Author: Kevin Stone

Labor Day has come and gone. The summer is leaving us soon. September 22 will herald the beginning of Autumn. School and football are in full bloom and we’re all sweating a little bit less. It won’t be long until the holidays are upon us. The beautiful sunshine and flowers will give way to the cool breezes and falling leaves of autumn. Such is life, as the big, blue marble turns. For most of us it’s just another transition of the seasons, another year passing by, as we mark the journey of life. Some people feel differently about it. They love the passing of summer into fall. The weirdos. 

The hot months can be tough, don’t get me wrong, and living in the South ain’t for the timid. I’m what you call “a big ole boy” and I sweat like a stuck pig any time the temperature is above sixty-five. Maybe the two gallons of black coffee I drink daily has something to do with it, but it’s a fact I live with every summer. But I do so love the summer months. Baseball, fishing (neither of which I did any of this year), swimming (did some of that) and just generally being outside are all awesome things that I look forward to during the summer. The grandkids are a treat in the summer, too. They love it outside. The adults (hi, LauraGail!) not so much. Some people just can’t wait for the world to turn away from the light and lean into the dark recesses of the beginnings of Winter. The weirdos.  

I do love me some leaves falling. It means I won’t have to cut the grass soon. I also love the coming of Halloween (the official holiday of Fall). Dressing up and being scary, getting candy from friends and strangers alike and watching spooky movies all appeal to my inner child. I’m happy to not have to clean the pool, too. Even if taking it down is a lot of work. As much as I’ll miss swimming with the grands, I can get into jumping into leaves as well. Putting away the yard tools for the winter doesn’t hurt my feelings at all. Some people love digging in the flowerbeds and manicuring their lawn, I hear. The weirdos.  

I also love jacket weather. Jackets and hats. We all know how much I love hats. Caps are okay in the summertime, but it’s pretty hot wearing a felt fedora or a good Stetson cowboy hat when it’s above ninety degrees outside. So, yeah, I guess I do love Fall, too. If I had to pick a season to stay in for all eternity, I suppose I’d pick Fall. Football, Halloween, Thanksgiving and being able to wear my Stetson while sitting on my porch smoking a good cigar? Oh yeah. I guess I’m one of those weirdos, too.  

God bless Y’all! 

   I’ve been told that I suffer from Trump Derangement Syndrome by a couple of my friends. I looked it up.  It says on its wikipedia page that Trump Derangement Syndrome is “a pejorative term used to describe negative reactions to U.S. President Donald Trump that are characterized as irrational and disconnected from Trump’s actual policy positions.” It also says, “The term has also come to be used to describe the nature of Trump supporters in their unwavering support of the president.”  

trump Derangement Syndrome as defined by yours truly: 

   The state of mind that allows anyone to find rational reasons for every statement and action of donald trump, no matter how crazy, illegal, racist or immoral. He defined it himself as far back as 2016: 

“I could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot somebody, and I wouldn’t lose any voters, ok?” trump remarked at a campaign stop at Dordt College in Sioux Center, Iowa. “It’s, like, incredible.” Incredible, indeed. It’s truly the best definition of trump Derangement Syndrome and it’s a MAGA Cult-caused illness.  

   My first vote for president was Ronald Reagan. I identified proudly as a right-leaning Republican for most of my life. I listened to Rush Limbaugh. I voted for trump the first time he ran. I have some libertarian leanings and could, at a stretch, be called “liberal” for believing the government should provide healthcare for all. I am not a democrat. I am not affiliated with any/either party. I am an Independent. Nowhere in the Declaration of Independence, Constitution or Bill of Rights will you find a reference to political parties. They saw no need for them. Neither do I. I believe in ideas and the people that have them. I disavow the need for parties. They have helped only to destroy this Republic.  

If you find yourself excusing fascist behavior with phrases like “I trust trump”, “trump is right about everything”, or “the Eptstein Hoax is a Democrat conspiracy” please try some introspection. I suggest you think for yourself, believe your eyes and ears, read the Constitution, and spend some time praying and meditating on how dictators use democratic institutions and processes to rise to power. Listen to what he says. Watch what he does, to people and institutions. It’s not all politics. It’s right and wrong. Using the military against cities in Blue states (odd how Red states so far haven’t been targeted) under the guise of crime fighting, suing colleges, museums, law firms, corporations and individuals to force them to “bend the knee”, and generally making Bullying his main domestic and foreign policy tactic is flat out WRONG. Stand up. Fight. Vote. While we still can.  

God Bless Y’all.     

Daughters are different. I have three sons and one daughter and I’m here to tell you: daughters will pull your heart strings in more ways than you thought you could ever imagine. Sometimes they pull and make you proud. Sometimes they yank it and make you cry. Occasionally they will come really close to giving you a heart attack. They are also worth it.  

   I love all my kids the same, boys and girls. Having only one girl really spotlighted the differences, however. Even though my daughter kept up with all her brothers and was quite the tomboy, she always gave off another kind of vibe. As a second child, she had an older brother to follow, and I know that’s not easy. As an older sister to two brothers, she managed to lead them into both safety and trouble. A mentor for chaos at times, she helped her mother, and I take care of the “little ones” even if they were just two and three years her junior. When you’re outnumbered four to two, parents take what help they can get. We did.  

 My girl, Candice, has always had a beautiful soul to match her outer self. She has a heart for people, much as her mom did. She has empathy in abundance. She cares. Like her mom also, she has never once met a stranger. I’ve seen her go from “hi” to “tell your mama and them I says hey” just with a ten-minute conversation in line at the Walmart. And she will remember all of them. It amazes me. It makes my heart grow.  

   Candice has a birthday this week and it’s a special one. I won’t call out her age, but let’s just say she has one more year and she’ll be at the top of that hill. It’s been a rough climb for her but she’s getting there with style. Another reason it’s special is that at the end of August she’ll be three months sober. She initiated it on her own, and she’s been doing awesome. I couldn’t be prouder of her.  

   August is “birthday” month for my family. My grandson, Sammy, turned six on the 18th and I’ll turn sixty on the 26th. Candice’s was the 19th. My wife’s stepfather shared Candice’s birthday and her mom would have been seventy-nine on the 22nd. Max and Ethel (Gma) will be sorely missed this Saturday, as we celebrate all those August Birthdays at one party.  

   As we get older, the importance of celebrating life changes. It’s not about what you get, but where you are. Being with those you love, and who love you is the best gift anyone can get. And cake. That’s pretty good, too.  

Happy Birthday, Candice and Sammy! (and me!) Daddy and Gramps are so proud of you! 

Now let’s eat some cake! 

God bless Y’all! 

He wore Superman pajamas and waited up for me to get home nearly every night. He was two years old and loved to watch the “Super Friends” cartoon with me. I worked the second shift at a box factory in Memphis and wouldn’t get home until around 11:30 pm, but his Mom would make sure he took a nap during the day so I could play with him for a bit when I got home. Little Pooh Bear made me want to come straight home every night just to see his beautiful smile and listen to him tell me about his day. My son Chris made fatherhood easy.  

   Being friends with a two-year-old is one of the most honest relationships you’ll ever have. You know what they’re thinking, because they tell you. If they’re sad, they cry. If they’re happy, they smile or laugh. If they don’t understand, they ask questions. Chris was like that. He would tell me about his toys and who he saw that day. He’d tell me about the cartoons he was watching and how “Superman says ‘don’t smoke’” like it was the inside scoop on the subject. He was smart, but he didn’t flaunt it. He didn’t look down on me just because I was an adult. He’s never given me bad advice. 

   Christopher Taylor Stone turns forty-two on August 2nd. I don’t get to come home to him every day, but I still miss doing that. I do it with my grandkids, now. I see now why being a grandparent “hits” differently. You have the experience, the patience to just watch and listen (and maybe provoke a little rebellion now and then) to them. You take the time to pay attention to them because you know how fast they will grow and change. Chris did that. His life got full so very fast. He grew to be a fantastic man. He’s educated, sophisticated, strong, intelligent, smart (yeah-that’s different from just intelligent), sensitive, and kind. He’s the kind of friend a person wants to have, and the kind of man people aspire to be. He’s honest and trustworthy. No matter what life throws at him, he consistently keeps being himself. Even when he’s unsure of himself, he stretches his mind and emotions to find out the answers. Plus, he’s a good-looking guy. Not to brag, but truth is truth.  

   I wouldn’t trade anything for the man who Chris has become. I hope his life is all he ever wanted and then some. He works hard and is dedicated to his vocation. He loves a wonderful woman, Anna, who shares his taste in music, and they travel all over attending concerts. No life is without troubles or pain, but I see my son living his life on his own terms and can honestly say that I’m proud of the man he has chosen to be. I would give anything, however, to just come home to him (just one more time) and see that joyous smile, sit him in my lap, and listen to his musical voice full of wonder.  

   Chris called me last week to tell me about seeing the new Superman movie. I listened with a smile and thought of those nights, so many years ago. The new Superman portrays Clark Kent as a punk/goth enthusiast as a teen and Chris connected with that. I loved hearing him talk about Superman. Just like when he was two. Some things never change. I’m glad of that. 

Happy Birthday, Christopher! I love you, Son.  

God Bless Y’all.  

   I’ve always taught my children that you don’t get points for doing what’s right. Character is built brick by brick, never inherent, and always has a price. Being kind, empathetic and loving towards your fellow man has rewards for the soul that no one can put a price on. Being kind, understanding and loving towards yourself will carry you through the burden of your mistakes. The Man Upstairs loves you. He wants you to love you, too.  

   A sobriety anniversary is a lot like marking the death of a loved one. For me it’s important to remember the person I was when I was drinking, ugly as that memory may be. The guy who just wanted to drown his problems and forget about his heartaches drowned a lot more than just his problems. My children suffered. My siblings suffered. My spouses suffered. My life fell apart. I made my Momma cry. I did that, and worse. I gave up.  

   The man I was may be dead and gone these past ten years, but he’s always with me. Right behind my eyes, looking out at the world he’d love to still be a part of. That’s where he’s buried. Every day since July 28th, 2015, I’ve had to keep tossing fresh dirt on that grave. It’s not all that hard. I just have to recall one of the many times I almost set the house on fire, cooking and drinking, left a child stranded at school when I was passed out drunk, bring up the memories of the three times I was incarcerated for DUI, with all of the sounds of metal doors slamming, and the smell of fifty men sharing a concrete and steel pod to help me keep tossing dirt on Old Kevin’s grave. He got what he deserved, the selfish old drunk. 

   You get ten years sober just like the Old Heads in AA say you do: one day at a time. Never worry about tomorrow. There’s only today. And I won’t drink today. I want to, but I won’t. Not today. It’s worked for ten years, but I can’t say it’ll work for another ten. I can just say I’ll make it work today. It’s been easier because I’ve had a wonderful wife, Laura Gail, and a prayerful mother, Mary Belle, and all my brothers and sisters who never gave up on me.  

   It’s not a coincidence that Cynthia “Sam” Stone was born on this day. There’s a connection, and if you read my column regularly you probably know. The mother of my children and the wife of my youth left this world over two decades ago. She was full of life, love and purpose for the short time she was with us. I loved her with all my heart and when she was gone, I wondered if the world would ever have any light again. I remember her every day. I think of her every day. I speak of her at least once every day. The memory is a muscle. It must be used to stay strong. That’s how I keep her memory alive. I’ll never give up on remembering who she was. In that way, at least, she lives on.  

When we give up, we lose. Never, never, never give up.  

God bless Y’all.  

My grandson, Cayde, was born about six weeks early. Weighing in at under five pounds, without a nasal bone (skeletal dysplasia) and a retina problem with one eye, he made for a scary sight with all the tubes and wires and stuff. He was still beautiful.

   Shortly after he was born, I had prostate removal surgery and was home for about a month while I recovered. It just so happened that it was when his mom was preparing to return to work and Laura Gail was preparing to retire but was still working. I jumped at the chance and volunteered to babysit. Best month of that year, even with a catheter hanging at my side. We spent a lot of time in my recliner, watching television. Specifically, the Ken Burns 1990 nine-part documentary “The Civil War”. We listened and talked about it a lot. Okay, I talked about it to him, while he made burping and cooing noises, but he enjoyed it as much as I did. We even cooked Laura Gail a few dinners, until I caught some grease on fire in one of her skillets. No babies were harmed, but the skillet didn’t survive. I don’t cook much anymore. I’m not positive, but there may be a connection there. I’m just glad I still get to babysit.

   Over the past four years Cayde Stone Bishop and I have taken many daily walks in the yard. There’s not a muddy puddle we haven’t jumped into, a car we haven’t watched and waved at as they passed the house, or a blade of grass we haven’t trod. I’ve listened to his laugh and goo-goo talk, his first words, and now he argues with me. He wins more than he loses. He truly is quite the conversationalist. He joined the music service at church. They didn’t ask, he just decided to go on stage one Sunday and sing with them. He now has a guitar to strum beside the song leader, Carl, whom he idealizes. He prays with him before they start. He told Carl “konnichiwa” this morning. It’s Japanese for “good morning”. His dad is a big anime/Japan fan, and he likes the way it sounds. He is the only “people person” on my wife’s side of the family that I’m aware of, much to my wife’s wonder. He is breaking boundaries and being his own little man. I couldn’t be prouder.

   He turns four years old on July 18th, this Friday. I’m sure he’ll bust into my house early that morning and proclaim, “Happy Birthday, Cayde!” at the top of his lungs about ten times before he looks around for his presents. And his Gigi will likely give him at least one before his party that evening when his parents get home. Because Cayde Stone Bishop is the Little Boss around here. We wouldn’t be happier any other way.

Happy Birthday, Cayde!

God bless Y’all!

   I’m mad. My truck broke down. What should have been a simple fix is frustrating me to no end. One of our air conditioner units went out. I read the measurements wrong and tried to put the wrong size window unit in and it wouldn’t fit. I have another, but now I’m tired. It rained before we could cut the grass. Current events in politics are making my Agent Orange itch real bad. On top of all of this, I’m feeling old, bald and fat. Maybe because I am. It’s just one of those days. 

   Life gets to us all at times, there’s no way around it. The universe in general just won’t spin in our direction when we want it to. That’s science. The best way to avoid turmoil and madness is usually a good nap. I practice what I preach in that area. Even a good nap won’t make a window any bigger, or a brake master cylinder seal fit when it’s the wrong part. Such is life.  

   Life is full of small problems. We’re all just going through life trying to fix the little things that break around us. Sometimes it’s big stuff. Sometimes it’s life and death. Today it was just the little things. Tomorrow could be better, or worse, but rest assured that there will be things that need fixing. It might just be a lightbulb that needs changing, but it could be big-like running out of toilet paper. The universe will decide. 

   I’ve been watching too much news. I’ve been obsessing about things that are out of my control. Big things like Birthright Citizenship, Medicare cuts, War in the Middle East, the dismantling of democracy in America, the high cost of living and if I’ll be able to retire some day. I think the best thing for me to do is to write my representatives, vote, save my money, keep working and pray. Pray a lot. After that, I’ll play with my grandkids, be nice to my wife, and trust the Man Upstairs to take care of all those other things. I hear He has a plan. Then I’ll just go back to the parts store and get the right part, put the other window unit in, and cut the grass twice this week. I can do that much. 

   Happy 249th Birthday, America! I love you, and hope you make it to 250 with all your big, beautiful freedoms intact next year! Stay Strong! 

God Bless Y’all! 

I raised three sons and a daughter, starting in the early eighties and continuing today. They are, I must admit, a lot less needy than back then. Of course, my youngest is thirty-five and my oldest is forty-one so that’s to be expected. The job of dad has evolved over these past four decades, as they have become exceptional adults. I doubt I can take much credit for their growth, since I was, admittedly, just winging it. While the career of fatherhood is definitely the best job I’ve ever had, I had no idea what I was doing. I just tried to do my best. I’m really glad they survived it. I think it worked out pretty well. I couldn’t be prouder of all four of them.  

   Grandad is, in a lot of ways, a much better gig than being a dad. The hours are much better. I get many more opportunities to nap. I need that. Those young folks have gotten faster and will drain you quicker than you can say “let’s go outside”. They talk faster, are quicker to catch onto anything with a plug-in, or connected to Bluetooth, and seem to eat nothing but Mickey D’s. And the pay still stinks. The perks of being a Grandad more than make up for all that, however. 

   As I said, I have three sons and a daughter. Now I also have three grandsons and a granddaughter. Raising my daughter was, and is, an experience like no other in my life. I have found that having a granddaughter is like a continuation of that experience. It’s pretty awesome.  Chelsea was about nine years old when her mom and my stepson wed. She was shy, quiet and cute as a button. It took a lot of hugs and time for her to learn just how much she’d won our hearts. I’ve watched her grow up in these past four years into a beautiful, smart and funny young woman. I cherish my hugs in the mornings when their parents drop her and her brother off before they go to work. I enjoy listening to her tell me about her music, school and just about everything that pops into her head. It can be hard for my old ears to keep up with her, but she makes me smile every day. She loves to read (which I also love) and she loves puzzles and crafts. She’s very artistic and wonderfully musical. She makes my heart sing. If I had to build a granddaughter (you know, like “build-a-bear”?) I’d build a young woman that looks, sounds and acts exactly like Chelsea Raelynn Pickard. She’d be my favorite granddaughter, even if I had twenty of the critters. 

   It just so happens that Chelsea will turn thirteen years old on Thursday, June 26th. We had cake and gifts last Saturday, but I just want her to know how special she is to me. You’re a gift and I love you very much, Chelsea! Thank you for being my favorite granddaughter ever!  Happy Birthday! 

God bless Y’all!      

He wiped the sweat from his dusty forehead with an old rag he kept in his back pocket for just such occasions. He looked sideways and narrowed his eyes at the batter. The sun sat low on the horizon somewhere just behind the home plate bleachers that was sprinkled with the local lovers of the game. A warm breeze passed over him and he drew in a refreshing breathe as he sized up the batter. The catcher showed him a single index finger, pointing straight down. Fast ball. He nodded his head once, then reared back, his leg coming up high as his lanky form tensed like a bowstring and then fired the heat right down the pipe. In nearly the same second the ball thumped loudly into the catcher’s old leather mitt knocking a layer of dust off the glove that looked like smoke.  

“Steerike three!” the umpire called. 

That ended the inning, and the defense trotted in to take their turn at bat. The lanky boy grinned as he watched the batter toss his bat. He threw it a little too hard into the backstop as he walked to the rickety wooden dugout and retrieved his glove to take the field. He gave the pitcher the stink eye the whole time.  

“Good pitch.” Jim told him as he came into the chicken wire cage with a bench that passed for a dugout. Jim was even lankier than he was. Both could pass for a couple of coal mine workers, with their dirty white undershirts and torn pants. The wind had kicked up the dirt from the ballfield and he struggled to work up a spit to get it out of his mouth.  

“Thanks, Jimmy. Man, it’s hot. I sure could use a coke.” They nodded to each other. Neither of them had a nickel, so that was out of the question. Except it wasn’t. They spotted the Coach lugging a big metal tub over to the dugout just then and watched, awed a bit, as he sat the ice-filled tub down on the bench. It was filled with dozens of eight-ounce bottles of coke!  

“You boys look thirsty. Have one!” The Coach smiled at them. 

So, they did. He popped the top off on the side of the bench (using a practiced slap of the hand) and spied his brother George headed to the batter’s box. 

“Watch ‘im on the inside, George!” he hollered. That fella pitching for the other team had a bad habit of brushing the batter back away from the plate on the first pitch.  

Looking to the stands, he waved at his mom. She sat at the bottom of the bleachers, an ice cream in her hand, smiling and waving back. He saw his dad on the top of the bleachers. He was dark against the setting sun, just a silhouette against the reddening sky. He made an awning of his hand to try and make out his features but to no avail. His little brothers, Tony and RE sat in the dirt not far from their momma, shooting marbles and laughing. As he turned his attention back to the game, George’s bat cracked. The pitcher had to duck quick to dodge the line drive that screamed over him.  

A good shot, Tom thought. He hit the seam perfectly between second and the shortstop. By the time the outfielder ran it down, George was parked firmly on second base. He gave a rebel yell for his brother. He was joined in the celebration by Bonnie, Joyce and Carol, who were walking back from the concession stand together just as George walloped the ball. They all had different flavors of shaved ice in paper cups. They all climbed up onto the bleachers around their mom and waved at him.  

“Hit a homer, Wayne!” they yelled. 

“You’re up, son.” Coach said. 

He gulped down the rest of his soft drink and picked up his favorite bat, old and dinged up but he had good luck with it. As he handed his brother the empty bottle, he looked over at the Coach. 

“Hey Coach” he drawled slowly. “Do you think there’s baseball in Heaven?” 

The Old Man’s eyes sparkled as he smiled through his white beard. 

“I’m sure of it, son. What else would we do?” It was more of a statement than a question. 

Wayne smiled and nodded before trotting out to bat.  He put the third pitch over the center fielder’s head and the crowd went crazy. His daddy even waved at him. 

Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads out there and God bless Y’all. 

What do you call a cow that spies on you?   A steak out! 

Yes. A “Dad Joke”. I went there. Why? Because they’re fun, that’s why. Life is too short to take it so seriously all the time. You can’t think about stuff like politics, war and money without taking time out to laugh. I’ve heard from a reliable source (Reader’s Digest) that laughter is the best medicine. Hey, that reminds me: Did you hear about the guy whose whole left side was cut off? He’s all right now. See? Ya didn’t even need a copay. 

I once heard a joke about amnesia, but I forgot how it goes. I do that in real life with jokes. I forget them. So, I started saving them in my phone. You never know when you’ll need a good laugh, so it’s best to have one in your pocket. Jokes help me get through the day. Kind of like when I went to the doctor and told him I’d been feeling run down. He asked me why I felt that way, and I replied, “Because I’ve got tire marks on my legs!” He didn’t laugh, but I did. The important thing is to know your audience. The worst place to have a real heart attack is during a game of charades. Truth. 

Some people hate Dad Jokes. They think they’re corny. Which brings this question: Do you know how to make Sweet Corn? You whisper sweet nothings in its ear! And did you know why all the corn stalks were afraid of Jimmy? Because Jimmy cracks corn, and he don’t care. How about this: What did the baby corn say to the mama corn? Where’s Popcorn? Still think Dad Jokes are corny? Yup. I agree.  

My sister, Pam, and I trade Dad Jokes on the regular. She started it, Mom! I swear!  

She trades them back and forth with her grandson, and I got dragged into doing it some years ago. Okay, I was a willing participant. She knows I love a good silly joke. I love all the other kinds of jokes, too, but as a member of the Grandfathers And Grandmother’s Union (GAG U local 42) we can’t expose those kids to the racy stuff. It’d destroy their image of our respectable elder status. There’s plenty of time to dismantle that when they’re older.  

Why aren’t dogs allowed in bars? Because they can’t hold their licker! Animals are often the brunt of these Jokes. Like: What kind of sandals do frogs wear? Open Toad! Yup. See, the funny thing there is that frogs don’t really wear sandals. What do frogs order when they get BBQ? Ribb-ets! Or this: What do you call a pig playing tug of war? Pulled pork. Do you know why bears sleep all winter? No one is brave enough to wake them up! Why did the cat put on a cocktail dress? She was feline fancy. If those animals could understand puns, do you think they’d laugh? I’d like to think so. Mabe not a belly laugh. More like a chuckle.  

Maybe we grown adults need these jokes. They’re like therapy for all the normal crazy stuff going on it the world. It’s cheaper than therapy (if you’re going to therapy right now, keep going. That stuff works, too) and it has the added effect of making at least two people happy. You and the victim. What happened when Joe went on the Dolly Parton diet? It made Joe lean, Joe lean, Joe leeeaaannn! Admit it-you sang that! 

So, in summary, there doesn’t always have to be a point. There does, however, need to be a punchline. How do you make a hamburger laugh? Pickle it! What do you call a woman who sets fire to her bills? Bernadette, of course. Now, go forth and irritate the unexpecting and unappreciative world with these Dad Jokes and tell them that Kevin says: 

God Bless Y’all!