A pricetag cannot be affixed to what is lost through growth

The author poses with a scrub jay in this photo that was taken in the 1970s during a Stone family vacation. Image courtesy of Delmar S. Stone Sr.

Every time I speak against the rising swell of pollution, congestion and destruction that is overwhelming the Asphalt Coast, quivering snouts emerge from the quagmire to squeal for pearls.

“Show us the numbers,” they demand, and then they cast forth their own numbers – of new slave-labor jobs created, of new taco-burger-pizza stands thrown together, of cubic yards of earth scabbed by asphalt, as if these cold calculations were the sum of all things.

Thank God they are not.

In reality, the finest things are those which cannot be enumerated by the appraiser’s cool eye: beauty, serenity, peace of mind.

These are priceless, and to demand that a monetary value be stamped upon them, as if they were plastic widgets fished from the clearance bin at a discount store, is to murder them all the other intangibles that make life worth living.

A bird, for instance. In central Florida, you stroll through oak hammocks and bird called a scrub jay will swoop down and perch on your hand and look you in the eye.

Wild birds that are unafraid of man. Isn’t that something?

Scrub jays are close to extinction now, because the oak hammocks have been paved over with strip shopping centers to house more out-of-business video stores.

Is it so all-fired important that you be able to rent “Naked Bimbos from Uranus” at every street corner? Is a video store worth the loss of a bird?

Or a fish – have you seen the water froth as feeding blues slash through schools of frenzied alewife, a scene bathed in the ruddy glow of a distant thunderstorm illuminated by the sailor’s delight of a setting sun?

Now, the murky water carries an oily sheen, and the froth is caused by personal watercraft screaming across its surface.

How much does a fish cost? How much does a pretty scene fetch on the open market?

What is the price of silence? I’ve stood in the forest, where you can hear the nodding of trees, the clouds sailing overhead, the ocean of air. This is the sound of sanity, where dreams are born. How much do you pay for your dreams?

To the privileged few, these things are no more important than what they can be sold for. Such are the wages of “growth.” If it puts money in their pockets it’s good, even if it takes away from everything else.

Most people would call that arrogance. We don’t need arrogance.

What we do need is a less practical but more useful emotion.

On cloudless nights I have gone out and looked up and understood without a word that I am a small thing in a very big universe. The humility is like coming home.

That’s what we need.

To understand the only true measure of prosperity is happiness. Any person, or any thing, which measures its prosperity by “growth” is doomed.

Zelda Fitzgerald said that no one, not even poets, has measured how much a heart can hold.

Yet the squealing for pearls goes on.

How awful, that these shallow and dreamless creatures would rule the world.

This column was originally published in the Northwest Florida Daily News on May 6, 1998 and is used with permission.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .