The seasons

     It won’t be long now, and the blazing heat of summer will bow to the colors of autumn. The scents of the forests will change to a cleansing of dryness and tinder only to become a pile of a burning rainbow. The air will be filled with cut corn husks and winter wheat being gobbled up by the armies of farm machinery soon to be at rest in their giant barns. Pumpkins with haunting faces will set upon the steps and porches of all the houses with children. Bags full of treats will be devoured and give way to the anticipation of all to come. November brings a gray color like two colors competing for dominance only to sometimes be pounded with a blanket of white laying to rest all that dwelled above it.

     The sounds and smells and visions of the holidays can only be captured in the minds of children and those who never wanted to grow up. A glorious time of the year when people seem more courteous to each other when church pews are full and  to much food is made and shared among family and friends. Thousands of Christmas trees give their lives to adorn the homes of countless families and traditions are carried on with hopes they always will. Children try and sleep, dads cuss at toys that need assembling, and mom puts the finishing touches on the hanging stockings not forgetting to lay out a plate of cookies and a few carrots. The morning brings screams of joy and happiness as we sit and smile at the momentary pleasures we were able to provide. 

     The new year is brought in with the falling ball and kisses of hope that the new year will bring with it good health and prosperity to all we love and care for. That signals the end of the holidays and the beginning of the long road ahead where next Christmas is already being thought of, and secret funds are stashed in a coffee can to grow throughout the year. Spring finally comes after the frozen ground opens and a re-birth begins. The sights and sounds of rain pounding on the roof quenching the thirst of tiny buds and saplings soon to bloom in a multitude of colors only an artist could truly capture. Rivers flow once more, and the bounties it produces feeds the masses as it has been done for  centuries. The re-birth of the land is a re-birth of the human spirit.

     Summer arrives with its own brand of colors and sounds, firefly's in grassy meadows, welcome shade from a weeping willow tree and a warmth that covers our bodies that turn a shade of brown. Lazy Sundays by the lake and homemade potato salad and ice-cold lemonade are the perfect compliment to the hotdogs and burgers cooking on the grill. Summer passes much too quickly, but for those of us who welcome every season, we only think ahead to the wonders of autumn heading our way in a few short weeks. And so, the circle goes as we replace bikinis with sweatshirts and then arctic wear all the while thinking about the lake and the smell of the fall fair with visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads. 

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Author Mike OConnor: Cadence

Author Mike OConnor: Cadence:      Tiny droplets of water rolled down the window as he sat drinking his morning coffee. He glanced over at the coat hooks to make sure ...

Cadence

     Tiny droplets of water rolled down the window as he sat drinking his morning coffee. He glanced over at the coat hooks to make sure his winter jacket was there, as surely his old bones would get chilled on his way into town. Looking at the calendar, he assured himself this was Wednesday the twenty-third day of December then returned to his coffee swallowing  every drop. It was a slow process for him getting ready to go outside, but he was in no hurry, those days had long passed him by.

     His rubber boots scrunched on the fresh snow reminding him of military cadence when he was in basic training a hundred years ago. Funny how he still remembered the drill sergeant shouting out the words to the rhythm of their boots. He was wrapped from head to toe in woolen warmth only his eyes exposed to the frigid cold that was December in the high country.

     He reached the small town and went inside the florist where the owner greeted him and set his order on the counter waiting for him to remove his gloves and retrieve his change purse from deep inside his pocket. He smiled and thanked her telling her he would see her in a month. The walk-through town was pleasant as Christmas decorations could be seen in every store window taking him back in time when he and his Mrs. Would take slow walks stopping in front of every window to admire the beauty that was Christmas.

     He proceeded up a small hill just on the outskirts of town and entered the cemetery where his beloved wife of sixty-two years was laid to rest four years ago today. Brushing the snow away from her headstone, he set the flowers on it and took a seat on the bench just a few feet away from her. He told her about the decorations and how he knew she would have loved them as she once did. He told her he still made a lousy cup of coffee and was having a hard time remembering days and even months. He wiped away tears before they froze to his face remembering everything he was because of her and how much he missed her.

     He figured he had been there a good hour, so he said his goodbyes and placed a kiss on his hand and placed it on her headstone. It was a slow walk back to the house they shared for so many years, his rubber boots keeping cadence but at a much slower pace.

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Author Mike OConnor: The writer

Author Mike OConnor: The writer:        He struggled every day to put words on paper that reeked of whiteness. The rest of the world only saw the finished product all wrap...

The writer

     He struggled every day to put words on paper that reeked of whiteness. The rest of the world only saw the finished product all wrapped up in a colorful cover and smelling like drying ink. They didn't see the endless hours of digging back in time trying to awaken the memories that only appeared in fragments and an occasional smell. The readers flew through the pages absorbing just what their minds let them do, not always seeing the whole  thought. The days of no writing to him were unbearable as he strutted around his study believing he had lost the gift, pouring himself into a bottle and passing out hoping to dream the next chapter. Days became weeks and then months as progress continued tearing at his heart and the search for words that once flowed so smoothly. He did finish the book after twenty-seven months of joy and tears losing a part of his mind that spoke then died. A Book is only as good as the reader who takes the time to taste each sentence and either savors it or spits it out forgetting it forever. He placed the book on a shelf with others he had written alongside a picture of himself as a young lad of twelve. He was holding a book in the photo with a caption that read "Local boy publishes first book "He knew at the flash of the camera his days of being normal had vanished into the vault of memories

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#raw emotions

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Author Mike OConnor: First time

Author Mike OConnor: First time:      He had never been anywhere outside of the town he grew up in. Now at eighty-seven years old, he boarded his first plane ride. Nev...

First time

    

He had never been anywhere outside of the town he grew up in. Now at eighty-seven years old, he boarded his first plane ride. Never did like the idea of leaving the safety of his farm especially to be hurled through space in a tin  can. The lovely lady at the gate asked him if he needed assistance boarding which he replied he did not. He found his seat among the other travelers most of whom looked at ease with their surroundings. He thought he was going to throw up when he heard the doors close and the whine of the jet engines making his ears ring and his mouth become as dry as a summer day in the fields. He had a window seat but didn’t look out as surely some creature from a Hitchcock movie was standing on the wing looking at him. Barreling down the runway, he prayed like never before and when the landing gear closed and locked he let out a faint  scream that he hoped wasn’t heard. Once they were up and heading for Atlanta, he wished he had packed a flask of whiskey to help calm his nerves, but as luck would have it, a nice lady pushing a cart filled with  all kinds of drinks took his order for a whiskey straight up. She smiled handing him a tiny bottle of booze and a glass which he declined, opening the little bottle and swallowing it in one gulp. The landing wasn't as bad as the take off I suppose because he had two more of those tiny bottles before the landing gear came down and locked with a thud. The crew thanked everybody as they got off the plane and he returned the gesture with a country smile and a tip of his hat. His daughter was waiting for him, and his heart skipped a beat upon seeing her. It had been too long, and family was important but more important, he realized there was more to his life than the farm and who would have ever thought a person could buy tiny bottles of whiskey two of which were buried in his jacket pocket

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