Pink star opal

 She hinted she would like a pink star opal for her birthday. He smiled, squeezing her hand but saying nothing, as his plan was already in effect. Hed been doing part-time jobs around the neighborhood, like cutting lawns and raking leaves. He shoveled driveways with a shovel, not a plow, and he washed dishes at a 24-hour diner. And to add to that, going to school and seeing her whenever he could, he often found an excuse, like he had to help his dad with something or his mom had errands for him. He later learned that she knew all along what he was doing.

It started with a walk into town, looking in shop windows, especially the jewelry store, where a beautiful pink star opal ring slowly spun on a display case. She didn't say anything, but her eyes told the story. He had asked her to be his girl last Christmas when he gave her a promise ring, a symbol of his feelings for her. She cried like most girls did, holding her finger up to show off the fact that she was his girl.

A few days after seeing the pink opal, he put the ring on layaway and made weekly payments. Eleven months later, it was paid off and hidden away in his room until he would give it to her on her birthday. On October 17th, he took her to the best restaurant in the small town for dinner. She was striking in a red dress and he in the only suit he owned. Neither was old enough to drink yet, but they toasted her special day with fruit punch. After the desert, he took the jewelry box from his pocket and slowly handed it to her. Go ahead, open it, he told her. She didn't move for a second, smiling her best smile and accepting the box with the jeweler's name embossed in gold trim.

The tears flowed down her face as she slowly opened the box and saw the most beautiful pink opal ring she had ever seen. Put it on he whispered, and she did just that, holding her ringed finger to the sky for the world to see. He waved down their waitress, and she brought her a birthday cake as tears continued to flow.

They decided to walk home, as she lived nearby. It was a cool October night, and he held her close as they walked in silence as she raised her ring finger to the sky. Look how it shines, she said, " Can you see the star in the opal? she asked. He told her he'd take it out of its box at night, holding the ring under the lamp, looking at the star, and wishing on it to be on her finger until he could replace it with a diamond ring.

She wore the pink opal for years to come, and he was sent off to war, where every night he'd look to the sky, wondering if she was looking at the same ones holding up her ring, hoping he would see the smallest of stars surrounding the pink opal she cherished more than any of her possessions.

He didn't come home, and her heart was shattered. She cried until no more tears would flow, and she wore the pink opal until the day she passed on. The ring she loved so much was buried on her finger per her request, the small star pointing to the sky where she hoped it would guide her to him in the heavens, where she knew he'd be waiting with a diamond.

Mike 2025                                                           

The hustler

 His shadow kept him company as He stopped under a streetlight. Its static flicker warned of demise. He took a cigarette from an empty pack, balled the wrapper, and tossed it at a trash can, missing without care. Striking his last match, he cupped the flame, racing to see who would win: him or the flame.

His topcoat was out of style and beyond its use-by date. It wasn't a fashion statement; it was bought at the secondhand store and fit well, almost. His shoes were well-worn, covering a lot of miles as he walked to old haunts, playing some pool to whoever would take him on. He learned the game from a very fat man who owned this establishment and was well known for his skill. He was just a kid when he met him, asking for a job, any job, so he could keep watching the fat man win game after game.

The months turned to years, and the kid had learned the game and proved himself time and again with every win. He was a hustler and nothing else. He quit his job and, with the cash he had won, went out on his own to make his fortune, leaving behind the one man who told him there's more to the game than what he had taught him. Anybody can be taught how to hit a ball into a pocket, he explained, but it takes a confident man to realize when he is off his stride, to set the stick down, and to walk away.

More time passed, and he kept walking from bar to bar, challenging anyone who felt lucky. His winnings attracted the ladies, and seldom was he alone unless he lost, and the money went out the door on a perfumed cloud. The bartenders all knew him and never thought twice about starting him a tab, as he always made good on it, unless his streak was gone and the only things in his pockets were some loose coins and a small box of wooden matches.

And then it happened, one night, it just stopped. His aim was off, and his confidence was vanishing to some place he'd never been. He couldnt win a single game. He began to drink a lot, and more than once was shown the door, just another drunken hustler. He lost the crappy apartment, the nice clothes, and the jewelry he pawned, knowing if he could have just one more game, he'd be back to his old self.

On a cold winter night, as he sat at the bar sipping a beer, one of his old players and teachers came up to him, the man called Fat Man. Not doing so well, I see. He began. You've had a lot of wins under your belt over the years, but it wasn't fate that took the game from you, was it? It was the expectation of the win that got you. Learning how to be humble, whether from a win or especially a loss, is something it takes to be great.

He stood under the street light, cupping his hand around the flame, walking down the empty street, knowing what the answer would be.

Mike 2025                                                 

Lady on the hill

 The meadow had danced through its colors. Then, as dusk fell, the fireflies dimmed their lights. Next, dandelions were scattered by the wind to an unknown place. As autumn arrived, leaves brought color to the ground, joining the last few days before snow came to frolic in the meadow. This was the place she called home for years unknown.

She built her cottage high on a hill. There, she gazed at her meadow, which captured her spirit. She chose this life, distant from most, with only a few who understood peace and harmony  and were always welcome.

As winter arrived and her meadow was covered with a blanket of white, she sought the solitude and the quiet that the frozen months brought. With her snowshoes keeping her from sinking, she felt a kind of power as she walked on frozen water, so to speak, a silent conversation between herself and the spirits always nearby.

In the evening, sitting by the fire, she wrote in her journal, sharing what she did that day and wondering what tomorrow had in store. Would the snow keep falling, and did she need to chop more wood? Would she have to go into town, where her mere presence bothers the townspeople, thinking only of her as an old hippy who didn't leave the hill with the others whose visions faded?

She didn't worry about their faces or scowling looks as some held, memories of their trip up the hill decades ago. Some went on to become respected members of society, but never ventured too far from the hill.

She found everything she needed on her hill: a garden to feed her and spring water to quench her thirst. She made her own clothes and mended tattered material as nothing on the hill went to waste. She bathed in a horse trough sprinkled with wildflowers, and in the winter months she kept the trough inside, close to the fire, where she would boil water, basking in the warmth until the water grew cold and she smelled like the meadow on a spring day.

She thought of herself as a strong and peaceful woman. A child of nature who never gave up on her vision, as so many others did. She grew old on her hill and had to slow down a little, but she knew her limits as her body told her how hard to push herself. At eighty years of age, she still cut wood and walked the five miles to town. She mended worn-out clothes, ate from her garden, and never forgot to make entries in her journal.

Hikers found her on a sunny spring day. She had probably gotten too deep in the snow and fallen down with only her memories to keep her warm. Inside her cottage, her journal lay on the table with a note she had written. It read: "To whoever is reading this, please let my final resting place be here in my beautiful meadow." Sprinkle wildflowers on me and commit me to the earth as it was intended.

People still hike the hill and visit her grave as it has become a sort of shrine. The headstone read simply, The lady of the hill with no date of her birth and a guess of her age at death. If you pass by, you'll see a never-ending bunch of wildflowers surrounding the gravestone and a script that simply reads, "She lived her life on her terms, on her hill and found peace in a sun-kissed meadow."

Mike 2025                                         

                                                           

Moms wooden box

 My mom kept a small wooden box—likely a cigar box—on a high shelf I couldn't reach as a child. She would sometimes take it down to add another special memory. She also had a trunk for cherished keepsakes: my baby booties, homemade Halloween costumes, my sister's communion dress, and other items she couldn't discard. Dozens of family pictures in orange bindings, all black-and-white, were kept close to her heart. But the small box held memories that brought a few tears, and mostly smiles and sighs.

A photo shows me at six, outside the church, in a hat like Dad’s and a topcoat—it was a cold Easter. I gave her a chestnut to grow a tree, and we did. There’s a clipping of me winning the sixth-grade outstanding student award, and half of a heart-shaped necklace I gave her for her birthday. My half remains in my own wooden box.

As her passing drew near, I brought her the wooden box, and we looked at each memory. She held each keepsake, staring as if seeing it for the first time. I left the box, hoping its contents, cherished for decades, would bring her comfort.

When she passed, I  hoped those memories stayed with her. I took the box home and put it on a shelf next to my own, where I could look through everything too many times to count. It's amazing to me how we live our lives with hundreds, or even thousands, of thoughts and particular moments that we forget over time. But somehow we manage to fill a small box with the memories that touched us the most.

Mike 2025                                                   

Grandpas Christmas story

 He stopped at the foot of the hill as heavy snow fell. He put on his boots and began the long walk up to the old house, now a shadow of its former self. With every step came a memory—summer vacations, holidays —but Christmas stood out, when the house came alive with warmth, laughter, and a secret.

As the old house got closer, I pictured my Grama and Grandpa standing on the front porch, greeting the rest of my family and me as we jumped into their arms—a welcome only grandparents can give. Inside was what every child remembers: a beautifully decorated tree, the warmth of the fireplace, the crackle of the logs, and the smells of the holidays.

The table overflowed with cookies and homemade fudge, the same recipe handed down for years. At its centre stood a forbidden gingerbread house that Grama would keep a close eye on, and when it was time for us to leave, she would cut each of us a tinfoil-covered piece of the gingerbread house to take home. Funny thing, none of it ever made it home.

The house had many stories, and I remembered them clearly, sitting on Grandpa's knee as he told how Santa once got stuck in the chimney and needed his help before his suit caught fire. Did you help him, Grandpa? I asked. "See that broom?" he said, pointing. "That was the broom I used to poke Santa, sending him flying out of the chimney and on his way."

I made it to the house, half frozen but determined to accomplish what I had come for. It was empty except for a few old newspapers scattered about and an old plate I recognised as one of grandma's platters, the one she used to stack cookies on. I walked through the house, and I spotted it standing against a wall, the very same broom from Grandma's story.

Back home on Christmas Eve, I gathered my children for a story, but not from a book. It was a story they'd heard before, but this time with proof that Santa existed. I got the broom and told them to look very closely and tell me what they saw. The eldest said he saw burnt pieces of straw, probably from getting it too close to the fireplace, as grandma swept away the ashes. My middle child said he saw tiny pieces of red cloth that were probably pieces of a stocking that got pulled down by the cat and my youngest said she didnt need any proof that santa was real because she woke up that night to the sounds of grandpa huffing and puffin so she crept down the stairs just in time to see what she thought was grandpa poking Santa who with a echoing Ho Ho Ho santa flew up the chimney. Explain that away, she said, as for me, I'll always believe because it was grandpa who told her so.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL WHO BELIEVE!

Mike 2025                                                             

A Red Rider Christmas

 It was a snowy winter's night, the flakes gently falling from the sky. All was quiet as he walked through the small town, remembering his youth there, with many memories staying with him as he grew up, reminders of the good things and sometimes of things he'd just as soon leave behind,he stopped to look in the storefront windows  remembering how they were decorated for the holidays each competing for the grand prize for the best display. He recalled walking with his Mom when darkness set in, stopping to look at every window, their feet and hands frozen, but they didn't care as the magical displays lit up the night, each a contender for the prize.

As he snapped back to reality, all he saw were darkened windows, no displays of lights or sounds of holiday music, just empty storefronts whose time had passed, leaving behind for-sale signs in another small town in America. Halfway down the street, a glow coming from a store captured his attention as he picked up the pace, leaving footprints behind him that went from a stroll to an all-out run. He smiled as he looked in the window, seeing a magical display of Christmas like the ones he saw all those years ago.

Would you look at that, Mom? he said out loud, hoping she would hear him up there. It was a small display with all the same toys and decorations he remembered from his youth. He grinned, seeing the exact toys he had wished for, like a red bicycle and a quick silver sled. A GI Joe action figure and the one thing he wanted but never received, a Red Rider BB gun.

As he looked at all the memories, the shopkeeper came to the door, pointing to his watch, signaling it was time for him to close for the last time. He looked sad as he went from one display to another, turning off the lights and filling boxes he would store somewhere. He stood outside watching as the last boxes were packed and the for-sale sign hung, as the sorrow in the pit of his stomach turned to tears.

He began to walk away when the door opened, and the old man came out, handing him a wrapped present. No words were spoken as he went back inside his store, now just a memory of smiling faces pressed against the glass, looking at the toys they hoped would be under the tree come Christmas morning. He stood there gazing into the darkness and slowly opened the gift. A Red Rider BB gun, he said out loud. But how was it possible, he wondered. He knocked on the door, but the old man was gone along with the magical display.

Some things defy imagination, while others come to you if you just believe. He continued his walk, the red rider slung around his shoulder, and the sounds of sleigh bells coming from the store roof.No way he said out loud, just as the sleigh flew past him, the one person in the whole wide world who always wanted to believe. The old man waved to him as he vanished into the darkness, and he stood there, wondering how to explain this, but decided he would put the BB gun under the tree for his son, wondering if his Mom finally gave in and said it was okay after all these years, but with one exception that her grandson wouldn't shoot an eye out.

Mike 2025                                                   

Christmas in the forest

 It was quiet in the forest on a frigid winter's day. The sound of his footsteps was the only sound he heard. He pulled a sled behind him to gather a Christmas tree like he's done for three decades. But this year was special as his two kids and their kids were coming for the holidays. They hadn't been to see him since the cabin was completed, so they would know it wasn't just a one-room cabin. He sent them pictures showing the rather large house with a wrap-around porch, a second story with three bedrooms, and the ground floor with the master bedroom. The living room had a huge fireplace, big enough to warm every room. Massive timber beams added not just structure but also proved his worth as a master craftsman. He was especially proud of the kitchen, with a butcher-block island for food prep and steel hooks he forged to hang pots and pans from the ceiling. He searched high and low for a wood-burning oven and found one 30 miles away at an auction. He used the oven when cooking just for himself, but when guests were coming over, he cooked in the fireplace, where, using his skill as a metalworker, he designed a simple device to hold a heavy iron pot he used to cook stews and soups, letting them slow cook for hours.

He worked on the house for three years, each part of the process a labor of love. He didn't have any close neighbors, as his property covered 25 acres. His sanctuary, if you will, a place hunters dare not go, was clearly stated in the no trespassing signs scattered about his property. Anyone who ignored the signs and came to hunt would be met with a shotgun blast aimed at the sky as they ran away and off his land, never to return. He did have friends scattered across hundreds of acres who were always eager to help each other if needed. Trading was a huge part of life in the forest, and every autumn, when crops were harvested, fresh vegetables and fruits would be traded for help building shelters or running water lines from streams to the house, the lifeline of any homestead. There was an abundance of skilled workers who were always eager to help, so when it came time for the second story to be built, several men showed up to help.

He felt bad sometimes living so far into the forest. Although his kids were grown with kids of their own, he thought he was missing out on the things a grandpa does with his grandkids, so he tried very hard to fit a week into months of fun and learning the ways of the forests. This year, in his workshop, he built four wooden sleds with room for two and steel runners that would mean very fast sledding down a hill next to his house, which looked daunting to him. With the first sled done, he walked it up the hill where he could see for miles away. He positioned himself, and with a few fast steps, he jumped belly down and raced down the hill. Faster and faster the frigid cold slapping his face as tears froze his beard, and the sled went faster and faster until finally slowing down and reaching the bottom. He rolled off the sled, looking at the sky, wondering if he'd better make some smaller runners for safety's sake.  What would be the fun in that, he asked himself as he walked up the hill, ready to ride again.

With the kids arriving in two days, he had a lot to get done. He had found a Christmas tree which he set up in the living room, leaving the decorating to his daughter and, of course, the little ones. He went into the root cellar, picked out the vegetables and fruits he would need to prepare Christmas dinners, and spent a good amount of time chopping and cutting everything into bite-sized pieces. Tomorrow, he would stoke the fire and pour the vegetables, along with spring water, into the iron pot, where they would slowly cook for about 20 hours.    He checked the oil lamps for fuel and placed candles around the house, both creating a beautiful glow.

His daughter informed him she and the kids were vegetarians, so he put together a side dish of tofu turkey for them, but it was real turkey for the rest of them as fresh as fresh gets when you shoot one yourself. He made a couple of fruit pies from a recipe he got from a friend at the market in town, but saved baking cookies until the kids arrived.

Christmas Eve, and he was running late. He had to be at the main road to meet the train, which would only stop if people were gathered there. He got there in plenty of time to put some blankets on the floor of the trailer he pulled behind his snow ski. He hoped they were all dressed warm enough to make the ride to the homestead without freezing solid. The train stopped, and his family stepped off as he gathered their bags so the train could move on. There were hugs all around as they settled on the trailer, wrapped in blankets, and headed home. Coming to a stop in front of his house, everybody just stood there, mouths wide open. It's incredible, " his daughter said. You did all of this yourself? Well, most of it, he replied. I had neighbors' help for a lot of it. Let's go inside and warm up.

Entering the house felt like walking into a postcard of a winter wonderland.  He had decorated the railing leading upstairs with pine bows and a beautiful, undecorated Christmas tree, ready for the magical touch of children. The smell of the stew and pine filled the air as the grandkids explored the upstairs, claiming a bedroom. When the tree was decorated and the colored lights were turned on, everyone gathered around to see the beauty of the season and to enjoy a cup of hot chocolate, which he said he would make as soon as he stoked the fire in the kitchen stove.

The hour was late as the grandkids went off to bed, dreaming of tomorrow and wishes coming true. Downstairs, his kids opened a suitcase filled with presents they had packed, assuring the kids Santa would find them here, tucked away in the forest. His daughter put the presents under the tree, and after a long day, everyone but him went off to bed and got a good night's rest. He made his way to the woodshop, where he got the sleds and brought them inside to put under the tree. He didn't know for sure if the grandkids still believed, but just in case, he put out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for the jolly old man himself.

Christmas morning arrived, but everyone but him was still fast asleep. It must be the fresh air and comfortable beds, he thought as he brewed a pot of coffee and plugged in the tree, waiting for the mice to stir. Maybe it was the smell of the coffee or cinnamon rolls he just took out of the oven, but all of a sudden, the house was filled with joy as the grandkids shouted out that Santa did come way out here as they tore open their presents. His kids came into the living room in time to see the last gifts opened, and the magical looks on their children's faces as they looked over the sleds he had made for them. Can we try them out? The grandkids asked. Can we? First, some breakfast, she answered. I'm sure Grandpa has some oatmeal that will keep you warm inside. Will warm cinnamon rolls work? He asked.

After putting on their warmest clothes and heavy jackets, they went outside on a frigid morning. They pulled their new sleds up the hill until they looked like specs to those below. Be careful his daughter yelled as the kids raced down the hill at speeds she thought were way too fast. You see, he said they're having the time of their life. No crashes yet, " she answered him. His son finally came outside, saying he needed a second cup of coffee, but it was time to show them all what a real sled man can do. My old sled is still in the workshop, he asked his dad. It sure is he answered. He pulled it out from beneath years of who-knew-what and headed up the hill. Oh, be careful she said with genuine concern. The grandkids were shouting at him and offering support, anxious to see what he could do. So, with a mighty run, he jumped onto his sled and rocketed down the hill, flying past his kids to their surprise and delight. After several runs, everybody was frozen and as happy as anyone can be when their clothes are frozen to their skin, and icicles hung off their faces.

Back in the warmth of the house with a fire blazing and the stew done, they all sat at the table and gave thanks for the blessing of family and the true meaning of Christmas. But there was a feeling of sadness as everyone realized they would have to leave and go home, where the air doesn't smell like pine, and the warmth of a fire is just a vent blowing warm air. But memories were made in those few days, memories that will remain with all of them. When the time came, he hitched up the trailer and wrapped them in blankets, taking them to the main road where the Polar Express would stop to pick them up. Hugs and kisses all around, and hidden tears not wanted to be seen.  He stood there for a while watching the train pull away, and the faces of his family pressed against the windows, waving goodbye until next time. He walked up to the house and saw the four small sleds and one old, a bit larger, perched against the house. He put them all in the workshop, wiping away the tears, and headed inside for a bowl of stew.

Mike 2025