Boating memories

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

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

Mike 2026                                                                                                                                                                           

Mike  2026

Mr. Fix it

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

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

Mike 2026                                                             

Mike   2026

Chocolate smiles

 Saturday with Dad

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

       

                              

Mike 2026

Just life

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

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

Mike 2026        

Mike  2026

Things that go bump

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

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

                                                                     

                                                                      

Mike 2026

When kids were kids

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

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

Mike  2026                                                                    

                                                

 
MIKE  2026

The smells of life

 I will never forget certain scents that were all a part of who I am. The smell of mom's perfume is my first smell and will probably be my last as she guides me to the heavens. The smell of Dad's pipe and the sweet smell of captian black tobacco.A smell that has sometimes lingered in my room.The smell of clothes drying on a backyard clothesline, sun-drenched with the scent of lemons.The smell of fresh cut grass and burning pine from a campfire. The smells of the mountains are a smorgasbord of scents, like wet moss, dying leaves, wildflowers, and hidden patches of homegrown herbs. The scent of sweat in the forest, disguised with patchouli oil, spread across the land like wildfire. The smell of a new album and the smell of electricity coming from a group of hopeful songwriters.

The smell of gasoline and motor oil dripping from my Harley, and the scents of the roadside that passed by too quickly as I rode through them, too fast to notice. The smell of a greasy 24-hour diner, with smells on a plate that turned into smiles.Bacon and eggs, pancakes with smily faces and coffee brewed just right. Ashtrays overflowing with burned-out butts and a handful of scented mints from a bowl at the checkout counter. The unforgettable smell of new leather and fringed jackets.
The smells of the ocean and a warship that took me to far-away places. The smell of jet fuel and paint. Waiting in line for a tray full of what I'm not sure of, but soon learned that powdered eggs have no smell. The countries I traveled to, each with its own unique smell. A sidewalk cafe in France that smelled of warm biscuits, opened bottles of wine, and blocks of cheese. Spain with smells of bullfights and scooters everywhere, leaving behind clouds of exhaust. Greece that smelled like centuries ago, the aromas of carefully prepared foods, the scents pouring through windows with no glass.
For four years, I traveled the globe and experienced countless smells of cultures trying to hang on to the old ways. Some places in the Middle East had a smell all their own, a combination of smells that had been around for generations.  I was amazed by the scent of moisture from tropical forests and by the sheer number of different scents in just one place.
Growing old now, my sense of smell has all but left me. Guess I used my nose to the point of being used up. But the strange thing is I may not smell things like I once did, but I can call upon a memory any time to relive the smells of children playing and laundry drying. I can smell the inside of the ice cream truck as lawn sprinklers shoot out well water that smells like rotten eggs. I can smell my wife's perfume and kids with mouthfuls of captian crunch. I can smell the chocolates in a heart-shaped Valentine before it's opened, and when I feel the need to be alone, I go to an empty church and smell the incense and candles slowly wafting into my nose, giving me a sense of calm and quiet reflections of scents I hold close to my heart.

Mike  2026