Today is Mom’s birthday
Today is Mom’s birthday. She would have been 97 (and would have killed me for telling you that). Happy birthday, Mom!
Image courtesy of Del Stone Jr.
Today I took flowers to my mother’s and sister’s gravesite. They were both mothers and it was my duty and a pleasure to remember them.
I used a mixture of flowers from Mom’s yard blended with a dozen roses I bought at Wal-Mart. I had the foresight to bring pruning shears, water, a packet of cut-flower food, and a glass vase I found beside the road (Mom would have loved that as she was an inveterate scrounger who often found treasures others had put to the curb).
I also included a note asking other cemetery visitors to please not steal my mother’s flowers and the vase, as that has become a problem lately.
The flowers came out better than I expected – I am by no means an artist at arranging flowers. With luck it will last more than a day or two.
I also included the card I got for Mom last year. I had bought it weeks before her death and hid it in my chest-of-drawers, meaning to give it to her on Mother’s Day. I didn’t find it again until after she passed.
Mom has been gone for just over a year. I still find items around the house that make me think she’s in the living room, sleeping in the recliner as something awful plays on the TV – cage fighting, American Ninja or boxing. She loved those sports and I’ve decided that’s because they featured sweaty, shirtless men doing the things sweaty, shirtless men do.
My sister’s ashes are buried with Mom, so I left a separate bunch of flowers for her. She will have been gone a year in early July.
I hope Mom, Sandie and Mom’s friend from Spain, Judi Krozier, are living it up in a shared afterlife, and there is wine, music I wouldn’t like, some kind of Southern-fried goodness, and lots and lots of sweaty, shirtless men.
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, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
The newly resurfaced tennis courts at Ferry Park don't offer much in the way of tripping hazards. Image courtesy of Del Stone Jr.
My vacations come and go so quickly I wonder where they went. THIS vacation I vow to keep track of every precious second. Hence, this “vacation diary.”
Sooo … how did Day 1 of Vacationland go?
Well, I charged out of bed at 6:30 and made a pot of coffee, knowing that nine full days between me and work awaited. What a glorious feeling. I stripped the bed of sheets and tossed them into the Basket of Moldering Death to be washed. Then I (TMI – personal) and (TMI – personal). I emptied the Basket of Moldering Death and dumped the contents into the washing machine, which almost blew a gasket due to the heavy load.
Then it was time to shower for my tennis session with Dusty. I refused to shave. Dammit, Jim, I’m on vacation. I got dressed for said tennis excursion and took the clothes out of the washer, throwing them into the dryer. I turned it on for a short time but realized I’d need to leave before they were done, so I turned off the dryer having witnessed a house on Newcastle Drive burn to the ground due to a faulty dryer switch.
I drove to Winn-Dixie in Uptown Station to drop off my plastic bags for recycling. I gazed inside. Oh my. A certain somebody was working that morning but I resisted the urge to do something stupid. I drove to the recycling van on Robinwood Drive to empty my three plastic containers and 10,000 beer bottles. A colony of wasps has taken over the recycling van. I think they’re alcoholics, because they like the glass bin and become very, VERY angry when you toss Redhook empties into the bin.
After fighting off strafing attacks from drunken wasps I drove to Ferry Park, where Dusty and I smacked the ball around. I had to mop water from the court but it dried – sort of – and besides, Dusty was playing on that side of the court so it was his broken leg, not mine. Then we hit with Stan and Jet, and we BEAT them 6-4. My net play was this side of awful. I was afraid Stan’s line drives would smack me in the nose. I got an absolutely FABULOUS blister on my masturbation hand and had to retire after one set.
I went home, changed clothes and drove to Mom’s so I could attack the yard. Now I know why Dad wanted to cut down every tree in that yard. It’s a LEAFPOCALYPSE. I better not see any squirrels within 50 yards of the birdfeeder because there were enough acorns on the ground to feed the entire Northern Hemisphere’s population of squirrels. I raked and hauled leaves the rest of the morning, chatted with Mom awhile, tried to solve the mystery of her non-functioning doorbell, then drove home with a load of biscuits and gravy.
Then it was a quick shower and a short road trip. I deposited the money Brian gave me for the Pathfinder (yes, the Pathfinder is sold … sob), then dropped by Blockbusters to rent “The Hangover.” Then I fought traffic from Blockbuster to Walmart. The parking lot at Walmart was a zoo of mouthbreathers. I don’t know why but once people enter the parking lot at Walmart their IQs drop about 70 bazillion points. The guy ahead of me driving a gi-normous el heffe penismobile truck crept along at -2 mph. I would have laid on the horn but he probably would have gotten out, beaten me to a pulp and then peed on me. I got so angry I left Walmart and went back to Winn-Dixie in Uptown Station. That place was a zoo too but at least it was a smaller zoo.
I loaded up on groceries for tomorrow. In honor of the Aints I am making red beans and rice, jambalaya (with shredded chicken and turkey sausage), and chili. I also got some chips to use up the 20,000 bottles of salsa I have scattered around the house. Oh and beer of course.
When I got back I chatted with Donny for a minute (he’s putting in wood floors next door) then cracked open a Redhook ESB to celebrate the gray, freezing afternoon of Day 1 of my vacation.
When I finish this ridiculous epistle I will go downstairs, eat the biscuits and gravy, watch “The Hangover” and probably fall asleep on the couch with ropes of drool hanging from my mouth.
I’d say it was a pretty successful first day of vacation.
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 .
I just finished typing 300 column inches of Mother’s Day testimonials from kids and teens. My fingers have boo-boos. I need Mommy to kiss them and make them better.
(I should mention I had LOTS of help from Angie Toole, Linda Murchison, Dorothy Mullin and Destiny Sanders. And a HUGE thank you to Stephanie Caswell, who typed in a triple-shot.)
All those testimonials got me to feeling guilty and I have a need to confess, as I did recently about my dad, to all the rotten misdeeds I inflicted on Mom as a kid.
I remember only two, but on the Rotten Kid Scale they were Brat 5s.
One summer, Mom and Dad packed me and my sister into the car for a two-day trek to Michigan to visit my older sister and her husband, who were living in Dearborn.
Day Two took us across the Ohio-Michigan border, where we stopped at a welcome station. The day was radiant yet cool in that inimitable Yankee fashion, and I was drawn to a nearby flowerbed, which was thick with seductively colored roses. I confess to stealing a rose blossom from the state of Michigan and smuggling it into the car.
As we headed off down the interstate I discovered a shiny beetle crawling on a rose petal.
“Hey Mom, look at this,” I chirped. When she turned, I flicked it at her.
The beetle landed on her lip.
I doubled over with laughter – until she stopped spitting, that is. Because then she crawled over the seat and began whaling on me with a flat palm.
About that time we passed a Michigan state trooper, who roared in behind us with lights flashing. After Dad got back into the car he revealed the trooper had stopped him for doing 57 mph in a 55 mph zone.
“Nobody gets stopped for that,” Dad fumed. “He was trying to prevent a case of child abuse.”
Incident No. 2.
One evening, Mom and a neighbor took an after-dinner stroll to a boat ramp near our neighborhood. They sat on the shore, their feet in the water, and chatted as the sun settled at the western horizon.
Meanwhile, I was lurking in the background and made an interesting discovery. In fact, I collected my discovery, approached from behind, and carefully laid it around Mom’s neck.
A live snake.
Oh, settle down. The snake wasn’t poisonous. But it might as well have been.
It was like watching the stages of grief, compressed into a three-second time span. First, there was distracted and good-humored annoyance, that what-the-heck-has-that-kid-put-around-my-neck” reaction. Then, total disbelief. “That’s not what I think that is, is it?”
Finally, when this garland of slithering, reptilian undulance sprouted a tongue and hissed, Mom launched herself from the sand in an eruption of Darwinian horror and went right out into the water like the Marines un-storming the beach as the snake disappeared into the underbrush.
I’m laughing too hard to continue. All I can say is, Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I promise to never do that again.
This column was originally published in the May 10, 2003 Northwest Florida Daily News 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, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Image courtesy of Karolina Grabowska of Pexels by way of a Creative Commons license. https://www.pexels.com/@karolina-grabowska/
To watch Mom iron is to watch a carpenter join pieces of wood into something that ill be handed down, parent to child, for generations. It is watching an artist imbue blank canvas with timelessness. It is watching a craftsman at her trade, doing a thing I will never be able to do.
It is almost seeing art done.
She shoulders me aside – amused by my fumbled attempt to press a pair of pants – and takes the iron in hand. Suddenly it is endowed with power, supernatural, no longer inanimate but a living thing. She wields it as if it weighed nothing. She never hesitates.
The pants are splayed on the ironing board, impossible wrinkles over every square inch. They couldn’t be straightened. The thought of even trying leaves me giddy.
Mom sets to work.
“It’s important that you stretch the pants over the board,” she says, her voice stretched too, as she pulls the pants over the board’s tapered snout and spreads them flat. She sprays starch over them, then presses with the iron. It plows into the wrinkles, smoothing them. Steam rises from the fabric as the iron is drawn back, and a hot, electric smell fills the kitchen.
She gets to the pocket and pulls the pants away from the board, grabs the pocket the way one would handle an unruly child, and spreads it flat. “Always iron the pockets before you iron the outside. If you don’t, you’ll leave an imprint of the pocket on the outside.”
I wonder why I never noticed imprints of pockets on my bachelor friends’ pants. Do they know?
She shows me how it happens and, just as she explained, the imprint is there. She irons the pockets steaming flat, then flips the pants over and irons the outside. No imprint. Maybe I would’ve discovered that for myself. Maybe not.
Then she starts on the legs. She holds the pants vertically, matches the seams at the bottom. “Line these up as closely as possible,” says she, eyeballing her work as if she were about to cleave a gemstone. “They have to be matched just right or the crease won’t come out the way it’s supposed to.” I believe her. But I don’t see how she’ll manage it.
The legs are twisted beyond hope. She lays them on the board, lifts the top leg and lets it dangle over the front; she sets upon the bottom leg. Starch and steam. She moves the iron at impossible angles, finds all the lines, smoothes them under heat and pressure into a flat plane. Up the leg, over the seam and down the other side. The pants are beginning to look like pants, the improbably magically becoming possible.
She pulls the dangled leg, lays it flat against the other, then goes to work on it, too, with baffling certainty, pushing the iron over the cloth, making it presentable. She puts a crease in this leg, and it is a match with the other.
The whole business is flipped over and she starts from the opposite side, doing away with the last bit of disorder. Then she peels the pants from the board, holds them up for final inspection, slides the legs carefully through a hanger and hands them to me.
“That’s how you iron a pair of pants.”
I hang them in the closet, careful that they don’t touch the other clothes there. I’m not sure I want to put them on. They look too nice to wear.
I’ll never get the hang of it.
Mom has left the ironing board in the kitchen, and I, the understudy to some Florentine realist, am only too happy to do the easy part, to put away the artist’s easel.
This column was originally published in the Playground Daily News in the early 1980s 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, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .