireplace. After all, he wasn't glued to his chair and still maintained his house; it just took a while longer to finish, and he hoped he wouldn't fall asleep halfway through.
He used to shrug off people calling him old, but somewhere along the line he accepted the fact that he was. But old doesn't always mean old; it just means slowing down and waiting for a nap.

Mike  2026

too hot to handle

 The heat was worse than she remembered as she sat on the porch fanning her face with a plastic fan she picked up at the market some time ago. It was baby blue with pink flowers and a tiny gold label reading made in China. It helped, she supposed, but sometimes she felt like it was just blowing hot air at her. A glass of iced tea sat beside her, but it hadn't taken much time before the ice cubes just melted, leaving a bit more watered-down tea.

She wasn't expecting any visitors today, so she rolled her stockings down and unbuttoned her blouse just enough to fan her neck as droplets of sweat rolled down her already soaked chest. She wasn't one to complain or question God, but today she found herself looking to the heavens and whispering Why?
There was no air conditioning in the old farmhouse, just open windows and a prayer for any kind of breeze at all. But she'd have to wait for nightfall when the scorching sun gave way to the moon and stars as collective souls gave thanks.
Too hot to cook, so crackers and peanut butter were on the menu tonight, and a cupcake treat with melted frosting for dessert. The darkness was upon her as she sat on the porch again, closing her eyes and letting the warm summer breeze lull her to sleep.
Crickets sang, and tree frogs let their presence be known as the creatures of the night ventured out from daytime hiding places to embrace the cooling night. She woke, remembering her dream of a large bowl of ice cream with two cherries on top, only to realize it was just a dream, and now craving ice cream.
The old fridge gave its all but was no match for the heat, and the bowl of her dream had turned to a melted and lukewarm drink. Waste not, she said out loud as she got a straw and sipped her drink down to the gurgling sounds she made as a kid with her first milkshake.
Tomorrow will bring on the heat again, as it has for several days. Fans made in China will fan faces, kids will play in the sprinklers, and dogs will find a place under the house lying on cool dirt. Will this day be the day the sky opens up and rain comes crashing on the old tin roof? Will the almost dead plants and grass find relief as droplets of god's nectar splash the cracked earth? One can only dream and hope that the old fridge comes alive again with ice cream, no straw needed.
Mike  2026

Unfaded squares

 Unfaded squares on a wall where pictures once hung. A family's memories gone to where I don't know. A dusty shelf on a left-behind dresser holds a pair of bronzed baby shoes, somehow forgotten in a rushed move.

A backyard swing set eaten with rust sits idle with the occasional creaking as a breeze passes by, and you swear you hear the voices of children at play.
A makeshift doghouse, decayed and crumbling, once a shelter for a loyal friend.Remains of a chewed-up stuffed animal, half buried and lost forever.
A dilapidated shed with a rusted metal roof draws you inside as sunlight turns to darkness, the last few rays letting you see the forgotten tools of a trade someone used to earn a living. The walls, once filled with hanging tools, are empty except for a pair of pruning shears and a lantern, probably to give light to projects done at night.
A well-disguised old tractor, covered with vines and tall grass, catches your eye as you climb onto the metal seat and imagine you're a farmer who used the machine like his father did until the day it stopped working and was left where it sat from then on.
A chicken coop without chickens, a barn with no hay, an old tire hung with a rope to make a swing. A dried-up pond, once a place for kids to swim or catch a first fish, now just another unpainted square of a family's memories.
Mike  2026

I could write about whatever

 Even when the page is blank and my fingers hover over the keys, I remind myself there is always something to write about. I could write about the beautiful sunrise this morning or the star-filled night sky. I could write about my next-door neighbor, most likely sleep-deprived, pacing back and forth on the porch as she tries to lull her baby to sleep, as she keeps singing to her child in a soft mother's voice.

I could write about my grandson's visit the other day, dumbfounded by how tall he has grown and his plan for his future. We would look through pictures from when he was just a wee bit of a thing, as I looked at his expressions of remembrance and happiness.
I could write about the loss of a good friend recently, but my tears are dried now, I think. I did write something the day I learned of her death, but that's tucked away in a special collection I've written over time and don't share.
I could write about all the love I've had and all I've given, subtle reminders of my life and its blessings. I could write about all the places I've traveled and endless roads I've thundered down, the sound of my Harley music to my ears. Sunday rides going from one bar to another, always a brotherhood of bikers there to greet me with a cold one.
I could write about my youth, my adulthood, and now old age, each part of me as was the plan from the beginning. I can indeed write about anything, with plenty of topics all boiled into a pot of words waiting for me to tap a key.
Mike  2026

Memories of a sailor

 He was alone with his memories as the ship sliced through calm seas on its way to another port of call. Midnight watch on the signal bridge far above the main deck, with nothing to see but blackness and an occasional pod of porpoises illuminated by phosphorescence as they sped past us on their own mission, he supposed. He liked the midnight watch and looking at the stars so close you try to touch one, believing you can but only making a fool of yourself in front of nobody. Hours pass with nothing to do except stargaze and the occasional footsteps of a sailor stopping to say hello and offer a hit or two from a joint. He leaves after a while, and his footprints fade into the quiet of the night as you play connect the stars in living colors until your high wears off.

Darkness slowly replaced with light as your eyes adjust, and the endless black is burned away by the rising sun, and an ocean of bluish green greets you. In the distance, much further away than it looks, you see a landmass somewhere off the coast of Spain growing in size as the ship makes way for the port of Barcelona. 0800 hours, and you're relieved of your watch as you head for breakfast and then to your rack and sleep. You wake to the sounds of the ship and work parties unloading crates at the docks, filled with items like electrical components and plumbing parts, just some of the items given to Spain as gifts from the US. Sailors are granted liberty with two things on their minds: women and booze, usually spending their entire paycheck the first day with 30 more days of being broke.
I loved being a sailor and all the stories told by the old salts—tales of mermaids and Davy Jones' locker. King Neptune and lost cities at the bottom of the oceans. I felt proud wearing my uniform, the old-school 13 buttons on your pants and bell bottoms. Taking hours to shine your dress shoes and a Dixie cup hat you positioned perfectly on your head. That uniform was the cause of many a woman's knees going weak. Going home on leave was another thing I liked. Especially after graduation from boot camp, where you gained ten pounds of muscle, had a nice haircut, and stood tall and proud of the uniform. People greeted you on the streets back then, telling you how good you looked, which also made you proud. Mom made a big fuss, inviting the entire neighborhood over for a barbecue with banners welcoming me home. Things were different back then.
Now all that remains of my time in the Navy. A golden shellback certificate framed on a wall, a belt buckle with the ship's name I served on, and a bunch of photographs, mostly faded but still visible. A couple of cruise books with pictures of all the ports we visited throughout the world. But the most important thing I brought home was my memories of fellow shipmates and the brotherhood we shared out in that bluish-green vastness of the sea.

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

The Colonel

 His last apartment before the stroke was unkempt to the naked eye, but to him, it meant home. Back in the day, people bought old houses and converted them into small apartments, usually a total of four, and all barely big enough for you to get around in. It had a tiny kitchen with a stove, small fridge, and four cabinets to keep everything you might need. There was a small bathroom, so small that if you were over six feet, you'd have to cut a hole in the door to put your legs through. The first of two small bedrooms had a single-size bed and a stand-up closet to hang clothes, with a shelf for underwear and socks. The second bedroom was his collection/writting room where he spent a good portion of his time. Back in his day, he was a writer, mostly for the big newspapers, and achieved some fame with his column titled "Thinking it over."In his later years, when the words wouldn't come easily, he just sat at the typewriter and wrote whatever came into his mind. I always thought it was the sound of the keys that gave him hope he'd write again.

He drank too much, and too often, as evidenced by weekly garbage pickup consisting of dozens of bottles clanging as one when tossed into the garbage truck. He smoked like a furnace and found it less expensive to roll his own cigarettes, which he did by buying cans of tobacco, then spending hours rolling enough to fill a plastic holder he kept in his pocket, along with a few airplane-size bottles he put in his coat pocket when he ventured outside his apartment. The walls of that room were stacked to the ceiling with empty tobacco cans; only he knew the answer to that. Looking back, I recall him walking down the street, clanging as the bottles moved around. He taught himself to talk again after the stroke, and he never gave up after 13 years of trying. He was born in the same town where he lived for 80-some years, and he knew almost everybody and mourned the loss of too many to count.
He would take walks no matter the season, always ending up at one of his watering holes where he'd drink with old veterans like himself, reliving the war and toasting to those who never made it home. When he came upon a bar or restaurant he'd never gone to, he had index cards written out, each telling things like how he wanted his drinks made or how to cook his steaks. The local police knew him and often offered him a ride home after a night of heavy drinking, sometimes having to wake him up from a park bench, sometimes covered with snow, amazed at his stamina and his I don't give a crap attitude.
When it became apparent he couldn't live like that any longer, his daughter found him a place to live out his days at a Veterans facility. He balked at first but eventually made friends with other vets, all sharing war stories and hand salutes to the Colonel, who was the highest-ranking officer in the entire place. He wore his ball cap with eagles on the brim so there would be no mistaking him for a lower-ranking soldier. I think he enjoyed his time there right up to his last days. He received a full honors funeral and was buried alongside family members who passed before him. I was gifted the American flag, which to this day is displayed on a shelf along with his medals and two Purple Hearts.
He was a good man when sober and a handful when not, but he was my dad, and I have chosen to remember him as a strong man who served his country with honor and lived his life with hidden monsters living in his head for so long. Whenever I visit home, I'll stop at his grave in the veterans' plots and talk to him. I always leave a cigarette on his headstone and toast him with an airplane-sized bottle of booze and tell myself he'd smile at that small gesture of my love and respect.
Mike  2026

Going back one last time.

 Her long white hair blew in the wind as she walked into the forest. Her grandson drove her there at her request, as she wanted to see the place she loved one more time. She was just seventeen years old back then, when she and some friends answered nature's call and ventured into a valley so beautiful it took her breath away. The world was changing back in the 60s, with Vietnam raging on as protestors made their voices heard to stop the war. Young men grew their hair long, and girls wore flowers in their hair. The different genres of music, like Zeppelin and Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, and Jefferson Starship, filled your inner self with music you still love to this day. Music you shared with your grandkids, hoping they, too, would understand and love it as you do.

They walked slowly in the woods as she would stop and hush him to hear the call of the whippoorwill singing to her babies. As they reached the valley, a sense of calm came over her as she closed her eyes, trying to remember what this place had been. She recalled the music playing as free souls caught fireflies in mason jars, lighting a well-worn path to the camping ground where tents were pitched and campfires set off an orangish glow, as an ember occasionally cracked and shot upward like a rocket.
She blushed a bit when her grandson asked if the rumors were true that people went around in their birthday suits, to which she replied, "Yes, we did." And is it true drugs like marijuana and acid, along with mushrooms and opium, could be purchased like penny candy? She replied All true. They sat down on a fallen tree as she tried to explain what the drugs really meant to them. Acid was a gateway to pictures often distorted, and objects looked like slithering slugs working their way towards your face. Shadows followed you, but weren't you just a figment of your distorted imagination? She recalled doing what was called "traces," where you'd move your hand from side to side, leaving a trail of colors that could entertain you for hours. She told him she never tried the hard drugs but absolutely loved the high from weed and hashish.
They sat on that fallen tree, letting the gentle breeze flow through their hair hers totally white and his jet black- resting past his shoulders. She once asked him why he grew his hair long, and he replied that he didn't think anyone should be told how to wear their hair, how to dress, or what type of music to listen to. Nobody should tell you how or where to hang your hat because nobody but you knows your inner self and where it will lead you. As darkness made itself known, they took out the mason jars they brought along and caught enough fireflies to light their way back from the valley to the waiting VW bus his grandpa gifted him when he passed on. It had a peace symbol on the front and a lot of weed-induced art now all but faded away. She thanked him for the day as he lit a joint, passed it to her, and put in a Janis Joplin cassette. Ready to cruise? He asked, and with one last look at the smoke rising behind her, she wiped away a tear and said she was ready.

Mike 2026                                                       

Mike  2026

A farms demise

 Today marks fifty years since he opened his farm to passersby in search of farm-fresh fruits and vegetables. He purchased the land with his GI bill after returning home from war. He built a house and a barn with his brother's help and married his high school sweetheart. The money he saved while on active duty was used to purchase very used equipment, like a tractor and a combine, which he had to rebuild from the ground up. It took them a year to build the house and another year for the barn. Sometimes a truck with a half dozen farmers would pull up with their tools and join in, something seen often in farm country. Neighbors helping neighbors just because they could.

His first crop was corn and soy, divided into four-acre plots and two long rows of apple trees, sixty trees, if he remembered correctly. In the far back acres, ten in all, he planted Christmas trees that someday, years from then, he'd sell to city folk wanting the whole experience of trudging through snow, wielding axes to hopefully chop down the perfect tree. Most usually, they just picked one out in a fenced-in area close to the road, where trees of all shapes and sizes were ready to be tied to the roofs of cars.
The years passed, and more crops were planted, like pumpkins big and small and everywhere in between. Their eldest boy was tasked with keeping the patch weed-free and putting prices on everything they would sell a couple of weeks before Halloween. The apple trees bore fruit, which their daughter and a few friends picked, bushel after bushel, and loaded onto a trailer to take to the barn, where they were sorted, with the bad ones. Mom would make apple butter and applesauce, preserved in mason jars with fancy ribbons attached for looks. The good apples were counted and put in either a bushel or half-bushel basket, with a free sample for anyone who asked. They even had a press that squeezed apples to make apple cider, which was always a big seller.
Now, in their fifty-fifth year, his sweet wife and he sit on the front porch, watching the cars and trucks pull in or park beside the road, kids running to the pumpkin patch where his grandkids wore Halloween costumes, to the joy of the kids with their eyes on a free apple. Their son's wife ran the stand filled with mom's pies and breads, along with apple butter and apple sauce, and, of course, jugs of apple cider. For them, this place was home and always has been. They watched their children frolic in the corn rows and climb the apple trees when children could be children among the acres. Soon people will come to get the perfect tree and mom's gingerbread cookies. They will warm up by the fire in barrels scattered around, with the smell of pine filling the air. One day he and his wife will retire, leaving everything up to their kids and grandkids to oversee. But until then, Mom came up with the idea of offering hot chocolate free of charge. They set up a table next to the pumpkin patch, greeting their customers with a sweet hot cup of chocolate to warm them up. Hundreds of people came to the farm during autumn and winter; some they knew who came every year, while others brought their grandkids for the first time. The farm eventually closed its doors when it could no longer compete with the big stores that could offer a wide variety of fruits and vegetables at discounted prices. Today, the farm is but a shadow of what it once was: empty bushel baskets worn through time, rusted farm equipment, and fields now fallow parcels of land. They still live in the house they built. Not really caring if it sells. A for-sale sign hangs from a tree limb, swaying in an autumn breeze, as cars rush past, and parents point and tell their kid, " That was the place we told you about when we were your age. "

                                                                                  

Mike  2026

A love story

 She wasn't a perfect 10, except in his eyes. And she thought him a rugged 8. Their hands fit perfectly together, and he thought her the perfect size when her head rested upon his heart. Talking to each other came easily, and sometimes they even finished each other's sentences. They'd spent hours on the phone, often out of things to say but not wanting to hang up, with the only sound being their breathing. He would walk her home from school even in the dead of winter, then walk himself home in bitter cold winter winds thinking only of her and how much he already missed her.

Some called it puppy love, but they knew it was more than that. Together, they were each half of something whole meant to grow with each passing day. Every second together proved their love would withstand anything life may throw their way. Together they discovered the beauty of their first kiss and the warmth of their bodies as they explored the wonders of their love, which grew more with every passing day.
Theres was a true love story envied by many who longed for such a love, hoping one day they too would find that one person who stops the world for just a fleeting moment when eyes meet, and hearts skip a beat. Call it what you will, but no words will ever express what they felt inside as two halves became one heart beating in unison with no words needed.
Mike  2026

When school starts

 School started today as kids shed their swimsuits for uniforms. Bicycles and school buses competed for the road, and crossing guards smiled and asked each child their name. Backpacks looked like a sea of colors winding through the neighborhoods on a mission to carry the weight of books and assorted necessities. Some contained bagged lunches and comic books to share with buddies during study hall. Girls' packs held enough makeup to open a cosmetics counter. The first day meant locker assignments that sometimes meant a popular kid getting the locker next to a nobody and sometimes a perfect match who could end up king and queen at homecoming. The top shelves and the inside of the locker door were filled with pictures, good luck charms, stickers of a favorite band, and emergency cans of deodorant needed after gym class.

Homeroom was when everyone sized each other up, scouting out potential new friends and welcoming back those who had just returned from summers spent at grandparents'.Teachers were either returning for another year and pointing out the brothers and sisters they had taught last year or, in some cases, the parents they had taught years ago. Some were just your average teachers, the men in sport coats and ties, crew cuts and shined shoes. The lady teachers in dresses they probably made themselves and medium-heeled shoes that made a thudding sound as they moved around the classroom in search of violations. And then there was that one first-year teacher who would stop you in your tracks. She walked into the room, and everything got very quiet as she wrote her name on the blackboard, while every red-blooded boy fell in love.
Lunchtime was chaos as older kids shoved you out of a chair they wanted or took your dessert. It was like a big version of musical chairs. But once the dust settled, everyone knew their place and sat where they belonged. The jocks at one table, the nerds at another. The really smart kids, and of course the bullies, tucked away in the back, ready to strike at any moment.
Back in school days, you felt so many emotions that had nothing to do with book learning; it was a time when you were thrown to the wolves and expected to survive, all while being pressured by parents to try harder. Year after year, as you climbed the ladder to senior year, you grew up both physically and emotionally, eventually becoming the leaders of the pack that first-year students strove to become. Senior proms and backseat make-out sessions, getting sick on spiked fruit punch, and dreaming of futures that meant college for some and the trades for others. Some chose the military; others chose a semester abroad or a year off backpacking across Europe.
Now, as decades have passed, I'll bet I'm not the only man or woman who stops in front of the school or schools we both hated and loved. Listen hard, and you'll hear the bell and the sounds of shoes going from class to class, sometimes the sound of books falling to the floor, only to be picked up by the boy you've secretly liked from the beginning. Think about the crossing guards and maintenance people who fought a losing battle to keep things in order. Or the cafeteria workers who smiled at you, thinking you were having a bad day, and gave you an extra dessert.All those moments in time you wouldn't change for anything.

Mike 2026

Mike  2026

Hearts and bubble gum

 He rubbed his hand across the old desk, something he picked up on trash night decades ago. When he got it home and into his workshop, he felt like he'd gone back in time to the days of innocence and puppy love. Dozens of initials were carved into the top, as well as crudely gouged hearts that appeared to have been made with a nail or screw. On the underside were dozens of dried-up pieces of gum probably stuck on in a hurry as a teacher was fast approaching, holding out her hand where she expected you to spit in it, but you were faster than her and claimed a spot under the desk—imagined what each piece tasted like, maybe bubblegum flavored or Spearmint, Juicy Fruit or pin stripe, one of his favorites. I wondered just how many pieces there were under the desks, and when I estimated the number of desks in every classroom at every grade level, I came up with 75 desks, with a dozen pieces of gum under each desk, for a total of 900 pieces of gum. No wonder the janitor didn't smile very much. Every classroom had a show-off who would stick a jawbreaker bubble gum in his mouth, trying his best to chew the entire thing and blow the world's biggest bubble. With purple ooze running from the corners of his mouth, he spotted the teacher coming his way. Hence, he had to act fast as he slammed the wad under his desk, and that solved the mystery of a select few wads the size of a small apple.

I remember on summer break the maintenance people would attempt to sand down the tops of the desks, all 75 of them. Still, they never finished before summer ended, so when school started up again, some kids got a clean slate and christened them with hearts and initials as their predecessors did in years past. The desks became like time machines, telling stories with every heart gouged into the wood, some leading to everlasting love, some lasting forever. I suppose almost everything back in the day, like defacing desks, was just how life was. It took guts to cover up what you were doing, holding a book over the spot you were carving and watching for any sign you'd get busted and sent to see the principal.
I didn't sand down that desk I found at the curb. I dusted it off and put it in my youngest son's room. A few days later, I looked in on him as he did his homework and noticed he had plastered stickers all over the top of the desk. Maybe someday his kid will inherit the desk, peel off those stickers, and replace them with whatever's popular then. One thing is certain: I bet wads of gum will still be discarded on the underside when parents are heard coming towards their kids' room.

Mike  2026                                                      

Mike  2026

The rebirth of a bicycle

 He walked down a winding dirt road on the way to and from school. There was no school bus for him to ride, since his house was just across the city line, so he walked.  Sun, rain, snow it didn't matter; he walked. His dad said he wasn't raising a crybaby, didn't want to hear him whine, and that he was lucky to have legs. That comment stayed with him for a long time and is probably somewhere in his memories he hopes never surfaces.

On the last day before summer break, he kicked a can down the dirt road, not in any hurry to get home, as he knew his dad had left a note with his chores listed, all to be done each day before he could do what he pleased. He didn't mind helping out; after all, he ate his dad's food and put a roof over his head. Cut the grass once a week, weed the vegetable garden every other day, and took the trash down to the street on Tuesdays and Fridays. He took the note to his room and taped it to his mirror so he'd see it every morning, knowing what chores he had that day.
There was a bright side to doing all those chores: he got an allowance he'd save for a new bicycle. The one his folks got for him at the start of school last September was stolen, and his dad said he'd bet him a hundred dollars he forgot to lock it up at school, so now he'd walk until he could get another, which he would pay for on his own. Dad left for work before the sun rose, and Mom didn't drive, so he had to wake up hearing Dad's truck leave, giving him forty-five minutes to eat some breakfast and run out the door, taking a deep breath and walking at a fast pace until he finished the toast Mom handed to him on the way out. The walk turned to a brisk run, only slowing down if he spotted something interesting along the way.
He recalls an autumn day when something shiny caught his eye deep in the field, forcing him to retrieve what turned out to be his lost bicycle. It had been stripped of both tires and handlebars, making it hard to recognize, except for the small license plate that had his name on it, which he had bolted on as a gift from his folks on the first day of school. He slung the bike over his shoulder, or at least what was left of it, and carried it home. His dad was coming down the dirt road, coming to a stop next to him, telling him to throw it in the back and he'd cut it up for scrap, but he told his dad he wanted to rebuild it and he'd pay for everything on his own. Every day, when his chores were done, he'd go to dad's workshop and fill a wagon with tools he would need, like rakes, shovels, and saws, and anything else he'd need, as he walked from neighbor to neighbor, offering his services in rain, heat, and snow.
He finished rebuilding his bicycle in late January, but it wasn't your average bicycle. He put on off-road tires that could ride through even the deepest ruts and an old lawnmower motor that produced enough horsepower to reach a top speed of 20 mph. He installed a seat from his old banana bike he rode as a kid, as well as ape-hanger handlebars and iron pegs for a passenger to stand on. Lastly, he took the last of his savings for two cans of black spray paint and a heavy-duty lock and chain to make sure it stayed put where he left it. It was a work of beauty, and when he showed it to his folks, their reaction was one more thing he'd lock away in his memories.
On the first day back at school, he slept in after hearing his dad's truck pull out, as he wasn't in too much of a hurry. He sat down and ate his breakfast as Mom handed him the lunch bag that he put in the saddlebags he had made out of two old military bags just growing dust in the garage. Be careful on that thing his mom yelled over the noise of the lawnmower engine. He put on his helmet and, with a few bursts of dark smoke, began his journey to school. One of the biggest thrills was him passing the school bus as kids waved to him, which he acknowledged with a toot of his horn. The one he had taken off his sister's bicycle, unnoticed by her until it wasn't. He rode that bicycle throughout his senior year, giving rides to kids and sometimes letting his buddies ride it solo. In the end, he got his driver's license and put the bicycle in the garage where it remained for many years. Every so often, he'd catch his dad removing the tarp, showing off his son's invention with pride in his voice and love in his heart. He grew up to be a race car driver and eventually an IndyCar champion. But he never forgot that bicycle built from pieces and parts that waits for the right moment for his son to climb on and be crowned the king of the dirt road.    

Mike  2026                                       

                                                                               

Mike 2026

The end of a train depot

 For the last time, he had a seat on a bench that bore the initials of a generation. Somewhere, he said to himself as he rubbed his hand across the bench, searching but to no avail. In the near distance sat the wrecking ball that would erase any sign of the old train station whose tracks were removed years ago to make way for asphalt roads, and to close the station that once bustled with travelers who now chose faster means of transportation.

He got up and walked inside, the wooden floor buckling as he made his way to the ticket counter, something he remembers doing to purchase a ticket to the city on more than one occasion. Rust-stained porcelain sinks and unhinged restroom doors were just a couple of things that were vandalized over time. He remembers the benches inside where you'd sit, waiting for the train, as people spoke to those beside them, sharing stories of their travels that day. Some sad news, but more often than not, talking about going home for a special occasion with the kids who would ride their first train, claiming the window seats.
He stood in silence, broken by the sound of a flock of birds guarding their nests, and wished he could somehow warn them of the impending doom. He saw the broken newsstand, once filled with the day's newspapers, travel guides, and dime novels to pass the time on a long journey. He returned to the outside bench and once again rubbed the surface, looking for his heart, but it wasn't meant to be. Darkness fell, and soon the police would shine their lights, looking for any looters, even though the place had been all but destroyed.
Morning came, and he returned to join a group of people standing behind the yellow tape as the wrecking ball started up, black smoke billowing from its engine, waiting for its cue to proceed. Then, with the swing of the ball, it landed blow after blow until all that remained was a pile of wood and twisted metal. Other machines moved in, filling dump trucks one load after another until all that remained was a dark spot of nothing. The tape was removed, and the people went on with their day- well, almost everybody- as he walked slowly around the dark spot when perseverance paid off. He stooped down, brushing dirt from an object he believed to be the outside bench. It was a small heart-shaped carving on a piece of that bench, maybe three inches in size. He put it in his pocket and slowly walked away, turning around one last time, rubbing the heart to remember the station, now forever in the memory book of his life.

Mike  2026                                                                   

                                                                                                                                                                        

Mike  2026

Christmas in July remembered

 It never mattered to me if I wrote about Christmas in July or August. I'd crank up the A/C and start writing. I have memory overload when it comes to the holidays: the sights and sounds, the food and colored lights, and the smell of pine that filled the house. Sometimes I feel as if I have a never-ending loop of those memories going round and round in my head, making me smile on my worst days. I sometimes find myself so deep into a memory that everything around me stops, like the smell of pumpkin pie invading my nose. It's the smallest of things, giving back to me from my youth, that brings me joy, if only briefly. A dish of ribbon candies in a glass bowl, sitting on a table at Grandma's house, the smell of her starched apron, a breath of freshness as she scurried around her kitchen, baking Christmas treats like only she could do.

My youngest holiday memories are of when Santa was very much real, as I stood in line at a department store to tell him my wishes, which took so long I'd have to pee, which Mom told me happened every year I stood in a line. She could hardly stop laughing, telling Dad how every kid waiting was jumping up and down, grabbing their privates and hoping they wouldn't burst. It was a great day when one of Santa's elves held your place in line so Mom or Dad could take you to the restroom, and a sigh of relief even Santa could hear.
I peel back another layer of memories, taking me back to my youth, when my dad took me to his brother's toy store for the holidays. Can you imagine, a kid in a toy store what could be better? I remember being told in a stern kind of way I wasn't allowed to unwrap any boxes, but I was welcome to go in the basement, where I'd find a dozen, if not more, boxes marked "missing pieces." I'd get lost for hours, taking pieces apart piece by piece and making them into something that looked good to me, so I took one of my creations and showed it to my dad, who placed it on a shelf with the good toys and marked it at $3.00. When my dad and I got back after lunch, my uncle handed me $3.00, saying he had sold my creation. I know that wasn't the case, but at the time it was something I told everybody with great pride.
As I grew up and certain truths became known, I kept those memories safely locked in my memory book. Every so often, a grandkid would ask me if Santa was real, and I assured him he was as real as you and me. One year, we wrote letters to Santa, which we took with us to the big-box store, where Santa greeted the kids and heard their wishes. The line was long, and kids began to jump about, grabbing their privates, and I looked down at my grandson, standing quietly, saying he was glad I made him go before we left the house.
It was a sad day for me when the youngest of my grandkids told me he wouldn't be going to see Santa this year because kids in his class laughed at him for believing he was real. I could have let it go, but instead I rented a Santa suit with all the trimmings that, in my opinion, was the best I'd ever seen. There was no way possible I'd be recognized, so I opened his classroom door and, with a few loud HO hO HOS, I saw all of them quickly writing down their Christmas wishes. One by one, the kids sat on my knee, swearing they'd been pretty good this year and asking if I would please bring that new bicycle and life-size doll house? When it was time for Santa to go, he reached into a red sack and tossed candy canes into the crowd, wishing everybody a Merry Christmas. As he was almost out the door, he turned around and told my grandson to tell his dad he appreciated his help this year, and he'd see him again next year. His grandson became a sort of legend around school after that, and I had another memory I'd tuck away in my holiday memory files.

Mike  2026                                                          

  

Mike  2026

A church in the valley

 The empty church sat in a country valley with peeled whitewash and creaky floorboards. Pieces of glass, broken over time, allowing squatters to enter with cans of spray paint, are covered with weeds and vines that crawl up the walls in an attempt to hide the evil somehow let inside. Overturned pews, some used for firewood, others as carving boards of crude images depicting wayward youth with too much time on their hands. Litter strewn across the floor like empty bottles and cans, the last drops long since swallowed, and faded newspapers maybe used as covers on cold nights. The pulpit, once a place to hear the words of God, became a place where mockery and darkness brought applause from an audience of traveling nomads searching for anything but answers. I look around at faded walls and shadows of the cross, a reminder he's still here and crying with me.

Mike  2026                                                                        

Their song

 Have you ever been stopped abruptly by a song playing off in the distance? Not just any top ten hit, as there are hundreds of those that you could listen to while doing laundry or vacuuming the floors.  I'm talking about that song, the one you remember dancing to with the girl of your dreams, holding you tight as you softly sing her the lyrics. The song that withstood time as years passed you by. It sometimes plays on an oldies station, and you try to sing along because you still know all the words, but trying to sing it out loud doesn't work out too well, and you blame it on the two packs of cigarettes you've inhaled every day for decades. But it doesn't bother you, and you sing along out of key and out of breath. It all comes back to you seeing her in a red dress, her hair flowing down her back, and a hint of her perfume lingering in the air with every twirl she makes.

She greeted him at the door, home from work, asking why he was late, and he handed her a package, which she opened with curiosity and found to contain an old 33-rpm vinyl record titled Johnny Mathis Greatest Hits. Wait before you play it, she said. I'll be just a jiffy. He dusted it off and set it on the old record player he's had for years. Looking at the list of songs only Johnny could do justice to. Coming out, she said, as his heart skipped a beat seeing her in that red dress, her long hair falling down her back, and the scent of her perfume filling the air with every twirl she made. He lowered the needle to the third groove, and Chances Are began to play. It was the song they danced to long ago, but the feelings remain as strong as they were when love filled the air and time stood still for a fleeting moment.

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                         

The love for grandma

 When I was a boy, my grandma would sit down with me and share stories of her youth. She was born in 1898 and witnessed firsthand the passage of time and all it brought.  I couldn't imagine living without electricity or not being able to get in a car and drive. She remembered when the Wright brothers flew like a bird and how she lived through world wars and depressions as she made do with what she had. She told me she accepted life because wishing for a better life wasn't up to her, and her faith got her through the roughest times. She had four children to raise on her own, and she worked two jobs to feed and house them. She told me the hardest part was watching them go without things other kids had. She had a coffee can that she kept her spare pennies in, hoping that come Christmas she'd have enough to buy each of them a gift. She remembered how on Christmas Eve she'd hang their stockings, and each one got an orange, an apple, and a peppermint candy cane. The big surprise was a new baseball for her oldest son, a jump rope for one daughter, and a game of jacks for the other. Her youngest got a baby doll that she never let go of.

I loved her stories, and because of her, I learned to love writing. We'd sit at her kitchen table, and she'd give me a topic to write about as she baked some cookies. The words just flowed onto the paper, and when I was done, she'd read what I wrote, choking back tears and telling me I had been given a gift straight from God. From that day on, I'd write about anything and everything, and she read each one, telling me my words would someday be known by many and my legacy would be my stories. As we all do, my grandma passed away, and my heart was broken. I tried to write, but the sorrow blocked the words, and blank sheets of paper and a couple of sharpened pencils went untouched for quite a while. Then one springtime day, as I was walking home from school, I heard her voice, clear as a bell, telling me to write again. It was her speaking to me, and nobody could tell me otherwise as I ran the rest of the way home, without a minute to spare. The words began to flow again, on multiple sheets of paper with a nub for a pencil. I wrote about her and the times we shared, like long walks and sitting on the front porch, as she once told me everything out there has a story in the making, and all I had to do was open my mind and my heart to do what comes naturally.
Many years have passed since those days of sharing stories, but when I'm feeling down and the paper is just a blank sheet, I recall a memory or two, and the words begin to flow again. I believe that every so often someone enters our life and we are changed for good. My grandma was that person, partly because she saw things in me I didn't know existed, and she knew one day, like the Wright brothers, I'd take flight, and I did just that.

Mike 2026                                               

                                                               

Mike  2026

Boating memories

 I can still smell the marina in spring, when tarps put on last fall are removed, allowing for new bottom paint as wood surfaces are sanded down and varnished to a mirror gloss. Down below, the cushions and curtains are taken home to be washed to remove the musty smells trapped there during the winter months.

New sparkplugs and filters are replaced, and bilge pumps are tested to assure they're ready in case we spring a leak that is always a possibility with a wooden hull. Mom arrived with boxes filled with paper products and non-perishable goods stored below, as well as bed linens and blankets for those cool nights in late spring.
When the day arrived, we'd watch as the forklift lowered the boat into the water, then grab the lines and tie up alongside the dock to fill up with gas and keep a lookout for excessive water in the bilges. When everything checked out, Dad called everybody on board, and the ropes were cast off as we motored out of the harbor on our way to the river and open waters. Our boat was a classic wooden-hulled cabin cruiser that drew a lot of attention from passing craft, which gave us the thumbs-up as we passed. As spring turned to summer, we took the boat out every weekend, exploring new places some we could dock at and have a meal in a waterfront restaurant. And as usual, we drew a crowd of admirers who all had good things to say.
I remember both day and night cruises on the river as I learned how to navigate in both light and darkness using charts and Dad's knowledge of the waters. Eventually, Dad let me man the controls more often as he and Mom sat back and enjoyed the ride. As I became a young man, I was allowed to take her out by myself sometimes with a few friends on board, where we'd find the perfect swimming hole and drop anchor for a day in the sun. Now, as a grown man, Dad signed the boat over to me, claiming he was too long in the tooth to keep up with the maintenance a boat demands. I taught my boys how to care for it, seeing them fit right in as they did the things I did under my dad's supervision. I imagine one day my wife and I will be invited on a nice cruise, sitting back and watching with pride as the boat Dad and Mom saw potential in motors down the river we all love so much.

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                           

Mike  2026

Mr. Fix it

 His old work boots caked with dry dirt should have been tossed out, but there they sat in a corner of the mudroom calling out to him. He was never one to use things up then throw them away; he'd re-sole his boots many times and put in new laces when needed. He kept the leather well oiled just as he did his old baseball mitt that actually looked like a hand. He learned from his dad that it pays to take care of things because in return they will take care of you. He found it interesting to take broken things, figure out what was wrong with them, and use his brain to find the fix. He chuckled a bit when he remembered his wife telling him she demanded a new washing machine because hers was so outdated. She even went so far as to loosen a couple of screws, which made a horrible noise the neighbors probably heard. He came in with a screwdriver, tightened those two screws, and the machine sounded like brand new. She huffed and puffed a little but then questioned her own sanity, thinking he would admit some things were beyond repair.

He loved working with wood and built new kitchen cupboards nicer than the ones she showed him from the Sears catalog. He made bookshelves, furniture, and a dining room table from cedar. Each piece a labor of love and another test of his craft. Many years ago, when the kids were still young, he could be found in his workshop late into the night, transforming sheets of plywood into all kinds of Christmas decorations. Reindeer and Santa's sleigh, elves and carolers, candy canes and even a Christmas train. Every year he'd add something new, and before long people were coming from miles around to see the spectacle he crafted by hand.
The kids are older now and live quite a sleighride away, but on the chance they come to visit, he puts the decorations out, though not as many, as his old bones don't do so well in the cold anymore. This past Christmas, he surprised his wife with a brand-new washing machine. The man at the appliance store showed him a few machines that had arrived with missing parts and would be scrapped later that day. He offered to take one for twenty dollars and was told to load it up. Once back home and in his workshop, he took the machine apart and found that a seal was missing, which meant water was gushing out like Niagara Falls. He rummaged through his shop and found a seal he'd saved who knows when, and it fit perfectly. He wiped it off, put a red ribbon on it, then went back inside and took off his boots.
The following morning was Christmas, and he awoke to the sound of his wife, who had obviously found the new washer, yelling with joy as he prepared himself for a bear hug and a kiss. You'd think he'd given her the Hope Diamond. And this is for you," she said, handing him a small, wrapped package containing a new pair of laces. He immediately changed out the old for the new, oiled them up, and headed out to his shop to begin another project. Maybe a heart-shaped end table for Valentine's Day, he thought to himself. Maybe not.

Mike 2026                                                             

Mike   2026

Chocolate smiles

 Saturday with Dad

Two Saturdays a month I got to spend with my dad. Why only two? Well, that's when we got our hair cut. The year was 1958, and Dad was home from the war a while ago, but he still carried the hidden scars he'd live with forever. He didn't talk about it with us, but when he went to the VFW and had a few beers with other veterans, he seemed to calm down inside for a few days anyway.
After our haircuts, we'd sometimes go to the drugstore where he'd test the fuses on a machine that would tell you if the fuse was bad or still good. Another stop was at the hardware store owned by our neighbor, a WWII veteran. I loved that store, with dozens of wooden boxes filled with any screw, nut, and bolt you could ever want. The walls were lined with tools hanging by hooks all the way to the ceiling, which the owner would reach with a long pole, hooking it to a hook and pulling the tool down to the floor. I can still smell that store, mostly the wood that lay in bins, cut to size, and the open cans of house paint being mixed by a shaker machine the owner himself designed. In the very back of the store were bags of fertilizer, seeds, and manure that smelled like the ground, if there is such a smell.
My bi-monthly Saturdays also meant having lunch with Dad at the soda fountain that he told me was where he proposed to my mom. Each booth had its own tabletop jukebox where, for a dime, you could play a record. Dad would play a couple he liked, saying they brought back beautiful memories. Lunch was a greasy cheeseburger and fries, washed down with a chocolate shake, and when we left, he'd pick out a small box of Mom's favorite chocolates, then let me give it to her as she kissed his cheek and then mine. The rest of our Saturday we spent tossing a ball or working on his car, which always seemed to need some work. He would teach me how to change a flat tire and remove a radiator cap so that I wouldn't get burned by the hot steam. After supper, he'd sit in his chair reading the evening newspaper while I sat close by reading the latest adventures of Superman he bought for me at the drugstore. Then it was bath time and time to get ready for bed. I hated saying goodnight because I never wanted our day together to end. He'd pick me up onto his lap and whisper how much he enjoyed spending time with me. Then he brushed my cheek with his unshaven face, which got me off his lap and running for the safety of Mom's arms.
I remember all of those Saturdays as if they were yesterday, and although he's been gone for a long time, I try to carry on traditions today with my son. The barber shop is still where it's always been, but the owner gave it to his son, who is pretty old but keeps on cutting hair and still has the old wooden pony he uses for kids getting their first haircut to sit on. The smell of Wildroot and talcum powder fills the air, and just like his dad, every kid got a nickel to get a gunball on the way out. The old hardware store closed its doors, as competing with the big-box stores was impossible, but we'd stop in front and look in through a dirty window at a small selection of hand tools that would probably end up in the town's historical museum.
One thing that never changed is the soda fountain where I'd take my son just like my dad took me. We'd have greasy cheesburgers, fries, and a chocolate shake, and stop on the way out to pick up three boxes of chocolates for my two girls and my wife. It's the simple things in life that matter to me, and as I look at my son with chocolate on his young face, I set the napkin aside and hope he will always remember this day with a chocolate smile.                                   Mike 2026                           

       

                              

Mike 2026

Just life

 The old trailer he lived in for 15 years has shown signs of wear and neglect. Once there were trimmed bushes and flower gardens he took great pride in, as did his neighbors, who always gave him a thumbs-up or a shout-out from a passing car; things were looking good. As time wore on, his health grew worse, and he watched as his pride and joy became an eyesore he could hardly bear to see. On good days he'd do his best to trim a bush or weed a garden, but as life sometimes does, he grew weary and went back inside. His trailer resembled a thrift store, with mementos from places he went, pictures of family, and a large assortment of knickknacks only he liked. Snow globes, miniature plastic soldiers, a chessboard set up and waiting for his next challenger. But it's been gathering dust for an unknown time. He had a wall shelf filled with books, most of which he had read, sometimes twice. He loved the classics like moby dick, Tom Sawyer, and collections of westerns. But his favorite pastime was writing. Putting words together came easily to him, so much so that it wasn't uncommon for him to write well into the night when he'd turn out the lights and write by candlelight—the softly glowing light, like dancers in a valley, with the winds their music.

He realized he was old now and memories were his companions, called upon to take him back to the days of his youth when just a few lines were visible, mostly laugh lines he said, but now a well-worn roadmap of a life well lived. He was alone, the kids grown, choosing to live many miles away, for his liking, but who was he to tell them how to live their lives? They never forgot his birthday, usually with a phone call rather than a card, and he liked that, as he got to say hello to the grandkids who barely knew him except for the stories their parents told. Holidays came and went with another call or a box of goodies at Christmas. He ate his meals in front of the television, watching a world he didn't understand, sometimes clicking it off to finish his meal in silence.
He kept up with his medications and tried to exercise but usually quit before he should have, as a freezer pop kept calling to him. He knew for certain he wasn't alone in his trailer, as many signs led him to believe the spirits of those who called this place their home before death made themselves known by turning lights on and off, blowing the curtains on a dead-still night, and moving things around where they didn't belong. After a long time, everything quit, and he surmised they had left to haunt someone else.
He sometimes missed his younger days when everything was new, and adventure was his middle name. He longed for trimmed bushes and gardens of wildflowers, the smell of a rose and a home-cooked meal. But he had his mind that could still call out to him, begging to write a story, a memory come alive, and he smiled a toothless grin and began to write.    

Mike 2026        

Mike  2026

Things that go bump

 Walking down the city streets, a shoulder bump can be commonplace unless you bump too hard. That's how we met, although neither of us knew it at the time. Fast forward a few days, and I'm grabbing some lunch at the Woolworths lunch counter and see you doing the same. There was something familiar about you that I couldn't put my finger on. Standing in line at the cashier, I looked and saw her digging in her purse, not looking where she was going, and instead of moving out of her way, I let her bump my shoulder. That was when the lightbulb went on, and I realized it was her I bumped into a few days ago. How could I forget her golden hair and ruby red lips? The way she looked at me for a microsecond as if she was hurt, then walked on faster. What are the odds we meet again, with a bump being our introduction? I helped her pick up the contents of her purse as she apologized more than once, and I assured her no harm had come of it.

Things happen in the hustle of city streets, with hundreds of people trying to get somewhere, dodging each other as cell phones mirror the number of people lost in a maze, with places to go and people to see, all part of their chosen lives in a concrete jungle. So what's the chance our meeting wasn't a sign of some sort, but a deliberate act of bumping shoulders and exchanging business cards? Time answered that question the day I happened upon her card while looking for something in my wallet. With nothing to lose, I phoned her and asked her out for coffee, and she eagerly agreed.
All the people on those city streets with hundreds of shoulder bumps and cross looks, my shoulder chose yours to bump, and in that very brief instant I knew it wasn't a mistake but rather a message from the universe. A message at the lunch counter and a message to see a bump as a sign that some things do go bump in the night, so pay attention as you walk the city streets, wondering if your one true love walks beside you, ready to bump shoulders and see what happens.

                                                                     

                                                                      

Mike 2026

When kids were kids

 When I was a kid, the best times were had at the parks. Not theme parks, just city or county parks where a family could have a picnic and sometimes aunts and uncles, cousins, and friends all met to enjoy a day of hot dogs and burgers on the grill. One park in particular was well known for a slide that was the highest for miles around. There were twenty-five steps to reach the top, barely enough room to sit down, and letting go as you sped down the steel monster at record speeds, all the while praying you would have a soft landing, unscathed. There were two humps on the slide to slow you down a little, and for kids who didn't weigh much, it wasn't uncommon to get some air as they sped down, screaming with joy, then raced around to the stairs for another go.

Back then, parents let kids be kids, and although it was well known that every mom gasped a little looking at their kid forty feet in the air with nothing to protect them but a handrail to hang on to. Somehow, one kid, somewhere in time, realized that if you rubbed the steel down with waxed paper, you'd increase your speed, so naturally we had to try that, and it really did work. If there was a time when your picnic was in the heat of summer, you dare not wear just shorts to go down the slide, as steel gets very hot and your butt would surely be burned. I can still see a kid with his pants down as his mom tended to his burned rear end.
What was it back in those days when parents allowed their kids to play on rides like the slides and go around on a wooden circular platform that, when pushed faster and faster around in a circle, gravity got you. It was all you could do to stay on until you couldn't and were tossed off, crashing to the ground like a rag doll. And who was the genius who invented the sea-saw on a large scale? The trick was to have two kids close in weight, so when one pushed off the ground, the other kid would be twenty feet in the air, stuck there until the other kid went through the same motions, until one kid decided he'd had enough and got off his seat, causing the other to crash hard on the ground. Oh, the good times.
And what about the spring animals? Farm animals were the choice of the person who devised those whiplashed amusements. The object was to rock back and forth and side to side as the heavy-duty springs whipped you around close to the sky one minute and nose-diving to earth the next. The only saving grace was that little kids couldn't bend those springs as the older kids could, so all they got was a gentle ride on their favorite farm animal.
Today, a place like that would never be allowed. Too dangerous, especially since no protective gear was worn, and if you got hurt, Dad would decide if it was bad enough to require stitches. I think today is all about safety, and that's okay, but where did the sense of adventure go?  Playgrounds are all plastic with mounds of mulch to land on. Fiberglass slides and monkey bars that let your feet touch ground. I suppose I'm just old-fashioned, and I proved that a few weeks ago when I drove to the park I went to as a kid. The steel slide was still there, although it didn't look so intimidating as I climbed the 25 stairs, sat down, and let go of the rails as I raced down the steel monster, laughing all the way until my old rear end hit the ground, leaving me to wonder if I was still in one piece and had no broken bones. I thought for a minute I saw Mom running towards me with her first-aid kit, but it was just Mom bringing her kid a happy meal.

Mike  2026                                                                    

                                                

 
MIKE  2026