As a storyteller, I write mostly from thousands of memories I call untapped resources, then sprinkle in some fiction to enhance the reading experience. Let's say I'm writing a story of my childhood where we searched for the elusive giant pumpkin. That part was easy to write, since it truly happened

. But it doesn't make for a very good read. So first I'll tell you what led up to looking for pumpkins: conversations with the family about which patches offered the biggest inventory, and then we jumped in the station wagon with a picnic lunch Mom made for the day trip into the country. Next, I'd probably dedicate some words to describing the pumpkins my siblings chose and the corn stalks Mom wanted for decoration. I'd include Dad loading a bushel of just-picked apples that Mom would make pies and cinnamon applesauce from, and a jug of apple cider us kids could drink until it became an adult drink only. I'd go on to explain how we'd draw faces on our pumpkins that Dad would carve with a large kitchen knife, and Mom would stand by to dress a wound Dad said was okay. I'd tell of trick-or-treats at neighbors' houses, dressed in costumes Mom made, some of which took a whole year to complete. This whole story began with the first few sentences I wrote, then I sat back and let my imagination run wild.

Every one of my thousand-plus stories began with a thought or memory I unlocked; then I let them grow, and I didn't finish them until I read them and either threw them in the trash bucket or tuned them up the way I saw fit. That makes you, the reader, long for more. I purposely keep each very short story to a maximum of three paragraphs, with some a tad longer if I felt it needed more to create a moment in time you may have forgotten but can now experience once again with a smile and anticipation for the next story, just waiting for you to remember something the story told that reminded you of years gone by.

My work is more than a short story with a beginning and an end; my very short stories send you back to some of your greatest memories, pulling you from your surroundings and leaving you wanting more. I call them one-cup-of-coffee reads, meaning that by the time you finish that cup, you can read several very short stories I guarantee will start your day with a smile.

If you'd like to see over one thousand of my stories, visit my blog: mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com. My plan is to publish my thousand-plus stories, then begin with a clean slate for volume number two. It took me eight years to complete volume one so dont be in a hurry to read volume two. Thanks for all the wonderful comments I've received, as they inspire me to keep going.

Mike  2026

Three months of a farmer

 It's that first morning with frost on the fields, and you're thankful you got the harvest in on time. Scattered pumpkins no one wanted lie there and go back into the ground as nature intended, while remnants of corn stalks litter the fields.

The apple trees are bare, but they've provided bushels of fruit that will be the stars of the table, including applesauce, pies, and cobblers. School lunch bags and one for the teacher, a sweet delight.
Time to give thanks for family and friends who share your table, filled with nature's bounty, as children shout for a drumstick. An afternoon football game and a turkey sandwich end the day as the last of the embers glow in the fireplace and kids say their prayers.
December says hello with an early snowfall as the roadside stand of Christmas trees comes alive with fresh paint and colored lights. This is the first year your son is old enough to cut trees with the chainsaw, under close supervision from Dad. Trees of all sizes are cut and stood up as city folks stop and hunt for the perfect tree. Christmas Eve, with all but a couple of trees left, the stand closes, and you join your family to decorate your tree, a balsam fir the kids agreed on.
Three months of hard work pass quickly as you wait for the springtime thaw and the beginning of another cycle of planting, tending, and harvesting. This is your way of life, filled with the good and the bad as Mother Nature decides your fate. Prayers are said at every mass or service for a bountiful harvest, but you realize not every prayer will be answered—broken machinery that costs too much to repair, bad seeds that will never grow. Invasions of bugs stopped, but at a cost. All part of being a farmer: doing what he loves with the people he loves, in a place he will never leave.

Mike 2026                                                           

Mike  2026

The last picture

 There are good things about growing older; the best thing is growing older and waking in the morning to the smell of coffee your late wife made every morning, which you now prepare before going to bed on a timer and waking up with a smile, thinking about her before you even wipe the sleep from your eyes. Growing older means having time to browse through old school photo albums and seeing those faces you loved so very much. Time passes so quickly you dare not blink as children become adults with their own babies, and those who've passed on are now just shadows in a yellow-stained picture of your past.

Growing older makes you pause as you contemplate doing something you probably shouldn't, like riding your bicycle in the rain or sledding down a winter hill, as grandkids cheer you on and your child hides the view with her hands over her eyes. Those kinds of things are designed for much younger people; at least that's what you're led to believe as you shut out everything around you and become a kid again, probably for the last time.
I remember hearing a song by Tobi Keith titled Don't Let the Old Man In. That rang true for what I believed as I looked at my weathered face in the mirror, trying to convince myself it wasn't me, even though I knew it was. Staring back at me as each wrinkle told a story of my past, some I'd rather forget while others I accepted as my life journey with no regrets. Growing older and remembering the important parts of your life takes you back to the old photo albums time and again to look deeply into the faces that fulfilled your life and the memories you know will one day fade away.
Your children and grandchildren will browse through those books, laughing with love, seeing you racing down that snow-covered hill with a smile as big as life itself, and the last picture of you riding your bicycle on a rainy day, arms stretched out and looking to the heavens. Growing older is a series of should-I-or-shouldn't-I moments, and you lean toward the should-I, craving one last crazy hurrah for your picture book.                                                

Mike 2026

Winters fury and then some

 He woke to a chill in the air, a sign that autumn was nudging out summer's blistering heat. He took a breath and smelled the earth again as summer said goodbye for a long winter's nap. Soon the leaves would turn colors of burnt orange and crimson as they floated to the ground, leaving naked branches behind. The sound of rakes piling leaves into mounds beckoned children to jump and disappear into the darkness of autumn fun. The smell of burning leaves filled the air, and the last of summer's cookouts could be heard as burgers and dogs sizzled on grills for the last time this year.

Neighbors gathered at a picnic table, pulling on sweaters they'd brought along and watching the sunset sink into the sky as the first cold air settled beside them. The elders were covered in blankets to keep them warm and refused to go inside, claiming they felt invigorated by the crisp air. They used fire pits for the first time in a while, and kids made s'mores with a little guidance from moms and dads. Each moment was captured and remembered as autumn disappeared into the darkness of night and was replaced with a blanket of white that covered everything and left behind paper plates filled with scraps of burgers and dogs quickly gathered by the small creatures of the night to be added to their gatherings needed to sustain them during the frigid months of winter's fury.
He woke covered in a quilt his wife made for him, so warm and cozy he didn't want to get up. Still, the brightness of the morning seemed brighter than usual, so he got up wrapped in the quilt and went to the window of his upstairs bedroom, and his words wouldn't form- just a muttering of sorts as he looked out, seeing nothing but snow that covered everything as far as he could see. He reached for his sunglasses to dull the glare and saw only the tips of telephone poles with drifts over two stories tall. He knew there were cars parked on the streets, but none were visible, buried beneath the mountains of winter's first attack. Still in shock, he heard the kids' laughter as a no-school-today message blared on the radio, but they wouldn't be going outside until they cleared fallen trees and downed power lines.
Drifts covered the windows, and with no power, the house seemed like a prison, dark and cold. He built a fire in the fireplace, burning through wood as fast as it went, fearing they'd run out altogether. They agreed they'd burn furniture if need be, as the kids pleaded with them not to burn their wooden bunk beds. One day became two, and then three, as hope dwindled, but on day four the sounds of work trucks and snow removal vehicles slowly made their way across town, clearing the roads and leaving behind giant piles of snow at the foot of driveways for homeowners to clear one shovel at a time.  Day five arrived, and things leaned towards recovery, but not soon enough, as cabinets once filled were now empty and the only things in the fridge were almost empty ketchup bottles and a jar of sweet pickles with two that escaped hungry hands.
Dad and his sons worked to clear the drifts and eventually claimed victory, turning to the car buried in the street. A few good neighbors lent a hand pushing him out to the screams of victory. The main streets were OK to drive on now that the dangers were gone. The family jumped in as Dad headed for the grocery store only to find that many had been there before them. Mom gathered what she could but realized it would only last a couple of days. But on the 6th day, another radio announcement told people the National Guard was setting up drop zones where trucks full of food and water were available to everyone in need. By day 10, temperatures were rising and melting large quantities of snow, allowing crews to plow the streets so work could be finished and traffic could get back on track. On day 11, school opened again, a blessing for moms who had run out of games to play and stories to tell. Dads went back to work, and grocery stores were full again. No one would ever forget that early winter storm, but they made the best of it by sliding down gigantic snow piles and building snow forts that sometimes spanned a hundred feet. I guess autumn couldn't wait to be over, but did she have to drop in like an atomic bomb? Will we see it happen again? I guess we will have to wait to see.

Mike  2026                                                                

Mike  2026

Sucker fishing

 It was mid-March, and the sucker fish were running in county streams. I was 12 when I first tried to catch some, so I was armed with waders, a three-pronged spear, a lantern, and a burlap bag. I spent some weekends at my aunt and uncle's place, where the saying a one-traffic-light town was very true. My cousin Peter was two years older than me and would show me how to catch these elusive fish, and believe me, it wasn't an experience I cared to repeat. So on a cold March night he drove us down country roads, and I feared we'd never find our way back. We finally stopped and parked beside a stream with angry currents and the roar of an angry beast ready to swallow me up. Peter showed me how to put on the waders, which made me feel like a giant rubber glove from neck to feet. He handed me my spear and lantern, lit the lantern, and told me to put the burlap bag across my shoulders like my newspaper delivery bag. Ok, he said, just follow me and walk slowly like I could do anything differently. Hold your lantern a couple of feet above the water, and you'll see the shadow of the fish, and when you do, spear it. When you get one, put it in the bag and move on. Will we eat these fish I asked and he told me no they tasted awful but made for great fietilzer so try and fill your bag.geared up and redy to go I stepped into the cold water and followed my cousin. It didn't take long, and I saw him put a fish into his bag and yell, "They're on the run, cuz get you some." I'll admit the thought of getting one was overwhelming, but I moved on, and without warning I felt a fish rub against my waders, so with high expectations I threw my spear and immediately felt the rush of frigid water fill my waders. Yep, I speared my waders and lost my balance as the current took hold, and within seconds I was bobbing up and down in the stream, getting farther away from my cousin, who had no idea I was being swept away to who knows where. I saw his lantern coming towards me and pulling me to the bank where I lay freezing to death. Peter thought fast and pulled off my mangled waders and retrieved a blanket from the car and wrapped me up like a burrito as my teeth chattered and my lips turned a shade of blue.So did you get the fish? He asked me with a grin. He got me into the car and turned on the heat as I slowly warmed up and my teeth quit chattering. Country folks love to hear a good story, especially when it's true, and Peter was already thinking about how he'd spin my misfortune into a laughing fit for anyone who would listen. And they listened. The next morning, as we walked the few short steps to the town's only diner, we entered to clapping and laughter all around. Hey, wader boy! One man shouted. Spear any more waders? Another chimed in. Even the cook looked out the serving window and asked if I was going out again that night. Like most stories, mine was set aside for another to be told, and a few days later Peter and I headed to the stream and geared up. I ended up filling my bag with sucker fish and never once speared my waders. Back at the diner the next morning, another round of remarks changed from laughing to congratulations. Peter and I went sucker fishing quite a few times after that fateful night, and as we unloaded our gear, he made sure I got the waders that were duct-taped over the spear marks that made me smile and remember always.   

Mike  2026

                                                                                    

                                                                                 

                                                                             

Letting her get away

 I remember when a handshake sealed a deal, and I remember when a man held the door for a woman and always walked on the outside of the sidewalk so a car splash wouldn't soak her, I Remember when a boy asked her father for permission to date her, and he looked like a serial killer. Do you remember, like I do, the first time you held her hand and it felt so smooth, and the first kiss that made you dizzy? Do you remember Friday under the lights, when your high school football game was played in frigid temperatures, and you gave her your jacket as you silently froze? I remember when I gave her a ring I saved up for; it took forever to pay it off, but the look on her face made it all worthwhile.

I remember having to leave her when I joined the Navy, like my dad did, and his dad before him. At first we wrote letters, but that eventually slowed down until it stopped. I saw a big part of the world and grew up almost overnight knowing that when I got out and went home I'd eventually see her someplace, and I wondered how that would go. That day came when I saw her in a club, dancing with someone who had his arms around her, as she looked into his eyes the way she looked into mine years ago. I remember walking out, looking back as her eyes met mine, and her stopping dancing for a minute to watch me close the door behind me.I can remember running into her at the grocery store, and her tugging on my shirt, smiling that smile that warmed my heart back then. The years had been good to her; a tiny spark lit as my heart beat faster. We went for coffee and talked for an hour before she had to leave, and I stayed until her lilac scent left the room. She was my first real love, and no one else could fill my heart the way she did.
I remember my first love, which ended in a far-away ocean and blank sheets of writing paper. I think of her almost every day and ask myself what our life would have been, but that was just one of many thoughts I had about her, about us, about myself, and questions left unanswered. I'll think about her every time I smell lilacs as I walk down a sidewalk without her hand in mine.

Mike 2026                                                      

Mike 2026

The seasons I remember

 The house is so quiet this autumn day; it's as if time stopped for a minute, letting a season change into another, from the sounds of kids playing Marco Polo in the pool to picking out a pumpkin at the pumpkin patch. Once green leaves, now a splash of colors fall to the ground, leaving bare branches behind to fend off another cold winter. From bathing suits to sweaters, from iced tea to hot chocolate, the changes are a story told in living color that never disappoints. A distant tractor breaks the silence as it harvests the last of the hay and marks the end of another season.

Roadside stands offer baskets full of apples, pumpkins, and cider to families from the city on a Sunday afternoon. The search for the biggest pumpkin farm ends with a field of orange as far as the eye can see, and kids of all ages roam through the rows in search of a favorite. Back home, the firepit holding toys and chew toys for the dog is cleaned out and ready for a cold night when the smell of wood burning can't come soon enough. Piles of leaves stand tall until kids run and jump into them; they are alive as voices and laughter fill the air.
As autumn comes to an end and winter knocks at the door, pools will be covered and grills put up in the garage. Ice skates will replace skateboards, and sleds will replace bicycles next to the grills. The freezer holds a turkey that will soon be the guest of honor at a Thanksgiving feast. A house full of family and friends sit around three tables pushed together as one, and mom brings out dish after dish of everyone's favorites. This day officially marks the end of autumn and gives way to thoughts of the holidays looming just ahead.
A Sunday afternoon in search of the perfect Christmas tree and little voices claiming they had found the one. Then, without warning, a light snow fell from the sky, coming to rest for a minute on the many trees that could have made the perfect Christmas card if the snow hadn't fallen to the ground. A speaker hanging in a tree played holiday music as kids and grown-ups sang the familiar songs they grew up with, bringing back memories of holidays past.
Winter gave way to spring, with the land awakening and sprouts of color peeking through the ground as bulbs became vivid tulips. Heavy coats gave way to jackets, then to T-shirts; jeans were outgrown and cut into shorts, and bare feet replaced rubber boots. Spring meant repairing what winter claimed like a fresh coat of paint, replacing boards on the porch and making sure the lawn mower was in good working order. It meant scattering grass seed everywhere, hoping it would take hold and grow.
Summer arrived, and the pool was uncovered and cleaned; bicycles and grills came out of the garage, and skateboards were well oiled. Fans were turned on, slowly, cooling the house with warm air, while open windows sometimes blessed you with a cooler breeze. Summer meant no school and gave time for exploring the dirt roads and hidden ponds in search of a fishing hole you'd try to keep secret that didn't last long. Soon summer would come to a close as autumn woke up in living color and we began again.

Mike 2026                                                                 

Mike 2026

Saturdays with Dad

 I remember when Saturdays meant doing something with my dad, like me mowing the grass and him reading the paper, making sure I cut it the way he wanted. But it also meant going into town for a haircut, sitting in a chair reading comic books that had seen better days while Dad and the barber talked about whatever you talk about while getting your hair cut. Saturdays felt like an unwritten law: dads and their sons hung out together, taking up a good portion of the sidewalk and going into places like the hardware store and newsstands, where Dad read the news from around the world. In contrast, you looked at the latest comic books, most protected from greasy kid hands with a plastic cover, leaving you to wonder what was inside.

Lunch was a bonus when we went inside the 24-hour diner, and I got to order anything on the menu, which was always a burger with fries and a chocolate shake. It was also when Dad would ask me about school and whether I was trying out for football this year. Did I have a girlfriend or a hundred other questions, some making me blush, but I didn't mind. Being from a small town, it wasn't unusual to run into a friend or two that led to handshakes and small talk between dads and nods of the head between the boys. On the way back home, Dad whistled to the music on the radio as I stuck my head out of the window, catching the air in my mouth like a dog would do
Mom would be standing on the porch watching as we pulled into the driveway, anxious to hear about our day. It was great, I'd say as I ran inside, hoping to watch some television, but I never quite made it before Dad told me to get the gloves out for a game of catch. He always let me warm up tossing the ball a few times at low speeds, and without warning he threw a fastball that hit my glove like a missile on a mission. I'd fling my glove away from the pain, but he told me to laugh it off and get ready for another one. That torture went on for a while until he looked at his watch and told me I was on my own, as college ball was coming on air in just a few minutes.
My dad was a good guy who provided for us and always made it clear I could be anything I wanted and do whatever my heart told me to do. I know I disappointed him at times when I didn't try out for football or join the youth hockey team as my interests leaned more toward being a writer. I believed I had a thousand stories to write about my childhood, and he just shrugged, saying it was my life. Years passed, and I attended the city college, where I received several awards for creative writing. I went on to become a published author, and my first book, titled Time with Dad, sold off the shelves.
One Saturday years later, we had lunch at the diner, where he asked me about my life and smiled as I gave him a signed copy of my book, which Mom later told me he read a dozen times or more. He told me he remembered a lot of the things we did but had no idea I remembered. On that Saturday, I packed my bags to leave, and he brought out the gloves he kept next to my book, asking me to have a catch. I agreed but told him to ease up on the speed, but the missile flew and landed in my glove with a bang as he smiled that smile I remember so well. 

Mike 2026               

Mike  2026

Smell,see,touch and taste

 I'll catch a whiff of hot dogs cooking on a warm, sunny day; I can almost hear the sizzle of burgers and kids holding up paper plates, told to hold them tight so the hot dog doesn't roll off and into the mouth of the family dog.

I'll smell the freshly mowed grass and open bags of pine mulch as young newlyweds work together on the lawn of their new house. I'll catch the scent of varnish as a neighbor readies his boat for the summer, and paint as a group of young people paints the house of an old school teacher too old to climb ladders anymore.
I can smell the river as a western breeze floats through the air and into my waiting nose. Smells turn into sights as I admire the colorful tulips in full bloom planted as bulbs on a cool autumn day. I see a new roof being installed and neighborhood teens working on a car in the street while giggly girls look for their attention. I hear the diesel engine of a semitruck passing by, blowing the horn as a neighborhood long-haul driver stops at home briefly, into the arms of his wife and children.
I can hear the crack of a bat at the ball field where I once played and the shouts of fans echoing in my ears. Running late, I arrived just in time to see my grandson hit a home run, then found me standing up and waving him on. After the game, we went for ice cream with the team, turning a once quiet place into a dozen youngsters making noise and memories never to be forgotten for them and for me.
There are so many things we smell, taste, see, and feel if we take time to, but sometimes time and life don't mix well, and we find ourselves saying, "I'm sorry," to a disappointed kid, with a promise to make up for it the next game, dance, picnic, or by helping fix a broken bicycle.
Slow down, I tell myself. Take the time to smell those hot dogs and burgers, get to the game early for the best seats, give the newlyweds some pointers, and offer the kids working on a car your years of experience under the hood. I'll pick a few tulips for my everything and kiss her cheek for no reason. Then I'll look to the heavens and give thanks for all things that I can smell, see, touch, and taste on any given day.

Mike 2026                                                        

Mike  2026

A daughters never ending love

 His daughter picks him up, making sure no cigarettes are left unattended and that he's dressed warm enough for a cool autumn morning. He mentions that he likes her new car, but he's been saying that since she bought it three years ago. Their first stop is the cemetery, where they pay respects while he speaks softly to his family gone before him, and she brushes off fallen leaves and places fresh flowers on her mother's grave. She never tells him when it's time to leave, as she knows when he kisses her headstone and slowly walks back to the car.

Their next stop is a small coffee shop that's been around for decades. He used to go there almost every day, but since his stroke, he only goes when his daughter takes him something he looks forward to, as he often sees old friends that he recognizes or thinks he does. He shakes hands and smiles, and others return his smile with kindness and understanding.
As they leave, he asks where they're going, looking out the window at the colors of autumn, and whispers how beautiful they are; she knows he's speaking to her mom and two children who left this world too soon. They pass a pumpkin patch that stirs memories as he smiles and touches her hand, asking if she remembered that place. He spoke quietly and asked if they could stop. He reached into his pocket, holding a small basket of apples, but had to ask her to help him count out the money, since all the coins looked the same to him.
It was noon by the time they reached their final destination, a state park that he took his family to every autumn when the kids would play in the fallen leaves, and he would grill dogs and burgers, a smell he never wanted to forget but feared that day was near. She found a place to park and helped him to a picnic table, then she unpacked their lunch as he stared at the old grill, probably trying hard to remember those days long gone.
The air grew cold as the day wore on, so she built a small fire in the grill where they warmed their hands and looked into the flames, each of them reaching back in time to happy days. As the fire went out, she took his hand, helped him back into the car, and turned up the heat as he smiled at her, saying, B"Brrrr." They arrived back at his place, an assisted living facility that she knew deep down he didn't like very much but understood it was for his own good. As they walked down the hall leading to his room, he passed out apples to his friends and showed off the pumpkin he sat on the floor next to his door.
She sat with him for a spell but knew she had to leave, so she hugged him, and he hugged her back with a smile and whispers of his thanks for that day. She went back to her car and wept as she saw him waving at her from his window, wishing things could be different but knowing they'd never be. He left her an apple on the seat of her car; he said it was nice for three years now, as she wiped away her tears and whispered how much she loved him.

                                                                              His daughter picks him up, making sure no cigarettes are left unattended and that he's dressed warm enough for a cool autumn morning. He mentions that he likes her new car, but he's been saying that since she bought it three years ago. Their first stop is the cemetery, where they pay respects while he speaks softly to his family gone before him, and she brushes off fallen leaves and places fresh flowers on her mother's grave. She never tells him when it's time to leave, as she knows when he kisses her headstone and slowly walks back to the car.

Their next stop is a small coffee shop that's been around for decades. He used to go there almost every day, but since his stroke, he only goes when his daughter takes him something he looks forward to, as he often sees old friends that he recognizes or thinks he does. He shakes hands and smiles, and others return his smile with kindness and understanding.
As they leave, he asks where they're going, looking out the window at the colors of autumn, and whispers how beautiful they are; she knows he's speaking to her mom and two children who left this world too soon. They pass a pumpkin patch that stirs memories as he smiles and touches her hand, asking if she remembered that place. He spoke quietly and asked if they could stop. He reached into his pocket, holding a small basket of apples, but had to ask her to help him count out the money, since all the coins looked the same to him.
It was noon by the time they reached their final destination, a state park that he took his family to every autumn when the kids would play in the fallen leaves, and he would grill dogs and burgers, a smell he never wanted to forget but feared that day was near. She found a place to park and helped him to a picnic table, then she unpacked their lunch as he stared at the old grill, probably trying hard to remember those days long gone.
The air grew cold as the day wore on, so she built a small fire in the grill where they warmed their hands and looked into the flames, each of them reaching back in time to happy days. As the fire went out, she took his hand, helped him back into the car, and turned up the heat as he smiled at her, saying, B"Brrrr." They arrived back at his place, an assisted living facility that she knew deep down he didn't like very much but understood it was for his own good. As they walked down the hall leading to his room, he passed out apples to his friends and showed off the pumpkin he sat on the floor next to his door.
She sat with him for a spell but knew she had to leave, so she hugged him, and he hugged her back with a smile and whispers of his thanks for that day. She went back to her car and wept as she saw him waving at her from his window, wishing things could be different but knowing they'd never be. He left her an apple on the seat of her car; he said it was nice for three years now, as she wiped away her tears and whispered how much she loved him.

                                                                                

Mike 2026

Mike 2026

Night and day

 The sun still slept as the darkness stretched. A group of stars refused to quit shining, and somewhere the first sounds of the day were heard. Streetlights go off in unison, and kitchen lights dot the map as coffee is brewed and sack lunches are made and labeled with a child's name. City streets come alive as graveyard-shift workers head home and their replacements punch in with sleepy eyes.

Across the heartland, farmers working in the darkness tend to their morning chores as the smells of a country breakfast fill the air. Moms in aprons and dads in overalls reach for the last piece of bacon, letting their kids share it as they grab their lunch bags and run to catch the school bus. Dads kiss moms goodbye as they pour themselves the last cup of coffee, relishing the day's quiet as the sun shines and darkness sleeps.

Mike  2026                                               

Sleds and skates

 He sat on the porch, eyeballing the old sled he used for so many years. He remembered when he was younger and full of energy; he'd walk up the snow-covered hill, taking a moment to look around at the vastness of it all and silently giving thanks before he jumped on his downhill racer and, with blistering speed, raced downhill, reaching the bottom first and jumping for joy as his kids joined him at the bottom.

He went inside and looked around for his ice skates that must surely be covered in dust after all these years and finally found them stuck away in a closet filled with things long forgotten until now. He sat down on the porch and laced up the skates, then slowly got up to see if he could still stand without bending an ankle or worse. As he made his way towards the frozen pond, he remembered the endless days of ice hockey and skating under the lights with his first real high school crush.
He stepped onto the frozen pond and, with great care, moved one foot after another until he was skating again, slow but sure. Round and round he went, gaining both speed and confidence; his younger self coached him along the way until age slowed him down and he headed back to the safety of the porch with a smile on his frozen face.
His grandkids would be coming for a visit tomorrow, anxious to ride their sleds down the hill and skate on the pond, but little did they expect him to join them. He joined them on top of the hill and challenged them to a race that had them all laughing, until he jumped on his old speed racer and sped downhill to the finish line ahead of them. Warming himself on the porch, he saw them putting on their skates, and without being seen, he laced up his skates and hit the ice with a smile on his face. He grew tired after a while and called it quits, but not before he leaped into the air and spun in circles as his grand exit. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he did know their faces were frozen in time, awe and disbelief. Yeah, that's what he was going for.
Mike  2026

Beach house and carnivals

 The lazy days of summer is playing on the car radio as we say goodbye to another season at the beach house. Memories made there have stuck with me throughout my life, and I often summon one or two to relive the happiest times of my youth. The house itself was up on the hill that you needed to climb seventy-six wooden steps from the beach to get there. Dad was always repairing or replacing a step here and there as nature took its toll. Going to the beach was a job in itself, as umbrellas and coolers were carried down one step at a time, and everyone vowed to stay on the beach for the day and into the night when we'd build a campfire and roast hot dogs on a stick.

No television for the entire time there, not because we were being punished; it's just that we didn't want to do anything but hang out on the beach and turn our snowy white skin into a summer bronze. There was an amusement park a stone's throw away, and we could hear the music and see a Ferris wheel, its colored lights beckoning us. When we first arrived, Dad gave each of us a twenty-dollar bill, which was a huge amount to spend on anything we wanted, but when it was gone, it was gone.
Sometimes I wandered by myself, slowly walking on the boardwalk, looking at games of chance where the chance of winning was as good as the cute girl serving ice cream cones agreeing to go on the carousel with me. I got to know almost everyone on the boardwalk during my summers, and eventually I got a part-time job at one of the thrill rides, the Zipper. I'd make sure everyone's safety bars were locked, and all riders were tall enough to ride. I can't tell you how many times I had to clean a cart after someone lost their cookies.
The year I graduated from high school, I bought a concession stand with money I'd saved over the years. I offered candy apples, cotton candy, popcorn, and seven flavors of ice cream. The stand had been abandoned a year prior, and after some bargaining with the park owner, I signed a three-year contract and began my time as a genuine carney. With some help from family and friends, we cleaned, painted, and replaced run-down machines with a brand-new, shiny, out-of-the-box custard machine, cotton candy drums, and a grill for cooking hot dogs and burgers. We installed a six-flavor soda machine and bags of warm peanuts and giant pretzels.
My first season was a huge success, forcing me to hire some help to keep things moving like an assembly line. I trained them during the off-season, and when the first day of a new season arrived, we were ready for the crowds. Five seasons passed, and my stand outgrew so much that I made another deal with the owners to allow me to bring in a new stand three times as large, enabling me to provide faster service and three times the revenue, which the owner liked, as it meant more money for him per our agreement. One of the new additions, which were ten picnic tables painted a multitude of colors, was a smart move, as tired parents could have a seat with their kids and enjoy some authentic carnival foods and treats.
Several seasons passed, and the carnival began to fall into disarray. Stands were boarded up as vendors grew old and tried to sell them, with very few finding a buyer. Times were hard, but I paid little attention as my stand continued to grow, drawing in people from the beach community who had heard about it and had to try it for themselves. It didn't take long for the line to grow every day. One year later, the park owner offered to sell me the whole package: all the attractions and the land, which covered 12 acres. I decided to accept his offer, and six months later I was the proud owner of a run-down carnival. What had I done? I would like to have some investors who could cough up capital to bring the carnival back to life.
I spent the entire offseason designing the park the way I envisioned it. I used most of the 12 acres to create a campground with fifteen cottages that people could rent for the entire season. I got rid of most of the games of chance, leaving the most difficult to win, and the diamond that was my stand would be moved to the front and center of the park, where its neon signs could be seen for miles, drawing in folks driving by and kids begging their parents to stop. My carnival became a destination listed in brochures, with roadside billboards dotted across the landscape for every driver to see. Eventually, more cottages were added, and state-of-the-art carnival rides were brought in to guarantee a ride you'll never forget.
As time caught up with me, my kids took over, bringing their own ideas for improving the park, which I admitted were darn good ideas. One of my favorites was to flood the remaining back acres into a frozen pond where people could ice skate and have a bite to eat from the stand to be built beside the pond. We'd offer hot cocoa and coffee in various flavors, plus some cookies as big as a manhole cover.
Looking back, I have nothing but good memories of the park we built, as well as my humble beginnings in the beach house on the hill, where now my grandkids run up and down those seventy-six wooden stairs that take me a good half an hour to climb. But I'm smiling as I see the Ferris wheel's colored lights shining in the distance, beckoning me to come over while I slowly climb the remaining 76 stairs.
Mike  2026

Labor day

 Labor Day is a celebration of thanks for hard-working Americans who keep our country up and running. Firemen, police officers, teachers, tradespeople, and many others who get up every day and go to work.

I don't know for sure if the fashion rule for not wearing white after Labor Day still exists, but I can tell you it started as a way for the wealthy upper class to signal they were returning from summer vacations and packing away lightweight clothes. I'd bet that some people still practice that fashion rule.
Not many can remember when workers in this country worked 12-hour days at a minimum wage and few, if any, benefits, which led to the formation of labor unions whose goal was to create a labor force with suitable working conditions and fewer hours worked. and fair wages. That was the start of progress in the workforce.
Take a minute and honor all the workers who have built this country through hard work and a desire for the American dream. And please back off the white clothes a little as I look down on the crowded streets and see all white like a crowd of ghosts. HAPPY LABOR DAY!

Mike  2026

More within me.

 At 72, I feel as if my brain has retained enough, but I keep coming up with more stories to share and memories to relive, and who am I to stop writing about whatever is left inside of me, screaming to get out.

My meager existence revolves around a cup of coffee in the morning and sitting down at my desktop, where, like a Qui-ja-board, my fingers go to the right keys and the journey begins. The almost-silent tapping takes me to far-off places I somehow manage to summon, joining me as I dive deeper into a darkness made clear the further I go.
Distractions don't bother me as long as  I don't have to stop for some outside reason, like a truck delivering joy to someone or a kid mowing a neighbor's lawn. Inside my house, I've created a storybook land with clowns sitting on stools and an unknown number of pin-up girls from the 30s and 40s  giving me more inspiration to write.  Pictures of my family when everyone gathered for a summer picnic.  Christmas cards yellowed from time but never thrown out. Shelves crowded with knick-knacks like old plastic army men, sea glass, and a yo-yo with no string.
My writing space itself is small, with just enough room to work, but any smaller, I fear, would lead to a phobia of enclosed spaces. I love writing at night when candles are lit, throwing shadows across the room, trying to bother me but never can, as the candles' glow comforts me and sparks my imagination for the umpteenth time.
Willy Nelson once said everything in the world is a story to be told. No greater words were ever spoken. Many writers spend hours, days, and months researching content for their writing, but I start writing, and my memories become my content. 72, 73, or 85, I'll still write even though I've told myself there will never be a big turnout if I had a book signing.
I'm older now, and all the chaos of my life has blown away on a summer breeze. Silence is golden, and I often forget to turn off my phone, which bothers my kids as they think the worst, like finding me curled up in a ball, my face halfway submerged in a bowl of Raisin Bran and my dog beside me licking away at the milk. Could be worse for sure.
I hope that one day they will read, in death, what they didn't in life, and be proud of my work and share it with the world. There's an image I often see where hundreds of people from all walks of life are sitting in a meadow, reading my books and blogs, tossing pages to the wind as they finish one story and reach for another.
Who do I think I am? I ask myself. I've never had any classes on writing, which is very apparent in my work, nor do I claim it's good stuff. But it is all mine, and I'm proud of all of it, and isn't that what really matters? So time marches on, and more stories come to me, but the words have slowed down as I struggle to find the right ones at times; that's okay with me as long as I don't lose it all and desert my laptop for a shot of whiskey and a cigar.
Mike  2026

Washing Dads 55 coupe

 I remember my dad washing his car on a Saturday morning; his trousers rolled up past his ankles so they wouldn't get wet, his white T-shirt hanging from a tree branch. He saw me looking and handed me a sponge, showing me how to rub in circles with a lot of elbow grease, and once the car looked like a giant blob of soap bubbles, he sprayed it off, then handed me the hose, which wasn't such a good idea as I turned the hose on him. I chased him around the car, his laughter a memory I've always held close to my heart.

Once we wiped the car dry, he showed me how to apply a coat of wax. Small sections at a time, he told me, round and around; then, letting the wax dry, we moved to the next section, doing it over until the first section was ready to buff. And now the secret weapon, he said as he opened a box containing an automotive buffer that Mom got him for Father's Day this year. Round and round he went, letting the machine do in half an hour what would have taken hours by hand. He let me try the buffer, but on my first try it flew out of my hands, which he thankfully caught before it hit the ground.
Next was the interior, where he vacuumed up pieces of candy and some popcorn from the drive in a few nights ago. He wiped off the dash and cleaned the windows inside and out, then handed me a clean cloth and told me to make the hubcaps shine. When we were finished, he rolled down his trousers and put on his shirt, yelling to Mom we'd be right back. Hop in, he told me we're going cruising. We ended up at the curbside burger shack where dozens of guys were showing off their rides, and none got as much attention as my dad's 's' 55 Ford coupe. I always just thought of his car as a car, nothing that special, but I was dead wrong.
I inherited that coupe and still have it today, locked up in my garage, only driving it on special occasions and an occasional ride to the burger shack for people to see. I still wash it the way Dad taught me and the way I taught my son. It's the little things we remember in life, and that 55 Ford coupe stays locked up in my book of special memories every time I hear Dad's laughter as I chased him around and around with the garden hose on a sunny Saturday morning.

                                                                

Mike 2026

The naked fireman/farmer

 The heat was showing off, holding back the rain for too long. We need a good soaker, he told the air. Yep, a soaker.  He lived alone in a small cottage on his land, the place he was born and would undoubtedly die. He didn't have any of that air conditioning people talked about in town, just box fans that, in his humble opinion, just blew hot air around. Heat was nothing new for a farmer back in his day. No air-conditioned combines or fancy tractors, just a straw hat and a bandana that soaked up some sweat. I suppose you could say he had a farmer's tan, with brown arms and face and bright white on the rest of his body.

As the day wore on, the quiet was overwhelming, and even the smallest of creatures sought shelter from the relentless heat. He sat naked on his front porch, something he often did when the heat was on and soaked through his coveralls like he was about to burst into flames. He kept a jug of sun tea beside him on the old table he found buried in the barn and watched as the color turned darker and darker until it became a cup of hot tea. He dumped it out and went inside to get a cold beer that he drank down in two large swallows, then rubbed the empty bottle across his forehead for a moment until the glass heated up with everything else this day.
He must have dozed off until a clap of thunder so loud he jumped out of his chair and looked to see if the army was in his yard. Then a bolt of bright lightning pierced right through the old oak tree just feet away from him. Flames were burning the tree from the inside out, and he knew if he didn't do something, the massive tree could come crashing down on his cottage and him. He ran naked to the barn where an old fire truck pumper had been sitting covered up until the Fourth of July parade. He kept the water tank full for reasons unknown until that moment. He fired it up and drove the few hundred feet to the burning tree where he manned the hose and let the water flow. It didn't take him long to douse the flames, but little did he know that a news van had been going down the road and had seen the whole thing in real time.
Flashbulbs nearly blinded him as a reporter asked him questions, and he waved them away and off his land, telling them there was nothing to see. Well, that wasn't all the truth because the next day's hometown news showed him buck ass naked manning the old fire pump, with the caption reading No more farmers tan for naked farmer. Life went on as he had his fifteen minutes of fame, but the news faded away, replaced with stories of missing livestock, kids playing tip the cow, just the normal goings-on in the life of a farmer. People do stop by every once in a while to see firsthand the scorched tree with a burned-out section where the lightning hit. He didn't mind their curiosity, but he hated the fact that he couldn't sit naked on his porch anymore in that darn heat.

                                                                                          The heat was showing off, holding back the rain for too long. We need a good soaker he told the air yep a soaker.  He lived alone in a small cottage on his land, the place he was born and would undoubtedly die. He didn't have any of that air conditioning people talked about in town, just box fans that, in his humble opinion, just blew hot air around. Heat was nothing new for a farmer back in his day. No air-conditioned combines or fancy tractors, just a straw hat and a bandana that soaked up some sweat. I suppose you could say he had a farmer's tan, with brown arms and face and bright white on the rest of his body.

As the day wore on, the quiet was overwhelming, and even the smallest of creatures sought shelter from the relentless heat. He sat naked on his front porch, something he often did when the heat was on and soaked through his coveralls like he was about to burst into flames. He kept a jug of sun tea beside him on the old table he found buried in the barn and watched as the color turned darker and darker until it became a cup of hot tea. He dumped it out and went inside to get a cold beer that he drank down in two large swallows, then rubbed the empty bottle across his forehead for a moment until the glass heated up with everything else this day.
He must have dozed off until a clap of thunder so loud he jumped out of his chair and looked to see if the army was in his yard. Then a bolt of bright lightning pierced right through the old oak tree just feet away from him. Flames were burning the tree from the inside out, and he knew if he didn't do something, the massive tree could come crashing down on his cottage and him. He ran naked to the barn where an old fire truck pumper had been sitting covered up until the Fourth of July parade. He kept the water tank full for reasons unknown until that moment. He fired it up and drove the few hundred feet to the burning tree where he manned the hose and let the water flow. It didn't take him long to douse the flames, but little did he know that a news van had been going down the road and had seen the whole thing in real time.
Flashbulbs nearly blinded him as a reporter asked him questions, and he waved them away and off his land, telling them there was nothing to see. Well, that wasn't all the truth because the next day's hometown news showed him buck ass naked manning the old fire pump, with the caption reading No more farmers tan for naked farmer. Life went on as he had his fifteen minutes of fame, but the news faded away, replaced with stories of missing livestock, kids playing tip the cow, just the normal goings-on in the life of a farmer. People do stop by every once in a while to see firsthand the scorched tree with a burned-out section where the lightning hit. He didn't mind their curiosity, but he hated the fact that he couldn't sit naked on his porch anymore in that darn heat.

Mike  2026

                       
Mike  2026

One dance, one kiss

 Billy Holiday sings " I'll Be Seeing You " on the jukebox as soldiers and sailors have one last dance with the prettiest gal in the room.  Soon the lights will go on, and empty bottles, known as little soldiers, sit empty, and ashtrays are filled with smoldering camels and Lucky Strikes, all reminders of the night. The smell of perfume lingers in the air as those lucky enough to get a kiss smile on their way to uncertainty.

Brothers in arms stumble onto their ships and into barracks, waking those asleep with stories of the night. Pink and blue chiffon dresses and skin like silk as her head rested on your shoulder, the music going on and on, with every guy hoping and waiting for the last dance.
The punch bowl is empty, with only chunks of fruit remaining on the bottom and beer bottles too many to count, some on their sides as the last drops fall to the floor. Addresses were shared and tucked away with a promise to write, which many did, in hopes of seeing each other when the war was over.
Time passed, and victory was declared as soldiers and sailors came home mourning those who didn't. The USO welcomed them home with a victory dance in their honor. Girls in pink and blue chiffon dresses and cherry red lips danced with every guy who asked, some not quite the same as the ones who went away. Those carefree boys who told stories of their first real kiss with the prettiest gal in the room the night before shipping out seem distant now, but they still managed a smile as the music played on and the little fallen soldiers lay on their sides as the last few drops were spilled onto the floor.

Mike  2026

Mike  2026                                                        

A Mothers treasures

 A single light in an upstairs bedroom. A lady searching through a box of treasures she often had to look through. A single candle, bouncing shadows off the walls, and the smell of lavender took her back in time, when the days were filled with children's laughter and sometimes noisy family conversations over the dinner table.  With great care, she pulled items from the box, aware of their fragility, which could turn to dust if she wasn't careful. She sighed as she removed a packet of photographs wrapped with a rubber band, which she carefully undid, but the band snapped, and she set it aside. Each picture a memory, a feeling, a moment in time. It took time to see all of them as she held each one, reliving the captured likeness of those she loved. She pictured herself in the photos at that moment, with the others laughing together, allowing her to be young again, if only for a few moments.

She removed a stuffed animal, worn with age, as she softly kissed its face and briefly smelled her child, while other treasures waited their turn to come back, if only for a moment. A tattered box of checkers, a Yankees ball cap autographed by mickey mantel, and folders filled with a child's drawings and art projects like a birthday card with glued seashells that had mostly fallen off. So many things she cherished that wouldn't hold any value for anyone else but her. She didn't have to wonder where time slipped away; she knew it with every item she looked at, with yellowed photographs and tattered drawings. Everything that led to this night was her life in a cardboard box full of memories. Sleep was calling to her as she closed the box and slid it under her bed until the next time, as she blew out the candle with the scent of lavender and the smell of her child to comfort her.

                                                                 A single light in an upstairs bedroom. A lady searching through a box of treasures she often had to look through. A single candle, bouncing shadows off the walls, and the smell of lavender took her back in time, when the days were filled with children's laughter and sometimes noisy family conversations over the dinner table.  With great care, she pulled items from the box, aware of their fragility, which could turn to dust if she wasn't careful. She sighed as she removed a packet of photographs wrapped with a rubber band, which she carefully undid, but the band snapped, and she set it aside. Each picture a memory, a feeling, a moment in time. It took time to see all of them as she held each one, reliving the captured likeness of those she loved. She pictured herself in the photos at that moment, with the others laughing together, allowing her to be young again, if only for a few moments.

She removed a stuffed animal, worn with age, as she softly kissed its face and briefly smelled her child, while other treasures waited their turn to come back, if only for a moment. A tattered box of checkers, a Yankees ball cap autographed by mickey mantel, and folders filled with a child's drawings and art projects like a birthday card with glued seashells that had mostly fallen off. So many things she cherished that wouldn't hold any value for anyone else but her. She didn't have to wonder where time slipped away; she knew it with every item she looked at, with yellowed photographs and tattered drawings. Everything that led to this night was her life in a cardboard box full of memories. Sleep was calling to her as she closed the box and slid it under her bed until the next time, as she blew out the candle with the scent of lavender and the smell of her child to comfort her.
Mike  2026

Mike  2026

Father and son memories

 Remember this place, his grown son asked him. Of course, he answered, "This is the spot where you caught a fish with a stick and some fishing line you baited, wedged it between some rocks, then went exploring." His son laughed, remembering being told he not only caught a fish but a record-breaking fish with his crude pole.

Remember this place, his grown son asked him. Of course, he answered, this is the beach we walked for miles searching for treasures from the deep. We would take our treasures like one sneaker, plastic shovels and pails, pieces of ship's rope, broken surfboards, and whatever else we found back home where we'd hang them on the fence. I remember he said again.
Remember this place his grown son asked him? Of course I do, he answered. There used to be a bus station right over there, he pointed to. You were 16 years old that summer, and you were catching a bus to North Carolina to visit the girl of your dreams you met at a beach bonfire. You said you couldn't be without her, and your love was true. You played me pretty good; he told his dad and even bought me a ticket for the next bus just an hour away. I did, he said, hoping I could change your mind but leaving it up to you to decide. You climbed onto the bus, and I watched as you went out of sight, hoping I did the right thing by letting you go.
I remember you calling me, saying it was a mistake that her folks didn't welcome you and forbade their daughter from seeing you again. I told you I was coming home and was thankful for the bus fare you had stuffed in my pocket.
What else can you remember, Dad? His grown son asked. He was quiet for a minute, then, with a tear in his eye, he said he was sorry he couldn't remember more. He wished they had more time together, more laughs, and the little things like watching Sunday football together that meant a lot to him. But even after all these years, he remembers holding your hand as you walked through the forests like two explorers. Teaching you to drive a car, games of catch in the yard, and helping me do chores quickly so we didn't miss the father-and-son derby car competition, which we won for three years in a row.
Today they sit on a park bench, each with their own thoughts of years gone by, his son finally saying he does remember everything well everything that really mattered. Now multiply that by a hundred, and that's the amount of memories I carry with me about you, about us. How about a beer, Dad?" his son asked. "Maybe some wings," he answered. Sure thing, old man, as he took his father's hand and slowly walked away together towards another father-and-son memory.

Mike  2026

                                                                                  

Mike  2026

The kitchen window

 He watched her as she stood at the window, washing the supper dishes. He gave up asking her if she wanted one of those fancy machines that wash dirty dishes, but she kept saying no, so he quit asking. He remembers asking what she looked at outside that window every evening as she cleaned the greasy plates, and then cleaned them again as he told her she was going to wash the color out of them. " Just our world," she would answer, tossing him a cloth to wipe the dishes. He stood next to her, looking out at the two apple trees they planted when the kids were born, which, over time, produced the best apples known to man. And darn good apple pies, he thought to himself. They looked at the lawn, now pristine, and remembered it as a playground with a swing set and a kiddie pool. Bicycles deserted in the woodshed when outgrown. A few years ago, she got them out of the shed, painted them with vibrant blues and pinks, then picked bunches of wildflowers and wove them between the spokes. " Yard art," she told him with a smile; "memories," he replied.

Looking out the window was a movie she would re-run when their family was young. Picnics and play dates, birthday parties and graduations. Their eldest boy coming home on leave for Christmas, bringing his mom to tears, wondering who that young man is in a sailor suit. They looked out and saw their daughter with her husband and newborn child opening the car door before it even stopped, running towards them with open arms.
They stood at the window together, bringing back the memories of their lives until she told him the dishes won't dry themselves. He kissed her cheek and said They've been dry a long time, my love.

Mike  2026