Rolling Stones

Work

I got my first real job when I was a junior in High School. I was a bus boy at a steakhouse. My sister, Mary Ann, worked there as a waitress and she helped me get on there. I actually enjoyed it. I really enjoyed making my own money. I learned about as much as you would expect from a sixteen year old kid. I goofed around, kidded with my buddies on the crew, and drove around after work with the older guys and drank. I put my own gas in my car (which my parents had bought) and learned that spending cash was great, but rarely lasted til the next check. For a kid, that was fine. But there was so much more to learn.

One day I just didn’t want to go to work. I don’t remember what I did instead, but it was really a simple case of “I don’t wanna”. So I called in. I gave a thinly veiled excuse to the tune of “my friend needed me to come bail him out of a jam” kind of thing. Just like skipping school, except I rarely did that. The next shift I worked, our manager said he’d like to speak to me in his tiny cubbyhole of an office. He sat me down in the chair across from his desk, all of two feet away, and asked me why I missed my shift. Barely half way into my poorly constructed lie, he held up his hand to stop me. The tired expression on his face, and the tightly pursed lips as he looked at the floor for a second stopped me in mid sentence. He took a long, measured breath through his nostrils, and exhaled through his mouth once, in a practiced, meditative way before he spoke.

“Kevin, listen. I don’t need all that. You’re making a mistake. I’m not your Mom or Dad. I don’t need to hear your problems. I’m not a councilor. I’m your boss. When I make out the schedule, I’m counting on you to be here. This is a business, and you have a responsibility to be here. If you’re not, then everyone else here has to cover your job. You seem like a nice guy, but if you’re not going to show up when you’re on the schedule, then this is not going to work out. I’ll give you another chance, but if it happens again, you’re out of here. Do we understand one another?”

“Shit” I thought.

“Yes sir.” I said.

“ Okay then. Go back to work.”

So I did. Red faced and embarrassed, but I went back to washing dishes and busing tables. I was pissed, but more “butt hurt” than anything else. I mean, where did he get off not believing my lie? A d what was the deal with the “ I’m not your Mom and Dad, I’m your boss” thing? I fumed. I worked, but I fumed.

Throughout my life, I have had many jobs. I won’t bore you with all of them. Briefly, I’ve been a factory worker, dockman, maintenance assistant, janitor, floor tech, retail sales guy, cashier, and deckhand, just to name a few. Most of my years were spent in fiberboard container manufacturing (translated-I made cardboard boxes) as a machine operator, feeder, print die mounter, forklift operator, and lead man. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, eight and twelve hour shifts. I worked on, climbed on, sweated over hot, greasy, ink-splattered and dusty machines to crank out boxes for all kinds of companies to put their stuff in. For the most part, it was a decent living. Adequate. I raised a family and struggled to pay bills, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. There are worse ways to make a living.

I’d been doing the factory thing for about ten years before my personal life took a turn. Without going into the specifics, over the next ten years I developed an alcohol addiction, my wife died, and I lost every semblance of my former self and life. I went from one factory to another, then another. I finally came to work shit faced and got canned for it. That sent my “career” into a downward spiral. Not long after my second DUI, my sights were set on “whatever I can find”. So I answered an ad in the paper for a floor tech at a local nursing home. It didn’t pay much over minimum wage, but it was close to home. I should say, my Mom’s home, because I was living with her. I was in my forties. Yeah, boy, I was killing it.

The floor tech job didn’t require much of me. I learned that I could handle it and do even more when other things needed to be done. I showed up. I did my best. I actually liked it, even though it was mostly what you’d call unskilled labor. I grew comfortable in the job, and liked the people. I’d never worked in a place like that, and enjoyed being around the residents. The employees were different than I was used to, but I liked them too. Especially the Dietary Manager, Laura. We’ve been married for nearly ten years now, and she’s the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me. I guess you could say she’s the best thing I loved about that job.

We had only just started dating when she was let go. They screwed her over and fired her while she was on sick leave after having her gall bladder removed. Very dick move. I stayed, partly at her insistence, partly because I liked what I was doing and still wasn’t very motivated to find better employment. Then something weird happened. They asked me to be the Environmental Services Supervisor, or Housekeeping Supervisor. I’d be over 6 housekeepers, 4 laundry aides, and two floor techs. I’d never been a manager, or supervisor before, but I took it. It was just a few dollars more in pay, but came with insurance too. So I learned another job from scratch.

I held that job for about ten years. Halfway into that time, my daughter worked for me, as a floor tech. It was one of my favorite years there. I enjoyed training her, working with her, and travelling back and forth to work with her. She was an awesome employee, and I don’t say that lightly. She gave it her all, and the people there recognized her potential. They offered her a position as Dietary Manager, my wife’s old job! She accepted, and was training in the job, when another lightning bolt struck. She got into some trouble one weekend that required me to bail her out. It involved a house party that police had been called to and she got arrested. The charges were later dropped. The incident was noticed on the internet by some people in the “home office” however, and she, too, was let go. That seemed to me to be unfair, and, after a few weeks of fuming, I handed in my keys.

A little over a year passed and I was back there as a floor tech. I worked barely two months and the EVS Supervisor gave notice and I was asked to step back into the position. I did. It was almost as if I’d never left. Understand this: I had to swallow my pride to go back there. I’d quit, dropped my keys, and spoke my mind when I left. I did it as respectfully as I could, but I never thought they’d have rehired me. There I was, though, killing it.

I loved the people I worked with, even if the people I worked for weren’t my favorite folks. I got along, and did my job. I did my best and tried to give the residents there a home that was safe and clean. I did my best to take care of the people in my department and treat them as I want to be treated. I tried to give them respect and work beside them, as well as supervise. I never expected them to do anything illegal, immoral or unsafe. I wouldn’t ask that of them, and wouldn’t tolerate being asked those things of me. Too bad that, in the throws of the pandemic, in 2020, I was asked to do some very sketchy shit by the company. When I refused, they didn’t force the issue. I wasn’t their favorite employee after that, but there was no retribution. Still, I couldn’t stomach it. I began to look elsewhere yet again.

I had almost took a part time spot at FedEx, when my current employer called me. They were looking to hire someone to do EVS at their rehab hospital. I tried not to get my hopes up, but went through the motions to see where it might lead. It lead me to the best job I’ve ever had. I doubled my old salary, gained much better insurance, and began working at a barely three year old facility. The people were welcoming, professional and generated a great atmosphere. I feel needed, part of a team, and valued. Plus, they don’t ask me to do illegal shit. Definitely a plus. God willing, I will retire from here some day in the future, and leave the work force on a high note.

As I look back on my work life, I see many ups and downs. Mountains and valleys. Hard work, sweat and grit. Angry days where I dreaded going to work. Happy days where I felt needed and successful. Problems I caused and problems I solved. People I loved, and people who…well…I didn’t love so much. Through it all I can see a common thread. A purpose. I can see the many times I was wronged, as well as the many times I was wrong. The job doesn’t define you. The best you give is what defines you. You are your own best advertisement. I was taught by my parents that, if you’re going to do a job, do your best. Get the job done. Don’t be a slacker. Not because the job demands it of you. Some jobs only require mediocrity, and will even punish better performance with even more expectations. The reason you show up for your shift, get the job done, and do your best, is because THAT is the RIGHT thing to do. You won’t always get extra points for doing it, but a job well done is a reflection of who you are, as a person. Never do your own character a disservice by being the lazy, absent and disgruntled person that YOU don’t want to work with. Satisfy yourself with the quality of your work ethic. Those around you, and above you, will take notice. Just keep in mind: they’re not your Mom and Dad, they’re your Boss. Mom and Dad will love you regardless. Your boss needs you to show up every day and give it your best. I’m grateful to the first manager who taught me that lesson. By the way, I never went back to food service ever again. Hated it.

It was a Friday then, too. The worst Friday of my life, and the last one of hers. We had been married almost twenty years. We had four great kids. We had loved each other and had planned to be together til we grew old and died. That Friday put a stop to that. A bullet by her own hand put an end to her life. Her perceptions were warped. Her emotions were running amok. Her reason and sanity had departed. She was manic-depressive bipolar. Ten years of trying to find ways to deal with it through medication, counselling, will power and spirituality ended with a few pounds of pressure on a trigger. What made her end it? What was the last straw? Her thoughts in her final moments will forever be hers alone. I don’t get to know why. There really is no why.

I believe in what we do. What we say is important, but only if it narrates what we do. What we think is important, but only if it drives what we do. What we feel is important, but only because it fuels what we do. Our actions always mean something. They always affect our lives, and the lives around us. What we do in life echoes in eternity. Yes, I quoted Maximus in Gladiator. The writer got it from the writings of Marcus Aurelius, who said ” What we do now echoes in eternity” in his book, Meditations. It’s a good quote. It’s true.

What about when our actions are irrational, uncharacteristic, and self-destructive? They have as much of an affect on our lives as the rational acts. Their echoes are just as real. The world around us hears them, feels them, as vividly as the rest. The nature of a psychological imbalance is that a seed of rational thought can grow into irrationality quickly. After it’s metamorphasis, there is no rational. There is no logical. There is no why.

I blamed myself for years. The small, grainy irritation of a notion still manages to itch my mind, heart and soul on occassion. I was imperfect. I was stupid. I was a drunk. I said horrible things. I was a horrible father. My actions made horrible echoes. I’m guilty of quite a lot. After many years, however, I came to understand that her death wasn’t my fault. I’m far from blameless, but I didn’t pull the trigger. That’s a load I’ll not carry, because it doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to her. It was her action, driven by an irrational mind, fueled by a chemical fire of emotion, narrated by silence, that echoed into eternity. We hear it still today. We carry it heavily in our hearts and minds as we search the four winds for a reason. We search for a reason in an unreasonable act. There is no why.

If all of our bad actions echo in eternity, then so must our good ones. All the good that we do should not be overshadowed by the bad. Her love for everyone should be in the light. She NEVER met a stranger, and never turned down someone in need. It didn’t matter if it was a mother-less baby bird, a shy child, a lonely old person, a friend who needed an ear to listen, and a shoulder to cry on, or someone who needed her last tear, smile, dollar, piece of advice or prayer. She gave it freely. She was the most unabashed, unashamed and least quiet person I have ever, or since, met.Her children inherited those traits. It took me longer to learn them, since I wasn’t born with them. We were nothing alike. I fought them. I wasn’t like her. I’d like to think that some of those traits rubbed off on me. She gave me that, and so much more. I’m grateful for all of it. I wouldn’t have missed any of it, and that’s the truth.

In closing, I should tell you that this little essay was just for me. It’s been seventeen years now since she left. We are still here. I am still here. The End of The World may well be nigh, but it ain’t today. The Rapture could be any minute now, but it ain’t happened yet. Lord Jesus WILL come, but He ain’t here yet. An irrational mind will see the terrors and troubles of this world and rip it’s clothes, and cry out for the end to take them. The whole reason we are on this earth is to do just the opposite. Be kind to the unkind. Be loving to the unlovable. Speak truth to the liar. Give to the poor. Visit the prisoner. Care for the elderly. Do what is right, especially when no one is looking.Our faith needs legs, hands and smiles. Because what you do in life, echoes in eternity. That’s why.

Good Night

K.S.

“How has being a CNA changed your views about you becoming an elderly person one day?”

I’m not a young man. I’ve passed the stage of life when the realization sets in that none of us gets out of this thing alive. Unless I live to the ripe old age of one hundred and ten, then I’m definitely in the “gray” zone, just past middle age. Not old, but definitely older. I’m cool with it. I’ve accepted it. Being a department supervisor, and a CNA, at a nursing home has helped me to do that. Working with our residents and seeing how they live, and what they go through, has given me insights into aging that I would’ve never seen in another profession.

When you’re a kid, anyone over thirty is ancient. You evolve into a teenager and the thirty-somethings are kinda cool, but the forty year olds are ancient. As you creep towards your own forties, you finally start to realize that age is all relative. Time brings experiences. Our experiences affect who we are, and will become. As a child, we see the elderly as alien beings. Beings not to be trusted, even avoided. We don’t understand them, and we won’t believe that they understand us. The latter belief couldn’t be farther from the truth. They not only understand us, they WERE us.

When you work closely with the elderly, you learn that they have a lot in common with children. They trust you to care for them because they need to. They ask a lot of questions. Sometimes because they forget, or sometimes they just need reassurance. They are fragile and need help with even the simplest things. Walking, talking and eating are more difficult and they need you to help them through it. Comparing them to children isn’t belittling them. It’s only the first step in making the connection to the bigger reality. We are them. They are our next step in life. They are us.

I have had the honor of meeting many interesting people as a CNA. They come from all kinds of backgrounds and parts of the country. One is a veteran of the U.S. Navy and a Korean War veteran. One is a retired teacher, with forty years of education experience. Another woman worked in factories during World War Two. They are displaced yankees, and home grown Southerners. Midwestern folks from the corn belt, and men and women from both the coasts. They talk of their families and pasts. They remember their losses and their successes. The good times and the bad come back in flashes and long remembrances alike. Their lives are like an open book, only the pages and chapters lie scattered about the room. It takes time and patience to pick them all up and to learn from them. When we takethe time to listen, and care enough to sort it out, we can see ourselves in each and every one of their stories.

As caregivers, we sometimes get lost in the work of the day. Baths, hair care and hygiene. Meals, dressing, nail care, activities and bathroom trips can overwhelm us and blind us to the actual person that sits before us. They were children once, just as we were. They raised families, fought in our nation’s wars, and helped build our countries roads, buildings and bridges. They taught our children in school, and in Sunday school. They were our neighbors, our friends, our parents and grandparents. Never lose sight of the fact that who you are today is who you will be tomorrow. As a CNA I’ve learned that the people we care for are who we are going to be later in life. All of their physical and mental issues could be ours some day. I may need someone to feed me. Someone to put me to bed, to dress me, and to take care of me in every way. I’m okay with that, if the need arises. The single most important thing I will want in my caregiver is the ability to see me as a person, just like them. Never look through me. Never see me as just a job. Care about me. That’s what the real caregivers do.

Kevin Stone

April 2020

February 19, 2020

Every day I look back. This is a day I look forward.

I’ll remember her forever to her children, and will make sure her grandson carries not only her name but a vision of who she really was. Without her, none of them would be here. They are her legacy. And they are all awesome. Today is just the last day she spent on this earth, not the last time she was with us. She was an honest person. She saw the good in people. She laughed, loved, and felt everything with all of her heart. She was intelligent, imaginative, argumentative, competitive, and friendly. She never met a stranger, and she never turned anyone away in need. I hear her when I listen to Candice talk to strangers with love. I see her when I watch Tim stop to help someone, unselfishly and without hesitation. I see her kindness when I watch Micheal put his love into action. I watch Chris devote his life to healing others and I see her big heart. When I watch Sammy laugh and smile, I see the joy she infused into the world around her. When I treat my wife with love and respect; give her support and stand by her; remind her that she is special, important, and loved-I’m grateful for what my life with her taught me.

I look forward to seeing how her legacy grows as the years go by.

Cynthia Denise Stone lives through each of us. There are many others. Her family. Her friends. They all remember. She is missed. If you have a memory you’d like to share, or just how she made you feel, please feel free to comment.

I look forward to it.

I can’t say I remember the first time I met my sister Pam. I was very young at the time. I’m sure our relationship didn’t get off to the best of starts. Think about it. Pam was born in 1961. She got to be an only child for about ten months before my brother, Joe, came along. Then Mary Ann showed up two years later in 1963. By the time I was born in 1965, I would imagine Pam was just about sick of the whole “baby” thing. My oldest son, Chris, can probably relate a bit. He had nearly three years to be the sole focus of Mom and Dad. Pam had less than ten months. That’s not a lot of time to get your share of “the only baby” lovin. I would guess that, by my arrival, Pam had probably decided that Mom and Dad were starting their own small country and she was resigned to being “Test Subject Number One.” Somebody had to start the ball rolling.

I vaguely remember playing with Pam when I was little. By the time I was old enough to recall such times, she was at least nine or ten years old. Heck, that’s a huge gap for a five or six year old. I thought she was an adult for the longest time. She had been in school for a bit by then, and had friends and a life. I was barely out of diapers. (still am, as I am MUCH older now) I felt privileged that she actually knew who I was. She held celebrity status for a little fella like myself. I suspect she was holding back getting to know me, since there was probably another damn kid coming along any minute now. Why get used to this one? Let’s wait and see what the next one’s like.

I recall some times when she babysat we siblings when Mom and Dad would go out. Why not, she was grown, right? I can still see her sitting in a chair, in the dark living room in Georgia, watching a horror movie. The only light in the room came from the tv. I’m pretty sure I was hiding behind the couch. Granted, the movies we judged as “scary” back in the early seventies wouldn’t hold a candle to the stuff on cable today, but man, did they scar me back then. Pam loved them. I think that’s why I like spooky movies today. She taught me that horror is an adrenaline rush, even if neither of us really understood why. Still don’t.

Reading is another thing Pam and I have in common. She was always reading. She loved Stephen King long before he was cool. She set the Big Sister example and I took the bait. I grew up devouring books partially because my Big Sister read, so I knew it must be cool. Thanks, sis.

As the years rolled by, all too swiftly, I noticed a few things about Pam. She always seemed to have friends. She was always coming, or going. She pulled down good grades in school. She dressed stylishly. Multi-colored bell bottoms were in style while she was growing up, you may recall, as well as weird hats and headbands. She was her sibling’s Test Subject Number One, too. She tested the parental limits many times, with varied results. First to stay up late, babysit, talk back to parents, get a job, sneak out of the house, wear clothes that were age-inappropriate, date, graduate high school, get pregnant, get married, get out of the house. She was a trend setter, that girl. I, personally, am grateful for all three of my brother and sisters breaking our parents in, and setting the examples of “what not to do’s” and “this is what’ll get you whooped”. Even if I decided to follow them straight down the same rabbit holes.

As we little Stone’s grew up and left the nest, we grew into our new lives and slowly gravitated around our own family orbits. For a long time, we kept together. Family members were still local. Holidays and birthdays were shared, and abundant. Our kids grew up around one another, went to school together and played together. It was the best of times. As life took it’s turns and twists, and new members of the family appeared, we drifted in time and space. It’s inevitable, but still a bit sad. Today, we’re spread out from Arkansas, Tennessee, all the way to Florida. When we do get together, it seems we never really grew up. We pick at each other, do rabbit ears in pictures almost automatically, and remind each other of the stupid stuff we used to do. Age hasn’t seemed to put a dent in our desire to pick on each other.

Pam and I have this one thing we used to do. She’d pinch the shit out of me and run away. Or was it “I’d pinch the shit out of her and run away”? Either way, neither of us can actually run anymore, so we usually do it verbally now. Got to adjust with the times, ya know?

Oh yeah, I almost forgot, today is Pamela Louise Stone Porterfield’s Birthday. Fifty Freakin Nine years old and still kicking, acting like a kid and talking shit. She’s been a Nana for a while now, so I suppose her age is catching up with her. Grandchildren, I’ve learned, make us older and younger at the same time. I think that’s a perfect description of being a Grandparent, and of my oldest sister, Pam. You seem to have the ability to stay young (possibly childish?) even as you grow so damn old. You wear it well, Sis. Thanks for breaking in Mom and Dad. Thanks for showing me how to tackle life from a dark, twisted, and sarcastic angle. Thanks for being an example of how a hard working parent can anchor their family with love, humor and straight talk. Thanks for not smothering me with a pillow in the crib and in my bed during my terrible two’s through sixteen’s. Thanks for all the dark, twisted humor that’s helped keep me sane (I know, just go with it) through all the crazy times in my life. Your laugh and smile always echoes in my head when I find myself laughing at totally inappropriate times.

You’ll always be older than me, by the way. I love you, Big Sis! Happy Birthday!

My dad grew up in rural Arkansas during the Forties and Fifties. He saw poverty and hardship, and worked hard to fight his way out of it. He joined the Army when he came of age, and got to see some of the world. He drove PT boats out of Portugal, and was with the Rhine River Patrol in Germany at the height of the Cold War. He came home and started a family. He worked hard to eventually earn a management position in the Truck Stop business. He and mom had four kids. Two girls and two boys. He kept us in clothes, food, a good home, and all our needs until we left the roost. He had a good woman by his side every step of the way. They made my childhood normal and safe. That’s a big deal. I may not have appreciated it then, but I certainly do now.

Wayne Stone wasn’t perfect. He had a temper. He struggled with depression. His wrath and moods were fierce and feared. He also took us fishing, hunting, camping, and taught us to play ball. He loved baseball, and loved playing with his kids. He was a competitor on, and off, the field. He had a soft side, too. There were only a few times I saw my dad cry, but I remember them all.

I was only eighteen when I started my own family. I was still fresh from my father’s house and memories of his gruff, moody discipline. I thought I’d never be that kind of dad. The one that yelled and got angry. The one that you were scared to talk to, if he was in a bad mood. I’d be different. Better. I wasn’t. It took me quite a few years to admit to myself that I was just as much of an imperfect person as my dad. I made plenty of mistakes, many of them identical to my dad’s. I’d like to think that, in my own way, I gave my kids at least a fraction of the security and peace that my dad gave me when I was a kid. For all his faults and moods, my dad did a great job. He and mom raised four kids on a single income. Dad never graduated high school, much less went to college, but he always had a job and provided for his family. He loved us, played with us, and disciplined us to teach us right from wrong. I’m grateful and proud that he was my dad.

Sixteen years ago, today, we lost our dad. He died at home, with his family around him. His grandkids, kids, and wife were there for him. It was hard, and it was sad. We mourned then, and we miss him still today. I look at social media and see his grandchildren having children and living their lives. My own youngest son, Timothy, had a son back in August. He named him Samuel Ethan Wayne Stone, to honor his mother, his best friend, and, of course, his grandfather, Wayne Stone. I know dad’s proud of all of them. To know that new, beautiful lives are here on this earth after we are dead and gone is every man’s idea of true immortality. A man who is remembered to those that follow him is never completely gone. When we tell our stories of dad to those who just know him from photographs, we ensure that he is still with us. Let’s all be sure to pass the word and let them know who he was to us.

Miss you dad. See you later. And thanks.

The night around him was black as pitch. He leaned his face closer to the mossy tree and tried to disappear. His lungs burned. His chest heaved from his escape from the house. The quiet of the woods amplified his breathing, and he knew he could be heard from a mile away. An owl screeched from the trees and made him jump. He slid down the tree to keep his shaking knees from giving in. The ground was wet and cold. He shuddered from the chill, but it wasn’t the weather. Fear rose up from the pit of his stomach. He clenched his eyes shut, but couldn’t chase the images from his mind. Cold as death, they played on his eyelids like a drive-in movie. The blood was everywhere. Rich, red and fresh. The iron smell came to him like the images, making him nearly throw up.

He opened his eyes, mere inches from the fuzzy tree. He listened. The footsteps were faint, irregular. He prayed that he just imagined them, but his brain told him they were all too real. He had to work at it to hold his bladder, knowing that the smell would give him away if his heavy breathing hadn’t already. He had to focus, to think, if he was going to live through this ordeal. He had to stand, to run, to get away. He was in good physical shape. He was a good runner. He knew these woods like his own backyard. He could do this, he thought, as he closed his eyes one more time.

He willed himself to think of something to live for, something to run to: Darla. She wouldn’t want him to die out here like this. She’d want him to live, to survive. “Ok”, he thought to himself. He imagined staring into Darla’s steel gray eyes.

“I’m going to live, Baby.” he spoke only to her, within the confines of his inner mind.

She smiled that thin-lipped half smirk that only she could do.

“Then get going, Tiger. Get your ass up and move!” His vivid imagination motivated him, her words stirring him into motion.

He slowly, ever so slowly, rose up from the ground, trying desperately to be part of the tree. His fingertips floated over the wet moss on the tree, holding him steady as he begged his legs to cooperate. He would need them if he was to do this. He made it to a standing position after what seemed like an hour, but he knew was only a few ticks of the clock. He tried hard to even out his breathing. His heart rate wouldn’t allow it, as blood pounded in his ears. Fear does that. He choked back a tear as he decided the fear would have to take a back seat. He had Darla to get to, tonight.

A glance behind him showed a red glow growing over the tree tops down in the valley. The moon was lost in the low hanging blanket of dark clouds, but the glow shimmered slightly on them. He couldn’t make out the house. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it was fully engulfed. Three light foot steps shuffled in the leaves to his right rear. They were closer than before, maybe fifty feet away. He couldn’t be sure. The tears rolled down his cheeks as he pushed the images aside again. Darla. Nothing but Darla, now. He stared intently towards a black chasm just beyond the tree, away from the foot steps. He took a deep breath of cold air. It was time to get back to Darla. Then he ran.

In the valley below, the house was burning. The flames licked out of a bedroom window and kissed the eave of the roof. It wouldn’t be long before the fire engulfed the entire house. A siren wailed in the distance. Someone had seen the smoke and called the fire department. The front door of the ranch style house opened, black smoke billowed quickly out onto the front porch. A woman appeared, on all fours, crawling out of the house. Her long black hair singed, her white cotton night gown soot stained and smoking, she crawled all the way down the six wooden steps of the porch until exhaustion hit her. Her lungs were deprived and she sucked in the cool night air as if her next breath would be her last. As far as Darla was concerned, it almost was. She choked and coughed up an unspeakable grossness of phlegm until she could appreciate the cool air of the night. She lay on the grass, hearing the distant siren, but it didn’t register. Breathing was all she could concentrate on, at the moment.

The Shawnee County Fire Department Engine pulled up the long gravel driveway, red lights in disco mode and siren howling. The noise finally registered on her. She raised up, weakly, to a sitting position. The porch was just beginning to see flames roll under the eaves. The front window blew out and covered her in shards of hot glass. She screamed. Two firefighters appeared beside her and carried her to safety. They took her to the pine tree in the yard, where the big fire truck would be between her and the fire, and the paramedic began to work on her. She cried openly, as the man’s gloved hands deftly removed three quarter-sized pieces of the window from her scalp, and one smaller one from her back. He gently patched her up and soothingly talked to her as he worked. She watched the bonfire that used to be her home and tried to focus on his voice. Finally, her overwhelmed mind heard what he was asking.

“Is there anyone else in the house, mam? Can you tell me if there’s anyone else in the house?”

Darla remembered, then screamed “Bob! Oh my God! Bob!”

“Is he in the house? Is Bob in the house?” By this time the house was almost fully involved. The fire was devouring her home.

“No! No! You don’t understand.” She was becoming frantic. The paramedic was wondering if she was in shock.

“ Out there!” She pointed towards the dark woods to the east side of the house, not even fifty yards away.

“I was …attacked!” She sobbed messily now, her words choking on her tears and lack of oxygen. She gulped for air a couple of times.

“That…thing…is out there…and so is Bob!” The paramedic put an oxygen mask to her face and told her to take long breaths. He waved at his Captain, who was directing the attack on the fire.

“Captain! We’ve got a situation!”

He had managed to run a good twenty five feet, or so, before his foot caught a root and he went down hard into the dirt. He lay still, chest heaving and heart thundering. He lay still, trying hard to control his breathing. After a very long minute, he tried to listen. Silence. Hopeful, he raised up on his elbows. The evil sound hit his ears stabbed his soul like an ice pick. It wasn’t a howl. It wasn’t loud enough. The gurgling, gnashing sound was muffled, but full of hate and anger. It was a demon on the hunt. His fear rose again, and he buried his head in the ground and covered his ears. He felt his bladder give way when the beast growled again. He didn’t waste his time listening this time. He jumped up again and took off.

The woods circled the house, with only the southern side opening up for the road that went out to Highway 12. The house sat alone here on the west end of the valley, at the bottom of a tree covered fishbowl. The hills rose gently away from the house for a little while, then got steep. The top of the valley nearest the house was full of rock formations and crevices. There were dozens of gullies and slews and even a small creek between Darla’s house and the top of the hills. At the top was a narrow strip of a logging road that jutted out from Highway 12. That was where he was headed. If he could get there before this evil thing, he’d be safe. He knew it. He’d given himself that one, all encompassing goal. Get to the logging road. He’d get to Shuck Road or die trying.

In the dark woods, the Beast limped slowly. His prey was noisy, easy to track. Even without the noise, the Beast could smell his fear. The taste of it made his mouth water. His bloodied fangs dripped onto the leaves at his feet. Despite his wounds, his hunger would be quenched tonight. The Beast would feast.

The sheriffs deputy took the report. The intruder had probably entered through an open window while Darla had been in the bathroom. Bob had been resting in the living room, warming by the fire. When she’d came out of the bathroom, he’d came up behind her. She struggled long enough to smell his horrid breath on her neck and hear his beastly laugh. Tiring of the fight, he hit her with something. It was hard enough to knock her out. He shoved her onto the bed and landed heavily on her. It was then that Bob must’ve heard them struggling and Darla’s muffled screams. He ran in, still mostly asleep. He’d undergone a minor surgery recently and wasn’t feeling well. That didn’t stop him from diving in immediately and pulling the intruder off of Darla, and onto the floor. Bob had bloodied the animal’s leg dragging him off of her. They’d scuffled on the hardwood before the man made it to the bedroom door and into the living room. Bob had chased him and tackled him near the fireplace. In the struggle, a stand up lamp had been knocked into the fire, causing embers to scatter. One of them was hit with the fire poker, splattering blood on the rug. They’d both ran out the door, into the woods. Darla woke not long afterwards and dragged herself to the bedroom door. She saw the blood on the white rug and the leather couch fully in flames. She managed to make her escape, albeit on her hands and knees.

Darla breathed deeply into the oxygen mask. The paramedic squatted beside her, finishing up the patch job on her cuts. He couldn’t convince her to go to the hospital, to get checked out. She’d let him drape a thermal blanket over her, but there was no way she was going to leave until they found Bob. She saw the sheriffs deputy return to his squad car and take off down the rocky driveway. The Chief came over to her.

“Don’t worry, miss. They’re going to find him. There’s only a couple of roads that’ll lead out of this valley from this end, and the deputy is calling out every available unit, and Search and Rescue units, to cover them. They’ll find the guy that attacked you.” he said.

“I don’t care about him! I just want Bob back here! I don’t want him to get hurt.” she sobbed.

The Chief nodded.

“They’ll do everything they can, mam. They’ll do their best.”

Darla brushed the tears from her cheeks and looked to the hills. She prayed silently for Bob’s safe return. She squeezed her eyes shut and begged God to bring her love back. The flames from her home crackled behind her.

The uphill climb slowed him down almost as much as the darkness. He was beginning to tire out. He had fair night vision, but the clouds in the night sky covered the moonlight. Even if he’d had a flashlight, the hills would have made this journey difficult. He would climb as quickly, and quietly, as he could for a spell, then he’d stop and listen. He thought he could still hear the rustling leaves of nearby footsteps. He couldn’t make out any of the animal sounds, but they were still fresh in his mind. He stumbled a couple of times. Both times he could hear the footsteps behind him quicken, along with his fear. Catching his breath, he realized he could hear the creek ahead. That gave his heart cause for hope, since the road wasn’t far past the narrow, slow moving water. When the footsteps halted, he pushed on towards the creek. Maybe crossing in the cold water would help to throw off his scent. His shirt stuck to his body with sweat, and dirt and leaves clung to him from the many falls. The killer behind him could probably smell him through the dark. Especially if it smelled fear.

The hills were tiring the Beast out. He came on anyway. Slowly, steadily, making it’s way towards the sound of it’s prey. Towards the feeling of fear that led him like a beacon in the night. The old Beast sighed and his eyes reddened. He’d kill this scared little rabbit soon. He licked his lips and followed the fear.

He was sucking wind now. The hill was sapping his energy quickly. He leaned on a tree and looked at the small creek. The water had to be freezing, but the road was just up the slope on the other side. He’d find help there, he was sure of it. He knew he better, because the creek was nearly waist deep, and it’d steal a good deal more of his motivation when he was soaked to the bone. He bare his teeth, steeled his mind and tromped into the icy waters. Those same teeth were audibly chattering by the time he put his soaked, and muddy, feet on the opposite side. Wet from the crotch down, and -Damn!- he was cold. He scurried up the small bank, to the road. He could hear a splash upstream. Then the same gurgling howl. The fear was colder than the water.

The water hurt the Beast. It slowed him down, his body trying to give up, even while his instincts pushed him forward. There was no choice, but to move in for the kill. The ground under his feet again, he shook the water off and made his ascent to the road. This pig would die tonight.

He saw the white Bronco sitting on the shoulder ahead. He looked up and down the road, but saw no one. It was a welcome sight. Like when he was a kid and played Hide and Go Seek. That satisfaction you got when you made it to “base” without “it” getting you first. He walked quicker, despite his labored breath. He could see safety in the cab of that truck. Sanctuary. Escape. He even began to smile. Hope hadn’t left him yet.

The Beast crawled onto the road and lay still. He was exhausted, wet and cold. His instinct drove him down the middle of the road. The object of his hate was walking across the road, not 100 feet away. There was a truck there. No! He thought. He will NOT get away. That is unacceptable. It can’t happen. It WON’T happen. He ignored his pain and pushed away all feelings save one: hate.

His hand was on the door handle when he heard it: the patter of wet footsteps on asphalt. He turned in time to see blur jump forward, led by a mouthful of angry teeth. The Beast latched onto his face with it’s strong, wide mouth. It’s teeth punctured both sides of his head in several places. He fell back against the truck like a sandbag. He tried to scream, but the jaws clutched him so tightly near his own jaw that he could only emit a gurgle mixed with terrified moan. He fell to the road, and the Beast followed. He tried to push it away with his weak hands, but the Beast shook it’s head, and his, and he felt a distinct “pop” as his right eye suddenly bulged out of it’s socket from the violent shaking the Beast was inflicting on him. He screamed from his mind, even if it just came out of his mouth in a frothy gurgle. He went limp, barely conscience as the creature of hate clawed and chewed on him. He thought he caught a glimpse of blue flashing lights from his one intact eye, just as a loud crunching noise stopped the pain and turned off the lights forever.

The deputy called in the white Bronco as he watched the bloody scene in front of him. With back up on the way, he opened his door and pulled his sidearm. The Beast was on top of the body, obviously shredding it by now. The officer approached slowly, pistol deliberately pointed down and away for safety. He slowly walked to within twenty feet of the Beast, intent on not interrupting what looked to be it’s meal. The Beast finally heard him. He stopped his destruction long enough to look over his shoulder. The deputy shivered when he saw the Beasts bloody jaws. From the bloody teeth, the Beast dropped the eyeball it had just torn from it’s socket. He licked his salty lips and looked back at the body. He nudged it, stepped on it, assuring himself that it would never breath again. Satisfied, he turned towards the deputy and walked towards him, almost casually. The deputy watched nervously. The Beast began to trot towards him now, picking up the pace and closing the gap. The officer stood up and holstered his pistol, and smiled.

Darla sat staring at the house as the firefighters finished dousing the flames. The place was destroyed. She wasn’t thinking about her belongings, or the house itself, just now. She searched her heart and mind for each memory that she and Bob had made here. The lazy days when it rained, just laying in bed and watching television. The sunny days spent walking the paths through the hills. She spilled a fresh tear from her cheek and looked away from the smoking ruins. The flashing blue lights caught her attention. The squad car pulled up the gravel road and stopped.

She remembered the deputy. He’d promised to find Bob; promised to bring him home. She stood up and pulled the blanket close around her. The deputy got out of the car and smiled at her. Her hopes soared and the anticipation was unbearable. The officer turned to open the passenger door. She hesitated, then started towards the car. The gurgling howl startled her. Her eyes widened as the beast leaped from the back seat. He ran to Darla, the blood curdling howl melting into Darla’s ears as she matched it with a scream of her own. The Beast jumped at her outstretched arms.

“Bob!” She screamed with joy, as the huge black and white Boxer/Pitt Bull mix covered her in kisses.

Page One

The night around Marvin was black as pitch. He leaned his face closer to the mossy tree and tried to disappear. His lungs burned. His chest heaved from his escape from the house. The quiet of the woods amplified his breathing, and he knew he could be heard from a mile away. An owl screeched from the trees and made him jump. He slid down the tree to keep his shaking knees from giving in. The ground was wet and cold. Marvin shuddered from the chill, but it wasn’t the weather. Fear rose up from the pit of his stomach. He clenched his eyes shut, but couldn’t chase the images from his mind. Cold as death, they played on his eyelids like a drive-in movie. The blood was everywhere. Rich, red and fresh. The iron smell of slaughter came to him like the images, making him nearly throw up.

He opened his eyes, mere inches from the fuzzy tree. He listened. The footsteps were faint, irregular. He prayed that he just imagined them, but his brain told him they were all too real. He had to work at it to hold his bladder, knowing that the smell would give him away if his heavy breathing hadn’t already. He had to focus, to think, if he was going to live through this ordeal. He had to stand, to run, to get away. He was in good physical shape. He was a good runner. He knew these woods like his own backyard. He could do this, he thought, as he closed his eyes one more time.

He willed himself to think of something to live for, something to run to: Darla. His wife wouldn’t want him to die out here like this. She’d want him to live, to survive. “Ok” Marvin thought to himself. He imagined staring into Darla’s steel gray eyes.

“I’m going to live, Baby.” he spoke only to her, within the confines of his inner mind.

She smiled that thin-lipped half smirk that only she could do.

“Then get going, Tiger. Get your ass up and move!” Imagination or not, her words stirred him into motion.

He slowly, ever so slowly, rose up from the ground, trying desperately to be part of the tree. His fingertips floated over the wet moss on the tree, holding him steady as he begged his legs to cooperate. He would need them if he was to do this. He made it to a standing position after what seemed like an hour, but he knew was only a few ticks of the clock. He tried hard to even out his breathing. His heart rate wouldn’t allow it, as blood pounded in his ears. Fear does that. Marvin choked back a tear as he decided the fear would have to take a back seat. He had Darla to get to, tonight.

A glance behind him showed a red glow growing over the tree tops down in the valley. The moon was lost in the low hanging blanket of dark clouds, but the glow shimmered slightly on them. Marvin couldn’t make out the house. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it was fully engulfed. Three light foot steps shuffled in the leaves to his right rear. They were closer than before, maybe fifty feet away. He couldn’t be sure. The tears rolled down his cheeks as he pushed the images aside again. Darla. Nothing but Darla, now. He stared intently towards a black chasm just beyond the tree, away from the foot steps. He took a deep breath of cold air. It was time to go home to Darla. Then Marvin ran.

Gramp’s Log

Star Date: 10062019

Location: State of Exhaustion

Gigi and Gramps have come to the mutual understanding that parenthood is for the young. I completely respect the Maker’s logic in making reproduction of little humans a generally young person’s role. They are easily gullible and excitable about making things (such as arts and crafts, new hobbies and little babies), and they are blinded by love from the reality of energy distribution. We have only so much energy to spend during any given day. When we are younger, we have more energy. As we grow older, our priorities tighten up to the necessary and extremely desirable. I hereby recognize that God, in His infinite wisdom, delegated Grandparents to the role of advisers and coordinators for parental support. It takes a family to raise a child, no doubt. My Gramps role is a support role. I’m good with that fact.

This weekend LauraGail (Gigi) and I had the pleasure to have both of our grandsons overnight for the first time. Sammy is just under two months old, and Ian just turned nine years old. Ian was the easy one, thanks to the digital age and our subscription to Netflix. Sammy was another story. He was a bit fussy, as infants are prone to be, but not exceptionally so. The fact that he hasn’t yet mastered the “sleep through the night” thing was the rough part for LauraGail and I. We value our sleep. We love and protect it, even. It’s almost our favorite recreational activity (if sleep can be categorized that way, and I think it should be). Infants have no such priorities. They sleep, eat, poop/pee, and repeat. That’s just what they do. They have no schedule, and they care not one whit whether you do. The night passed well enough. LauraGail and I probably got a straight four hours of sleep at some point. For a twenty to thirty year old, that’s totally doable. For us fifty-plus individuals, that’s like tapping into your emergency reserve of energy. We still got up the next morning, did our thing, and even made it to Church. We were like zombies by the end of the service. We thankfully did not nod off to sleep. Sammy helped by getting hungry/fussy towards the second half of the service. When Church was over, we made a bee-line to drop off the Grands, then another bee-line home. We both wolfed down a quick lunch and dove into the bed for a nap. Four hours later, LauraGail was waking me up. Best nap I’d had in forever.

I will get better at the Grandparent thing, I’m sure. I’ll learn more contingency planning and tactics to make it easier. I still love keeping the boys and playing with them. They have my heart and soul. Conversely, I don’t see my energy level going up any time soon. I’m currently doing a keto-based diet to get my weight down, and am planning to exercise and make quitting smoking a priority. All of that combined may give me more energy. I hope so. I don’t see it being an “I only need four hours of straight sleep” increase. Not at all. Ten percent increase, tops. There are certain things that this Gramps is good for, and things that involve lack of sleep are not my forte. Sorry kids.

That being said, I still had a great time being with Sammy and Ian. They are great little people, and I want to spend even more time with them. They give me hope for the future and a giddy, warmth in my heart. I just need that eight hours of sleep to enjoy them more. My hats off to the grandparents out there that are raising young people. God bless you. I’d do it, if need be, but I’d much rather not. My hats off, also, to Charlotte and Timothy (parents of said grandsons). You have my respect and admiration and prayers. I’ve been there, and I know how hard it can be. Let me remind you of something I’ve learned by being a parent. This is the one thing I always fall back on, when I count the cost of lost sleep, expenses, energy drain, and psychological stress of parenting four little people in my lifetime. I take one look at the people they’ve become and I am reminded of why I did it. You’re worth it. Totally. Remember that.

Samuel Ethan Wayne Stone was born on August 18^th, 2019. He was six pounds, ten ounces and nineteen inches long, with brown hair and green eyes. He came into this world to parents Timothy Stone and Charlotte Lynch and brother Ian lynch. He has long, monkey like toes, and delicate musician’s fingers (both like dad’s), as well as his dad’s broad Stone Nose. Charlotte had a C-section scheduled for the 19^th, his Aunt Candice’s birthday, but he couldn’t wait. He was impatient, and ready to bust loose. Like his dad, again. He has his mother’s eyes and calmness, thankfully. I can see her easily in his face. They made it through the delivery without much of a hitch, especially from my point of view. All I had to do was wait. A little after ten o’clock that morning we received some pretty fresh pictures on our phone, via text message. He’d arrived. Laura’s and my own heart filled with joy. We were Grandparents!

I’ve considered all the frightening possibilities that old age brings. Working at a nursing home will give you a unique perspective on the matter. The one thing that I was looking forward to in my advancing years was the possibility of watching my children raise their own children. At 54, I knew I was a statistical anomaly. Most of the people I knew that were my age had grandchildren. I had begun to lament the fact that I may not have any. Part of my sorrow was that my kids wouldn’t know the joy and satisfaction of seeing little versions of themselves grow into bigger versions of themselves. A larger part of my fear was that my immortality was a stake. No man wishes to leave this world knowing that he leaves it without leaving behind a replacement to carry on with his name, and maybe a few of his bad habits to inflict upon this old world after he’s gone. It’s selfish, and possibly wrong, but true nonetheless. Grandchildren give us hope that our lives have more meaning. At least to that little person, our lives were important and necessary.

Little Sammy got sick with a fever before he was three weeks old. One hundred and three is a scary temperature for a new born. His parents rushed him to the doctor, who sent him to the ER. There were blood tests and scans, and a whole lot of prayers. The doctors thought meningitis. They wanted to send him to Vanderbilt or Leboneur, where there were experts in treating little folks. Leboneur was chosen. My kids had all gone there at one time or another during their childhood. They were the After more tests and days later, it was determined that little Sammy had a tear duct infection. The antibiotics they’d been giving him for possible meningitis would suffice to cure him. A collective sigh of relief from friends and family alike. We had all prayed, all worried and all waited while the new parents had been by Sammy’s bedside, their nerves frayed, minds racing and tired and sleepy hands cared for their son. His medicine did it’s magic, and he came home after nearly two weeks of his life in the hospital. The tired parents brought their baby boy home. Our hearts were full again.

God gives us children to show us what living is all about. You never get to stop being a parent. You always love your child. You give your time, energy, wealth and everything that is in you to see to it that they are healthy and happy. They come into this world helpless, fragile and tiny. They take your heart and make you happy just by knowing they exist. God lets you know that this world isn’t about what you can get out of it, it’s about being selfless. Children are little versions of ourselves, and doesn’t Jesus say to “love your neighbor as yourself”? Our purpose isn’t about what we want, but how we treat each other.

When we give up our selfish desires and concentrate on what someone else needs, we are following Jesus’ path. We just have to have the same heart towards our neighbor as we do with our children, and grandchildren. I’m going to keep that in mind every time I see Sammy. My love for Sammy is how I should love my fellow man. God kinda snuck that one in on us, huh?