short-story

The Great Stone Heist

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across the sales guy for our subdivision—the guy who “lives” in the model home. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, so we had a few things to catch up on. I needled him about whether the stuff he was throwing into the dumpster from the back of his truck was all work-related or whether he had snuck some junk from home into the truck purge. He admitted there may have been a little of both.

Whether the guilt was the reason he told me about a pallet of free stone sitting on the corner or whether it was just friendship, I didn’t think I was a candidate to use any of it. We did our typical fist bump and headed our separate ways—me on foot and him in his truck.

I mentioned the stone to my son as a possible landscaping option, but he couldn’t figure out how to use it either. Then I realized there might actually be a project for me. With almost no rain over the past few months, I had nearly forgotten about my ongoing “mulch sliding into the street” problem around our newly planted tree. I was confident it would eventually rain again, because apparently God has a sense of humor when it comes to landscaping.

I picked through the pile and found some ugly stones along with a bunch that were a pretty consistent thickness. I was still a little timid about reacquiring my old “stone whisperer” skills, so I went to Home Depot for a few supplies. Up to this point, the project had cost me exactly $0.

I needed gravel, topsoil and a stone hammer. The first two were easy. The hammer was more complicated. I looked through their entire inventory of hammers, searching for something with a square striking head and a backside that looked like a normal hammer, except without the part designed to pull nails. I wanted something solid that could chip a stone if reshaping became necessary.

Their selection was inadequate, but I found one that offered a few advantages over the hammers I already owned. And honestly, since the project was still practically free, the hammer was going to be my trophy of accomplishment.

At checkout, I mentioned the project to the clerk. He showed me where I could order the proper stone hammer through the service desk and handed me his business card. He later explained that he wasn’t blatantly soliciting customers for his side business while on the Home Depot clock, but he wasn’t opposed to it if the situation could be justified.

I admired the entrepreneurial spirit.

With the supplies in my trunk and my new hammer arriving by UPS the next day, I could see the project coming together.

Because I was still a little timid about my stonework, I texted the Home Depot guy about helping me. He had told me he was a stone mason, and I figured if I was going to do this, I might as well have someone around who actually knew what he was doing. I also mentioned the “stone stash” that would be his for the picking.

He came over the next day and said he could easily help. I offered to ride with him to the pile, but the pictures I had sent him apparently gave him enough confidence to find it himself.

Everything was fine until I got the text a few minutes later.

The supervisor had spotted him picking through the stones and thought he was some guy trying to scrounge free material without authorization.

Technically, he was.

He just had a better story.

I sent a few texts to my subdivision sales guy—the same guy who had originally told me about the stone—and got the situation cleaned up. It turned out nobody cared who took the stone. They just wanted the stone to disappear.

So the great stone heist was really just a communication problem.

This morning, my stone mason showed up promptly at 9:30. I had done some pre-work. I pulled back the weed mat and made sure the stones I had already hauled home were visible. Comparing the thickness of one stone to another was important, which was exactly the kind of highly technical responsibility I was hoping to avoid.

Our first goal was getting the wall about four inches above the curb. Once we established that height, we put the thickest stones on the bottom. That required some digging to get everything level, although the trick was not digging any deeper than necessary.

Once the foundation was established, we started on the cap—the top course of the wall. The stone mason ran his hand over the stones, feeling for changes in thickness. I pulled out my long level, because apparently I still had something to contribute.

The biggest challenge was keeping the cracks from lining up. The stones needed to overlap like Legos, with each piece connected to two or more others. That way, the wall gets stronger as it goes up instead of becoming a very expensive pile of rocks.

The final product wasn’t perfect, but considering my trophy hammer was the most expensive part of the project, I was happy.

My stone mason gave me a quote on replacing the plastic retaining wall in my flower beds. Then I went with him to pick a few more stones while providing cover from any supervisors who might need to boost their egos. Eventually, he headed out.

I cleaned up the area and made my wife put her shoes on so I could brag about the job we had done.

In my younger years, I would happily spend a few days doing a project that someone else could have completed in a few hours. Those days are behind me. I’m now perfectly happy to pay someone a fair wage to help preserve two things: my body and my self-esteem.

Preserving my body is obvious. The self-esteem part is a little more complicated. My wife has strong opinions about how certain things around the house should be done. I haven’t mowed the grass myself in years, and I have discovered that outsourcing a job comes with a valuable side benefit. If I don’t build the stone wall, any criticism Judy may have about the wall doesn’t stick to me. “Boy, I wish he had done a better job,” I can say, and suddenly, I’m on the same team.

I’m not afraid of the work. I’ve simply reached an age where I appreciate the strategic value of having someone else hold the hammer when the final inspection takes place. A good contractor saves you time. A great contractor gives you someone to blame.

A scapegoat for hire is a cheap version of marital bliss.

Yes, you can quote me on that one.

The Policy Has Been Revised

After an evening watching a disappointing football game, we went to bed at 10:30. To keep our commitment to our hockey boys, we turned the front porch light on so they could find their way home without taking out my roses along the front walkway. We have been doing this quite often lately. Friday night, they needed to watch the team they share the rink with play before heading out for food. Last night was also about food, but with a little more wardrobe involved.

Both of the junior hockey teams we have billeted for have a tradition of rookies dressing up as girls for a team dinner. The reason for putting considerable effort into shoes, dresses, wigs, and whatever else they can find is simple: the rookie who looks the best avoids paying his portion of the ridiculous food bill the veterans have intentionally inflated by ordering food they have no intention of eating. Our Alaska boy won this year. His $50 investment in a dress, shoes, and wig probably saved him about $300. The worst-dressed rookie pays double. The guys with beards apparently start the competition about three goals down.

Back to my pre-bed routine. For some reason, my nose decided to start bleeding. This wasn’t one of those casual little nosebleeds where you grab a tissue, wipe your nose, and get on with your life. This one earned the coveted two-tissue award. I asked Judy which towel I should use so I wouldn’t bloody up my hand towel. My white hot tub robe also received some unexpected splatter. Apparently, my nose had decided that bedtime was a good time to redecorate.

Judy’s response was very casual. I know why they call her “Dr. Mom” and not “Dr. Wife.” There was no frantic call for medical assistance, no dramatic assessment of my condition, and certainly no attempt to save my life. She basically let me bleed. To minimize any overnight leakage, I suggested grabbing an old towel to put over my pillow. She fully supported that plan. The usual “goodnight kiss” was answered with, “I don’t want to kiss you tonight.”

Nothing says “in sickness and in health” quite like your wife deciding that, for the moment, you are a communicable disease.

The next morning, with a strong desire to get my walk in before church and another 100-degree day waiting for us, I got up to find the towel on my pillow completely unblemished. Apparently, my nose had called it a night. I made the coffee and toasted some of Judy’s day-old, home-baked whole wheat bread, one of her evolving hobbies. There are worse ways to start the day, although I was beginning to wonder whether I was living with a doctor, a baker, or someone who was simply waiting for me to bleed out.

After my walk, I told Judy my nose seemed to be on the mend. I also expressed some concern about what had caused such an enthusiastic nosebleed. Her nosebleeds have all but stopped 5 years ago, so I was hoping mine would follow the same path. Maybe it was simply the heat, the low humidity, or some other weather-related nonsense that our bodies apparently feel obligated to complain about.

Of course, I couldn’t resist mentioning the possibility that my blood pressure was raging and that perhaps I was headed toward a stroke or some other exciting cardiovascular event. In the past, when I have brought up the possibility of dying from high blood pressure, Judy’s response has been, “If you go before me, I won’t remarry.”

It has always been one of those reassuring little marriage statements that somehow manages to be both loving and insulting. Apparently, though, the policy has been revised.

Knowing I was still fragile from the previous night’s trauma, Judy looked at me and said, “I have changed my mind. I think I will remarry.”

I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to discuss your replacement while the current model is still standing in front of you. But apparently, there is a grace period for these things.

The good news is that my nose seems to have returned to normal, and I have no reason to believe I’m about to fall over dead. I plan to be around for many more years. There is even a decent chance I will outlive Judy. After hearing her revised position on remarriage, I’m beginning to think that may not be the news she was hoping to hear.

But I was reminded of something this weekend: if you’re going to spend a lifetime dishing it out, you have to be willing to take it when the tables turn.

Even if the tables turn while you’re wearing a blood-speckled hot tub robe, sleeping with a towel over your pillow, and wondering whether your wife has already started browsing for your replacement.

Marriage is a beautiful thing.

What Grandpa Did in Norman

My son-in-law had a saxophone recital this week. My future daughter-in-law is defending her doctoral dissertation. These are significant life moments, and the family is rallying around both of them with appropriate enthusiasm and support.

I was with the baby.

To be fair, Ellie’s other grandma was in town for the recital, and she graciously babysat Ellie during the day so I could have some Andy time. This left her with a clear conscience when I accepted the recital shift. All of us attended the dinner portion of the evening, which was the part I was looking forward to anyway. The pizza was good.

The recital was held at OU, which meant Ellie and I spent an hour roaming the halls of a building not designed with either of us in mind — me like a slightly confused mall Santa, her like someone who has never encountered a carpeted ramp and intends to fix that immediately.

We walked a lot. With Ellie, walking means holding both her hands while she does something between a march and a controlled fall. Her legs can’t quite keep up with the ambition, but viewed from the side, the illusion of running is convincing. She seems to enjoy it. The grandpa executing the maneuver gets winded faster than he’d like to admit, so we don’t overdo it.

One of the hockey boys had left a neon yellow golf ball in their room, and once I introduced it to Ellie, every white ball I’d ever collected on my walks became an afterthought. We found a carpeted ramp — one of those long, gentle slopes that make stairs optional — and developed a game. She’d release the ball from the top. I’d stand below and try to kick it gently back up toward her. She’d decide, with visible deliberation, whether to crawl up to meet it or scramble down after it.

At one point the ball rolled toward her from above and she spotted it over her left shoulder. Something clicked in her baby brain and she decided the correct response was to lead with her right leg, which required a small full-body flip. She didn’t intercept the ball. But she committed to the plan completely — a tiny, determined engineer working a problem she hadn’t quite solved yet.

I lost the golf ball somewhere in all of this. I ordered a six-pack of colored ones on Amazon that night.

When two college students passed by during our ramp experiments, I mentioned something about developing her eye for the putting game. They smiled the way young people smile at old men doing inexplicable things with babies. Politely. With their whole faces.

We found a bench and ate. Cheerios, and some apple-strawberry star-shaped things that dissolve before they become a choking hazard. I favored the method where the snack is secured between my lips and Ellie retrieves it with her fingers. As the session went on, her hands got progressively damper. Baby slime. Nothing toxic.

A man walking the hallway stopped and watched us for a moment. “First grandchild?” he asked. I confirmed. He nodded like he knew something. “She’s the one who’ll pick your nickname.” Then he kept walking.

I would like a nice nickname…

The motion-activated faucets in the bathroom are not designed for a man holding an infant with one hand. You do what you have to do.

When my wife texted that the recital was over, I handed Ellie off to her assembled fans and faded into the background, which is where I do my best work. By the time dinner wrapped up, we were four hours in and dangerously close to disrupting my pre-sleep routine. The pizza held up its end.

Today is the dissertation defense. I was encouraged to bring Ellie, but it only takes one wrong moment — one well-timed shriek during a committee question — to make that a memorable afternoon for the wrong reasons. She has worked too hard for that. And frankly, I’m not sure the room needs both Ellie and me in it. There may be some older professors present with limited social skills, but they’re not variables I can control.

Phase two of Grandpa Goes to Norman happens from home. Better snack inventory. Bibs within reach. No motion-activated anything. No college students watching me lose a golf ball.

And maybe, if I keep spoiling her at the current rate, she’ll give me a decent nickname.

Apology Accepted, Access Denied

I saw this phrase during my morning scroll, and it made me pause. As a Christian, I lean into the forgiving part. The “access denied” part is harder to admit, but I’ve made peace with it — mostly.

I met Jerry (not his real name) through my online business, back when I was cobbling together a living after a post-9/11 layoff and the birth of our 4th child. He was sharp, helpful, and seemed to want what I wanted. That last part turned out to be the problem.

Jerry was one of those people.

Over nearly two decades, Jerry talked me into several business ventures. Some I was smart enough to avoid. Others, I wasn’t. The pattern was always the same — he’d find the angle that sounded like it worked for both of us, and I’d believe him, because he was genuinely convincing. My wife saw it before I did. She usually does.

The last venture was the one that finally clarified things. He connected me with a job through a supplier he knew — Jerry was the manager, and Jerry’s unacknowledged nephew was the chief of operations. The nepotism ran its course, and I was the first to go. Within a week, Jerry called and suggested lunch. He managed to seem apologetic about the fact that he’d had me fired. He also handed me paperwork to sign away my right to unemployment.

My wife didn’t let that stand.

I collected every dollar. I never saw Jerry again.

Looking back, the warnings were there early. Another supplier told me Jerry had dealt with him dirty. I filed it away and kept going. That’s the thing about a skilled manipulator — he doesn’t come at you all at once. He’s a master of the long game. He stays in light contact, patient, until you have something he needs. Then he’s your best friend again.

The hardest part to admit is that I liked him. He was warm and funny and made you feel like the smartest guy in the room for listening to him. I thought I was lucky to have someone like that in my corner. I wasn’t lucky. I was useful.

Now I get occasional Facebook updates. If a customer emails about an order Jerry once fulfilled, I write him a short note. He sends curt replies. That’s what twenty years looks like when one person was paying attention, and the other one wasn’t.

In my mind, the most unbelievable part of the story is that Jerry is now a pastor.

I’ll be honest — I’ve thought about showing up at his church. Not to make a scene. Just to see whether the man preaching from the front is the same one who handed me that paperwork. He has the skills for ministry. He also had the skills for everything else.

But poking around in someone’s life after a three-year gap feels like reopening a wound that’s healed clean. Whatever apology passed between us was probably silent and probably mutual. We moved on. I genuinely hope he’s doing good work now.

I even hope we spend eternity together. I just don’t need to spend any more of my time on earth with him.

Old-School Fly Wars: A Swatterless Survival Guide

Since moving, my relationship with fly killing has taken a turn for the primitive. With my trusty fly swatter sitting in retirement (or lost in a moving box labeled “Misc”), I’ve had to return to the ancient, honorable art of manual fly extermination. Let’s review the current arsenal:

1. The Clap: Thunder in the Kitchen

This is the classic method—two hands, one fly, and a prayer. Does it work every time? Absolutely not.

  • Best used: When the fly is on an unobstructed surface, preferably somewhere elevated.
  • Technique: Approach from behind—their getaway car is always in reverse.
  • Success rate: Lower than my high school batting average, but occasionally glorious.
  • Note: If you miss, pretend you were applauding yourself for trying.

2. The Smash: Window to the Soul (of the Fly)

When a fly camps out on a window, the Smash is your go-to.

  • Needed: Napkin, tissue, or whatever paper product is within reach.
  • Method: Cover the fly, scrunch, and hope your hand-eye coordination hasn’t gone the way of your fly swatter.
  • Real-world example: Yesterday’s attempt resulted in a close call—the fly escaped with a story to tell at the next Fly AA meeting.
  • Disclaimer: All my rage is directed at “guy flies.” I like to think the lady flies are just lost on their way to a garden party.

3. The Grab: Picnic Table Panic

This move is for flat surfaces only: countertops, picnic tables, or any place where the fly can’t hide under your toaster.

  • Execution: Skim the surface, grab from behind, and listen for the telltale buzz of success.
  • Finishing move: If the fly is buzzing inside your hand, give a couple of shakes, then toss to the floor and quickly enforce the “no fly zone.”
  • Caution: May result in bystander confusion and/or admiration.

Swatter Status and the Flies’ Perspective

  • Fly swatter purchases: On indefinite hold, unless I stumble into a homeowner trade show or a hardware store offering a buy-one-get-one-free deal with a new plunger.
  • Reliability: Swatters are still king if the fly is parallel to the ground. My hands? Let’s call them “aspirational.”
  • House rules for flies: If you’re a fly who prefers dining while facing down, congratulations: you’ve found a safe haven.
  • Good news for flies: None of them read blogs.

Final Buzz

Until the fly population reaches DEFCON 1 or I cave and buy a new swatter, I’ll keep clapping, smashing, and grabbing—one primitive, questionably effective method at a time.
If you hear thunderous applause from the kitchen, it’s just me, celebrating the one that didn’t get away.