Just got back from my first real vacation in 24 years
All images courtesy of Del Stone Jr.
It was my first real vacation in 24 years.
I’d sneaked in weekends here and there – three days in backwoods Louisiana, where the kudzu is thicker than the Cajun accents, or a weekend of schmoozing at a writers’ convention in Central Florida – but for the first time since my father passed away in 1998 I was leaving the homestead for a week to relax with friends.
The location was a small town called Blue Ridge in northern Georgia, just a white lightning run from the Tennessee border. My friends Richard, Joy and Sarah retired there after a work journey took them from Fort Walton Beach to Virginia, Alabama, and Colorado. I had visited them in Virginia and Alabama – Virginia was my favorite; sorry, Alabama – and now the attraction of mountains, and a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner, was too much to resist.
I was surprised by the amount of crap I felt I had to take with me – my pill organizer with my vitamins and prescriptions; the waist band I wear when I exercise; my pricey enamel-restoring toothpaste. When packing for the trip I promised myself I’d bring only the essentials. Funny how so much stuff has become “essential.”
I worried I’d become drowsy during the hours of monotonous driving on the interstate, but the opposite proved to be true. It had been so long since I’d dealt with finicky cruise controls, near suicidal drivers, inexplicable interstate backups, believing I could make it to the next rest stop before my bladder erupted like Mount St. Helen, and the terror of surviving traffic in a major, and I mean major, metropolitan area like Atlanta, that I remained in a constant state of high alert.
Atlanta taught me that indeed, I am growing older, because in the past I considered the hair-raising driving practices of many Atlantans to be merely irritating. Now, they scared the hell out of me. Bumper-to-bumper at 80 mph? Had I wandered into the Daytona 500? Was I winning?
Also, I managed to get lost and instead of taking the I-575 bypass around the innards of that crazed town I ended up in something called an “express lane,” which means I will now be receiving a ticket in the mail from the Georgia Department of Transportation because I don’t have the special Peachy Keen Pass required to drive on that road. So thank you, Atlanta, for further eroding my meager checking account.
Another driving terror awaited when I reached Richard and Joy’s neighborhood. I shouldn’t call it a “neighborhood” – it’s actually a beautifully laid-out development on the side of a mountain. Gorgeous houses are spaced about 300 yards apart on very steep inclines. Trees and underbrush have been preserved, unlike developments in Florida, where the land is graded down to the earth’s mantel and then trees from Mars are planted to replace the native trees felled by the bulldozer’s blade. Life in Blue Ridge is like living in a treehouse.
The problem lies in reaching those gorgeous houses. The road was a narrow two-lane with very steep inclines and stomach-wrenching declines, with practically no road shoulder and near cliffs approaching the edge of the asphalt – at least that’s what it looked like to this Florida flatlander who lives an average of 12 feet above sea level.
Oh, and another thing. It was cold. Of course it was cold. I was 400 miles farther north than my usual stomping grounds.
And because you’re in the mountains, you’re also in the low layers of clouds, which meant it was often drippy and wet. It rained the first two days I was there and remained cloudy and damp the rest of the time. But then, when I came back home it rained like hell down here, too, so maybe it’s just me. Maybe I attract rain, like PigPen in the Peanuts comic strip attracted dirt.
Blue Ridge appears to be a favored vacation spot for Floridians. I’d say a quarter of the license plates “hailed” from the Sunshine State, if a license plate can hail. That explains the crazed drivers, at least the ones not displaying Cobb County plates.
The Cliff Notes version?
1. Packed too much crap.
2. Big city drivers – scary.
3. Cold – bad.
4. Mountains – also scary.
I hope to get back there in the spring, when I won’t look like such a freak wearing shorts. Spring should be gorgeous. Summer, too. And because you’re in the mountains, it’s cooler. And fall, with all the leaf colors.
Now that I think about it, I chose the one season of the year when maybe it wasn’t so great to visit. I need to get back up there and see what the place really looks like.
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 view from my upstairs patio overlooking the pool and courtyard of Bienville Square on Hughes Street in Fort Walton Beach. Image courtesy of Del Stone Jr.
This morning I slept in until the late hour of 7:25 a.m. And I didn’t make the bed immediately. My God, what’s happening to me?
This is the day I usually become panic-stricken. It’s the first real day of vacation and I begin to sense the time slipping away. Saturday and Sunday are always the free bonus days where I get to do anything I want, though Friday night is the best. I have a full week of no stress, no obligations and lots of free time ahead. I can finally, completely relax, knowing that if the phone rings it won’t be a calamity that I am responsible for fixing.
I vow each vacation to not waste my time off sitting behind the computer. I promise to GET STUFF DONE, life-changing “stuff,” even if it’s finally ironing all the clothes in the ironing closet. I pursue this with great enthusiasm on Saturday, let up a little on Sunday, then awaken Monday to realize time is slipping away and I’d better get busy. That’s what I did today.
The house reeked of jambalaya. The fridge was packed to the point of nearly exploding with leftovers from yesterday’s Super Bowl extravaganza. But at least the kitchen was clean. In fact, the entire house looked neat and orderly. I was pleased.
So. I got my stuff together for my taxes. I take them to a CPA. In the past my taxes were so complicated I decided it was worth the money to hire somebody to do them. I’d been doing them and getting back $300 or so – the first year I took them to a CPA I got back well over $1,000. It’s been that way ever since, except one year when I made so much money writing I actually had to send the IRS a check. Unfortunately that has never happened again.
My first stop was the tax collector’s office. I had to apply for a rebate on the Pathfinder’s tag. The tax collector’s office is now conveniently hidden in the very back of the new Uptown Station expansion. You enter a foyer; on the left is an office that has not yet been finished. The guts of the thing are hanging out. On the right is the tax collector’s office. You walk into a spacious room and are immediately confronted by an electronic device that wants to know about your “transaction.” You push a button and it spits out a piece of paper with a number on it. Then, you wait until a very pleasant female voice calls out over a P.A. system what you hope will be your number. It reminded me of that Ridley Scott commercial for Apple back in the 1980s. The lady who helped me was pleasant but not overly friendly, which I guess is not a complaint per se. It’s just that every other time I’ve been there the staff was very chatty and personal, which I like. This person had that professional distance I’m not accustomed to encountering at the tax collector’s office. She did, however, get me the form and tell me where to mail it so my mission was a success.
I then dropped off bags of beer bottles, tin cans, plastic bottles, and aluminum at the recycling van. Wasn’t I just there Saturday? Why yes, I was. But over the course of Saturday and Sunday I filled two more bags! So there. And the drunken wasps were nowhere to be found.
As it was just around the corner, I dropped by the used book store to leave a couple of paperbacks and see if they had two books I’m looking for, The Bourne Supremacy and Ben Bova’s Mars Lives. They were closed! Seems like every time I go by there the place is closed. They keep irregular hours and who knows, maybe they close on Mondays. Or maybe the hired help was sick. Don’t know.
So I set out in search of a day-old bakery. There’s one on Green Acres Road but I thought there was one over by Santa Rosa Mall, so I headed off that way. No such luck. One thing I noticed, however, was the emptiness of the mall. At first I thought it was closed. A sad cluster of cars was parked outside the entrance to JC Penney, and another in front of the main entrance. That was it. My God, at that rate the mall won’t be able to stay open. I haven’t been there in years and probably should drop by just to see if they have some interesting new stores.
One other thing I noticed while I was over there is that Mary Esther has a nature trail! I guess it’s been there awhile but I’d never seen it. The place was unusually busy for a workday. I’ll have to drop by with my camera and do a photo gallery.
I visited the Salvation Army’s new digs at Mary Esther Plaza and bought a couple of books, The Flight of the Intruder and another war-themed novel. I’ve been reading lots of those lately and I enjoy them. Paperbacks at S.A. are only 50 cents. The selection is pretty bad but I saw a few goodies on the shelves.
Then it was off to the bakery, where I found a package of hoagie rolls for $1.75 and a loaf of whole-wheat bread for the same price. Why would you buy bread from the supermarket ever again?
I decided to make one more attempt at the used bookstore. Still closed. Arghhh! So I came home, changed clothes and went to Mom’s to work in her yard. I got a swath of leaves raked up and hauled out, and yet again mourned the forlorn “garden” I’ve tried to establish in that weird little space between her carport and house. I’ve tried everything in that spot and NOTHING will grow there, not even cactus. The only thing that ever did well was monkey grass, which I hate. My new attempt includes green and variegated spider plants, which you can literally throw on the ground and they’ll grow. If that fails I might just stick a bunch of artificial plants in that spot and be done with it.
Afterwards I returned home, got cleaned up and sat down to work on my zombie story. Gosh, I hope Steve isn’t reading this because he might be irked to hear I am just now starting the story. Truth is I’ve agonized over this thing. When I first heard of the anthology an idea immediately sprang to mind, but then I began searching for an alternative. Now I’m back to the original idea. I hope it’s trendy enough. I ran into that problem with a story I wrote for Live Without a Net. Turns out all the stories in that book were super-trendy; mine was a dowdy conventional story. I felt like I’d worn blue jeans to the prom. I didn’t want to repeat that mistake but the truth is, I can’t pretend to be something I’m not, in life or writing. So I’ll just do the best story I’m capable of writing and hope it’s good enough to make the cut. I created a Word file and started putting words on “paper” so to speak. The story began to unfold and better, because this is something I struggle with, the tone began to emerge. I like what I’ve done so far and that’s a good sign. It’s interesting – to me, anyway.
Then I settled down to eat dinner and watch that Steven Seagal movie I rented Sunday. Dinner was the vegetable tray we didn’t touch during the Super Bowl. I cooked the broccoli and carrots, and ate the rest of the veggies raw. The movie was predictable. Steven Seagal is a former member of the Russian mafia who now writes novels. His ex-wife and daughter are killed and he must find out who did it. Seagal is barely comprehensible when he speaks English. With an affected Russian accent – and his mumbling – you can’t keep track of anything he’s saying! At one point I fell asleep during the movie and will have to rewatch it.
I went to bed at the insanely early hour of 9:30. Isn’t that crazy? I was tired and immediately crashed asleep. With luck I’ll make good progress on my story Tuesday … and maybe get that ironing done. Won’t THAT be fun!
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 .
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 .