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