If you believe

 In a dream, He always wanted to be Santa Claus in a big-city department store. It was more than his love for children; it was as if he were going back in time to another life he often thought about, a magical place, and a time when children dreamed about simple toys handmade by elves in a faraway land. He thought about sitting on a big red chair with lines of children in awe at the mere sight of the man himself, who, with a touch to his nose, could make dreams come true on Christmas morning.

It would warm his heart as he listened to little voices with well-rehearsed lists of toys they wanted and telling him they had been good all year. All year, he would ask, laughing, and assured them he knew. Every child had the same wishes, but not all were granted, as one by one, some with expensive clothes, others with hand-me-downs, sat on his knee, telling him about the dolly or the bicycle they wanted. He would look at a parent's face, feeling their sorrow, knowing there would be no expensive toys under their tree this year, but no child would be forgotten.

But in this dream, he truly was Santa Claus, and he did travel millions of miles on Christmas Eve, jumping down chimneys and eating the cookies left for him, leaving behind every child's Christmas wishes wrapped with ribbons and bows. Some of the parents in line with their children were once the little ones sitting on his knee, not knowing that someday it would all come full circle.

In his dreams, Santa was as real as the long white beard, the red-and-white suit he wore with golden buttons and thread, the knee-high boots, and the sack that magically held thousands and thousands of presents he would deliver to children around the world. When he awoke from his dream, the tired old man brushed the snow from his suit and placed his boots next to the fire to dry. He went out to the barn and made sure his reindeer were well fed after an exhausting night, and with a touch to his red nose, the house and the elf factory vanished into the morning air, only seen by him and Mrs Claus.

I guess it wasn't a dream after all, just memories of Christmases already lived in another time, another place, when he made Christmas something magical. Dreams do come true if you just believe.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL WHO BELIEVE!       

Rocket Toboggan

 As a kid, the toboggan ramp made his throat tighten. To him, it rose like a mountain, promising speeds that seemed to break the sound barrier. He watched from below as people climbed the countless steps. The attendant released the brake, sending the toboggan racing down, kids screaming and adults clutching them, powerless as they flew down the hill.

His buddies called him chicken as they climbed the stairs time and again without serious injury, so, after reflecting on his young life, he somehow found the guts to join them up in the clouds. He took his place between his friends, so close together he couldn't breathe. And then, without sufficient notice, the break was released, and they went nose-first down the hill from hell. Faster and faster they went, trying to avoid others who lay scattered about the hill, waving to onlookers. Saying they were fine. Then, on one sharp turn, Billy tumbled off, followed by Davy, as the toboggan continued its course, heading straight for a patch of pine trees. Then the unthinkable happened when Sam rolled off, leaving him to pilot the deadly missile of doom on his own.

He maneuvered the wooden rocket through an opening in the trees, coming inches from being pierced by a branch and slowly losing speed as the tobogan came to rest just feet from a frozen pond. He lay there for a bit, then got up, waving his arms. All was well. He barely made out his friends waving him on to climb back up the hill. But his days of tempting fate were behind him, as was the toboggan he left for them to retrieve, as he headed for the safety and warmth of the family car, and a hot cup of cocoa.

Mike 2025                                              

The flu from hell

 The tenth day now, and this flu from hell or whatever it is has resided inside of me for way too long. I'm a prisoner in my own house, wading in Kleenex up to my ankles because the garbage can overflowed days ago. Food in the fridge goes untouched because the mere thought of it triggers a gag reflex I can't control, and even my dog sleeps, making sounds I haven't heard before. I've only had two showers since this began, so if I could smell anything, which I can't, it would be me.

The imprint of my body on my recliner will no doubt remain there forever. The small table beside me holds everything I need, like my glasses, three remotes, don't ask me why, bottles of water, and one empty except for the garbage on the bottom that looks to be boiling. But it's not, and wrappers from cough drops I eat like candy, and of course, my phone, which I have on silent mode because the only call I want is no call at all.

I do, however, look at texts from my kids, who check in on me with genuine concern and offers of food, which I gratefully decline as I gag but can't be heard.

As the godfather said, just when I thought I was getting out, they pulled me back in, which sums it up nicely. Last night I was actually feeling a little better, but come daylight, everything came back with a vengeance. I don't know what today will bring or tomorrow or next week, but this I can promise you: if it doesn't go back to hell where it came from very soon, I'd better hide the kitchen knives. Kidding. I just want to feel normal again, whatever that is. As for you who have joined me in this battle, I feel for you and hope that your feelings of crap blow out a window and land on someone you don't like. Just kidding, or am I?

Mike 2025                                                     

                    

The light man

 I'm back.   The light man

He was known around town as the light man. Every year, the day after Thanksgiving, he'd show up in town driving a rickety old truck loaded with strands of lights and other holiday figures, all looking like new. The older townsfolk told stories about how a long time ago, he lost his wife after returning from the war and finding their house abandoned. People said she couldn't take the loneliness, and she ran off with a traveling salesman, but one thing was sure: she was gone for good.

He lost more than his wife; he also lost his will to go on, and the spark he once felt was all but snuffed out. He made his way by doing odd jobs around town, and twenty-five years ago, he got the contract to hang the holiday lights throughout the town square. There were also a couple of dozen figures he placed around, keeping them high and out of reach of the snowball-yeilding troublemakers.

As years passed, things didn't change much until they did. At one town meeting, it was decided that the lights should no longer be hung. More advanced methods of decorating the square were put into place, requiring the knowledge of technology that the light man didn't possess, so with an envelope containing his final check and a bonus of one hundred dollars, the light man walked out into the night.

On December eleventh, the townsfolk gathered in the square to see the new lights turned on with much fanfare. The mayor was chosen to throw the switch, but when he did, nothing happened. The mayor laughed nervously and tried again, but the tech wiz admitted he didn't know what was wrong. The people walked away, and the light man sprang into action. He worked well into the night, hanging lights in the square and placing the holiday figures exactly where he'd hung them for all these years. As people slept, he finished his job. When the sun went down and holiday shoppers filled the street, he plugged the lights in, and the town square lit up to the joy of everyone around.

For the next ten years, the light man kept his job to the delight of everyone who knew him, and on one winter's night, a single bulb blew out, and the light man passed quietly into the night, surrounded by his lights and his friends.

Mike 2025                                           

Farming off the hook

 A dusting of white covers the land he farmed like his father before him. Well-used machinery lies scattered about, doubtful to be used again. Some he remembered as a child, like riding on the tractor and the scent of a hard day's work coming off his dad's shirt, he had hung to dry on the tractor's door before getting home to his bride.

The hay baler and the combine were all useful in their day, but now they are just rusted monsters sinking deeper into the ground with every violent storm.

It's sometimes hard to accept change, but it's going to happen whether you like it or not. He barely swallowed a sip of iced tea when he was buzzed by a drone his son was using to calculate the acres he would plant this year, then he'd feed all the data into a computer and come up with a foolproof game plan. There was a machine for everything, but not the kind he used; those were relics people collected and restored in their garages and entered in the farm parade.

His wife of sixty years would sometimes join him, sitting on the porch waiting for their son to bring out the next machine, and he never disappointed. A hovercraft floated above the rows, dropping seeds at a precise moment, controlled by an app from his tablet strapped to his arm A remote-controlled wagon with robotic hooks grabbed the bales of hay, setting them into a huge wagon that, once full, would be sent to the mill a mile down the road, guided by lasers with no need for a human at all.

Would you look at that? She would say, "Looks like the apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it?"He just shrugged his shoulders and got up, heading for the barn where he was restoring a classic John Deere tractor, which he was certain had a good chance at the farm parade.

His son came into the barn asking if he had seen the most recent tool he had ordered, a drone the size of a midsize truck that would become a patrolling kill machine, ridding the farm of poachers, both animal and human. Just don't kill one of us, he said to his son, who was prepping the drone for its first mission that night. They sat on the porch looking at the screen of his tablet, searching for intruders who would be met with rapid bursts of fire and destroyed in seconds. But with rubber bullets.

Farming had become a game he no longer cared to play. But the result was more crops, less work, and huge harvests, all for the cost of a few machines. He admitted he feared a little. At the farm parade, a few young nerds with coke bottle glasses decided to do a flyover to aggravate the old timers, and when a drone the size of a midsize truck buzzed him, he reached for his Smith and Wesson Bulldog and blew a hole into it the size of a Volkswagen.

She bailed him out of jail, and she joined him on the John Deere tractor for the slow ride back to their farm. Along the way, crowds of onlookers clapped their hands and shouted words of encouragement. The sweat from his shirt drying on the tractor door was just one more memory of time going by too fast.

He helped his son fix the drone, and, as time would have it, he began to understand his son's futuristic farming methods, even if he didn't like them. More and more farmers adapted and discovered the benefits of farming in the future, but he would leave it all up to his son now as he finished the John Deere that, by the way, took the blue ribbon at the state fair.

Mike 2025                                          

The farmhouse

 If I could go back in time to a country farmhouse sometime in the 1940s, this is what I would see.

The house itself was busy, serving as the hub for the family and farmhands, who gathered in the kitchen every morning as coffee mugs were filled and chores to be done were assigned. It was harvest time, and twenty acres of land were yielding their bounties so people could be fed throughout the coming winter months.

All around the land, bursts of autumn colors make you take notice of God's handiwork, and you stop for a moment to soak it all in before the land grows dark and the colors say goodbye until next year. Farming after the war was hard, as one son didn't make it back home; his laughter was missed, and his picture in uniform was displayed on a small table in the hallway, a constant reminder of the love and respect of everyone.

Inside the old wooden house, furniture was scarce, with most rooms having only hardwood floors and a crude mattress. There was a radio that played music of the times, bringing dad to the house for a quick dance step between husband and wife, who shooed him away so she could get on with dinner.

The eldest son shot a big turkey, at least thirty pounds, that would easily feed everyone, with some left over for turkey sandwiches everybody craved the day after. On the last Thursday, Thanksgiving was observed on the farm. The farmhands would put on their Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes and have a seat at the extended table, where, one by one, they would name one thing they were grateful for.

Outside, the tractor lay quiet with the fields stripped of the bounty, except for the ones that didn't make the cut and were left for the animals to enjoy their own thanksgiving.

With a cup of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie, the men talked about the harvest and gave thanks for this year's crops. In the kitchen, the woman boxed up lunches for the farmhands who would be leaving and heading South, where the fruits would be waiting to be picked. Envelopes were given to the men, filled with their final pay and a bonus for their hard work.

The next morning, the sounds of old trucks could be heard as the small caravan headed down the dirt road for points south. The farmer and his wife stood on the porch, waving them goodbye until the dust settled and they were gone. Back inside the house, an eerie quiet surrounded them as they sat at the table with a cup of coffee and a slice of pumpkin pie, the wife had hidden away for just this moment, bringing a smile to the dad's face and a gentle squeeze on the hand of his wife showing him in a simple way how the two of them made it all happen one more time.

Christmas was knocking at the door, and soon the kids and grandkids would visit, bringing laughter, joy, and memories of years passed. Mom's kitchen came alive once more with holiday goodies and hours of fun for the kids playing in the hay loft.

Life on this land changed with the seasons, each one special in its own way. But some things never change as traditions are honored and the elders share stories to eager ears of the children. There are seasons' worth of love that fill the old farmhouse, as the radio still plays and dad asks mom for a twirl around the wooden floor.

Mike 2025                                           

Rusted dreams

 An old, deserted farmhouse sits in the middle of corn fields, long since abandoned, leaving behind memories of settlers who made this land their own. As I look inside the decaying house, I can picture how it was in its day, filled with the laughter and the prayers of a young family who traveled there in wagon trains, with every mile another step closer to their dreams. I look around, and in my mind, I picture the simplicity and the hard work when eighteen-hour days were common, as the chores never ended. I see a rag doll and a small bow and arrow made with love.

It was a small house, just three rooms, built in a hurry to withstand the harsh winters. I see the remains of a stone fireplace now, just piles of stones used to make it. I can see the family sitting by the fire, sharing stories of days gone by and remembering those they left behind.

Leaving the house, I walked to the barn, another weathered structure that served as shelter for the mule and storage for corn they would sell at the market in town, a dozen miles away. It struck me as odd that, even after all these years of being empty, I could smell the hay and picture a young man with a pitchfork in his hand, whistling a tune his mom sang to him when he was younger.

Back outside, I walked around the land, coming upon rusted farm equipment left to decay, and each had a story to tell if you just listened. How many rows of soil were tilled by the old mule-driven plow, and how long did it take to plant seeds one handful at a time? I found an outbuilding, or what was left of it, once a blacksmith's space to forge a variety of tools and horseshoes after they traded corn for a healthy but aging horse.

As darkness approached, I left the old homestead with a thousand memories and wondered what became of the settlers. There could be many reasons, like smallpox or fever, or maybe starvation, that left the place empty. Perhaps they gave up on the farm as nature played cruel jokes on them, like dust bowls or drought. Did they all pass on together, embracing death as it knocked on their door, or did they give up and move closer to the city where jobs and opportunity awaited?

A short time later, I returned to the old homestead with a camera in hand and took pictures of everything I had seen before. It was a timeline of joy and anticipation that turned to rotted boards and rusted equipment. I displayed my photos at a renowned gallery in the city, naming the collection "Rusted Dreams."

Mike 2025