Rolling Stones

      

      Holidays hit different when you’re older. I don’t mean “Parent” older. I mean older like “I’m an almost-sixty-year-old grandfather” older. Yeah. Like me. Somehow, I’ve become one of the “old guys” that all families have, if they’re lucky. The only problem with that is that no one gave me an instruction manual. It would seem I’m making it up as I go. And I’ve been “going” for a lot longer than I imagined I would. It’s a weird feeling. 

Don’t get me wrong, I had a great example to follow. My Dad loved family get-togethers like Thanksgiving and Christmas. He always seemed to be happy, boisterous, and jovial even as the three hundred grandkids ran all over the house. Okay, it only seemed like that many, but he still loved it. To be honest, Mom did most (all?) of the work, but he was there to watch football, play all-time quarterback, and laugh. He made sure all of us had fun, carved the turkey and prayed over the meal. He watched those young’uns dive into presents like panhandlers who discovered their first gold lode and generally supervised the chaos with a loose hand. I know what grandfathers are supposed to look like. He was a great one. 

This Christmas I’m going to watch more. Laugh more. Play more. Give more. I’m not going to sweat the petty stuff, because it’s ALL pretty much petty stuff. If we’re all together in the same place, loving each other, putting up with each other, and sharing the same bathroom, we can at least enjoy it. And I’ll help with the clean-up and the dishes, because even great examples aren’t perfect. I can at least do that.  

A blatant shout out to Mary Ann and Joe this week, for managing to get one year older! Happy Birthday! I won’t call out your ages, but just remember that you’ll always be older than Me! Because, even though I’m not quite sixty, I’ll always be The Baby. Yup. Some things never change. I love Y’all! 

God Bless Y’all!  

Kevin W. Stone

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     December. Already. This year has flown by, with the exception of the election. That seemed to last forever. But I’ve noticed that, the older I get, the faster the pages of the calendar flip. Same with the weeks. One work week drags along, then the weekend is gone in fifteen minutes, and you’re faced with another Monday. Ugh. The weirdest thing, for me, is that the days don’t seem to do that. Each and every one of them is still twenty-four hours. Doesn’t matter whether I’m at work or at home, the days are the same. The clock is ticking with its same persistent rhythm. Like the drumbeats in the jungle, when the hero is trying to get away from the savages, the beat keeps on coming. 

If Thanksgiving came through like a hurricane, then Christmas might just hit like a tornado. I’m not ready. I seldom am. I’m lucky to have Laura Gail to keep me on track. If I do the lift and tote, she usually does the rest. I’m grateful for her. If it weren’t for her all the grandkids would get five bucks each and some candy. And I’d probably be eating off of a giant old wire spool I found on the side of the road. Yup.  

If I had one wish this holiday season, it’d be that things could slow down, just a little bit. Just on the one day that our family gets together. I had all the kids and grands over for Thanksgiving and I don’t think I spent more than five minutes with any one of them. The food was terrific. Seeing them all together was fantastic. I love watching them all interact and fellowship. When everyone was gone I felt as if they had barely gotten there. They have their lives, their families and their timetable that they have to manage, just as I did when I was their age. I’m happy they do, and I’m proud they are doing so well in their lives. I just want the day to last a week. Just one time. Let the week fly by, and the one day we all get together seem to last about a hundred hours.  

Time is merciless. It doesn’t care if you’re late, or early. It doesn’t care if you’re ready, or not. It will move forward, with, or without, you. When you’re young, it seems you have all of it you will ever want. When you’re older, you find out that it’s the most important thing: how you use your time. And who you spend it with. I’m going to plan on spending my time wisely this Christmas when we get together. Laughing, crying, arguing, I don’t care. I just want to soak up all the time I can with those in my life that I love. If I could wrap up some time to give them, that’s exactly what I’d do. They’ll have to settle with me sharing the only time I have, because that’s the best gift I can give them.  

Hug your people today.  

God bless Y’all.

     Turkey, ham, dressing, green bean casserole, yams, cranberry sauce, and creamed corn. Every kind of pie, especially pumpkin, sweet potato, cherry, apple and blueberry, and chocolate. Football. Da Bears and Lions. Memphis and Tulane. Hugs from aunts and cousins. Grandkids, nephews and nieces running around the house, screaming, laughing, playing and fighting. Busy kitchens and loud uncles.  

       The smell of food everywhere. Smokers on the porch, trash talking everything from politics to family gossip. Teens trying to avoid the adults and little kids. Dads and sons talking about work and cars while they yell at the television when the receiver drops the ball. “We was robbed” is said at some point during the game.  

     Sitting at the kids table, even though you’re twenty, because the “grown folks” have taken up all the chairs at the “big table”. The one person who actually starts an impassioned conversation about the latest election at the table. The prayer to give thanks. The feeding frenzy. The seconds, and the thirds. Listening to that one that can’t close their mouth when they chew, because he’s sitting beside you. Watching a momma get up from her chair for the umpteenth time, because junior needs a drink, another diaper, a dessert, or just can’t be away from her so she can eat. The one baby that throws up. Going to watch some more of the game, balancing a pie in your lap. Going outside again to smoke, because it’s gotten “crazy in there”. The one that burps. The other one, that does that “other thing” that his wife gives him an evil look about.  

      Listening to Daddy tell a story. Hearing Momma’s soothing voice talking to the grandbaby when he trips and cries. The “how y’all doing’s” that turn into arguments over old stuff that happened before half of these people were alive. The “touch” football game that appears spontaneously out in the yard, with every age group there. The Old Guy that’s the non-running quarterback. The young kids that make the insane one-handed catch that wins the game. The one that cries “out of bounds”, even though there’s no referee, or chalk line, to back him up. “We was robbed” is yelled out, again. The Old Guy that turns his ankle wrong and hollers “time out!” The sweat and smiles. 

     The kids that have kids now. The middle-aged folks who don’t realize that sixty ain’t middle-aged unless they’re going to live until one hundred and twenty. The young Mommas that are so busy being everything for their family. The young Daddys that are trying to enjoy this one day without worrying how they’ll pay for Christmas. The aunts and uncles that are always there to make life interesting and to get nephews and nieces into, and out of, trouble. The Great Grandma who looks at this wild bunch and knows why God put her on this earth. 

     The empty chairs and the ones we miss that were here just a minute ago. The stories about them that are told around the table. The times past. The times to come.  

      I’m Thankful to God for all of it. I hope you are, too.  

God bless Y’all.  

     I’m an alcoholic. I’m actively recovering and have been for nearly ten years. I get up every morning and say to myself “today, I won’t drink” because that’s how I have to deal with it. I talk about it openly to my coworkers, family and strangers. That’s my version of therapy, AA, and simply how I cope with the daily thirst to drink. I’ve been to a lot of AA meetings in my early years of sobriety, and I have immense respect for that organization, because it helped to get me sober. It taught me how to talk about my condition, to understand it, and to realize that many people out there are just like me. I’m comfortable with who, and what, I am. To some people, it may seem that I’m simply too open or given to TMI (too much information) a bit too much. That’s okay. I know that it keeps me grounded to talk about it, to spread it out on the table and see it for what it is, and to admit to myself that I need to do just that to stay sober.

     I used to be a drunk. The difference between a drunk and an alcoholic is pretty basic. A drunk is still drinking. An alcoholic has made that very basic step in the direction of sobriety and has admitted to themselves that they have a problem. An alcoholic may be in recovery, or not. I am. I hope always to be, because to be drinking again is to revert to being a drunk again.

     I still miss being drunk. I miss drinking. I always will. I envy people who can take a drink or leave it. I know people who can have a social drink and not have another for months. I’m aware that alcohol isn’t inherently evil. It’s the abuser who makes it so. I’ve never been able to drink without the literal goal of drinking to get drunk. Why else would anyone drink? My mind can’t fathom the control that some folks exercise by not drinking until they’re drunk. I’m just not wired that way. That’s one reason I don’t drink.  

      There are some other really good reasons I don’t drink any more. I’ve let so many people down in the past when I drank, I don’t want to be that guy again. I’ve been the father who was passed out when he should have been picking up his kids from school. I’ve been the coworker who was drunk and running machinery, rolling the dice that I wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’ve been the son whose mom took him in when he lost his job. I’ve been the dad whose kids have paid his bills or helped him home when he was sloshed. And I’ve been the drunk driver who takes the chance that he won’t kill an entire family when he was behind the wheel. I know who I am when I drink, and I don’t want to be him again. It’s not complicated. My addiction is simple. When I drink, I hurt people. I’m thankful I’ve never killed anyone because of my drinking. I’ve been lucky. And blessed.

     If this little column has offended you, tough. I talk about my alcoholism for two reasons: 1) So I won’t drink today, and 2) So someone else may just decide that it’s time for them to stop drinking today. That’s it. If my words aren’t for you, then no worries. I’ve just wasted a few minutes of your day. If what I’ve said makes you think about whether or not you might just have a problem, then seek help. It’s out there. Alcoholics Anonymous has a helpline to find a meeting near you: (844) 811-9606. The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration’s (SAMHSA) National Helpline is 1-800-662-HELP(4357). You can reach out to anyone you like. Your friends, family and pastor are some good places to start, as well. Asking for help is a brave step towards a new, and better, life. People care about you and are ready to help.

Thanks for reading this and being part of the reason I didn’t drink today.

God bless Y’all.

Her life is like a song 

Every era a verse. 

Some right and some wrong 

But every note is hers. 

Conceived in a cold and chaotic world 

Music warmed her soul. 

It filled her when she was empty 

And will make her feel young 

Even when she gets old. 

She fell for disco, when they were both young and fresh 

It made her heart dance the best.

She’ll clean her house to it still today 

Because it helps her clean the cobwebs away. 

Her mind and soul always ran on music. 

It fueled her heart when all was lost.

Thawed her out, when she was covered in frost. 

Work was always there, from day one. 

Inescapable. Both taught from youth and in her genes. 

It made her dependable, self-reliant, independent, and, sometimes, mean. 

But it gave her song a rhythm, a beat. 

And drove her machine. 

Her song changed, as did she, as the years slowly passed. 

The disco and country melded with hard rock and big hair bands. 

She raised her children, and her husbands, 

Trying hard to juggle all the problems that they had. 

Even when she struggled, and the mood of the music changed, 

She kept writing a new verse. 

She needed to sing. 

Even when things got worse. 

Her song, even when dark, is hers alone. 

She sang it, and her music played, long before she was a Stone.  

I hear her sing now, so sweet and so mean. 

Especially on Saturdays-the time that we clean. 

And I know she’s beautiful 

To my good eye and old ears 

And I know what she’s been through over the years

But her song is her life 

And there’s joy in her tears. 

Happy Birthday, Laura Gail! 

Thank you for letting me be a part of your song.

God Bless Y’all.

    Our country has been through a lot in recent years. We’ve endured a world-wide pandemic which killed millions across the globe. Hurricanes have ravaged the coasts, and wreaked havoc far inland as well. Our service men and women overseas have been in harm’s way, and continue as such, while they support our friends and allies at war. We’re perilously close to being involved in both the deadly conflicts ongoing in Israel and Ukraine. Inflation, and the cost of living in general, is still high. We struggle with the moral choices and cultural changes that press upon us as individuals and citizens, like abortion, civil rights, and immigration. Our people struggle to make a living and enjoy their lives amidst a tumultuous sea of confusing choices and problems. On top of all of this, the choices we have in electing our top leaders seem to be scraping the bottom of the barrel. We, the People, are tired. 

    As I write this on the Saturday night before election day, I realize that you, like myself, have fretted and worried over our Presidential Election. By the time you read this, we’ll have a new top Executive. There’s also the possibility that the results will be hotly contested by either, or both, sides. There’s even a chance that the race will end up being settled in the House of Representatives, in the case of a tie. Unlikely, but possible. The most frightening alternative would be accusations of massive voter fraud that results in riots, social upheaval and even military intervention. Whew! Yes, it’s all possible. Unlikely, but possible. We Americans have, in the past, thought ourselves immune to the common problem that has existed in the world for centuries: contested elections that results a power struggle for the reins of government. Frightening, indeed.  

    I’d like to remind you that, even through our nation’s wars, our politician’s greed and incompetence, the failure of bad policies, the wrong choices of our leaders, and racist and sexist attitudes that lie in the wake of our history, we will be okay, no matter who is President come November 5th. How do I know this? Because America’s government isn’t what makes this country great. It’s not the President who rules over the Executive Branch of our government who really runs this country. It’s not even our Congress, who are elected to represent us that gives me reassurance that we will endure these things. No, it’s my Fellow Americans that gives me that hope. My neighbors and friends. Citizens that want nothing more than to be at peace with each other, at home and abroad, that makes this country truly great. We the People. We are America. Not the President. Anyone who sits at that desk in the Oval Office does so at our discretion, not with power over us, but with conditional permission to be our voice. We reserve the right to veto that office in a myriad of ways, not the least of which is by voting. We can vote you in, and we can vote you out. We’ll not endure a king. We’ll not suffer a fool. We’ll keep, and take seriously, our inalienable rights. Remember that, when you disagree with those folks in the office of our top executive. This country has stood for over two centuries on the principles that has made her great. We never stopped being a great nation. We don’t need any President, or any Political Party, to make us great again. We never stopped. Let’s all take that to heart. God bless Y’all. And God bless the United States of America.  

    Our country has been through a lot in recent years. We’ve endured a world-wide pandemic which killed millions across the globe. Hurricanes have ravaged the coasts, and wreaked havoc far inland as well. Our service men and women overseas have been in harm’s way, and continue as such, while they support our friends and allies at war. We’re perilously close to being involved in both the deadly conflicts ongoing in Israel and Ukraine. Inflation, and the cost of living in general, is still high. We struggle with the moral choices and cultural changes that press upon us as individuals and citizens, like abortion, civil rights, and immigration. Our people struggle to make a living and enjoy their lives amidst a tumultuous sea of confusing choices and problems. On top of all of this, the choices we have in electing our top leaders seem to be scraping the bottom of the barrel. We, the People, are tired. 

As I write this on the Saturday night before election day, I realize that you, like myself, have fretted and worried over our Presidential Election. By the time you read this, we’ll have a new top Executive. There’s also the possibility that the results will be hotly contested by either, or both, sides. There’s even a chance that the race will end up being settled in the House of Representatives, in the case of a tie. Unlikely, but possible. The most frightening alternative would be accusations of massive voter fraud that results in riots, social upheaval and even military intervention. Whew! Yes, it’s all possible. Unlikely, but possible. We Americans have, in the past, thought ourselves immune to the common problem that has existed in the world for centuries: contested elections that results a power struggle for the reins of government. Frightening, indeed.  

    I’d like to remind you that, even through our nation’s wars, our politician’s greed and incompetence, the failure of bad policies, the wrong choices of our leaders, and racist and sexist attitudes that lie in the wake of our history, we will be okay, no matter who is President come November 5th. How do I know this? Because America’s government isn’t what makes this country great. It’s not the President who rules over the Executive Branch of our government who really runs this country. It’s not even our Congress, who are elected to represent us that gives me reassurance that we will endure these things. No, it’s my Fellow Americans that gives me that hope. My neighbors and friends. Citizens that want nothing more than to be at peace with each other, at home and abroad, that makes this country truly great. We the People. We are America. Not the President. Anyone who sits at that desk in the Oval Office does so at our discretion, not with power over us, but with conditional permission to be our voice. We reserve the right to veto that office in a myriad of ways, not the least of which is by voting. We can vote you in, and we can vote you out. We’ll not endure a king. We’ll not suffer a fool. We’ll keep, and take seriously, our inalienable rights. Remember that, when you disagree with those folks in the office of our top executive. This country has stood for over two centuries on the principles that has made her great. We never stopped being a great nation. We don’t need any President, or any Political Party, to make us great again. We never stopped. Let’s all take that to heart. 

God bless Y’all. 

And God bless the United States of America.  

     Sara came by to have coffee and brought him doughnuts, but when the door was locked, she knew something was wrong. He never locked it. And he never missed a chance for doughnuts, either. She balanced the pastries clumsily as she unlocked the door. 

“Dad!” she called to her father as she opened the door. Nothing. Sara put the box on the kitchen table and walked to the hall.  

“Dad?” Still no response. She walked down the hall and stopped at the doorway of her father’s bedroom. She flipped the switch and there was her father, on the bed, apparently napping. She nudged her father, but it was useless. He was gone. 

     Sara sat beside him, tears running down her cheek. She looked around the room where both of her parents had now died. Her watery eyes fell upon the mirror in the corner. It was covered with a sheet. The dresser mirror also had a sheet. She stood and stepped to the bathroom for some tissue and, sure enough, there was a white towel covering the mirror in there.  She pondered the veiled mirrors as she called the ambulance on her cell phone. Then she noticed the pictures.  

     On the dresser were three photos, all in silver metal frames. They were the ones her father had taken on Sloane’s wedding day. He’d given copies to both her and her son, after explaining how he’d photo-shopped Grace into them. One of the couple with both grandparents, bracketing Gloria and Sloane, one of Grace standing between the newlyweds with her arms around both of them, and one of Grace hugging Sloane from behind. Grace’s smile sparkled, and she was fully alive in her beautiful pink and white dress. But there was one picture missing. There had been one more. As Sara gave the operator the address, she realized that her father had it hugged tightly to his chest. She tugged it from his hands and took a breath as she looked at it. It was her parents standing before the mirror, in loving embrace, eyes locked onto each other. They smiled like young lovers, oblivious to the rest of the world. Deeply in love, in death as in life.  

     As she put her phone away, she saw their feet. Her brow furrowed on her forehead and she held the picture closer. Then she went to the dresser and examined the other photos. Each one had the same odd feature. Somehow, her father had photo-shopped Grace into each shot with her standing inside the mirror. Her feet could be seen, at the bottom of each frame, inside the mirror. Everyone else’s feet were outside of the glass, as they should be. Except in the photo that her father had held in his dying hands. In that picture, both his and Grace’s feet were inside the frame of the mirror. Sara wiped her tears and went to the mirror, reaching for the corner of the sheet. Her heart beat faster as her fingers touched the cotton. She stopped. She wasn’t sure why her father had covered all of the mirrors. She let her hand fall away to the side as she turned to look at her father one more time. He did it for a reason. That should be enough. She went back down the hall and into the kitchen to wait on the ambulance. She ate a doughnut, in memory of her dad, while she stared at the image of kindred spirits, in death as much as in life. She really never thought her dad could figure out how to photo-shop anything. 

    It was a good doughnut. She hoped they had doughnuts wherever her mom and dad were.  

God bless Y’all.  

     Sara came by to have coffee and brought him doughnuts, but when the door was locked, she knew something was wrong. He never locked it. And he never missed a chance for doughnuts, either. She balanced the pastries clumsily as she unlocked the door. 

“Dad!” she called to her father as she opened the door. Nothing. Sara put the box on the kitchen table and walked to the hall.  

“Dad?” Still no response. She walked down the hall and stopped at the doorway of her father’s bedroom. She flipped the switch and there was her father, on the bed, apparently napping. She nudged her father, but it was useless. He was gone. 

     Sara sat beside him, tears running down her cheek. She looked around the room where both of her parents had now died. Her watery eyes fell upon the mirror in the corner. It was covered with a sheet. The dresser mirror also had a sheet. She stood and stepped to the bathroom for some tissue and, sure enough, there was a white towel covering the mirror in there.  She pondered the veiled mirrors as she called the ambulance on her cell phone. Then she noticed the pictures.  

     On the dresser were three photos, all in silver metal frames. They were the ones her father had taken on Sloane’s wedding day. He’d given copies to both her and her son, after explaining how he’d photo-shopped Grace into them. One of the couple with both grandparents, bracketing Gloria and Sloane, one of Grace standing between the newlyweds with her arms around both of them, and one of Grace hugging Sloane from behind. Grace’s smile sparkled, and she was fully alive in her beautiful pink and white dress. But there was one picture missing. There had been one more. As Sara gave the operator the address, she realized that her father had it hugged tightly to his chest. She tugged it from his hands and took a breath as she looked at it. It was her parents standing before the mirror, in loving embrace, eyes locked onto each other. They smiled like young lovers, oblivious to the rest of the world. Deeply in love, in death as in life.  

     As she put her phone away, she saw their feet. Her brow furrowed on her forehead and she held the picture closer. Then she went to the dresser and examined the other photos. Each one had the same odd feature. Somehow, her father had photo-shopped Grace into each shot with her standing inside the mirror. Her feet could be seen, at the bottom of each frame, inside the mirror. Everyone else’s feet were outside of the glass, as they should be. Except in the photo that her father had held in his dying hands. In that picture, both his and Grace’s feet were inside the frame of the mirror. Sara wiped her tears and went to the mirror, reaching for the corner of the sheet. Her heart beat faster as her fingers touched the cotton. She stopped. She wasn’t sure why her father had covered all of the mirrors. She let her hand fall away to the side as she turned to look at her father one more time. He did it for a reason. That should be enough. She went back down the hall and into the kitchen to wait on the ambulance. She ate a doughnut, in memory of her dad, while she stared at the image of kindred spirits, in death as much as in life. She really never thought her dad could figure out how to photo-shop anything. 

 It was a good doughnut. She hoped they had doughnuts wherever her mom and dad were.  

     It was a beautiful wedding. The winery was decked out to the nines, with floral arches covered in pink roses; the cobblestone walkway leading to the alter, where the wedding arch flowed with white satin and roses. Sloane and Gloria were the perfect couple. She, in her modern ivory and pearl dress; he, in his understated jet-black tux with narrow lapels; they were every wedding planner’s dream pair. Even Nathan cried. 

        After the ceremony, and the reception, Nathan took his grandson, Sloane, aside to ask him for a favor. The request he made gave Sloane pause. He hesitated. His grandfather had tears rolling down his cheeks, so he couldn’t refuse. When the reception was over, the couple did the traditional walk through the double row of family and friends blowing bubbles at them, then boarded their car, festooned with “Just Married” and dragging cans tied to the bumper and drove off to start their honeymoon. Just a little side trip first. Grampa’s house.  

    “Thank you, both, for agreeing to this.” Nathan said. 

    He led them, and the mother of the bride, Sara, into the house and down the hall to the bedroom. The mirror sat in the corner, adorned with a new piece of duct tape on the lower left corner. The room was bright and freshly cleaned, with a tripod set up across the room from the mirror.  

    “Grampa, I know this is important to you, but you’ve got to admit: it’s kinda weird.” Sloane said. His new bride scolded him with a glance before adding for him, 

    “But I’m sure Nana would love that you wanted to include her. I know she’d love this.” Her smile reassured Nathan that Sloane had made a wonderful choice. 

    The old man just positioned the bride and groom in front of the mirror, facing it first. He moved the camera and checked the angle before answering them. 

    “I just know that Grace wouldn’t have missed seeing your wedding for anything. I just want her to know she was a part of it all. “His tears still trickled down his cheek as he spoke. The camera clicked as he took a few shots, repositioned them, then took a few more. Then he set the timer and, after looking through the viewfinder one last time, took a spot in between the new couple, trying not to cry as he smiled. They took a few shots, then Nathan motioned for Sara to join them, all facing the camera, with the mirror behind them. “Dad” Sara said “You look awesome today. Your tie is absolutely perfect. How long did it take you to get that Windsor knot so squared away?” 

Her dad smiled. “You know I could never get these things right. That was your mother’s forte. She just seemed to have a talent for things like that.” They tried to look pretty and natural as the camera clicked away, capturing the day Grace’s grandson was wed. What else was captured that day, only Grace and Nathan knew.  

    Grace and Nathan’s tears fell quietly upon the carpet in front of the mirror. They both smiled.