S.O.S. to L.O.L.

By G. E. Shuman

Many, MANY spring days ago my grandfather Shuman and I were traveling along a long stretch of road somewhere in the Maine countryside. I was probably about ten years old, and remember few specifics of the trip now. I do recall that we were on our way to, or on our way home from, one of the great picnics our family used to have on the coast of that state. I also remember that we were in Gramp’s Rambler American, and that he loved that car. (‘American’… not a bad name for a car.) Such trips with my grandfather are probably remembered at all, only because they were so few. He was a retired man by the time I was around, and wasn’t the type to play with the grandkids, if you know what I mean. In any case, there we were, on that road, on a bright spring day, and Gramp’s car suddenly had a flat tire. I had no idea what he would do, but knew he would likely do something unusual to remedy our situation. That’s the way Gramp was. He did not disappoint me. Gramp sat there a moment, then calmly got out of the car and went around to the trunk, but not to get the jack and spare. He had worked for the telephone company for most of his life, and still carried some of his equipment with him, just in case. I looked back to see Gramp strapping his climbing spikes onto his legs. He soon proceeded to climb a nearby utility pole with those spikes and his test phone. He then simply ‘borrowed’ someone’s phone line for a moment and called a garage for help. I have that wonderful old test set in my top dresser drawer and remember my Gramp, and that day, every time I see it there.
Memories of another man of long ago come to mind each time I see the telegraph receiver displayed in our ‘antique’ room. This piece of equipment was used by my wife’s grandfather, who, at fourteen years of age, began taking telegraphed train orders in an office of the Maine Central Railroad. This, even earlier device than Gramp’s old phone, used Morse code to communicate across the miles, and get the message through.
Fast-forward now to a much more recent time, in fact, to just a few weeks ago. I was standing in line at a local convenience store, and witnessed another, but less memorable communication ‘moment’. A man in line in front of me had a slight problem. He held four two-liter bottles of soda in his arms, along with at least one other item, and his cell phone began to ring. I offered to help. He said no. There was no room on the small checkout counter for his purchases, so, somehow, he simply held them, and answered the phone. Well, he didn’t exactly answer it… he opened it and read a text message. Next, this stranger, who, by then, I imagined must certainly be a circus juggler or magician, somehow held those bottles and the other item, and texted the person back. He then turned to me and said: “I hate this (expletive) thing! Now she can always find me!” How times have changed.
I have given up marveling at and/or screaming at the electronic devices all around me. When I get some new thing, like a music player, or computer, or phone or camera, (Observe that there is little difference between those inventions now.) I just hand it over to my thirteen year old daughter to ‘set up’ for me. That way I end up liking the device, not hating it. My true bewilderment now is this recent, great, national attraction to the act of texting. Texting is something I have done, and have not enjoyed. My further opinion of texting is that it may become the ruination of the English language, even though people in England, with some justification, feel that we in America accomplished that years ago. One student in my seventh grade English class recently bragged to the class that she could receive a text during dinner and answer it, without looking, with her phone out of sight underneath the dining room table. The problem is that great adeptness in keypad use spills over into the compositions she and others do for me. The word ‘you’ often becomes the letter ‘u’, and abbreviations abound, LOL. Like wow. Besides, why not shut the stupid phone off for a few moments and be more than just physically present with your family at dinner time? (If I sound like the parent of teenagers, guess why.)
I also find little convenience in the convenient act of texting, especially if you are the man in line at that convenience store. Unless you have a full keypad on your phone, you end up like me, punching those tiny buttons repeatedly, to get to the appropriate letter. To my mind, this seemingly-modern communication method is not far removed from the dots and dashes sent over those telegraph lines nearly a century ago. Emi recently mentioned that she couldn’t tell her friends moods from their texted messages. No kidding. My wife’s grandfather probably could not tell the mood of the person tapping out letters on his distant and distantly related device all those years ago, either.
Hey kids. Guess what? A man named Alexander Graham Bell made an invention that he hooked up to those old telegraph lines, much as my grandfather hooked up his test set on that telephone pole. Because of this, whether you’re in line at a store with your arms full, or just getting a message from a friend, you can now simply pick up the phone and say: “Hello?” What will they think of next?

Here There Is Truth
By G. E. Shuman



Without a doubt, you are reading this column on a day very close to Christmas Day. (I hope you’re enjoying the season.) This issue of the paper likely appeared at your door, newsstand, or on your computer screen the night before Christmas or the day or two before that. I’m sure you could hardly wait, just as a child on Christmas morning, to tear into the wrapper or website, find my space, and begin to devour the many words of wit and wisdom contained herein. Yes, I am probably delusional, and definitely dreaming. Nevertheless, here we are, on this familiar page of your paper or screen, right where we always meet. I have to tell you, I love it here.
So, what do I say to you this time? What particular part of Christmas should we discuss at this moment in this special week? What angle on angels or wisecrack about wise men would work to enlighten or entertain us both? This year, I am not sure. It would be easy to rehash my great disdain for the crass commercialism of what, for some, has become one more decadent December, or to re-word The Night Before Christmas poem, just one more agonizing time. (I’m only thinking out loud, here.) Or, maybe I could expound again on how ‘Grinchy’ I often feel as shopping, stores, sales and Santa wear down my nerves more and more as the month wears on. I could easily entitle a column: Crushing Christmas Crowds and Cranky Children. Wow, could I ever! Or, perhaps I could preach to you about keeping Christ in Christmas, and the reason for the season. Both are overly-clichéd ideas that I happen to agree with strongly, by the way.
No, none of that strikes me as the way to go, right now, right here, this year. You and I have discussed and mutually pondered all of those things before. My small gift to you today is to keep this column short. I knew you would like that. A gift of time, saved, never has to be exchanged. (I just made that up. Not bad, huh?) I would also like to give you a few words of profound truth. They are certainly not my words, and are of far greater worth than any words I will ever compose. They are the words of three authors of old. They are words etched, not in stone, but in eternity, and will never be destroyed. They foretell the greatest gift the world has ever known. That gift is for you, by the way. So, here there is no Santa, nor sleigh, nor jingle bells, nor jolly elves. Here there is truth:
“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6
“And she shall bring forth a son, and thou shalt call his name JESUS: for he shall save his people from their sins.” Matthew 1:21
“For unto you” (Central Vermont) “is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. Luke 2:11.
Merry Christmas friends! Happy Birthday Jesus!

Just a note

Dear Readers,

The poem "Gramp's Victrola" was written in 1987, shortly after my Grandfather Shuman's death. I have his wonderful Victrola in my parlor. I sit in my recliner and write; the Victrola to my left, and the fireplace to my right. What better life has anyone had?

Gramp's Victrola

Gramp’s Victrola
By G. E. Shuman
1987


Old wooden box, but well preserved,
So finely crafted, long ago
What joy you’ve brought, how well you’ve served
All those who’ve heard your music flow.

For deep within, below your skin
The ancient mechanisms purr.
And music plays, as round you spin.
Bright notes leap from the record’s blur.

Inside your chest are scores of songs
Whose writers have returned to dust.
But still they live, when placed upon
Your spinning disk, as well they must.

I often think, as I draw near
To touch your crank, or hand-carved trim
That my dear Gramp’s hand once was here.
You help me to remember him.

In years long past, he was the one
Who wound you up and played a song.
I almost see him watch you run,
And almost hear him sing along.

You’ll always have a home with me,
Old wooden box, old memory holder.
Proudly placed where all can see,
For you were my dear Gramp’s Victrola.

The Challenge

By G. E. Shuman

A noble challenge was recently given to me, in the form of a simple suggestion from a dear friend. This suggestion was one of those special and rare ideas that, likely because of their simplicity, plant themselves deep within the mind. Ever since I first heard of the challenging suggestion I have not been able to completely forget it, or completely accomplish it, either.

It seems to me that, sometimes, the seemingly uncomplicated challenges of life are often the most difficult ones to accomplish. Many people have great difficulty in even vocalizing the words “I love you.” Others have terrible trouble with ever saying those two little words “I’m sorry.” Yes, moral challenges, no matter how simple, can often get the better of us. Their piercing clarity and purpose can be quite frightening to people as accustomed to hiding feelings as we modern Americans often are. No one wants to be exposed or intimidated by admissions of imperfection within, even if such would nudge us toward being a better person, or a better friend.

Before I lose you to slumber over reading more rhetoric, let me tell you that the idea, the suggestion which became a challenge, is on the subject of complaining. I will also say that this week I shared the challenge with every student in the high school English classes I teach. Next I will ask those students if any of them are up to the challenge. It is my sincere hope that some of them are, and that some of you are, also.

The great and mystical challenge I have alluded to here was made to me and to the rest of the congregation of my church, Bible Baptist, of Berlin Vt. It was the evening before Thanksgiving Day, and our very wise Pastor Lake admonished us to accept the challenge of a ‘fast’… a fast of complaining. He asked us to not complain, between Thanksgiving Day this year and Christmas Day… about anything. That’s right… anything. Hum… cut out complaining, huh? Yes, that is a simple idea. In fact, it could even be said to be beautiful in its simplicity. “I can do that.” I thought to myself upon hearing of the challenge. “Anyone can do that. It’s only a month ‘til Christmas. I can certainly refrain from griping about the price of gasoline, and the weather, and family members, and money, and politics, and… You know, I can hardly believe that there are people who just have to be negative and complain about things all the time. But there are! If people weren’t so self-centered we wouldn’t even need challenges like this!” Suddenly I realized that, not only was I already breaking the non-complaining challenge in my thoughts, I was actually mentally complaining about the challenge itself.

Thank you, Pastor Lake, for an idea that you say is not your own, but one I consider to be a spark of simple brilliance. I admit to already failing in my efforts to stop complaining, although I am still trying. I have been blessed with everything, when most of the world has nothing. I certainly have very little to complain about. My hope is that this transparent admission and realization will be enough to improve my outlook, increase my thankfulness, and generate more gratitude in my life.

Dear Readers, there are only about two weeks left until Christmas Day. I would like to suggest that you also take up the challenge… to not complain, about anything. Come on, it’s only two weeks. Get this simply beautiful idea planted firmly in your mind. After all, wouldn’t it be wonderful to live for two whole weeks without a single complaint?

George's World: Thoughts of Thanksgiving, …and a great recipe.

George's World: Thoughts of Thanksgiving, …and a great recipe.

Thoughts of Thanksgiving, …and a great recipe.

By G. E. Shuman

Thanksgiving, in a word, and as a word, is a mouthful. The long, feasting-table-length wish of “Happy Thanksgiving!” fills the air with syllables and the mind with fond memories of food and family. The very thought of Thanksgiving Day, to many of us, brings an anticipation of aromas emanating from warm, turkey-scented kitchens. Gravy-drenched garlic potatoes, steamy stuffing, pickles and pies all come to mind when we ponder this casual and cozy, butter-basted, late November holiday. It’s the day of pilgrims, Indians, and cornucopias that we learned of as young children; the one with the name which even begins with the ‘turkey’ letter. Yum, yum!

This Thursday will be the thirty-seventh Thanksgiving Day Lorna and I have celebrated together as husband and wife. Some recent Thanksgivings have been spent at the home of one or another of our adult children, and those times are wonderful. Still, over the years, most of these family celebrations have taken place right here in our old Barre, Vermont home.

To Lorna and to me there has always been something special about such times in this solid, well-aged place. Home is a house where your memories reside, and that is likely what makes this one so special to us. The sturdy, tall, thick-walled, elderly rooms of this house nearly echo with sounds of holidays past; of hours spent here, sheltered from the cold world by those big walls, and by love. Here we have cooked twenty-five or so family-size Thanksgiving turkeys together, and have stuffed them all with stuffing of only slightly varying stuff. We have also stuffed celery and pumpkins here, have opened dozens of cans of cranberry sauce and peeled hundreds of potatoes, all for fleeting, passing Thanksgiving Day dinners. I enjoy the notion that even earlier families who occupied this old home had holidays filled with scampering children and sumptuous kitchen scents. Their Thanksgivings were certainly graced with laughter and love, smiles and silliness, and grandkids and gratitude as are ours. At least, I hope they were.

Over these years our own Thanksgiving menus and recipes have changed little, but, with the passing of time, the company around the table has necessarily changed greatly. Years ago grandparents came to help us celebrate our first years together. Years later, our parents and cousins occasionally shared our feast, with us and our then-small children. In more recent Novembers, people who look somewhat like those small children we used to have come and bring children of their own to sit around that table. How wonderful, and yet how strange that we have now become the grandparents; the elders at the feast. Such positions hold great joy, but also at least a bit of trepidation for me. I know in my heart that as our family grows ever-greater in number, such future family times must be growing ever-fewer for the two of us. Maybe that is okay. Lorna and I are here together, this year. We do our best to live by faith, and will anxiously await and always enjoy as many family Thanksgivings as God allows us to share.

Years ago we, somehow, found a recipe that I wish you would try this year. It has filled us to overflowing, time and again, and has made many nearly perfect Thanksgivings for us. To follow the recipe, you simply turn the word around a bit, and remember to make Thanks-giving Day a day of consciously, gratefully giving thanks.

Why We’re Here

By G. E. Shuman

Poetry, romance, music, dance,
Feeling, seeing, tasting chance,
Hurt and help, ill health and fear,
Love and life are why we’re here.

Others, seekers, soulful eyes,
Frightened, fearful, pleading sighs,
Weeping mourning ones to cheer,
Love and life are why we’re here.

Hungry bodies, hungry hearts,
Empty days, lonely starts,
Saddened spirits, rushing tears,
Love and life are why we’re here.

Shipwrecked lives that beg a chance
For poetry, romance, music, dance.
Lift them, ease them, calm their fear,
Love and life are why we’re here.

Mirror Him, who loves the lost,
Help a neighbor, forget cost,
Days so short, end so near,
Love and life are why we’re here.

Spooky!

By G. E. Shuman


It is a distant memory, cold and old, dusted off now as a long-neglected, rediscovered book might be. It matters, somehow, that this nearly-forgotten evening happened within a mid-nineteen-sixties year. Perhaps it could be that the late autumn wind cooled and creaked the leafless, lifeless-looking trees even more then than now; again, somehow. Or, perhaps it is only because those October thirty-firsts were actually spookier then, at least to the one whose memory of the night it is. Those Halloweens contained no costumes of bleeding skulls or vividly maimed souls. They were, simply, or perhaps, not so simply, ghostly, hauntingly spooky nights.

On this one night, dusk, as dust, settled slowly upon the small New England town of the boy’s youth. Supper had been a hurried affair, gobbled by giggling goblins anxious to get out into the night. Low voices and footsteps of other spooks were already upon the steps; knocks and bone-chilling knob-rattling had already begun at the front door.

The boy of ten or so was more than ready to go out. By accident or plan, his siblings had already slipped into the night without him. He was very alone; at least he hoped he was alone, as he ventured into the much too chilly night air. The cold breeze stung his eyes as he peered through the rubbery-odored mask of his costume. He began the long walk through the frozen-dead, musty-smelling leaves covering the sidewalk. The youth hurried past the frightful row of thick and dark, moonlit-maples along the way. He was very afraid that the dry crunch of death in those old leaves would alert of his presence whatever ghoul or ghost might be lurking behind one of those trees. As he walked on in the increasingly-inky black, he dared not peek even slightly around any of those trees. It was a sure thing that not EVERY roadside tree hid some witch or ghastly ghoul, but the boy knew that he was certain to pick the one which did, if he were to dare to look.

By sheer will, or by chance, the youth succeeded in surpassing the haunted trees, and successfully trick-or-treated at many houses on the street. Every inch of the way he thought about the one house he dreaded visiting most; the house of the witchy-looking old lady. Sure, she seemed kind in the daytime, but you didn’t see her humped old back or the wrinkly look in her eyes in the daytime. Her house was cold as a tomb, at least, such was her porch, at night and in late October. The boy knew this well from the year before, but that year he had been with his brothers and sisters. As he walked, the scuffing of every step seemed to taunt him with the words: Every… witch… awaits… the child… who comes… alone…

The boy’s small hands were nearly freezing by the time he reached the old lady’s small dark house far down the street. He managed to climb to the top of the worn old steps. He stood there a moment, and then worked up enough courage to open the narrow door which entered onto the witch’s small, windowed porch. The rusty door spring, worn to its own insanity by countless other small boys who were fools enough to enter here, screeched a hateful, taunting announcement of the boy’s arrival. This it repeated, mocking its original scream, as the door slammed tightly shut, between the lad and the world outside.

The long, enclosed tomb of a porch offered no relief from the cold, but some little relief from the night wind. The only light therein was that of a maddening, perfectly-placed jack-o-lantern which hideously smiled up at the boy from the floor, at the farthest corner of the room. The porch exuded the sooty-sweet smell of that candle-lit carved pumpkin. This aroma mingled with that of crisp, cold Macintosh apples which filled a wooden crate at one wall. “What could possibly be the use of cold apples to a witch?” The boy briefly pondered.

The one who disguised herself as a regular, kind old lady during the daytime was very cunning indeed. Her trap for little boys was a porch table full of the biggest and best treats in the town. Those very famous treats were the single reason the boy was even on this terrifying porch. There was a tray which held beautiful candied apples and another laden with huge, wax-paper-wrapped popcorn balls. A bowl between them overflowed with candy corn; the boy’s favorite. Thoughts of poison apples and boiling cauldrons momentarily filled the child. He then nervously picked his treat, and got it safely into the candy-stuffed pillow case he carried. Hearing the nighttime witch walking across her kitchen floor toward the door to the porch, he headed out, past the screeching door, down the steps, and toward home. If she had ever invited any little boy into her home, that boy certainly had never come back out. This boy, that night, had, somehow, survived another visit to that house. He had gotten away with the biggest popcorn ball of all! His only fear then was in getting past the street-side ghouls that certainly stared at him from behind some of those huge old maples. But, the horror was, behind which ones?

Yes, Halloween was different in the nineteen sixties, before the age of sugar and plastic holidays. There was something hauntingly powerful about the cheap paper cutouts, cheesy cardboard skeletons and black and orange streamers of those years. Fold-out paper pumpkins and eerie (and probably dangerous) cardboard candleholders lit our yards. Homemade, totally safe treats filled pillow cases and paper bags. Those bags belonging to night-prowling, costumed, youthful vagabonds, whose parents had no fear at all that they would not return home safely. Halloween nights were ones of simple, frightful fun. Cartoon ghosts and goblins, fake witches and funny Frankenstein monsters were all that stalked the innocent imaginations of children then. True evil had nothing to do with those nights at all.

The ghouls of Halloweens long-past may live only in aging, dusty memories, but the dark and distant nineteen-sixties Halloween you just read about really did happen. At least, that’s how this old trick-or-treater remembers it.

Aren’t You Glad I’m Not Your Dad?

(A Satirical, Seemingly, Socially Unacceptable Column)
By G. E. Shuman

I was in line at a department store the other day, and heard, and then saw a very distraught young mother behind me demonstrating to her toddler son that she knew how to count. “One… Two… Three…,” the mom spoke, slowly and sternly. I was very proud that the lady could count, and nearly clapped for her when she finished at the number three. Unfortunately for the mom, the child seemed less impressed than I by his mother’s performance. By his reaction, or lack of one, I was fairly certain he had heard his mom count to three many times before. I was also pretty sure his mom meant no warning of possible retribution for some misdeed the child had recently committed. If she had, the effort had exactly the same effect on him as it did on her. Both seemed to dismiss the counting completely, and move on to other things, immediately after she had finished. Personally, I felt that the counting would have been more effective if mom had learned to count backward from three to zero. Everyone who has ever seen a time bomb counting down to zero on TV knows that ‘zero’ is when something actually happens. At zero you run out of luck, and chances, and numbers.

It seems that things have lately become very twisted up in our world. I wonder, and I mean this sincerely, why we have put so much stock and confidence in the judgment of the little angels God has blessed our families with. Why do we even consult small children in matters of their own behavior? That responsibility is quite a load to burden them with. Don’t you agree? Besides this, in my opinion, reasoning with some toddler about why he bit a hunk out of the daycare worker’s leg is like asking a bank robber to tell you why he ‘did it’. In either case you are likely to get nothing more than scowls and shrugging shoulders in response. In my opinion, again, rewarding that toddler with praise for acting like a human being for the following few minutes is like telling the bank robber that, if he tells you he is sorry, he can keep the loot. In either case, it just seems like little in the way of a deterrent for the future. In the situation of the poor counting mother mentioned earlier, I have considered that counting to three may work a little, but not on the child. It does help the mom cool down and divert any thoughts of strangulation or suicide, and that result alone is of great worth. For the child, parental counting seems to do no more than provide him with a few valuable seconds to escape.

I have observed that many elementary schools seem to operate the same way as do the counting moms of the world. I realize that actual punishment, or even the mention thereof, is quite taboo in the public arena, but now even the word discipline is looked down upon. Please remind me? We are getting soft on all of this for what reason? Oh yes, to protect the child’s self esteem. Okay… as long as it’s for a good reason. When I was a child, a teacher would tell you, in no kind voice, to: “Sit in that corner ‘til you straighten up!” You could almost hear the unspoken words: “You little Brat!” emanating from her beet-red face. That was so cool! These days, sitting in the corner at school, or sitting still anywhere is often referred to as a ‘time out’ for the child. My question is a simple one: “Time out for WHAT?” Furthermore, “Sit still and behave yourself!” (A phrase that worked pretty well in my day) is now: “Remember Sweetie, we need to make good choices.” Good choices? WHAT good choices? “Let’s see…” thinks the child. “Next time… will I throw another rock at the girl on the playground, or use a baseball bat? I need to make a good choice.”

I also seem to remember that, back in the day, and this was way before anyone actually used the phrase “back in the day”, little terrorists, I mean sweet little children with discipline ‘issues’, would, (I hate that word ‘issues’. I think that word alone is causing me some issues.) be sent to the principal’s office. When I was young the only thing worse than going to the principal’s office was what would happen after I got home from school that day. No, my parents didn’t hate me. In fact, they loved me enough to discipline me. How strange. I think those mean folks might have even used the word punish from time to time. For some reason, they didn’t have to use the word or the punishment often.

I do like the fact that going to the principal’s office, in most public schools, has gone the way of the dinosaur. Those principals are much too busy working on social models to worry about the behavioral training of the next generation to lead our country. Kids are now sent to opportunity rooms, and planning rooms. I once actually asked a grammar school teacher what happened in those rooms. I asked what kind of torture was inflicted on those kids, in those rooms, to make them hate going there so much. Her response was, seriously, that the kids hate those rooms because they are made to do their work in there. My goodness… talk about cruel and unusual punishment! My unspoken reply was that I would think those rooms would be unnecessary if the little darlings were made to do their work in the classroom. But that’s just me, and I could be wrong. Every person bent on destruction certainly requires an opportunity to plan.

I realize that I, like the trips to the principal’s office, will soon go the way of the dinosaur. To some who have just read this column that may seem like a wonderful thing. Before I go that way, I would like to offer just one more, tiny, seemingly, socially unacceptable observation. It is this. I know that when I was young, moms didn’t count to three in public. They didn’t need to, as everyone assumed they could probably count even higher than that if they wanted to. Also, back then, there seemed to be fewer unruly children in the schools. This could be some cosmic coincidence, and probably is. We were just so lucky back then. Or, it could be because teachers, as a rule, as rulers of the class, even used rulers to stop unruliness-prone children from actually repeating unruly acts. How medieval! Kids were simply expected to behave well at home and at school, and were not coddled and cuddled every time they made a good choice, and refrained from maiming anybody that entire day. Good choices were the rule, not the exception.

I leave you with the wise words of the well-known Christian family psychologist, Dr. James Dobson: “If your child is looking for a fight, don’t disappoint him.” Now, aren’t you glad I’m not your dad?

Blankets

By G. E. Shuman

The rains poured down to soak the streets,
And puddles brimmed with plopping drops.
Wide fields were gorged with melting snow;
Earth blankets soaked for spring-time crops.

Then soon we walked on summer’s beach,
And watched the waves ‘til nearly night.
The sand they kissed, and churned and breached,
Stretched out, a blanket, pristine white.

One closer day, as evening loomed,
With popcorn bowls and movie time.
Our early autumn chill-filled rooms,
Brought blankets of a different kind.

“Can you get the throw?” Mom asked,
As Emi found her favorite show.
Both cuddled on the couch, at last,
Quite blanketed from head to toe.

And leaves fall down, in fall… to ground,
To hide the grass, from wind-tossed heights.
They warm the earth, while rustling down.
A brittle blanket for long nights,

That pour as if from ashen sacks,
And stretch to dawn from afternoon.
A blanket drawn in inky black;
A backdrop hung for winters’ moons.

One dawn soon breaks; we peer outside,
And squint our eyes in sparkling light.
Cold wind-waves kiss, and churn, and breach,
Another blanket, pristine white.

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The Friendship Heart

By G. E. Shuman

Dear Readers;

One week in August my two teenage children headed off to Christian summer camp with kids from their and other youth groups throughout New England. The week went by in a flash for them. Of course it did. They were having fun! That same week dragged past like a team of house cats pulling a granite block, for me. (I’m not sure what I will do when they go off to college. I’ll probably adjust to it, but for now think the days will pass by slower, not faster. Maybe that will be a good thing, considering the likely number of days ahead of me compared to those behind.) Finally, at the appointed time on Saturday, the excessively over-tired, fresh air and campfire over-dosed bodies of our teens arrived home, practically falling into our kitchen through the back doorway. It was great to have them home. There’s nothing like the sounds and scents of hygiene-deprived teenage campers snoring on your living room couches on a Saturday afternoon.
Andrew never talks much about his experiences, whether good or bad. It seems to be his philosophy that the word “Okay” covers all situations, in answer to any inquiry, whether regarding a recent trip to Disney or to the dentist. That is just the way he is. That is just not the way Emily is. Emi is a very different person from her brother, with a much different story to tell. In fact, with many different stories to tell, about any experience at all. I would like to share one ‘camp’ story as it was told to me by Emily, and a picture resulting from it that truly touched me. Actually, I will probably only share the barest of facts to form a condensed version of the story. Teenage girls use the word ‘like’, like a million times a day, and, like, at least a hundred times in, like, any run-on conversation they may have, especially, like, if they, like, are having the conversation with, like, another teenage girl. (Try and tell me I’m, like, wrong.)
The picture is printed with this column, and, no, I’m not talking about the one of me. Take a look at the picture of the hands, and then read on. The story, in a shortened, ‘like-less’ form, goes something like this: Emily has a camp friend by the name of Abby. Abby and Emily have gone to the same summer camp for several years now, and see each other only at the camp. One day at camp this year, Emily was simply standing outside, forming a heart with her hands, as you may have seen someone do at some time. Just then Abby came up beside her with her camera. Emily then asked Abby to take a picture of her hands, in the ‘heart’ pose. Abby took the picture, but not before moving Emi’s left hand down, and replacing it with her own. I, eventually, saw a copy of the picture, and had a friend ask Abby to send the image to me, which she did.
That, my friends, is the end of the story, as far as good friends Emily and Abby are concerned. They thought little of the hastily captured image that I happen to view as nothing less than enormously, if accidentally, profound. Due to the two girls’ friendship, innocence, and even ignorance of old intolerances, any thoughts of past racism and prejudice never entered their minds when they took the picture. And, why should they have? Those are things of other eras, and not even in the memories of people of their generation. I do thank God for that.
To me, there is a simple lesson in that picture. It is a lesson that our great country and our world still have less of a grasp on than do the young hands of Emily and her friend Abby. It is the lesson that it takes two equal halves to make a whole, and two cooperating, loving hands to make a heart.
You know… there just may be hope for us yet!

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Redbox

By G. E. Shuman

I’m sure you all have noticed the several big red boxes which have popped up in our area lately. I’m also pretty sure you’ve used one by now, or at least know what those red boxes are for. If you have no idea what they do, which is about as likely as your not knowing what seat belts do, well, this is what they do. You stand in front of the big Redbox and use its touch screen to pick a DVD movie you would like to rent. Then you swipe your credit card on the machine and it dispenses your movie, all for just a dollar, plus tax.

Personally, I think Redbox is a great idea! It is a novel, inexpensive, convenient way to rent a video. And I like novel, inexpensive, convenient things, especially the inexpensive part. The people who invented Redbox must be very imaginative thinkers to figure out how to make such complicated electronic devices work, then build, ship and fill the machines, and make the whole system profitable. I would take my hat off to the Redbox people, but I really hate hats. I do wish they had saved a bit of their imagination for when it came time to name their wonderful product. I think they ran out of steam on that one. But, I suppose a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and a red box by any fancier name would dispense no more sweetly.

My wife and I are a bit slow when it comes to trying most new electronic devices. We were dragged along into computer ownership, (several years ago and several times now) by the necessity of having one to run businesses. We were, shortly thereafter, similarly pulled into the internet by both our grown and growing children. E-mail and information websites eventually led us to online services like e-Bay and Netflix. (I will tell you that we will be the last two holdouts in the United States not to use Facebook. Silly us.) But, please, understand what we have witnessed over the years. Not that many years ago we had pagers, which were soon replaced by cell phones. We once owned Walkmans, (Walkmen? Whatever.) that have become MP3 players and I-Pods. We have also witnessed the death of 35mm cameras and tape-type video recorders. These have been replaced by tiny little devices that take pictures, make phone calls, record videos, play music and games, send text messages, surf the internet, and I have no idea what else, and keep all this information on a little chip which needs a postage-stamp size adapter so that it becomes ‘big’ enough to insert in a tiny slot in our computer.

I’m getting old, and I digress. I wanted to tell you that all of our foot-dragging, or at least most of it, when it comes to electronic ‘internet stuff’, is my wife’s fault. No, it really is. Lorna has an almost paralyzing paranoia, (Okay, maybe that’s too strong.) or at least a frightful fear of giving out credit card numbers on the internet. She is, possibly justifiably, afraid of us becoming victims of identity theft. I’m not as cautious, and would probably do much more online purchasing than she ever will, because I can’t believe anyone else would want to be us. So, you might understand that it did take us a while to try Redbox.

Ah yes, Redbox is a wonderful idea. Rent a movie for just a buck a day, watch it as many times as you want, and bring it back to any Redbox location. Rent an evening’s entertainment for less than buying a soda from a Coke machine, which happens to be the ‘other’ red box. How could you possibly beat that? Well, nothing is perfect, and that includes you and me, and Redbox. I might tell you of the time I stood under cover, but still in the rain, at a local Redbox. I eventually picked a movie, swiped my plastic, and the machine wouldn’t accept the card. Or the other time when we picked out a movie the kids really wanted to see and the machine did accept our card, but had “a problem” dispensing the disk. The screen said “Please choose another title.” or something like that. We chose to go home and watch something we already owned. But we still like Redbox.

I would have to say that the biggest drawback to the big red boxes is that using them is a one-at-a-time kind of thing. You look for a movie, try to read its descriptive paragraph, make a decision, and swipe your card, all with people standing in line right behind you. Once in a while you turn and smile at them, but you know what they’re thinking. You know they are wishing you would just give up and leave, so they can have their turn feeling the eyes of the person behind them burning into the back of their head while they use the machine. Talk about paralyzing paranoia. In this way, using a Redbox is similar to using a porta-potty, although I hope you never confuse the two. They’re similar in size and in the fact that everyone in line behind you knows what you’re there for, and while no one will say it, they all wish you would hurry up! But Redbox is worse, because there are few decisions to be made at a porta-potty, and your entire transaction is done behind a flimsy but opaque, semi-locked door. (A quick caution about using a porta-potty: Remember that whatever sound is made inside one of those things, whether of solid, liquid, gaseous or vocal origin, will immediately go, happily, trumpeting up that plastic stink pipe like something from a Dr. Seuss movie. So, be careful.)

The other day I was in line at a Redbox at a local supermarket. I was trying very hard to not make the pretty lady in front of me nervous, as I stood right behind her, watching her backside. I mean, watching the back of her head. She would occasionally look my way and I would look up at the ceiling or at my grocery list or something. She would then look back at the screen and I would continue staring at the back of her head, until such time when she looked back at me again. I could tell she was hurriedly checking for a movie, and was very conscious that I was standing behind her. But, what else could I do? All I wanted was to return a Redbox movie, and you need to stand in line to do that, too. Eventually the pretty lady got a movie and actually turned and apologized to me. I told her “Don’t worry about it.”, or “It was my pleasure.” or something else stupid, and she left. Could you blame her? I was sorry, but as uncomfortable as it can be to pick a movie while some stranger waits behind you, it’s even more uncomfortable to lose your place in line. I learned that lesson one time at a porta-potty.


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A Personal Economic Solution

By G. E. Shuman

I recently heard a bit of news on the car radio, which was not ‘good’ news at all. It amazes me that there is no good news to be heard anymore. Actually, I’m sure there is good news, but good news doesn’t ‘make’ the news. Bad news does make the news, and this bit of news was definitely bad news. (Here’s a great diet tip. Turn your car radio on exactly at noontime, if you happen to be on your way to lunch someplace. The news flashes you hear are bound to ruin your appetite, thereby helping your diet.) Anyway, this news flash was about one particular facet of our stumbling economy, and hit home with me. The juvenile-sounding news reporter pretty much gleefully announced: “According to government sources, only twenty eight percent of ‘older’ Americans who have lost their jobs within the past year have found new ones, and most of the new jobs that were found were in areas outside of their expertise and experience, and at a lower rate of pay.” (Note here: I didn’t write that run-on sentence, someone in the news industry did.) My first thoughts after hearing that statistic were: “OLDER Americans? Did he say OLDER Americans? What is an OLDER American? Older than whom? Older than what? Older than dirt? Older than the twelve-year-old sounding reporter who so happily reported the statistic? I probably have neckties older than that guy. What does he know about ‘older’ anything? To him 1990 is probably ancient history!”

I grumbled on, on my drive to lunch, fuming a bit about that news flash, the sudden ache in the pit of my stomach, and realizing the only reason I was fuming was that I am a part of that statistic. I had lost my job within the past year, and, yes, I guess I am an ‘older’ American. (That part still frosts me a bit.) The good part is I am in the twenty eight percent of those ancient folks who has found a job. The bad part is that you may be in the… (Let’s see, 100 percent minus 28 percent ... oh yeah, I have it. You can tell I’m a product of public education, can’t you?) You may be in the seventy two percent who have not found any job at all. If this is the case, I wish you would read on, and let me tell you about my experience this past year.

First of all, if you like this next statement or not, I am sure that no one but God can see the end from the beginning in a situation like unemployment. This is something I have always known, but it is also something that is difficult to live with. Trusting God, and I mean REALLY trusting God when the chips are down, is the toughest thing I have ever done. I have no idea what your feelings about God or religion are, but if you happen to be an out-of-work believer, I know exactly what you’re going through right now. You want to trust Him, but you know you need to work on the problem too. You look online every day for work, and, so far, you have come up empty, and you hate the online jobsites, and you hate your computer so much you want to throw it through, not out of, the nearest window, and you’re very sick of looking, and some days even hate getting up in the morning. (I DID write that run-on sentence.) You feel displaced, unappreciated, and a bit useless at times. You just want a job, pray about it every day, and might even wonder why God doesn’t seem to hear your prayers. You NEED a job, and know that going to interviews with graying, (okay, gray) hair isn’t helping you a bit, no matter how many times the employer says they don’t age-discriminate. You feel that your years of experience count for nothing, and you hate the idea that this feeling might be the truth. Still, if you have faith, you want to feel that what is happening to you is in God’s plan. Believe me; I know what you are going through, as I went through it myself for nearly a year.

Our very wise pastor told me last spring that I should remember this year, and all that has happened. He said that seeing how things worked out for me and my family after we “come out the other side” of this trial would really strengthen our faith. Like I said, he is a very wise man. Today I can see that God let us go through this fire to accomplish a very good purpose. If I had been offered the wonderfully rewarding, but lower paying position I now have, when I still had the other job, I would never have considered taking it. My wife and I would have ‘known’ and agreed that we couldn’t possibly live with my making that lesser amount. After all, I had to provide for my family, and could never do so with less money than I was making. So, and you can believe this or not, I believe that God removed that obstacle. In one moment, last September, He removed the job that was keeping me more than I was keeping it. He next proceeded to show me who was really providing for my family. Guess what? It wasn’t me. I could literally write pages about the miracles of God’s provision for us this past year. It is true that our part has been to do a little creative refinancing, and we probably don’t go out to dinner as often as we used to, but that is all. We are not behind on one bill, and are thriving in our slightly less complicated and more faith-driven life.

I have now begun this brand new career that I love. The position was not from any of the two hundred plus resumes I have submitted throughout the year. It was not something I had even considered applying for. It was offered to me because of a casual conversation at a summer picnic, which just ‘happened’ to accomplish God’s will for my life. The employment began a few weeks ago, which also just happened to be only two weeks before my unemployment would run out. Humm…

No, my new job doesn’t pay a lot. Or does it? I now have more time with my children; time which is fleeting and invaluable to me. I have time to read, and to write. I have few ‘toys’, but no credit card bills. I also have great peace, in knowing that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I cannot begin to convince anyone to believe or to not believe anything, especially a story like ours, where the math just doesn’t seem to add up. The economic solution, for us, was very personal. It was simply learning to trust God, with everything. I hope that you will try it.

Ripples

By G. E. Shuman

I recently made a very quick trip over to Central Maine. The purpose of my trip was to attend a beautiful summertime memorial service for my great-aunt Alice, who passed away last December. I know the readers of this column didn’t know Aunt Alice, but I wish you all could have. She was an amazing person.

Because of other commitments I needed to make the trip in one day, by myself, and I was not sure if I should even go. Today I am very sure I needed to go. The service was held at an aging and beautiful Christian campground called Lakeside. Hugging the edge of one of Maine’s most beautiful lakes, with tiny cottages filled with friends and relatives of like Christian faith, Lakeside was one of Alice’s (and my) favorite places in the world. Many of those friends and relatives came to that service, to share memories and stories of how this one life had so positively affected their own. I had heard some, but not all of the stories before. At the risk of boring readers who could not have possibly known my Aunt Alice, I would like to very briefly tell you a little about this great woman.

Alice was born on July 15th, 1908, in a small coastal Maine town. Yes, I said 1908. She was only seven years old when her dear mother passed away, and Alice had to help care for her brothers and sisters. One gentleman at the service mentioned that at this young age Alice took her even younger sister along to school with her, as there was no one at home to care for her. We were also told that in those same years, Alice walked home from school each lunch time, to help prepare the meal for her family. Years later this young lady proved that even the challenges of such great adversity do not have to hinder success, as Alice earned the title of valedictorian of her graduating class in high school. After high school Alice began Bible College, only to be faced with what some would consider even greater adversity. It happened that one of her sisters, (my grandmother) soon became ill, and called Alice home to Maine to help care for her family. Alice went, willingly putting her own life and plans on hold, indefinitely. In those days a few great people did sacrificial things like that. Family meant, then, what family should mean now. What was thought could be several months of missed classes for Alice turned into many years, as her much beloved sister soon passed away. Yes, her sister died. Alice’s commitment to that family, my family, never did. She stayed in that home for twenty years, helping my grandfather raise my own father and his four siblings. As soon as the youngest was grown, Alice returned to school, bravely facing the challenges of a forty year old woman, in the late 1940’s, just beginning college. It was there that she met David, who would soon become her husband, and, one day, my great-uncle. As a couple they would find rich and rewarding success in life together. It was richness that had nothing to do with making money, and success in areas far superior to any of the things offered by this world. Alice and David were never well known, other than by those of us who have these memories of them to share, and of course, by the God of the universe, Himself. Their fame rested in spending sixteen years as Christian missionaries to the country of Japan. Then, the remainder of their lives were invested, (not spent,) in sharing God’s love with nearly every person they met.

I thought about relating these things to you as I stood on the deck at my cousin’s camp on the lake, shortly after that memorial service. Adults were inside chatting and eating. Kids were on the shore tossing rocks into the nearly still water. I noticed that the rocks made those familiar, inevitable, ever-expanding ripples outward in all directions on the surface of the lake. It is sharing an old analogy to write of the ripples of a person’s life spreading out as ripples on a pond, growing ever larger and larger, affecting everyone they come into contact with. Old analogy or not, that is precisely the way it was with my Aunt Alice. I have since thought much about this, and find it interesting that life’s ripples spread out not only through space, but also through time, touching people in ways and days we may never know of.

My Dad once said these words of simple advice to me: “If you can ever do something for somebody, do it.” That attitude, if not the words themselves, certainly came from his, and my, Aunt Alice, whom he loved as his very mother. It occurs to me that if Alice had not influenced my Dad to become the caring Christian man that he would be, my own mother may never have even married him. I, then, would have not been born at all, and you would just now be finishing reading someone else’s column.

The Birthday Flowers

By G. E. Shuman

Hasn’t this summer been something? I’m not sure what that ‘something’ has been, but I do know of a few things it has not been. It has not been sunny. (As if you needed me to tell you that.) It has also not been hot and dry, at least not yet. I try to not complain about the weather too often. I feel about bad weather much the same as I do about elected liberal leaders. I know a doom and gloom politician and/or a dreary and gloomy day when I see one. There’s not much you can do about either, and they’re both likely to go away on their own anyway, eventually. I’m waiting, as patiently as possible, for a new dawning in Montpelier, and a sunny day to dawn on our state. I can see the newspaper headlines now: “GOVERNOR SAYS IT’S A NEW DAY IN VERMONT AS MYSTERIOUS SPHERE SHINES IN THE SKY OVER STATEHOUSE!”

My wife Lorna’s birthday was June 15th of this year. Actually, it’s been June 15th of every year since 1954. Oops, I just gave away her age. Well, it’s too late now. That means Lorna and I are both officially middle age. Now we just have to figure out how to live to be 110. For many years now, since her birthday falls right in the middle, and I mean precisely in the middle of the month of June, I try to get, as one of her presents, some type of flowering plant or plants for the front of the house. (Don’t you just hate run-on sentences like that?) Most years it takes us much of the summer to kill the plants off. This year I’m not so sure it will be that long.

I did have good intentions. In fact, I felt I had actually outdone myself this year. Lorna is the most patriotic person I have ever met. (That’s one of the things I love about her.) Lorna has so many tee shirts with American Flags on them that one time our son in law, Adam, upon seeing her approaching him in one of those shirts, suddenly announced: “Here comes Old Glory!” (That was several years ago, and that story has become one of my favorite let’s-embarrass-Lorna tales.) So, since Lorna’s birthday was close to Independence Day this year, (And every year, as I assume you understand.) the two big beautiful hanging baskets we found to buy were just perfect! They were so large that they barely fit across the back of her van when we went to bring them home, and were simply covered with red, white and blue flowers! Perfect! They looked almost good enough to salute, but not for long.

Within a week or so Lorna and I began to notice that the red flowers had become more like a faded pink in color. They appeared washed out and as weak as a pacifist trying to celebrate Veterans’ Day. Soon the vibrant blue blossoms faded too, and the white ones began to shrivel up. I am normally not one to become alarmed at the demise of any plant, (or cat) but these flowers were too nice to not try to resuscitate. I called the dealer where we purchased the plants, and had a conversation with a very nice and patient lady. That conversation went something, but not exactly, like this:



Me: “Hello. I bought two of your hanging baskets, and they’re not doing very well.”

Very nice and patient lady: “What’s wrong with them?” The nice lady queried.

“Well, they’re faded and wilting, and the flowers are falling off.”

“That doesn’t sound very good. Are they getting enough water?” The lady asked.

“Yes, I keep them well watered.” I answered.

“Then are they getting too much water?”

“I don’t know. How much is too much?”

“Too much is when the blossoms fall off. You shouldn’t water them until the soil gets dry. You won’t get new blossoms if you don’t wait for them to dry out a bit.”

“Oh. Okay. So I’m probably watering them enough.” I said back, although I don’t think she got the joke.

“Uh… yes.” She answered, somewhat incredulously.

“But, how do I get the soil dry?”

“Well, they probably need more sun to grow, and they also need to be in the sun to dry the soil.” (By this time I was seriously wondering why I didn’t get Lorna jewelry for her birthday.)
“Okay.” (That’s what I said. Just “Okay.” What I wanted to say was: “WHAT sun? How am I going to put them in the sun to dry out when I haven’t even SEEN the sun for two weeks? There’s more sun in my CLOSET than outside today. What am I supposed to do, buy them each a seat on a plane headed south?”)

“And you should fertilize them every two weeks, when you water them.”

“What should I fertilize them with?”

“Well, Miracle Gro works very well.”
“But I have to get them dried out first?”

“Yes, don’t water them until the soil is a little dry.”

“But it’s POURING out, AGAIN! How can they dry out in the rain? At this rate they’ll be dead before I even have a chance to save them!” (I didn’t really say that either. I probably just said: “Okay” again. I’m kind of a wimp when I’m talking to nice ladies.)

“You could bring them inside for a while.”

“Do you think I have sunshine in my house? I was just kidding about there being sun in my closet.” (You guessed it, I didn’t say that, but I did think it.)

Eventually, I thanked the nice lady for her time, said goodbye, and hung up, still without a clue as to how to save my wife’s birthday flowers. If you have any ideas, please leave me a suggestion at vtpenner.blogspot.com. I’m getting a bit desperate.



And then there was the afternoon, a few days ago, when I had just come into the house after washing my wife’s white minivan. (White vans are great, but they do show the dirt, except in winter. Our van simply turns brown in the winter, so you can see it against the snowy background.) Suddenly the skies opened up, and Central Vermont began receiving its daily downpour. I should have known. Within several minutes there were twigs and half-dead leaves stuck all over the roof of the van. So, being the stubborn car washer that I am, I went out in the rain to spray the leaves away.

When I came back inside my wife was standing in the kitchen, with a look that blended perfectly with what she was about to say. “You know, you looked pretty ridiculous, washing the van in the middle of a thunder storm.” I just stood there speechless, dripping, and realizing that her plants weren’t the only ones in need of a ticket south.

Here We Go ‘Round... The Roundabout?

By G.E.Shuman

I’d like to share, in this space, today,
a highway phenomenon, if I may.
It’s a circle… a plain, quite common shape.
But it’s now on our roadways, for goodness sake.

It’s a new way to head off to work, or some shopping.
Intersect other roads… all without ever stopping.
You all know, by now, what I’m talking about.
They are central Vermont’s brand new roundabouts.

Roundabouts, or traffic circles, they’re called.
Some think they’re just great, while some are appalled.
They can take a road crossing, and make it a pie.
Forgive me for laughing. I must just ask: “Why?”

A roundabout is just a circular line.
What once was a cross is now a peace sign.
Or an ‘O’, or a ‘Q’, when it’s seen from the air,
a pinwheel of pavement, when viewed from up there.

We see corkscrews of progress with big arrows, so bright.
Couldn’t someone have just strung up new traffic lights?
Yes, time marches on, and improves all our lives.
But, if so, why do we drive COUNTER-clockwise?

Like concrete crop circles, they all are appearing,
right there in our roads, instead of corn clearings.
We whirl on these carousels, built for our cars.
We’ve seen dogs chase their tails… and now we’re chasing ours.

A sign of the times, you might wistfully say.
And I could agree, in our quite mixed-up day.
That what we will build may express who we are.
If our world lacks direction, why not spin in our cars?

It’s a circle of life, for the vehicle world,
where cars, and vans, and semi’s get twirled.
And spit right back out, with unending perfection,
if all goes as planned… in the right direction.

Could it be a wheel of fortune, we see?
Or a roulette game, made for you and me?
Round and round she goes! Now turn the wheel hard!
Where she stops, no one knows. Maybe in someone’s yard?

It’s a test of their training, for drivers of trucks,
for wiping out cobblestones, saplings, and such.
Twisting their trailers, some thinner, some fatter,
circling the edge of each new Vermont platter.

If you somehow don’t care where you end up today,
then get on and get off, in just any old way.
You can head for adventure, now zippity-zip,
when you start in a circular traffic trip.

‘O’ shaped roads are ideal, ‘O’ so round, ‘O’ so wide.
For people who simply can’t decide,
to go home or to stay for another swift churn.
And it’s fun burning gas, while you’re missing your turn.

I hope you’ve enjoyed going ‘round on your tush.
But I wish they had planted a mulberry bush.
I’ve tried here, with words, to express my dismay,
of getting nowhere… in a roundabout way.


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The Breakwater

By G. E. Shuman

My family and I spent Monday and Tuesday of last week at one of our favorite places on earth. Well, it is at least one of MY favorite places on earth, and Lorna and the kids seem to enjoy it a lot too. The place is one I wish you would visit for a long weekend or vacation this summer, if you can. It is the Rockland harbor breakwater, in Rockland, Maine. If you at all enjoy the outdoors and the rugged Atlantic coast, you won’t be disappointed.

To me, the Rockland breakwater is simply beautiful! A truly monumental marvel of nineteenth century granite construction, it is a needle-straight, level, road-width wall stretching nearly a mile out across that town’s great harbor. The breakwater ends with a wonderful lighthouse I have been visiting since early childhood.

Emily and I spent much of Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning fishing for mackerel off the side of this great stone structure. She caught her very first fish there on Monday. I caught my only fish of the year there Tuesday morning. We both had a wonderful time, and two very unlucky mackerel now lay, filleted, on a shelf in our Vermont freezer.

Sometime after noon on Tuesday, Lorna and the kids decided to head back to town and up to Camden, to do some souvenir shopping. I was glad they had time to go, before we headed back to Vermont. I was equally glad I would have a few hours alone, to walk the giant blocks of stone out to the end, to visit my lighthouse. The slow walk in the sunshine was just wonderful. I took my time, stopping occasionally to watch a lobsterman pull a trap up into his boat, or a sea bird swoop down and scoop up another unlucky mackerel.

Soon I had stepped the length of the narrow walkway surrounding the lighthouse, and was sitting alone on the rocky tip of the breakwater. I cannot truly express how peaceful, beautiful, and awe-inspiring that experience was, and always has been for me. The sight of huge white sails against deep blue skies, the scent of the salty breeze, the warm sun on your skin, and the sound of gulls calling in the distance cannot be accurately portrayed in words, at least not by me. You just must experience it for yourself, alone, at the end of my breakwater. I sat there, and thought, and wept a bit, and thanked God for the wonderful day, and the many great memories of family times at this gorgeous breakwater.

I’m sure we all have some childhood-memory place that is so special we feel called to return to it from time to time. That place, for me, will always be my breakwater. Our family went there for a day or more, nearly every summer of my childhood. On those trips Dad would faithfully retell his own cherished memories of childhood visits with his aunt and uncle at their Rockland home, and walking to the breakwater with them to catch some fish for supper. I recalled these things while on the long walk back over the stones to the shore, and to my family. I pondered the thought that all the lures and jigs and bobbers and fishing lines my children and I, and my Dad and his uncle ever snagged on the submerged stones of that breakwater are certainly still right there. They are every bit as permanently hooked on the Rockland breakwater as am I.

The Truck

By G. E. Shuman


Okay, yes, I saw the funny shaped truck parked on the sidewalk in front of Barre City Hall a few Thursdays ago. (I think it was the 16th.) Did you see it too? I planned to go back and ask the people of the truck a few questions about it the next day, but, alas, they were gone with the wind by then. Gone with the wind probably came to mind just now because of the depictions of commercial windmills on the truck. I’m not sure.

One of the questions I would have asked, if I had the chance, would have been about the ‘why’ of it all. That is, the ‘why’ of why Barre City allowed their truck to be parked ON the sidewalk all day, and even supplied city wooden barricades to, presumably, stop other people from parking there as well. I would have also asked the truck people why they had the word Greenpeace painted on the truck. Was the truck owned by Greenpeace? I really wish I had stopped to talk to them on Thursday. Also, why was the truck painted with the suggestion to: "Close Vermont Yankee"?

The truck was a really odd looking thing. It was an Isuzu flat bed sort of truck, with a big white, propaganda-laden, slanted-roof box on the back. I happened to pass city hall a few times that Thursday, and did notice that the purpose of the slanted roof was to hold a whole roof-full of solar collection panels. These, obviously, were not there to power the truck, and could no more have done so than the painted windmills on the sides of it could have. They were there to advertise, to propagandize, to promote solar and wind power; which are two power sources I have nothing at all against, by the way. The thing I didn’t appreciate was that the truck also had that darned sign which said we should close Vermont Yankee. No, I didn’t appreciate that very much at all.

You see, I don’t see the problem with Vermont Yankee. Please know right now that the person writing this column believes in nuclear power. Truthfully, I think it should power everything from our homes and cars to our wrist watches and electric toothbrushes, but that’s just me. As far as I know, good old Vermont Yankee has sat right there in Vernon, producing power, for quite a few years now, and has caused me no trouble at all in the process. I think I would have asked the truck people what they had against Vermont Yankee. I thought they liked non-polluting sources of energy. Or do they only like certain ones? If by then they had not begun hurling compost at me, as some anti-nuclear types did to federal nuclear regulators in Brattleboro recently, (Compost throwing? I thought only chimpanzees did that.) I would then have asked if they knew exactly how many people have been killed by accidents at the Vermont Yankee power plant. I think that answer would have been zero. Then I would have asked how many fatal accidents, or radiation-releasing accidents of any kind have ever occurred at nuclear plants in our country. Barring a near accident at the Three Mile Island plant in 1979, I believe the answer to this would have been zero, also. This fact alone is pretty amazing to me, since our government hasn’t allowed the building of any modern nuclear plants since that time. I also might have asked them how many people have been killed by accidents with windmills in our country. I’m pretty sure that answer wouldn’t have been zero.

I understand the gallant efforts of many of our citizens to free our country from dependence on foreign oil, and I support those efforts wholly. I’m just not sure that turning our backs on that other clean, non-polluting, powerful alternative; nuclear power, is the right way to go.

Speaking of power, I would like to ask, someone, how many windmill farms and solar arrays it would take to supply the energy generated by Vermont Yankee today, and at what expense to construct them. I would also ask where these massive wind and sun farms should be built. One question I would not have to ask is who the people are who would likely complain about the windmills the first time a big flock of Canadian geese got decapitated as they migrated, in a huge V for Vermont, through them. It certainly wouldn’t be Vermont hunters. They would be there with big knives and freezer bags. Also, the people who would complain about the unsightliness of hundreds of huge windmills and solar arrays would not be Vermont farmers. They have been accustomed to acres of barns, silos, farm machinery and even windmills for many years now. No, the complainers would likely be the same people who coined the term ‘light-pollution’ in an effort to slow the economic engine of our cities and shopping centers at night. They might be some of the same people who are proposing the closing of Vermont Yankee. I don’t know if they would be compost hurlers or not.

As I recall the truck parked on the sidewalk on Main Street that Thursday, it brings to mind one more question. I would like to ask Barre City officials if it would be okay for me to park a truck there, ON the sidewalk, laden with wood-stoves, oil burners and a sign which read: ‘Up with Vermont Yankee! Or: Greenpeace Trucks Burn Stinking Diesel!’ Or my favorite: ‘Nuke the Whales’. (By the way, that last one was a joke. Geezzz… grow a sense of humor. Will ya?) I would also appreciate the loan of all those city-owned barricades. Thank you, Mr. Mayor.
It’s interesting to me that an Isuzu truck, which was made in Japan, (Sorry Detroit), goes around burning it’s carbon-laden fuel, not to simply promote alternative energy sources, or even bring loads of organic produce to the ol’ co-op, but to denigrate a huge, Vermont-based, power-producing, job-supplying, pollution-free business.

Yes, oddly as it seems, I am all for clean energy, but also believe that nuclear power is safe. If I could have a little reactor in my basement that would supply all my power needs I would get one, today. It would be nice to shut my oil burner down for good, get rid of all those unsightly cables and poles we have become accustomed to seeing along our streets these past hundred years or so, (wire pollution) and still be able to plug an electric car in at night. (Look up at the wires on your street. I bet you hadn’t even noticed how ugly they are.) I also believe that wind and solar power are good, but not good enough yet. If Vermont Yankee is closed down before its time, and replaced by windmill farms and solar panel fields, we might be in for trouble on the first calm day, as night approaches. If you dabble in the stock market, here’s a tip. It might be time to sell Vermont Yankee… and buy Yankee Candle.

Crystal Radio

By G. E. Shuman


The boy of ten years or so lay in his bed, in his room, in his home, in the small rural Maine town. It was late at night in whichever season it was, in that year, whichever year it was, about forty five or so years ago. The child loved these late night moments of solitude. Being one of six children in a very small home, he was fortunate to have even this time of quiet, and more fortunate to have his own room. The room, like the quiet, was never something he could count on having for long.

In these late and silent, slightly eerie moments, the boy loved the chance to listen to a magical device; his crystal radio. The radio was a simple thing he had built himself, of thin wire and a few parts from the store. He had read instructions for making the radio in several places. One was his Cub Scout manual; another was a project book from the library. Several facts about the boy’s crystal radio never ceased to amaze him. The first was the very idea that he had made it himself, of a toilet paper tube, a spool of hair-thin, shellac coated copper wire, a strip of metal from a vegetable can, a cheap plastic ear phone, and a grain-of-rice sized strange part called a germanium diode. These items, when wired together correctly and mounted on a small square of wood, really did make a radio. And it was not just ANY radio. It was a crystal radio. That was the second, nearly mystical fact about the thing that amazed the child. His simple device employed a crystal to make it work. The crystal was in that tiny glass germanium diode, and it was something to be marveled at, by a child of ten years or so, those forty five or so years ago. Yes, those strange words; crystal, germanium, earphone, diode… all together made a working radio, and HE had made it. Another mysterious fact about the radio was that it required no source of power to be supplied by the boy. It did not plug into the wall, and used no batteries. It had no on/off switch, as it never had to be turned off. It looked like a small piece of wood, with a toilet tissue tube and some wires mounted upon it, exactly as it was, and it worked.

Night after night, the small boy of ten years or so waited up late to hear the broadcasts through the radio he had made. He would move that piece of tin-can-tin, slowly across the coil of tube-wound wire, and tune in words and songs that no one else in the house could hear. In the dark of those late and eerie nights, it was impossible to know from how far away the words and the music came. Some signals were from the very next town, but others had bounced off clouds and flown across many miles, to be received by the thin antenna wire stretched around the small boy’s little room, and detected by that tiny germanium crystal diode. The boy imagined that, if he listened intently enough, some night he might even hear a voice or a tone from much further away, as some alien world called out to the only earthly ear that would listen… his.

By now you have certainly supposed that the small boy in the story above was me, and if so, you would be right. In my childhood I made several crystal radios. One was built into a get well card, (perhaps the world’s first musical card,) which I presented to my dad in his hospital bed after he had undergone some surgery or other. In those days there were no TV’s in hospitals. Imagine that. Dad had actually passed some time listening to the little radio. At least he later made me believe he had. My very first crystal radio was even more basic than the ones described above. The only true radio part it contained was the little plastic earphone. It lacked even the crystal diode. In the diode’s place, believe it or not, was a Gillette blue-blade razor blade, tacked onto the piece of wood. A large, bent safety pin detected the radio signal when scratched across the surface of the blade. I have always been a minimalist. To me, less is almost certainly more. Those years ago it both surprised and greatly pleased me, and still does, that some wire, a razor blade and a safety pin could, and still can be used to produce a perfectly acceptable quality of radio reception. The sound was just fine, and literal music to my ears.

You may wonder why I have put you through all this talk of my youthful, geeky obsession with crystal radios. Many adults and certainly most children have never even heard of them. My reason is that I have recently re-discovered the radios, and my obsession, on eBay. (Some people just never grow up.)

One evening last week, I learned, through a casual conversation with one of my adult daughters, that my seven year old grandson, Jackson, loves putting things together. "He’s especially interested in anything electronic," Chrissy confided in me. She had to say no more.
The package from the eBay seller arrived on my doorstep yesterday afternoon. This evening Jackson and I have some serious assembling to do.


Get in Shape this year

Gay Marriage

By G. E. Shuman

This is a subject I have not mentioned in this column in the past. There is a reason for that. My writing, hopefully, is something that people enjoy reading, and look forward to. That is the purpose of what I do here in the paper. It is meant to be nothing more than that. I am certainly no expert on the subject of gay marriage or gay anything else. That being the case, broaching a subject like this one is probably not a wise thing to do here, but I do have strong opinions about it, and feel compelled to share them. I do this sharing knowing that what I say will change not even one reader’s opinion on that subject. People have very strong feelings in this area, and taking on the job of writing about it is sort of like running for political office. Even if you win, you lose, as you know that about half of the people who voted, disagreed with you, and your stands.
Having said that, I will now express my opinion of gay marriage. My opinion is, simply, that gay marriage is not possible. That is, that it is not possible without changing the accepted meaning of the word ‘marriage’. My further opinion is that changing that meaning is something we should not do.

If you have read this column religiously at all, you know that, along with being a social and political conservative, I am a religious conservative. As such, I was raised to believe that a homosexual lifestyle, although none of my business, and not a crime, is wrong. (Try saying that five times fast, in Vermont, and see where it gets you. Remember, this is an opinion column.) No, I do not believe in the existence of a gay gene. Sorry. Yes, I do believe that the gay lifestyle is inconsistent, to say the least, with what God intended for humanity. But I also was taught, from childhood, that I am no man’s (or woman’s) judge. How a person, and I mean any person, lives, is entirely their concern, and I am to respect that. What gay people do in their homes is nothing at all of my business, and I wish it to stay that way.

I could go on here to say that gay people have precisely the same rights that I have, and that includes marital rights, as that is a true statement. I have the right to marry someone of the opposite sex, and only someone of the opposite sex. Gay people have that same right. I said that I could say that. My problem is that I do not want to seem uncaring, as I am truly not uncaring. I am not homophobic, and have not one thing against any gay person. I just do not believe that marriage is something for two people of the same sex. Why does it have to be? Why are we being asked to accept it?

I have known many Christian pastors over the years. Some have been more conservative than others. Some have been more charismatic than others. None I have known would ever consider presiding over the marriage of a gay couple. There is a very good reason for this. The reason is that it requires an ultra-liberal church leader to go totally against the teachings of the Bible, and marry two people of the same sex, no matter what the laws of the state say. Just because something is legal, does not necessarily make it right. I’m not much into defiance, but I do defy any minister to study the story of God’s judgment on Sodom, and still, in good conscience, facilitate same sex marriage. I also wonder why gay people care at all about being accepted, as married, by the church in the first place.

If you are someone considering gay marriage when, (not if) our state condones that practice and upholds it by law, I am not here to judge you. As a Christian, I am here to love you. Please just don’t ask me to agree with you.

You Just Might Be A Conservative

By G. E. Shuman

I am a conservative. There is little doubt about that. I was raised in a conservative family in what was, at the time, the conservative state of Maine. We lived in a small town, and had few luxuries. We were a Christian family that attended a conservative Christian church whenever the church doors were open. We were very happy. My family cared about people. We tried to help others when we could. We had a huge garden every summer, and one way we helped others was that my dad gave away all the vegetables that we didn’t happen to use. Dad always planted and grew many more vegetables than we ever could use. My folks took in foster kids because those kids were less fortunate than us. When I was a boy I was a Cub Scout. As such I learned about honor and decency, about patriotism and conservation. I learned the correct way to fold a flag. No, I learned the correct way to fold an American flag, and the correct way to respect that American flag. Between those Cub Scout meetings and Sunday school I somehow learned to respect God, my elders, and my government. In the Cub Scouts I also learned to appreciate nature and our planet, and to not waste or pollute… anything. I guess, in a way, I learned to be a conservative environmentalist. Lest you believe that to be a contradiction in terms, let me tell you that it is not.

I began thinking about these areas of my past the other day, while in the supermarket. At the time, I happened to be passing the ‘organic’ section of the produce department. Without meaning to offend, it has always seemed curious to me that so many people are attracted to that section, seemingly oblivious to how completely the natural, un-dyed, hand-combed wool is being pulled over their eyes there. Vegetables, like carrots, tomatoes and turnips, are sold with greens and vines still attached, in an effort, presumably, to make them seem more natural and farm-fresh. Nothing in the organic section is plastic wrapped, plastic being evil and all. Being the conservative that I am, I always doubt the value of paying more for carrots with the tops still attached, than for carrots which have been washed and bagged for me. I have heard about natural and unnatural fertilizers, but to me, those bagged carrots are ‘organic’ too. In fact, I would argue that the only thing anyone ever eats that is not or was not an organism is table salt. That is a mineral. Yes, prepared, boxed foods may have chemicals in them, but I am writing about raw vegetables here. Let’s not compare apples to oranges, although we could, as every single one of them is organic, naturally, plastic bag or no plastic bag.
Whether or not you think I eat unnatural vegetables now, it was not always this way. My very conservative family ate very naturally, indeed. We had that big garden, you know. And my mom cooked and fed her family from it. She pickled and canned, blanched and froze what our garden produced, each year. We had big bags of potatoes, and boxes of squash all winter because of that great garden. We also raised very organic-seeming pigs and chickens. At least I think they were organic. They certainly smelled it. My conservative dad even made his own root beer. Mom made and repaired clothes for me and my five siblings. We conservatively wore hand-me-down coats, and hand knitted mittens and hats in winter. Dad spent many evenings keeping our car running, but we never went far from home anyway. Between that one car and a tiny lawn mower our eight-person carbon footprint was probably not very big. Our family truly honored hard work, and believed in the blessing of robust, thriving big businesses that employed many people. We thought our government was good. Remember now, we were conservatives.

It surprises me how much things have changed. Back ‘in the day’, as they say, we had some radically ‘liberal’ people who liked to be called hippies. Those people, unlike people I would compare them to today, were truly independent. Can you remember the motto: DO YOUR OWN THING!? If you are my age, you will. Those old hippies wanted very limited government. In fact, they called our government ‘big brother’, and ‘the man’. Unlike the social architects of today, who seem to encourage the growth of and dependence on big government, the hippies hated ‘the establishment’. Remember that? Instead of seeing any good in tax increases, they often refused to pay taxes at all. They believed in flower power, and in living simply; pretty much as simply as we conservative families did back then. The hippies valued all life, and would have agreed with Mr. Theodor Seuss Geisel, (Dr. Seuss,) and his character Horton, who stated that: “A person’s a person… no matter how small.”

Here is how I believe things have changed. The political left, in some cases the very people who once demanded an end to ‘the establishment,’ embraces an ever growing government today. The political right wants that government limited as much as possible. The left is in the process of bailing out the same, very big, polluting, lobbying, businesses it has been fighting for years. The right wants our great national ship to right itself, perhaps painfully, but naturally, without borrowing ever more from our great grandchildren. The left seems to want government to always do more, thereby having more and more control over our individual lives. The right wants government to stay out of our lives, and let us ‘do our own thing,’ just like those old hippies did.

No offence at all is intended to my liberal-minded friends, (Yes, I do have friends.) but the party that once was the party of the little guy has now become the party of huge government, and of big brother bailing out big business. What in the world has happened? The conservative party, the party which includes me, my wife, and, by the way our state seems to vote, about six other Vermonters, is the party of self reliance, rugged individualism and independent thinking. And, now I’m going to tell you a secret. No matter what you’ve been told, that’s what true conservatism has always been about. Think about that. If you have experienced, or at least agree with most of what I have written here, you just might be a conservative. (I won’t tell.)

Footnote: A friend of mine recently came up to me, in the very same supermarket where I started thinking about writing this column, and made a suggestion. He said I should start my own conservative publication, as, in his words, (not mine,) conservatives are simply being told to: “shut up and pay for it.” Out of mild curiosity, if you think that publication would be a good idea, let me know at vtreasures@myfairpoint.net.

Please Take a moment

This is really good - hope you enjoy it as much as I do

Listen to this

Slow down and enjoy life today.

So I Plant My Pumpkins

By G. E. Shuman

It is a very cold, late February afternoon. The thermometer is hovering around sixteen degrees today, if anything can actually ‘hover’ at that temperature. I recently came in from spending an hour or so of quality time with my snow blower. The weekend’s storm didn’t go away on its own, and I had to force the white stuff, once more, from the driveway. Such times always make me so happy.

I’m not sure how you feel about snow. I’m very sure how I feel about it, especially in late February. By this time in the snow blowing season I’m pretty much sick of the whole routine. Today’s battle with the white stuff sort of put the ‘icing’, so to speak, on the cake. You see, it is not only very snowy today, but very windy, and about half of the snow my blower was blowing turned around and hit me right in the face. Snow blowing on a sixteen degree windy day is not an advisable thing to do. Not to be crude, but it is sort of like Jack Frost’s version of ‘peeing against the wind.’ Anyway, what fun! I don’t mean to whine, but it is pretty much this way every year for me. So I plant my pumpkins, as I did today. (Therapy comes in many forms.)

I know, nobody in Vermont plants pumpkins in late February. Although, that’s not totally true, because I do. Nobody starts pumpkins in flower pots in February or at any other time, either, except perhaps someone with a face still stinging from using their snow blower.

I’m not totally sure why I do this winter-pumpkin-planting thing, but I believe it’s just for the experience of dirt, when all around me is ice. There is something great about warm, moist soil, even a little of it, this time of year. This is strange, but I miss the feeling, and even the smell of dirt, of soil, in winter. In February I start longing for green grass and flowers, for robins on the lawn and buds on the trees. So I plant my pumpkins.

This yearly ritual of mine, as strange as it might seem, is quite anticipated, and even premeditated, in a way. Every October I save a handful of seeds from the kids’ Halloween jack-o-lanterns. I tear a scrap from the newspaper they are using to protect the dining room table from “pumpkin guts”, as Emily calls it. I then put the seeds on the paper, and tuck it into the corner of a rarely disturbed window sill in the room. I guess I’m easily entertained, but it somehow amazes me that tiny parts from those freshly carved vegetables survive that Halloween night, awaiting the chance to grow and show themselves to still be alive. They dry and rest on that window sill, through Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas morning, New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day. Then one day I come in from blowing snow, a bit discouraged from the cold. So I plant my pumpkins.

Several weeks will then go by, and I will water and watch the soil in the pot. Then, one March morning I should notice small whitish-green heads poking up from it. Those, within several more weeks, will have become large leafy plants, with fuzzy and familiar strong stems. And they soon after will bud and blossom, with those great big beautiful pumpkin flowers.

I know that I could just as well start some other seeds from packages, and actually grow a garden from the seedlings I would get. But those plants would supply no important link to last Halloween with the kids. The truth is, so far, I have received no further ‘fruit’ at all for my un-seasonal planting efforts. Actual pumpkins never seem to arrive, but that’s okay. The greenery and flowers are enough to keep me going until I finally get to put the snow blower away for the season. So I plant my pumpkins.

George’s Economic Stimulus Package -For the President-

By G. E. Shuman

Well, here we go. From all the commotion and mudslinging coming from Washington, it looks like, after much churning and composting, the party in charge is about to totally tick the other side off and finally give it to us. Good. Or is that, give it to us good? I’m referring, of course, to the new administration’s economic stimulus package. I am one who didn’t vote for our new president, but who truly wishes him well. His election was historic, and he will surely do some good things for our country. I hope he does many. I just don’t think the stimulus package is one of those good things. In fact, my kind suggestion to the President of The United States, (It goes without saying, that he must read this column for advice from time to time.) is this: President Obama, scrap it. Yes, scrap it, scrap it, scrap it. Get rid of the stimulus package before it damages your future, and ours. Since I seem to be addressing the president, I might as well continue.

Mr. President, I’m sure you’re trying. You’ve just got too many cooks in the kitchen, rolling out the ‘dough’, so to speak, and far too many hands in the cookie jar. Now, I’m not blaming you alone. That’s how it always is in Washington. My mom used to cook with lard sometimes, but she never put pork in her dough. Pork has a way of ruining things like cookies and economic stimulus packages. Hey, Economic Stimulus Package. ESP. There must be some subliminal message there. Perhaps you need ESP to understand that complicated plan you partially inherited and partially cooked up on your own.

I guess it’s just a mixed up world, Mr. President, but it seems strange that, in this case, the republicans are the ones fighting all the loans to industry. Aren’t they the ones who are supposed to always side with big business? Isn’t your party, Mr. Obama, the party of the little guy? Oh, I know. Things like big auto mostly deal with union jobs. Yes, I remember now.

Anyway, Mr. President, here’s what you need to do with the money, which, as far as I can tell is money the government doesn’t actually have anyway… if you REALLY want to end the recession, and fast. If you do this I can almost guarantee you will be re-elected, providing you still want the job in four years. I might even vote for you. What you need to do is pretty simple. Give the money to us, the taxpayers (and voters.) Just give it to us. The idea is not something I thought up myself. I stole it from a friend, which, come to think of it, could mean I would fit in pretty well with some D.C. politicians.

Someone said that if the money, wherever it is coming from, were given evenly to every taxpayer, it might amount to $10,000 or more each. Is this calculation too complicated for our government to do? If so, just tell me the total dollars, and the number of taxpayers, and I can figure it for you on my pocket calculator. Too hard to administer, you might say. Well, maybe. Writing each taxpayer a check and mailing them out does sound a little ‘taxing’. As for my portion, just add the amount, whatever it is, to my tax refund this year and save yourself a stamp. I know all those congressmen would get mad that you sidestepped their attempts to pork things up. They would just have to go home and tell their constituents that nobody got nothin’. Nope, nobody. The big point would be that everybody would get somethin’.

But the average American wouldn’t spend the money wisely, you powerful politicians might say. The government can certainly do a better job. First of all, how do you know that? Does the government have a record of spending money wisely? Secondly, who cares how the money is spent? Sure, a certain number of yo-yos would go out and buy ten thousand dollars worth of bubble gum and guitar strings, but imagine what that would do to the bubble gum and guitar string industries. Some of us would pay off cars, and go get new ones. Hello, struggling Detroit. Argue with the idea that Americans love to spend money. I’m not trying to be sexist here; Mr. President, but imagine if the average husband met his wife at the back door and admonished her, American Flag in hand, that it was her civic duty to go out and spend $10,000 as fast as she could. Standing at attention, he would salute her as she turned on her heels, mowed him down, and headed off to quickly turn this economy around. For a real anti-recession knock out punch, have us send in the receipts for what we bought, to qualify for another check next year. It occurs to me that if this nearly foolproof plan could be conjured up by little ol’ me, then your people must have already considered something similar. The fact that they aren’t promoting it worries me even more than the plan that you have.

Mr. Obama, let’s remember who’s money it is that we’re talking about. If your going to tax my great grandchildren’s future, at least let their great granddad spend the money. It’s certainly better than giving it to the shiny-shoes at General Motors corporate offices. I’m no economist, but if big business uses the money to create jobs, what happens when the money runs out again? It’s just a question. I really think we would be better off creating jobs the old fashioned way. It’s something that hasn’t been tried in our country in a while. It’s called capitalism. If you really want to rev up the most powerful economic engine the world has ever known, you don’t need to start tinkering with it. Just give it some gas. Remember, if you use my plan, I’ll vote for ya. You know you want me to. (Now would someone please send this to the White House, before it’s too late?)