When my brother Doug was a kid, he planted pumpkin seeds in Mom's prized flower garden. A few years back, I wrote a poem about that incident.

Mom planted

clusters of flowers,

from the edge of the driveway,

along its gently rising slope,

until it reached a plateau,

where it was crisply cut off

by concrete steps,

leading up from the garage door

to the long front walk.

Mom chose

colorful flowers:

vibrant, varied & showy —

fulfilling her vision

of reserved sophistication,

tastefully executed,

like adding expensive fur trim

to the collar & cuffs

of a plain cloth coat.

Mom’s fussy

flowery vision

might’ve been noteworthy on its own,

were it not

for my brother Doug,

who planted pumpkin seeds

at irregular intervals,

up & down, in & out,

Mom’s colossal column of color.

No one expected

Doug’s seeds to even grow,

but they did, profusely:

Orange, bulbous, shiny, orbs —

swelling grandly each day,

nudging their way to center-stage,

like dim-witted cousins

attending a wedding,

wearing Halloween costumes.

Mother may

have been angry.

(Perhaps she was.)

But the pumpkin-bumpkins

served the flowers well:

While the rocks of Kyoto

help make raked-sands sacred,

Doug’s scattered seeds

made Mom’s flowers smile.

(c) 2016

     I saw her again this morning. She had a new red coat, and I openly admired her shapely curves.

     I'd been captivated from the first time I saw her coming down the street. The crowd seemed to part, and there she was. A sudden heat washed over me as she passed. I sneaked a quick look at her caboose and knew I had to have her.

     I dreamed about her last night. My dream was steamy and the sweat glistened on my bare chest as my body pumped in rhythmic lunges. I gave her what I knew she needed, and she responded to my efforts with a shudder as the fire inside her grew.

     I pulled myself from my reverie with a smile. After tonight, I wouldn't have to dream. I sat down, but I didn't have to wait long. Just like that first time—the crowed parted as she came chugging into the square. Her boiler gleamed with a shiny new coat of red paint, and steam billowed from her pistons.

     She came to a stop, and I boarded one of her cars, a telegram clutched in my hand.

It read: 

Inner city transit seeking firemen to shovel coal for the new commuter line.

Apply in person tomorrow evening.

Making memories doesn’t require a trip to Disney or Six Flags. Sometimes it’s just an unscheduled serendipitous stop at a fast food spot on a Friday night. That’s how Sterling, Nana and I ended up at Taco Bell.

I had the Triple-Double Crunchwrap box that comes with a soda and two tacos. Nana had a burrito. Sterling—who’ll turn 9 in September—had three cheesy roll-ups and one of my tacos: his first ever.

Sterling is a special fella: He was born with a heart defect and had to undergo surgery as a baby. Chances are he’ll need one or more surgeries in the future—but you’d never know it by his actions: He a rough-and-ready, rumble-bumble little critter who loves dinosaurs, fish, turtles, and bike-riding.

Sterling and I have spent quite a bit of time together watching some of his favorite TV shows, including “Sponge Bob” and “River Monsters” with Jeremy Wade. Good times. Great times. I mention that to emphasis that you don’t need lots-a money to make memories. My Grandpa Lamb and I used to play checkers as he sat in his rocking chair. As a treat he liked white bread—untoasted—slathered with real butter (at room temperature) and sprinkled thick with sugar. He’d sip hot tea he poured into a saucer to cool. Memories.

My Grandpa Cassanese, who came from Italy, had a big garden with corn and beans and such. His grandkids used to help him pick rocks, pull weeds and harvest his fresh veggies. Memories.

I turned 70 in January, so making memories is more important than ever. I’m hoping my grandkids remember me—remember I loved them, thought of them, prayed for them. It might not be much of a legacy, but it’s what I got. In the meantime, I’m going to follow Sponge Bob’s sage advice: “ Let go of what kills you, and hold on to what keeps you breathing."

Sounds good to me …