AntiSeptic

a WinS Publication

Published by Written in Stone

Staatsburg, New York

www.MauraStone.com

ANTISEPTIC

Written in Stone/published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

FIRST EDITION: APRIL 2022

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022906660

Copyright © April 2022 by Written in Stone

Cover designs and graphics by Laslo Cheffolway

ISBN Number: 9798433931121

Photo Credits: Maura Stone

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No parts of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed, voice or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or engage in piracy of any copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information:

www.MauraStone.com

Gluten–Free/Non–GMO/Politically Incorrect Literature

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Dedicated to Denise Sarrett Connolly,

a unique strong soul who I proudly called a friend.

Don’t it always seem to go

That you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone

They paved paradise

And put up a parking lot. . .

Joni Mitchell, Big Yellow Taxi

First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain,

then there is.

Zen Buddhist saying

Introduction

People generally don’t give a lot of thought to questions like, How did I end up here? and Good Lord, why do I stay here?

Fortunately, Maura Stone confronts these questions directly. Unfortunately for her, the results are tragically hilarious. Reading this book is like canoeing down a long river—occasional slow–moving peaceful water followed by sudden drops and violent jerks. In Stone’s world summer people, jet–skiing ultra–religious folk, corrupt town leaders and business owners, bewildered tourists, and delivery drivers who could never find an address take front seat. There is never a dull moment.

If you had a sepia–toned nostalgic outlook on small–town America, AntiSeptic will not help. But you’ll be entertained right up to the last page.

Stacey Roberts

Author, Trailer Trash with a Girl’s Name

Preface

Stones never do anything half–assed. As a Stone, I have the propensity for giving my all. All 100%. So, when I fuck up, I really fuck up.

In rapid succession I lost my high–powered job on Wall Street during the massive layoffs of 2008, sold my high–end apartment for bubkas, peanuts, and ended up living in a vaguely winterized summer cottage on stilts that my grandfather had built in the 1930s on the blessed shores of Lake Colitis in the town of Camelot located smack dab in the center of Septic County, New York in the midst of a resort area deserted nine months a year.

In other words, I won the trifecta of Stone–ness.

Why the hell did you move to that remote hellhole known as Septic County? was the operative question. According to research on google, Septic County ranks Number One in the United States for many marvelous things: highest suicide rate, Lyme disease, crime, murder, theft, unemployment, alcoholism, prostitution, obesity, poor medical health, HIV, and heroin, opioid, and fentanyl addictions, to name a few. Not too bad for a county of seventy–seven thousand people.

It’s perfect! I shrieked in response. I have the ability to scream in four octaves, a plus in a trading room. That’s why I made the big bucks back then. Where else could I live when I can’t afford to pay my mortgage? It fits in with the Stone credo of never doing anything half–assed. If a Stone is gonna move to a place, either it’s the best or, as in this case, the best of the worst.

But. . . Lake Colitis?

Let me introduce another Stone family tradition: living through rose–tinted glasses. I associate Lake Colitis with fond memories of my youth now that I’m in the prime of my life. The time when my parents and siblings were alive. Where we had enjoyable summers. With the lake as the focal point of all activities. The clean, clear waters of Lake Colitis.

My father always extolled the therapeutic benefits from Lake Colitis’ pure waters. When I was growing up, people came from all corners of the state to drink and bathe in the refreshing, restorative, and curative spring–fed waters that helped those who suffer from tuberculosis and skin ailments.

Come to think of it, Dad also lived through rose–tinted glasses. He remembered a pristine Lake Colitis when he was a child. Not the mess it turned into. He closed his eyes while driving past the tire mountain en route to the lake, rows of abandoned rundown shacks along the main road, and garbage strewn everywhere. Not to mention the filthy lake, filled with gas and oil all summer long from too many boats.

So here I am, impoverished, unemployed, ill due to weird conditions, and other fun stuff which I shall address later on, stuck in my grandparents’ smaller summer cottage, trying to figure out the next step.

Only there wasn’t one.

Chapter One

A Little Historical Perspective

Since the late 1800s the quaint town of Camelot, the jewel in the crown of Septic County, New York, and its environs catered to lower class city folk and immigrants who could afford to escape the urban summer heat. Its bucolic hills, farmlands, and lakes made this location an adored destination.

I haven’t a clue how my grandfather, an immigrant from Russia, stumbled upon Camelot. According to my father, the town reminded him of his beloved shtetl, tiny village, in the hinterlands of the Soviet Union. At seventeen, Grandpa escaped another pogrom and settled in Ft. Lee, New Jersey. In less than ten years he flourished due to his astute business sense. By his early thirties, he was a self–made millionaire. He had great instincts. For example, he met a fellow in the shmattah, rag, aka fashion industry, in Manhattan who had a grand idea. So grand that my grandfather listened to him and invested as an original stockholder of Fox Theatre.

In 1910 Grandpa purchased three side–by–side lakefront lots which he and his family used for camping. In the 1930s he developed the land. He hired crews to cut down trees to build two cottages in a row one in front of the other and a utility shed that housed our spring–fed well and shower. Except he kept trees on both sides of the property as a natural fence including several dotting the land to provide shade. After a neighbor burnt down the outhouse, he had indoor toilets installed.

In 1947 my grandfather’s friends in the Army Corps of Engineers built the only boathouse of its kind in the state.

From the shoreline they dug into land for twenty–five feet and by fifteen feet in width. Then poured concrete foundations. Unlike other boathouses which are mostly wood perched on top of concrete pillars, his featured three–foot deep concrete walls that extend to the rafters. They added a garage door entrance flush with the surrounding shore. The boathouse is still in existence today in its original form. Again, the only kind in New York State.

Similar to my grandfather, the neighbors flanking our property were Jewish immigrants who succeeded in America. They wanted a better life for their children as well as for themselves. As did Jewish mobsters like Waxey Gordon who built micro–dachas down the street to emulate their former Soviet masters.

A few properties past Waxey Gordon’s house resided third generation Septic County Swedes. They didn’t socialize much with us. No doubt they were in shock with the sudden proliferation of Slavic Jews, an unsightly, ungainly, loud, boorish crowd. Pretty much the way descendants of those Slavic Jews feel about the invading Rubellas, the ultra ultra very ultra orthodox that bear a tenuous relationship to Judaism.

During the 1960s, the infamous Borscht Belt, the golden economic goose of Septic County, collapsed. There are many reasons, but I believe the hotel owners’ stinginess contributed to their downfall. They sucked the marrow out of the bones and refused to reinvest monies made those halcyon years to upgrade their resorts. When it was cheaper to fly to Europe and cavort rather than pay top dollar to spend a humid summer in moldy decaying bungalows listening to third rate entertainers, that signaled the end of an era.

After that debacle, Septic County sunk into decay, riddled with unemployment from the former hotels and peripheral companies. On Camelot’s Main Street that runs through a portion of Lake Colitis, the general store, pharmacy, diner, and feed store fell into disrepair and abandoned. Except for the surrounding bungalow colonies. Those held on a little bit longer.

Then something unexpected happened at the end of the 1960s. Camelot found itself the epicenter of American cultural history due to the first, largest, and ultimately free rock festival of its time. Held in the boundary of this little town. Those of us right here had no idea this was happening.

My father, who customarily commuted upstate for summer weekends, arrived late at night disheveled. His pin–curly gnarly hair stood straight up in the back, his glasses perched at a disastrous angle on the bridge of his nose, and around his neck his tie hung askew like a tourniquet. He burst into the large bungalow where Mom and I played cards at the kitchen table in the new extension. This came about when a tree fell on top of the living room.

Mom said, Guess we’ll now have a real country kitchen.

Before this accident, we had a tiny kitchen in the back. Mom’s wish was granted: She got her open plan living room that led to a thirty–foot kitchen abutting the lake with floor–to–ceiling windows taken from the former living room exterior wall. She also got her huge deck. The former kitchen was converted into an extra bedroom.

Dad announced, I’m finally home. It took me seven hours to get up here!

Engrossed in our game, we didn’t notice how late he was. He clarified, The highways were packed with hippies.

Hippies? said Mom while mouthing to me, Gin Rummy! She fanned her cards like a peacock spreading its tail.

For that rock festival up at the dairy farm. A Camelot dairy farmer let them use his cornfields. For a price, of course. This is, after all, Septic County. They abandoned their cars all over the place. Thank God I know all the back roads otherwise I’d still be sitting in traffic.

That’s how we found out about this historic event occurring around us. The Great Festival.

Just two weeks earlier, my friends and I drove into that same field late at night yanking ears of corn off the stalks by the handful. Call it typical summer teenage angst. Upon reflection, we got off too easy. No shotguns, no dogs, no police for a change.

Now I knew why.

Chapter Two

Can’t Pick Your Neighbors Nor Their Noses

When it comes to neighbors , I drew the short stick. The adage, tall fences make good neighbors, is true. Also true is: You can pick your nose, but not your neighbors. Lastly, as Mom used to say: You can pick your nose, but not your neighbor’s nose.

Unlike my immediate neighbors and their progeny, my grandparents had class. That was the best trait that they passed down. We may have had similar genetic roots as our neighbors, but it’s in the cultivation. It surpasses education and gelte, money. It also separates me from them.

I have history with Roger and his extended family.

He, as well, is a long–term generational Lake Colitis summer resident. His mother–in–law’s sister was my mom’s friend, his parents knew my grandparents, and he used to tag along with my father and his friends when he was a young boy. Before purchasing the property next door, Roger and his family stayed at his parents’ bungalow at another part of the lake. Until his parents told them to move.

When I decided to make this my permanent home, I had to prep for the brutal winter ahead. Only once did I visit Camelot in January. No one told me that uninsulated cabins in the dead of winter could get so cold. Wind whipped underneath the structures which rested on squat pillars. The floors were frozen solid. The key stuck in the lock. When I tried to remove it, it broke off in my hand. Consider that a $400 lesson.

My first act was to clean moss from the low–hanging roof of the smaller cottage where I planned to stay during those frigid months. The other one, a huge rambling three–bedroom bungalow right off the water with a large deck, would cost too much to winterize. Luckily for me, my houses face Roger’s McMansion. The moment I moved the ladder from underneath the lakefront bungalow, I had his undivided attention.

I was serenaded by his conversation with his wife, Emmy, while dragging my ladder by its rungs to the small cottage. They both suffer from the same high decibel outdoor voice that I used in trading rooms. Which goes to show my talent is more cultural than inheritable.

Emmy, what should I do?

About what, Rog?

I come up here to relax. But how can I, knowing she’s gonna fall?

At the small cottage, I lifted the ladder right side up. Had I even bothered to look at it, I would have detected rusted bolts, broken steps, and splintered side rails that no longer connect to the top cap. Meaning the ladder was broken.

With care, I propped it against the edge of the roof. Except I forgot about the detritus caught between the rungs which fell in my hair. I had let my gnarly, kinky, and curly hair grow to my waist. Like the roach motel, whatever gets caught doesn’t come out, sometimes scaring my hair stylist who lives in an abutting county.

That’s one ungodly hot mess of hair you got, she stated before prying out live beetles, twigs, pine needles, and sundry items like a wrench.

I live in the country, I said in my defense.

We ALL live in the country, she pointed out.

Undeterred by what fell into my hair, I set up for this adventure.

My timing was perfect. Roger and family were on their McMansion’s wraparound deck. I prefer to have people around in the event that I fall, a likelihood considering: (1) the ladder is broken; and (2) I tend to get distracted. Someone has to dial 9–1–1. Just in case.

I do have enormous faith, perhaps misplaced, that they may help.

On the ground, I poured bleach into a bucket filled with water and then dumped a mop into the mess. In one hand I held a sopping wet mop and a rake in the other. Armed, I mounted the ladder. This was no mean feat. I can thank fifteen years of Pilates that taught me how to compensate for balance even though my internal sonar is as dependable as radar over the Bermuda triangle.

Clutching the rungs with my toes, summoning grace and finesse never possessed in order not to topple off the unsteady ladder, I plopped the mop onto the roof. After rubbing back and forth to separate mold from tiles, I then used the rake to rip it off.

Meanwhile, Roger stood on his deck arguing with his adult son. I could