By G. E. Shuman
It is the week after Easter, and as I made my morning coffee today I happened to notice that the outdoor thermometer read 7. That’s right… 7. It didn’t read 47, 37, or even 17. It said, in it’s big bold liquid-crystal numbers, in this case ‘number‘, 7. To me, 7 degrees is a bit cold. Especially for the week after Easter, no matter how early that particular Easter happens to be.
You know how it is. You go to work and hear one co-worker saying to another: “Hi Joe. How cold was it at your house this morning?”
“Oh, it was 7.”
“7? It was about 5 point 5 at my house.” And the degree-splitting conversation goes on from there, but we won‘t follow it. Suffice it to say, if you feel like sufficing something, 7 may be the perfect number, but as far as temperatures go, it is a very low and cold number. It is only a tiny 7 degrees above 0 Fahrenheit, and a whopping 25 degrees below the point when liquid water simply refuses to move, and becomes the frigid stuff encrusting my home, yard and driveway today. I hope that by the time this paper comes out the temperature will have improved some, for your sake and mine.
As I looked out my kitchen window, sipping a mug of that coffee I made two paragraphs ago, what I saw was a six foot high pile of the once beautiful winter-wonderland stuff that I always despise by this time of year. By this date on the calendar, I have long stopped thinking of smiling snowmen, toboggan rides, Rudolph, and sparkly, fluffy flakes gently wafting down onto some majestic country scene or other. Those thoughts have been replaced by ones of early morning windshield scraping, lingering flu symptoms, and visions of filthy cars and dirty, repeatedly thawed and frozen snow banks. As I peered out at the snow that I hope will soon be only a memory, I thought that people who truly love the white stuff must either own snowmobile dealerships or sell ski equipment. To me, especially right now, I have no love for it. In fact, I have no like for it. I stood there, sipping more coffee, listening to the soft rumbling of the blessed, overworked, oil-sucking furnace in my basement. That very moment my flaming fuel was likely enriching the life of some Saudi sheik as it burned an ever bigger hole in my checkbook. I cradled the hot mug in my hands, and mumbled to myself that there just MUST be a better way to keep from freezing in Vermont. (I believe that mumbling to ones self is an acceptable thing to do. I have often been tempted to actually talk to myself, but would probably put my cell phone to my ear if I did, just to not seem weird. I think I would do this even if I were alone.) Anyway, I then mumbled: “Look at all that snow.”
Then: “Look at all that water trapped inside of all that snow. Yes, look at all that H2O.” I’m good at mumbling rhymes, especially early in the morning. And with my rhymes, the mumbling helps a lot. I drank more of my hot flavored H2O as I thought some more. Hum… H2O. Let’s see. I know what that is. It is two atoms of hydrogen, and one atom of oxygen. Every school child knows that. At least every school child from my generation knows it.
I stared through the pane, and the pain, at that huge pile of dirty white ice the other side of my carport. Yes, I thought. H2O… water. I remember learning that hydrogen and oxygen are something else when they are not busy being water. Oh yes. I remember now. They are…um… something known as rocket fuel. That’s right. Liquid hydrogen combined with liquid oxygen will gladly ignite and shove your rocket as far up into the heavens as you like. So there I was, staring out my kitchen window at piles and piles of rocket fuel, as I listened to imported oil being consumed in an increasingly expensive fire, to warm my home.
And now, the billion dollar science lesson. The problem with heating my home, or your home, with the snow pile behind it is that, so far, separating the hydrogen in water from the oxygen requires more energy to do so than can be produced by the resulting separated elements. The secret would be to come up with a way to do it more efficiently. One hint would be to use a bit of the released ‘rocket fuel’ energy to add to the process, and then add more and more as it is produced, until the whole thing becomes self regenerating. Just don’t tell anybody. This seemingly boring stuff is something worth thinking about, as the person who finds the answer will enable our country to advise the sheiks as to just what they can do with their crude and dirty, crude oil, and become rich enough to hire Bill Gates to cut his lawn in the process.
I hope I beat you to finding the secret. I got a start at my seventh grade science fair. My experiment consisted of two test tubes, mounted upside down in a pan of water. Electrodes attached to carbon rods were placed up inside of each of them, and the other ends of the wires connected to one of those big old lantern batteries. What happened, simply enough, was that one test tube soon filled with hydrogen from the water, and the other oxygen, in a process called hydrolysis. That is something different from electrolysis. In hydrolysis you separate hydrogen from oxygen, not whiskers from a hairy chin. (There I go, rhyming again.)
All this convinces me that God has a sense of humor, placing nearly unlimited fuel right under our noses, or behind our carports, as the case may be. Or maybe He has surrounded us with all this energy, in the forms of snow banks, rivers, lakes and even oceans for another reason. Maybe He wants us to have unlimited, nearly free power, but only when we have become knowledgeable enough and mature enough to unlock the secret, and generous enough to freely share it. I wonder all of this as I continue to sip my mug of hot, coffee-flavored rocket fuel.
A quick note regarding my last column. I want to thank J.D. Green of Froggy 100 for the fun radio chat a week or so ago. J.D., I forgot to mention one other point in defense of our quite unappreciated pot holes, and that is this. Has anyone, anywhere, EVER named a sports team after potholes? Even once? Hummm? Oh, sure, other road features get attention. But aren’t pot holes at least as valuable as frost heaves? It’s just food for thought.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Potholes
A Nonfactual History and Guide
By G. E. Shuman
Let us consider the pothole. Yes, the lowly, humble, unappreciated but pesky pothole. Often looked down upon, or down into, the pothole is anything but a new occurrence, and holds a rich place in human history. Neglected and taken for granted, as if they were everywhere, probably because they are, the pothole has become the scourge of vehicle operators and pedestrians everywhere.
Long before the white man, or the black man, or the Asian man settled on our continent, Native Americans related ancient tales of potholes to their children. Over several centuries of northeastern tribal life, the legends grew of the mischievous god Wannatripu, and his efforts as a literal stumbling block, more precisely, a stumbling hole, to the people. The tale is told that Wannatripu would lie in wait, after digging small or not so small holes along the wooded trails of the north. The Indian god would often be heard laughing, as the wind, as someone fell prey to his pranks, stumbling and falling in their journey. To those natives, the pothole was a sign, a reminder that their best efforts in life were in getting back up, and continuing on, after a fall.
Even further back in history, the ancients recognized that destructive, unholy pothole forces were at work, disabling wagons, crippling horses and the like. The Greek term: ‘axelus ruinus’ described the disabling of a chariot by means of a pothole, in only two words. Another term: ’jiggleus posterium’ likewise aptly labeled a common malady of those days, which manifested itself in wood splinters and abrasions in buttocks, due to the friction and jostling of riding over pothole-strewn roadways. In ancient Italy, in the quaint celebration of Pasta’pota’hola‘, large cook pots filled with spaghetti were lowered into wood fired pot holes, for a street-level neighborhood feast eagerly anticipated each spring. It is said that the tradition began after one old Italian citizen successfully maneuvered his horse drawn cart ‘past a pot ahole’a”. How special!
Now, as throughout history, potholes appear in many shapes and sizes. One type, called ‘gentle’ potholes, are simply gradual sloping dips in the roadway. They form from several years of road neglect by a city, and as many years of weather and tire wear. Many such gentle potholes can be found not far from my own home in Barre. Upon close examination, such gradual potholes reveal many layers of old pavement strata in their sandy, crumbling walls. Secondly, there is the famed ‘pothole’s pothole.’ This interesting roadway feature is thought to be caused by so much neglect that a pothole has actually formed INSIDE another pothole. Wow! Another type of pothole, which I refer to here as ‘pothole surprise’ is the very deep, roundish, steep walled type, and filled to the absolute brim with rainwater. In colder weather, this all may even be capped by a nice thin layer of ice, further enhancing the illusion that either there is no pothole there at all, or that the hole is surely not a deep one. What fun! How exciting when, to everyone’s surprise, your car hits one of those holes, jostling you and your passengers, spilling everyone’s coffee in their laps and evoking small screeches of surprise from all the females, and some of the males in the car. At slightly higher speeds, such potholes unleash the extra punch of a flat tire, or even the dreaded bent wheel effect. A further pothole type is simply referred to as a ‘crevasse.‘ This hole in the pavement or gravel road appears approximately the size and shape of The Grand Canyon, when viewed from very close up. It also appears approximately the size and shape of The Grand Canyon, when viewed from far away. One of these potholes just loves to suck in a front tire and direct your car in the direction it deems best, which is never the direction YOU deem best. Try as you might to get out, that little dickens just sucks your car further in, teasing you into calling a tow truck. The last type of pothole I will describe is known more for it’s proliferation, than for it’s size or shape. I call these holes, collectively, the Sea of Tranquility, in reference to the area on the moon of the first Apollo moon landings. As you guide your car around such potholes, you can almost imagine what it was like for those brave astronauts to drive their lunar rover over and around the many craters they encountered. Hats off the the men in brown, like Gerald Papineau, who negotiate the earthly craters each day and still return to the center each night with a smile and a bit of chocolate for their co-workers. Write to me at my blog and I’ll explain why that last sentence is here. Good grief.
So there you have it; a brief, if less than completely accurate history of the lowly pothole, and descriptions of the most common types around. For a first hand look at them in real life, some great viewing can be enjoyed right on north Main Street in Barre City. Just get in your car and follow the road past the Allen Lumber, Cumberland Farms, North End Deli Mart area, for the ride of your life!
By G. E. Shuman
Let us consider the pothole. Yes, the lowly, humble, unappreciated but pesky pothole. Often looked down upon, or down into, the pothole is anything but a new occurrence, and holds a rich place in human history. Neglected and taken for granted, as if they were everywhere, probably because they are, the pothole has become the scourge of vehicle operators and pedestrians everywhere.
Long before the white man, or the black man, or the Asian man settled on our continent, Native Americans related ancient tales of potholes to their children. Over several centuries of northeastern tribal life, the legends grew of the mischievous god Wannatripu, and his efforts as a literal stumbling block, more precisely, a stumbling hole, to the people. The tale is told that Wannatripu would lie in wait, after digging small or not so small holes along the wooded trails of the north. The Indian god would often be heard laughing, as the wind, as someone fell prey to his pranks, stumbling and falling in their journey. To those natives, the pothole was a sign, a reminder that their best efforts in life were in getting back up, and continuing on, after a fall.
Even further back in history, the ancients recognized that destructive, unholy pothole forces were at work, disabling wagons, crippling horses and the like. The Greek term: ‘axelus ruinus’ described the disabling of a chariot by means of a pothole, in only two words. Another term: ’jiggleus posterium’ likewise aptly labeled a common malady of those days, which manifested itself in wood splinters and abrasions in buttocks, due to the friction and jostling of riding over pothole-strewn roadways. In ancient Italy, in the quaint celebration of Pasta’pota’hola‘, large cook pots filled with spaghetti were lowered into wood fired pot holes, for a street-level neighborhood feast eagerly anticipated each spring. It is said that the tradition began after one old Italian citizen successfully maneuvered his horse drawn cart ‘past a pot ahole’a”. How special!
Now, as throughout history, potholes appear in many shapes and sizes. One type, called ‘gentle’ potholes, are simply gradual sloping dips in the roadway. They form from several years of road neglect by a city, and as many years of weather and tire wear. Many such gentle potholes can be found not far from my own home in Barre. Upon close examination, such gradual potholes reveal many layers of old pavement strata in their sandy, crumbling walls. Secondly, there is the famed ‘pothole’s pothole.’ This interesting roadway feature is thought to be caused by so much neglect that a pothole has actually formed INSIDE another pothole. Wow! Another type of pothole, which I refer to here as ‘pothole surprise’ is the very deep, roundish, steep walled type, and filled to the absolute brim with rainwater. In colder weather, this all may even be capped by a nice thin layer of ice, further enhancing the illusion that either there is no pothole there at all, or that the hole is surely not a deep one. What fun! How exciting when, to everyone’s surprise, your car hits one of those holes, jostling you and your passengers, spilling everyone’s coffee in their laps and evoking small screeches of surprise from all the females, and some of the males in the car. At slightly higher speeds, such potholes unleash the extra punch of a flat tire, or even the dreaded bent wheel effect. A further pothole type is simply referred to as a ‘crevasse.‘ This hole in the pavement or gravel road appears approximately the size and shape of The Grand Canyon, when viewed from very close up. It also appears approximately the size and shape of The Grand Canyon, when viewed from far away. One of these potholes just loves to suck in a front tire and direct your car in the direction it deems best, which is never the direction YOU deem best. Try as you might to get out, that little dickens just sucks your car further in, teasing you into calling a tow truck. The last type of pothole I will describe is known more for it’s proliferation, than for it’s size or shape. I call these holes, collectively, the Sea of Tranquility, in reference to the area on the moon of the first Apollo moon landings. As you guide your car around such potholes, you can almost imagine what it was like for those brave astronauts to drive their lunar rover over and around the many craters they encountered. Hats off the the men in brown, like Gerald Papineau, who negotiate the earthly craters each day and still return to the center each night with a smile and a bit of chocolate for their co-workers. Write to me at my blog and I’ll explain why that last sentence is here. Good grief.
So there you have it; a brief, if less than completely accurate history of the lowly pothole, and descriptions of the most common types around. For a first hand look at them in real life, some great viewing can be enjoyed right on north Main Street in Barre City. Just get in your car and follow the road past the Allen Lumber, Cumberland Farms, North End Deli Mart area, for the ride of your life!
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Miracle At Guangzhou
By G. E. Shuman
“An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.” -- An ancient Chinese belief.
It is difficult, if not impossible, for some things… some feelings, to be explained by a person who has experienced those things or feelings, to someone who simply has not. You cannot effectively describe a sunset to a blind man, or the music of a symphony to a deaf person. I think it is likely the same case with the personal experience of a miracle, or at least of certain miracles. If you are the one experiencing it, you simply know it, and are in awe of the power of it all. You are at once thankful to God, and full to the brim with gratitude and wonder. If you are not ‘inside’ the experience of a miracle, or are one who does not believe in miracles, no amount of words of explanation can ever convince you or affect you.
To me, the arrival of a baby into a family is a miracle. Just think about it. For many months a couple is quite aware that the baby is coming, but they really don’t know that little person at all. After all, they have never actually met. Planning, waiting, and more planning happen during this time, but all of it in anticipation of the arrival of one tiny stranger. I believe that life itself is a huge miracle. I believe that the transformation of the tiny stranger into a simply irreplaceable, permanent family member, which either parent would sacrifice their own life for, may be a bigger miracle yet. This miracle, at least in my own experience, happens about one half of a millisecond after that baby is placed into the parents arms.
Oh. I’m sorry. I’ve probably given you the impression here that I’ve been writing about the birth of a baby. Well, that is one way for a child to enter the life of a family. But it is not the only way. As I write these words, and likely, as you read them, my daughter Chrissy and her husband Adam are in Guangzhou China, and right smack in the middle of their own, personal, family miracle. They are, at this very moment, getting to know their new daughter, MY new granddaughter, Sofia. And yes, it is a miracle. If you have never experienced the blessings of adoption you may not understand. As the father of two wonderful adopted children, I do. I know all about that invisible red thread, which led my wonderful daughter and her loving husband, at great sacrifice, to journey to the other side of the world, to find this little one whom they were destined to meet. But you may not believe in such things at all. In fact, if you wanted, you could even try to tell Chrissy and Adam that Sofi’s entrance into their lives was not a miracle, or not something that was ‘meant to be.’ Just don’t plan on getting very far with that.
I might suggest, that, if you happen to be a couple even contemplating the idea of adoption, there may be a very good reason for that contemplation. A member of your family might be waiting to meet you, right now.
“An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.” -- An ancient Chinese belief.
It is difficult, if not impossible, for some things… some feelings, to be explained by a person who has experienced those things or feelings, to someone who simply has not. You cannot effectively describe a sunset to a blind man, or the music of a symphony to a deaf person. I think it is likely the same case with the personal experience of a miracle, or at least of certain miracles. If you are the one experiencing it, you simply know it, and are in awe of the power of it all. You are at once thankful to God, and full to the brim with gratitude and wonder. If you are not ‘inside’ the experience of a miracle, or are one who does not believe in miracles, no amount of words of explanation can ever convince you or affect you.
To me, the arrival of a baby into a family is a miracle. Just think about it. For many months a couple is quite aware that the baby is coming, but they really don’t know that little person at all. After all, they have never actually met. Planning, waiting, and more planning happen during this time, but all of it in anticipation of the arrival of one tiny stranger. I believe that life itself is a huge miracle. I believe that the transformation of the tiny stranger into a simply irreplaceable, permanent family member, which either parent would sacrifice their own life for, may be a bigger miracle yet. This miracle, at least in my own experience, happens about one half of a millisecond after that baby is placed into the parents arms.
Oh. I’m sorry. I’ve probably given you the impression here that I’ve been writing about the birth of a baby. Well, that is one way for a child to enter the life of a family. But it is not the only way. As I write these words, and likely, as you read them, my daughter Chrissy and her husband Adam are in Guangzhou China, and right smack in the middle of their own, personal, family miracle. They are, at this very moment, getting to know their new daughter, MY new granddaughter, Sofia. And yes, it is a miracle. If you have never experienced the blessings of adoption you may not understand. As the father of two wonderful adopted children, I do. I know all about that invisible red thread, which led my wonderful daughter and her loving husband, at great sacrifice, to journey to the other side of the world, to find this little one whom they were destined to meet. But you may not believe in such things at all. In fact, if you wanted, you could even try to tell Chrissy and Adam that Sofi’s entrance into their lives was not a miracle, or not something that was ‘meant to be.’ Just don’t plan on getting very far with that.
I might suggest, that, if you happen to be a couple even contemplating the idea of adoption, there may be a very good reason for that contemplation. A member of your family might be waiting to meet you, right now.
In The Line
By G. E. Shuman
When you read this it will have been a few weeks since my family and I returned from our summer vacation in Florida. That’s right… I said our summer vacation… in Florida. And yes, you guessed it. It was hot down there. In fact, it was very hot, and very humid down there. Most people from the north, as you know, travel south in the winter. Our family freezes in Vermont in the winter, and travels south in the summer. I guess we’re just used to taking vacations in the summer, when it’s ‘warm‘. Don’t try to understand it. You will just hurt yourself.
On this particular trip to the sunshine (and sweat) state, we didn’t visit relatives, or even the big mouse. We spent the week in the Orlando area, but this time did the Universal Studios “thing”. The parks were great, the hotel was wonderful, and the lines for the Universal rides and shows were long. Some of them were very long. I never knew so many other families enjoyed standing in line with us. But they must have, as we kept seeing the same people over and over again. This was, in great part, due to the fact that neither we nor those other, eventually familiar people, had much choice, once in line. At each ride, we all blended into one vast, painfully-slow, sweaty, serpentine life form, slinking down and around another nearly endless roped off pathway. (Wow, that last sentence was depressing, but it’s too late now.) Anyway, the idea is that you can’t avoid glances at and from the same faces over and over again, as you round those countless corners at a snail’s pace.
I started wondering, during one such in-line excursion, what in the world all of us were doing there. There we were, total strangers, spending many hours and many dollars together. There we stood, in the summer heat, looking at each other and shuffling along the way, toward the end of that line, and the excitement at that end. Do you know that people come in nearly endless shapes, sizes, colors, ages and temperaments? They do in those long amusement park lines. Yes, we were all very different, but in one certain way we were all alike. We were there to enjoy the ride at the end, and to share that experience with the loved ones we brought with us. I almost laughed as I observed, over and over again, some damp-browed older guy, and then another and another, all forcing smiles, searching for any available shade, and tolerating those lines, all for the sake of the kids standing with them.
It is easy to spot things like similarities and differences in people, especially if you have all day to do it. And believe me, I had all day, for several days, to do it. I actually, eventually, found that aspect of our waiting times very interesting. Some fellow line-sharers would just stand there in silence, as if trying to sweat less or take an upright momentary nap. Some others seemed to be making the best they could of the situation, passing the time listening to music devices or talking on their phone. Kids, as always, darted back and forth under the railings and ropes, in anxious anticipation of what was to come. Here I need to tell you about one man in particular, who attracted much attention and actually made one of those lines more tolerable for some others of us. The man stood just behind my family, with his, and danced to the music coming from speakers all around us. He didn’t just dance, he danced well. And he kept on dancing, to the point that I wondered if he would stop at the end of the line. He danced, undeterred by the many eyes on him, or the changing music and moving line. He just danced, and danced, and danced in place. He did so quietly, with eyes closed and a big smile, actually enjoying the experience of the line.
I began to see that those long lines are a lot like life. If you think about it, we are all in a line, waiting, consciously or not, for the end. Some of us barely tolerate the experience, just trying to sweat less, and perhaps taking an occasional upright nap. We round each new corner with the same grumpy attitude as we did the last. I noticed in line, and might notice in life that those folks are pretty much pushed along to the end. Many in line would probably allow themselves to be carried by the others completely, if possible. Many in life, do. Others in line, and in life, do better, trying hard to do their part, always occupying their time, smiling through the trials and the heat, in great efforts to give the best experiences and the best possible memories to their families. But then there are the few who dance through the lines of life, figuratively, and sometimes, literally. We all know people like that. I happen, thankfully, to be married to such a person. They share the same trials and discomforts as all the others, but you would never know it. They too, surely get hot, and their feet must ache at times. But they still smile and enjoy the music, refusing to waste a moment of their time in line… in life, and they dance. In doing so, they make the time more tolerable, more enjoyable for the rest of us.
In one line at the park I rounded another corner, and caught a glimpse of one more damp-browed older guy, forcing a smile, searching for any available shade, and tolerating the line, all for the sake of the kids standing with him. He looked back at me, from that mirror I was looking into, and I realized how much I could learn from the other man, who danced.
When you read this it will have been a few weeks since my family and I returned from our summer vacation in Florida. That’s right… I said our summer vacation… in Florida. And yes, you guessed it. It was hot down there. In fact, it was very hot, and very humid down there. Most people from the north, as you know, travel south in the winter. Our family freezes in Vermont in the winter, and travels south in the summer. I guess we’re just used to taking vacations in the summer, when it’s ‘warm‘. Don’t try to understand it. You will just hurt yourself.
On this particular trip to the sunshine (and sweat) state, we didn’t visit relatives, or even the big mouse. We spent the week in the Orlando area, but this time did the Universal Studios “thing”. The parks were great, the hotel was wonderful, and the lines for the Universal rides and shows were long. Some of them were very long. I never knew so many other families enjoyed standing in line with us. But they must have, as we kept seeing the same people over and over again. This was, in great part, due to the fact that neither we nor those other, eventually familiar people, had much choice, once in line. At each ride, we all blended into one vast, painfully-slow, sweaty, serpentine life form, slinking down and around another nearly endless roped off pathway. (Wow, that last sentence was depressing, but it’s too late now.) Anyway, the idea is that you can’t avoid glances at and from the same faces over and over again, as you round those countless corners at a snail’s pace.
I started wondering, during one such in-line excursion, what in the world all of us were doing there. There we were, total strangers, spending many hours and many dollars together. There we stood, in the summer heat, looking at each other and shuffling along the way, toward the end of that line, and the excitement at that end. Do you know that people come in nearly endless shapes, sizes, colors, ages and temperaments? They do in those long amusement park lines. Yes, we were all very different, but in one certain way we were all alike. We were there to enjoy the ride at the end, and to share that experience with the loved ones we brought with us. I almost laughed as I observed, over and over again, some damp-browed older guy, and then another and another, all forcing smiles, searching for any available shade, and tolerating those lines, all for the sake of the kids standing with them.
It is easy to spot things like similarities and differences in people, especially if you have all day to do it. And believe me, I had all day, for several days, to do it. I actually, eventually, found that aspect of our waiting times very interesting. Some fellow line-sharers would just stand there in silence, as if trying to sweat less or take an upright momentary nap. Some others seemed to be making the best they could of the situation, passing the time listening to music devices or talking on their phone. Kids, as always, darted back and forth under the railings and ropes, in anxious anticipation of what was to come. Here I need to tell you about one man in particular, who attracted much attention and actually made one of those lines more tolerable for some others of us. The man stood just behind my family, with his, and danced to the music coming from speakers all around us. He didn’t just dance, he danced well. And he kept on dancing, to the point that I wondered if he would stop at the end of the line. He danced, undeterred by the many eyes on him, or the changing music and moving line. He just danced, and danced, and danced in place. He did so quietly, with eyes closed and a big smile, actually enjoying the experience of the line.
I began to see that those long lines are a lot like life. If you think about it, we are all in a line, waiting, consciously or not, for the end. Some of us barely tolerate the experience, just trying to sweat less, and perhaps taking an occasional upright nap. We round each new corner with the same grumpy attitude as we did the last. I noticed in line, and might notice in life that those folks are pretty much pushed along to the end. Many in line would probably allow themselves to be carried by the others completely, if possible. Many in life, do. Others in line, and in life, do better, trying hard to do their part, always occupying their time, smiling through the trials and the heat, in great efforts to give the best experiences and the best possible memories to their families. But then there are the few who dance through the lines of life, figuratively, and sometimes, literally. We all know people like that. I happen, thankfully, to be married to such a person. They share the same trials and discomforts as all the others, but you would never know it. They too, surely get hot, and their feet must ache at times. But they still smile and enjoy the music, refusing to waste a moment of their time in line… in life, and they dance. In doing so, they make the time more tolerable, more enjoyable for the rest of us.
In one line at the park I rounded another corner, and caught a glimpse of one more damp-browed older guy, forcing a smile, searching for any available shade, and tolerating the line, all for the sake of the kids standing with him. He looked back at me, from that mirror I was looking into, and I realized how much I could learn from the other man, who danced.
George’s Diet
By G. E. Shuman
Well, here we are, all the way past February already. Valentine’s Day is only a recent memory, and New Year’s Day, along with it’s many painful resolutions, seems in the distant past. For most of us, as each day comes and goes, we think less and less of those resolutions, and hope to soon forget them completely. How convenient, that memory is such a fleeting thing sometimes.
For some reason, dieting and exercise resolutions are the most common ones to make, and also the rarest ones to be kept. In my humble opinion, there is something slightly sinister about pushing chocolate kisses and other candy on us for the 14th of February. I have a sneaking suspicion that the people who make diet pills and treadmills all own stock in the Hershey Chocolate Company.
Anyway, if you are one of the many who have fallen off the diet-resolution wagon already, be of good cheer! I have great news for you! The truth is I have discovered a diet plan which I am certain you can take to heart and follow. (If I can do it, YOU can do it!) It is one which will satisfy your cravings, (at least those related to hunger,) provide all the nutrients your body can handle, so to speak, and still allow you to lead a very comfortable life.
Let’s start right there, with the comfort component of a diet. After all, might that not be the answer to dieting in the first place? People who are comfortable, again in my humble opinion, probably live longer than people who are uncomfortable. Therefore, following that logic, comfort foods probably provide for that longevity. Are you with me? Remember also that the ultimate comfort food was invented long before your time or mine, and that food is meatloaf. Yes, meatloaf. And I’m not talking about the rock star, although these days he is looking more and more like his namesake. It is true that comfort foods might not make you skinny, but skinny people just can’t be comfortable anyway. At least they never look like they are. Have you ever watched a skinny person trying to sit still on the bleachers at a basketball game? I rest my case.
Next, the world would have us to believe that we are what we eat. All of us have heard that saying. If this idea is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, we should avoid things which are round, thereby reducing the chances that we, also, will become round. So, what foods should we avoid? Here’s a hint. Have you ever taken a close look at fruits and vegetables? Tell me one thing that most of them have in common, other than for the obvious string bean exception. Exactly! It is their round shape that they have in common. It is a certainty that no one in my family would like to have the shape of many members of the vegetable or fruit families, although some of us seem to be on our way there. Think of the poor, fat, totally round orange. Then imagine how the tomato would feel about itself, if a tomato could feel, with its absolutely rotund appearance. And how about the apple, pear and cantaloupe? We have all known pear-shaped people, but who of us has wished to be shaped like them? Pineapples, grapes and potatoes are all said to possess nutrients and vitamins we need, but who would want to resemble any one of those either?
I said all that to introduce my diet idea. You see, my theory is that, if we truly are what we eat, we all should eat ‘thin’ things. (My diet assumes that we wish to be thin, although I‘m not sure why we do. Remember the bleacher seats?) With ’thin’ in mind, it is easy to see that the BLT sandwich just has to be the perfect food. It is my favorite sandwich, and this fact, likely, is because of all of it’s health benefits. Think about this: The humble BLT provides nearly everything the human body requires. It has ‘thin’ meat protein, (the bacon, obviously,) ‘thin’ vegetables, (the lettuce), and ‘thin’ fruit, (the slices of tomato.) It also throws in an extra, healthy side of ‘thin’ grains, (the bread.) Finally, a BLT wouldn’t really BE a BLT without mayonnaise. And mayonnaise is almost a perfect food in itself. Mayonnaise is a dairy product, or, it at least looks like one. It is, in fact, almost exactly the same color as my powdered coffee creamer, so that is close enough for me. It also has eggs in it, and this year eggs are good for you. Right? My studies have shown that the very most healthy sandwich we could eat would be a BLT with EXTRA mayo. Now, since we have come this far, why not go all the way in assuring that this is a healthful meal? Just add a generous side order of fries to your sandwich to do this. These are ‘thin’ potatoes, which we have already established is the best shape for a potato to have. (Most of this should be easily understood by now. It is all in the preparation of the foods. For example, the very thinnest potatoes, therefore the best ones for you, would be potato chips. And, for years, all the goodness of those round little kernels of corn has been readily available in the humble, triangular-shaped and wonderfully thin Dorito. Thinly sliced apples should be consumed in the form of apple pie, etc.) Helpful hint: Ask that your fries be cooked in pure animal fat. Your fries will not only taste great this way, it should be obvious to all that for an animal to have become fat it must have lived a long and comfortable life. Remember that important comfort component to food. Top those fries off with the world’s most plentiful and most unappreciated mineral supplement around, (common table salt,) and you have what I would consider to be the perfect meal!
In closing, just remember that thin foods will keep you comfortable, and round foods will keep you round. Bacon, potato chips, and cheese and crackers are our friends. And don’t forget breakfast, the most important meal of the day! Get yourself a big helping of that crispy bacon, or some fried sliced ham, a plateful of thin home fries, and a big stack of wafer-thin pancakes! Yummy!
By now, many of you are thinking that I must be joking. Well, you figured me out. I actually hate pancakes.
Well, here we are, all the way past February already. Valentine’s Day is only a recent memory, and New Year’s Day, along with it’s many painful resolutions, seems in the distant past. For most of us, as each day comes and goes, we think less and less of those resolutions, and hope to soon forget them completely. How convenient, that memory is such a fleeting thing sometimes.
For some reason, dieting and exercise resolutions are the most common ones to make, and also the rarest ones to be kept. In my humble opinion, there is something slightly sinister about pushing chocolate kisses and other candy on us for the 14th of February. I have a sneaking suspicion that the people who make diet pills and treadmills all own stock in the Hershey Chocolate Company.
Anyway, if you are one of the many who have fallen off the diet-resolution wagon already, be of good cheer! I have great news for you! The truth is I have discovered a diet plan which I am certain you can take to heart and follow. (If I can do it, YOU can do it!) It is one which will satisfy your cravings, (at least those related to hunger,) provide all the nutrients your body can handle, so to speak, and still allow you to lead a very comfortable life.
Let’s start right there, with the comfort component of a diet. After all, might that not be the answer to dieting in the first place? People who are comfortable, again in my humble opinion, probably live longer than people who are uncomfortable. Therefore, following that logic, comfort foods probably provide for that longevity. Are you with me? Remember also that the ultimate comfort food was invented long before your time or mine, and that food is meatloaf. Yes, meatloaf. And I’m not talking about the rock star, although these days he is looking more and more like his namesake. It is true that comfort foods might not make you skinny, but skinny people just can’t be comfortable anyway. At least they never look like they are. Have you ever watched a skinny person trying to sit still on the bleachers at a basketball game? I rest my case.
Next, the world would have us to believe that we are what we eat. All of us have heard that saying. If this idea is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, we should avoid things which are round, thereby reducing the chances that we, also, will become round. So, what foods should we avoid? Here’s a hint. Have you ever taken a close look at fruits and vegetables? Tell me one thing that most of them have in common, other than for the obvious string bean exception. Exactly! It is their round shape that they have in common. It is a certainty that no one in my family would like to have the shape of many members of the vegetable or fruit families, although some of us seem to be on our way there. Think of the poor, fat, totally round orange. Then imagine how the tomato would feel about itself, if a tomato could feel, with its absolutely rotund appearance. And how about the apple, pear and cantaloupe? We have all known pear-shaped people, but who of us has wished to be shaped like them? Pineapples, grapes and potatoes are all said to possess nutrients and vitamins we need, but who would want to resemble any one of those either?
I said all that to introduce my diet idea. You see, my theory is that, if we truly are what we eat, we all should eat ‘thin’ things. (My diet assumes that we wish to be thin, although I‘m not sure why we do. Remember the bleacher seats?) With ’thin’ in mind, it is easy to see that the BLT sandwich just has to be the perfect food. It is my favorite sandwich, and this fact, likely, is because of all of it’s health benefits. Think about this: The humble BLT provides nearly everything the human body requires. It has ‘thin’ meat protein, (the bacon, obviously,) ‘thin’ vegetables, (the lettuce), and ‘thin’ fruit, (the slices of tomato.) It also throws in an extra, healthy side of ‘thin’ grains, (the bread.) Finally, a BLT wouldn’t really BE a BLT without mayonnaise. And mayonnaise is almost a perfect food in itself. Mayonnaise is a dairy product, or, it at least looks like one. It is, in fact, almost exactly the same color as my powdered coffee creamer, so that is close enough for me. It also has eggs in it, and this year eggs are good for you. Right? My studies have shown that the very most healthy sandwich we could eat would be a BLT with EXTRA mayo. Now, since we have come this far, why not go all the way in assuring that this is a healthful meal? Just add a generous side order of fries to your sandwich to do this. These are ‘thin’ potatoes, which we have already established is the best shape for a potato to have. (Most of this should be easily understood by now. It is all in the preparation of the foods. For example, the very thinnest potatoes, therefore the best ones for you, would be potato chips. And, for years, all the goodness of those round little kernels of corn has been readily available in the humble, triangular-shaped and wonderfully thin Dorito. Thinly sliced apples should be consumed in the form of apple pie, etc.) Helpful hint: Ask that your fries be cooked in pure animal fat. Your fries will not only taste great this way, it should be obvious to all that for an animal to have become fat it must have lived a long and comfortable life. Remember that important comfort component to food. Top those fries off with the world’s most plentiful and most unappreciated mineral supplement around, (common table salt,) and you have what I would consider to be the perfect meal!
In closing, just remember that thin foods will keep you comfortable, and round foods will keep you round. Bacon, potato chips, and cheese and crackers are our friends. And don’t forget breakfast, the most important meal of the day! Get yourself a big helping of that crispy bacon, or some fried sliced ham, a plateful of thin home fries, and a big stack of wafer-thin pancakes! Yummy!
By now, many of you are thinking that I must be joking. Well, you figured me out. I actually hate pancakes.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Getting Through The Flu
By G. E. Shuman
It’s evening, and I’m sick, on this late February night, and tired. In fact, much of my family has been sick, and tired, lately. At this point we are all quite sick and tired of being sick, and tired. Without whining too much, let me tell you a bit about it. My wife Lorna is now well into her third week of the toughest flu she has ever had. My son missed an important playoff basketball game last Saturday, and I missed work yesterday, all because of a miserable fever, caused by some bug we seem to be passing around. Our daughter Emily was the only healthy one among us, until tonight. She now has a fever too. I hope that soon fades, as she is supposed to perform in a big ice skating show this coming Sunday evening. That would be difficult to do, or even to watch, with a fever. By the time you read this, that show will be over, and Emily will either be healthily back in school, or recuperating here on the couch, as the rest of us have had to do. There, that’s all the whining I’m going to do. Other than to add that after being watched by us for a few days, more than a week ago, three of our young grandchildren are spending this week, at Disney World… you guessed it… with fevers. By tonight both of their parents probably want to kill us, and the way I’m feeling right now, that might not be so bad a thing to happen. By the time you read this they will be home and may have already done us in. Okay, now I’m REALLY finished whining.
I’m sure that our family’s February sickness story is similar to your own. No, you likely have not succeeded in spreading the Vermont flu bug to hundreds of kids visiting Mickey Mouse and then boarding airplanes, encouraging the wonderful little flu germs to literally propagate on the planes and around the globe. (Just like Disney, when we do something, we do it big.) But I would wager that your family has not found itself immune to the junk going around right now. Odds are that at least one person at your house is experiencing either tissue issues or toilet trouble, not to be too graphic. Perhaps they are experiencing both. If so, the rest of your family soon will be doing the same. Sorry.
What I want to say now may be cold comfort to those of you with coughs and fevers, wondering how you will get to work tomorrow and when and if you will actually feel better. But I want to tell you about it anyway. I found myself, just yesterday, mumbling several times, aloud or in my head, (It’s hard to know which when your head is stuffed.) the rhetorical question: “ Why isn’t anything ever easy?“ One of those times of mumbling was when I spilled the sugar while fixing a cup of coffee, another was having to answer the phone several times while trying to take a nap. When you have the flu even small things can be very annoying. You know what I mean.
The point that I am finally getting to, is that I have realized, after fifty three years of living, that perhaps I should stop looking for things to be easy. Maybe this thing we call our life isn’t SUPPOSED to be easy. ’Light dawns on marble head.’ Our daughter Cathy is near the end of a very difficult and somewhat dangerous pregnancy. My family has the flu. The snow seems to never stop. The thermometer keeps going down, and oil prices keep going up. Your family has the flu too, and other problems that are as big to you as ours are to us. I have said for years that gratitude is the best therapy. That being so, how would we know to be grateful for the good times, if there were no difficult ones? How could we appreciate good health, if we never experienced anything else? (I’m about to go off on a rabbit trail here, but I’m sick, so live with it.) When I feel good, I love eating food with a little, or a little more than a little hot sauce. I like it on everything from omelets to hotdogs. You know, that stuff actually burns a bit on the way down. It is more difficult to swallow than oatmeal, and is certainly not as good for you, but it is also much more interesting than oatmeal. Challenging days are also more difficult to swallow than uneventful ones. You can feel some of them burn all the way down, too. Hard times try our emotions, and our faith. But without them, how would our faith ever be strengthened? Without sadness, how could we understand joy? I believe that the experience of adversity hones the edge of gratitude for our blessings. Hey, that’s pretty good. I just made that up.
So, drink plenty of liquids, stay warm, and think of the flowers of spring. All this snow will make you appreciate them more when they come. Remember, it’s not supposed to be easy.
It’s evening, and I’m sick, on this late February night, and tired. In fact, much of my family has been sick, and tired, lately. At this point we are all quite sick and tired of being sick, and tired. Without whining too much, let me tell you a bit about it. My wife Lorna is now well into her third week of the toughest flu she has ever had. My son missed an important playoff basketball game last Saturday, and I missed work yesterday, all because of a miserable fever, caused by some bug we seem to be passing around. Our daughter Emily was the only healthy one among us, until tonight. She now has a fever too. I hope that soon fades, as she is supposed to perform in a big ice skating show this coming Sunday evening. That would be difficult to do, or even to watch, with a fever. By the time you read this, that show will be over, and Emily will either be healthily back in school, or recuperating here on the couch, as the rest of us have had to do. There, that’s all the whining I’m going to do. Other than to add that after being watched by us for a few days, more than a week ago, three of our young grandchildren are spending this week, at Disney World… you guessed it… with fevers. By tonight both of their parents probably want to kill us, and the way I’m feeling right now, that might not be so bad a thing to happen. By the time you read this they will be home and may have already done us in. Okay, now I’m REALLY finished whining.
I’m sure that our family’s February sickness story is similar to your own. No, you likely have not succeeded in spreading the Vermont flu bug to hundreds of kids visiting Mickey Mouse and then boarding airplanes, encouraging the wonderful little flu germs to literally propagate on the planes and around the globe. (Just like Disney, when we do something, we do it big.) But I would wager that your family has not found itself immune to the junk going around right now. Odds are that at least one person at your house is experiencing either tissue issues or toilet trouble, not to be too graphic. Perhaps they are experiencing both. If so, the rest of your family soon will be doing the same. Sorry.
What I want to say now may be cold comfort to those of you with coughs and fevers, wondering how you will get to work tomorrow and when and if you will actually feel better. But I want to tell you about it anyway. I found myself, just yesterday, mumbling several times, aloud or in my head, (It’s hard to know which when your head is stuffed.) the rhetorical question: “ Why isn’t anything ever easy?“ One of those times of mumbling was when I spilled the sugar while fixing a cup of coffee, another was having to answer the phone several times while trying to take a nap. When you have the flu even small things can be very annoying. You know what I mean.
The point that I am finally getting to, is that I have realized, after fifty three years of living, that perhaps I should stop looking for things to be easy. Maybe this thing we call our life isn’t SUPPOSED to be easy. ’Light dawns on marble head.’ Our daughter Cathy is near the end of a very difficult and somewhat dangerous pregnancy. My family has the flu. The snow seems to never stop. The thermometer keeps going down, and oil prices keep going up. Your family has the flu too, and other problems that are as big to you as ours are to us. I have said for years that gratitude is the best therapy. That being so, how would we know to be grateful for the good times, if there were no difficult ones? How could we appreciate good health, if we never experienced anything else? (I’m about to go off on a rabbit trail here, but I’m sick, so live with it.) When I feel good, I love eating food with a little, or a little more than a little hot sauce. I like it on everything from omelets to hotdogs. You know, that stuff actually burns a bit on the way down. It is more difficult to swallow than oatmeal, and is certainly not as good for you, but it is also much more interesting than oatmeal. Challenging days are also more difficult to swallow than uneventful ones. You can feel some of them burn all the way down, too. Hard times try our emotions, and our faith. But without them, how would our faith ever be strengthened? Without sadness, how could we understand joy? I believe that the experience of adversity hones the edge of gratitude for our blessings. Hey, that’s pretty good. I just made that up.
So, drink plenty of liquids, stay warm, and think of the flowers of spring. All this snow will make you appreciate them more when they come. Remember, it’s not supposed to be easy.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
The #2 Pencil
The #2 Pencil
By G. E. Shuman
I remember, back in the ‘olden days’ when I was in grade school, say a hundred years or so ago, that there was something special, something almost sacred, about a number 2 pencil. Yes, a number 2 pencil. That, at least, was how it seemed to me at such an early age, from the way our teachers regarded them. I remember hearing at the beginning of many of those school years, of the importance of coming to school prepared to learn, and armed with several well-sharpened number 2 pencils. This was a theme repeated to us often throughout each year. I was never quite sure about our teachers’ affection for those particular pencils. Did the prim and proper way-too-up-tight school ladies of my time simply adore the number 2? Was it that if you were number 2 you actually did try harder? Was a number 2 pencil mark easier to erase? Was it easier to solve math problems with a number 2? Was I over-thinking this?
Not until several years into my decidedly small-town education did I learn that the 2 on a pencil referred to the hardness, or lack of hardness, of the lead of the pencil. Which, I learned several years later, was actually clay or something, and not lead at all, as we had always been told. (What other lies did those teachers of old tell us so many years ago? One I can think of was when my first grade teacher, Mrs. Jones, would go out for one of her frequent, brief, very important ‘conferences‘ with the teacher in the next classroom. She told us there were holes in the walls that she could see through, so we had better behave while she was gone. I wondered where those holes were, and why she always came back smelling like cigarettes after one of those conferences. That‘s a true story. I dare to tell it now because Mrs. Jones will no longer care. She was old when I was a child, and must have died from conference-induced lung cancer long ago.) Anyway, back to pencils. The number 2 actually meant that the pencil would write a nice dark line, unlike a number 1 pencil, the un-lead of which tended to be as hard as Mrs. Jones‘ ruler, and also hard to read.
Over those early years I learned a lot about the humble pencil. Even more than what the number printed on it meant. I learned that I liked the scent of freshly ground wood pencil shavings. (That must have been the outdoorsman in me.) I also learned how to balance a pencil on my finger, on another pencil, or on my nose. (I should have gone out for gymnastics.) The nose trick can get you into trouble in history class. I learned that chewing on a pencil made it yours, as much as a monogram on the pencil would have. No one else had your exact teeth marks, and no one wanted to steal your pencil after it had been in your mouth awhile. I learned then that if you borrow a pencil that had no teeth marks on it, don’t return it WITH teeth marks on it if the guy you borrowed it from is bigger than you. Likewise, if it already had teeth marks when you borrowed it, don’t add more of your own. You can catch something that way. I also learned that if you stick a freshly sharpened number 2 pencil into your or someone else’s upper leg, by accident or otherwise, there will be a non-lead dot of a tattoo there for years. Besides these valuable things, I learned that pencils can also be used to write with, draw with, and even mark measurements with, as carpenters do. (Has anyone learned yet any good reason why I am writing tonight about pencils? If so, I wish someone would tell me.)
I continued to learn much more about pencils. I learned that there were good erasers on some pencil ends, and ones that would just make a black smudge on your paper, boldly showing off your stupid mistakes, on others. I learned that those bubble gum-colored and similarly textured pencil ends taste exactly nothing like bubble gum. I learned how to hold a pencil by one end, wave it up and down in front of me, and make it appear to be as rubbery as those non-bubble gum ends are. (Don’t do this in class either.) I learned that even something as light as a little number 2 pencil can make your hand ache if you have done too many math problems with it, and that some days, too many math problems was not very many. Especially if the back of your hand had just had a run in with Mrs. Jones’ ruler. (I was in first grade a long time ago.) And I, unlike probably any other kid in my school, spent more than one study hall pondering how in the world they got those non-lead leads INTO pencils. I wondered why they bothered to do that at all, instead of just giving us slender chunks of non-lead to write with.
A pencil is a funny and ponderous thing. (Yes, I know I’m crazy. But I‘m not the one reading all of this.) A pencil starts out bright, and smooth-skinned, but as blunt and dull as anything can be. To be used, it needs to be made sharp, and ready for the task. It needs an educated shaping. A pencil’s hidden ability must be exposed, whittled away, and re-whittled, refreshed, renewed, from time to time. If it is allowed to once more become dull, it will be simply that… dull. It must remain sharp. In all of this, throughout the ‘life’ of a pencil, it can only do the good it was designed to do as it is spent, and slowly used up, over time. It may become scarred and scuffed. It does it’s job thanklessly, often even baring the tooth marks of the user.
Those good old yellow number two pencils still look just like they did when I was a child. And they still end their useful days worn, shortened a bit, and forever marked by time and experience. Some end with less eraser left than others, from more mistakes corrected. Hopefully, they leave a long trail of problems solved, marks measured, memories written, and valuable lessons recorded for others… Sort of like us.
By G. E. Shuman
I remember, back in the ‘olden days’ when I was in grade school, say a hundred years or so ago, that there was something special, something almost sacred, about a number 2 pencil. Yes, a number 2 pencil. That, at least, was how it seemed to me at such an early age, from the way our teachers regarded them. I remember hearing at the beginning of many of those school years, of the importance of coming to school prepared to learn, and armed with several well-sharpened number 2 pencils. This was a theme repeated to us often throughout each year. I was never quite sure about our teachers’ affection for those particular pencils. Did the prim and proper way-too-up-tight school ladies of my time simply adore the number 2? Was it that if you were number 2 you actually did try harder? Was a number 2 pencil mark easier to erase? Was it easier to solve math problems with a number 2? Was I over-thinking this?
Not until several years into my decidedly small-town education did I learn that the 2 on a pencil referred to the hardness, or lack of hardness, of the lead of the pencil. Which, I learned several years later, was actually clay or something, and not lead at all, as we had always been told. (What other lies did those teachers of old tell us so many years ago? One I can think of was when my first grade teacher, Mrs. Jones, would go out for one of her frequent, brief, very important ‘conferences‘ with the teacher in the next classroom. She told us there were holes in the walls that she could see through, so we had better behave while she was gone. I wondered where those holes were, and why she always came back smelling like cigarettes after one of those conferences. That‘s a true story. I dare to tell it now because Mrs. Jones will no longer care. She was old when I was a child, and must have died from conference-induced lung cancer long ago.) Anyway, back to pencils. The number 2 actually meant that the pencil would write a nice dark line, unlike a number 1 pencil, the un-lead of which tended to be as hard as Mrs. Jones‘ ruler, and also hard to read.
Over those early years I learned a lot about the humble pencil. Even more than what the number printed on it meant. I learned that I liked the scent of freshly ground wood pencil shavings. (That must have been the outdoorsman in me.) I also learned how to balance a pencil on my finger, on another pencil, or on my nose. (I should have gone out for gymnastics.) The nose trick can get you into trouble in history class. I learned that chewing on a pencil made it yours, as much as a monogram on the pencil would have. No one else had your exact teeth marks, and no one wanted to steal your pencil after it had been in your mouth awhile. I learned then that if you borrow a pencil that had no teeth marks on it, don’t return it WITH teeth marks on it if the guy you borrowed it from is bigger than you. Likewise, if it already had teeth marks when you borrowed it, don’t add more of your own. You can catch something that way. I also learned that if you stick a freshly sharpened number 2 pencil into your or someone else’s upper leg, by accident or otherwise, there will be a non-lead dot of a tattoo there for years. Besides these valuable things, I learned that pencils can also be used to write with, draw with, and even mark measurements with, as carpenters do. (Has anyone learned yet any good reason why I am writing tonight about pencils? If so, I wish someone would tell me.)
I continued to learn much more about pencils. I learned that there were good erasers on some pencil ends, and ones that would just make a black smudge on your paper, boldly showing off your stupid mistakes, on others. I learned that those bubble gum-colored and similarly textured pencil ends taste exactly nothing like bubble gum. I learned how to hold a pencil by one end, wave it up and down in front of me, and make it appear to be as rubbery as those non-bubble gum ends are. (Don’t do this in class either.) I learned that even something as light as a little number 2 pencil can make your hand ache if you have done too many math problems with it, and that some days, too many math problems was not very many. Especially if the back of your hand had just had a run in with Mrs. Jones’ ruler. (I was in first grade a long time ago.) And I, unlike probably any other kid in my school, spent more than one study hall pondering how in the world they got those non-lead leads INTO pencils. I wondered why they bothered to do that at all, instead of just giving us slender chunks of non-lead to write with.
A pencil is a funny and ponderous thing. (Yes, I know I’m crazy. But I‘m not the one reading all of this.) A pencil starts out bright, and smooth-skinned, but as blunt and dull as anything can be. To be used, it needs to be made sharp, and ready for the task. It needs an educated shaping. A pencil’s hidden ability must be exposed, whittled away, and re-whittled, refreshed, renewed, from time to time. If it is allowed to once more become dull, it will be simply that… dull. It must remain sharp. In all of this, throughout the ‘life’ of a pencil, it can only do the good it was designed to do as it is spent, and slowly used up, over time. It may become scarred and scuffed. It does it’s job thanklessly, often even baring the tooth marks of the user.
Those good old yellow number two pencils still look just like they did when I was a child. And they still end their useful days worn, shortened a bit, and forever marked by time and experience. Some end with less eraser left than others, from more mistakes corrected. Hopefully, they leave a long trail of problems solved, marks measured, memories written, and valuable lessons recorded for others… Sort of like us.
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