By G.E. Shuman
My wife Lorna works evenings. She leaves the house at about dinnertime, and gets back home by eleven or so. It’s not a perfect schedule for a lot of people, but works well for us. I’m here with the kids when she’s at work. One effect of this schedule is that I have pretty much taken over preparing the evening meals for our family. Many nights I make the kids their food, and make something different for Lorna and myself to have when she gets home. I know, I know, we should not be eating that late at night. Don’t shake your finger at me, or I’ll put an onion ring on it.
I have been surprised by a few things about becoming the chief cook and bottle washer at our home. The first is that I usually enjoy making the dinners. (I did say: “usually”.) I think I have developed a pretty good handle on how to make meals the kids enjoy. I know I know how to make certain things Lorna and I enjoy. A big part of the enjoyment in making the food is that I have decided recipe books are for sissies. They just are. I have tried them, and they don’t work. Period. Why in the world would I want some stranger telling me how much of something should go into my food? I know what tastes good to us, and we are the ones who will be eating it, right? The other night I was shaking salt into my palm, (I own a really nice blood pressure meter.) to add to a big beef stew I was making, and realized that I probably cook a lot like my mom does, but not nearly as well, of course. Mom will stand at the stove or counter and just add some of this and some of that, and her meals always come out tasting wonderful, or wonderfully, depending on if you use proper English or not. She even has names for the ‘some-of’ quantities she uses, and those names are actually written on cookie-dough-and-vanilla stained old, worn recipe cards she used when I was a child, and probably still has. I remember three of those ‘very precise’ measuring units were referred to as a pinch, a smidgen and a dite. You know, the recipe would say: Add a pinch of salt, a smidgen of cinnamon and just a dite of nutmeg; something like that.
I believe that these less than scientific units of measure came into being for a reason. You see, when my parents were young adults, and I was a child, things were simpler. Measurements and many other things were just less precise than now, and I’m pretty sure we were exactly as well off with that less-preciseness. No one cared if your apple pie had half a smidgen more or less cinnamon than mine. No one expected a high definition picture from their TV, either. Yes, we had TVs back then, (we called them TV ‘sets’) and we felt lucky to get a picture on them at all. Measurements were not done in microns, and pictures were not measured in pixels. Absolute precision was not that important, I guess. We didn’t live for it. That time was one in which human integrity was high and technological integrity somewhat lower. Pretty much the opposite of the way things are today. A major business deal really could be struck on a handshake, and a meeting could begin ‘after lunchtime’, not at one fifteen pm, precisely. No one cared if Sunday afternoon company stayed late. Do you remember even HAVING Sunday afternoon company? No one cared because no one managed their Sunday evening by what time the show came on. I take that back. Lassie and The Wonderful World of Disney were exceptions. There are always exceptions. My dad’s first brand new car, a nineteen sixty Chevy was also very simple by today’s automotive standards. It had few options, but loads of space, even under the hood. You could actually get your whole body down beside the engine to change the spark plugs. But I guess no one changes spark plugs anymore. If they do, they must need surgical tools to reach them.
Further back, when my dad was a boy, things were even less precise than in my boyhood time. I remember him telling me that there were no electric meters on homes then, for instance. No one had yet thought of charging customers by the quantity of electrical charge they used. That came later on, closer to our current age of precision in measuring current. You just paid a set amount to the power company each month for having the stuff wired into your house. And everyone could drive a car when they turned sixteen back then. Did you know that? Did you even want to know that? No one had a license, so no one needed to go get one. Your dad taught you the rules of the road. That was easier, although less precise than now, as there were fewer rules then, than now.
Only hours before I began writing this column, one of my super duper, wonderful, fancy, plastic electronic marvels, (my computer) notified me that 45,000 Americans lost their jobs, today. Think of that. I said, today. All of our gadgets, gizmos, and precise measuring devices didn’t stop that. Our Ipods and Blackberries, our cell phones and organizers, had not the vaguest idea or the slightest care that those men and women were becoming unemployed. Google couldn’t have cared less, if Google is capable of caring at all. Our immense compilation of knowledge and computing power didn’t prevent those massive layoffs, or even see them coming. Neither will it prevent possible future ones. How far have we actually come since the great depression?
About the only good thing I can think of that comes from economic recession is an eventual, probably inevitable, settling down, followed by rebuilding. People tend to simplify their lives in times like these. They turn to family, friends, and best of all to God when all else is failing them. We go back to basics, when basics are all we have left. Don’t we? Somehow, all that doesn’t seem so bad.
You know, between you and me, I was born a generation or two, too late. I’m not much for big boy toys, complex, time-robbing gadgets with huge instruction manuals, or, as I said, even recipes. I like things simpler than that. Here’s a thought. Maybe it’s time we stopped sharing data, and started sharing beef stew and biscuits again. Since no one seems to know where we’re going, we might consider slowing our headlong rush into the future, just a dite.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Through The Frozen Tundra, To The Game!
By G. E. Shuman
Last Tuesday afternoon and evening my kids and I had a great adventure. At two thirty Emily and I left the parking lot of their school, Websterville Baptist Christian, and followed the boy’s basketball team van north. And I mean north. The team our son Andrew plays on was scheduled to play the Richford varsity boys at six pm, and off we went.
I need to tell you that in summer, or in the three or four weeks of summer the Richford area likely gets, our ride would have been a lot of fun. Last Tuesday it was not. The wind was howling all the way up route 89 and far beyond, and the highway was covered with a below-freezing salt laden slush which had to be constantly wiped from the windshield. Two miles or so into the trip I remembered the three gallons of windshield antifreeze under my carport, just as the supply in the windshield squirter ran out. This wouldn’t have been as aggravating as it was, if it hadn’t been the second time in a week that it had happened to me. The boy scout motto is to be prepared. I never made it past cub scouts. So, the remainder of the ride from dear old exit 6 in South Barre to exit 19 way the heck up in St. Albans, was a real hoot. Our Vermont winter wonderland looks different when seen through mud.
In any case, we left the highway, I mean we exited the highway, at exit 19 and our sports junkie caravan stopped at a convenience store for the obligatory coffee, junk food, and for me, gallon of overpriced windshield wash. Then, you guessed it, off we went again.
You know, Vermont is a very large place. It may not appear so on a map of our country, but it is a very large place. Our trip from that convenience store up to Richford, to me, was nothing short of amazing. I have been to the northern reaches of our state several times over the years, but seem to forget just how much, or perhaps how little is up there until the next time. I have to tell you, if you have never taken the trip, you are likely in good and large company. The land is flat, and the snow covered fields go on forever. They don’t just seem to go on forever, I think they really do. (At one point I’m pretty sure I spotted a polar bear in the far distance.) We drove on, and on, and on, past the occasional farm, by one small business or another, further and further along that cold, snowy, north east bound road.
Emily missed nearly all of the desolate beauty of the frozen tundra we traversed in my little car last Tuesday. She had put her seat back, and was peacefully snoozing away for most of the ride. The fifty mile an hour wind hitting the car broadside must have rocked her to sleep. Plowing through endless drifts of snow across the road must have softened the ride to help her relax. Kids have it so rough. As she slept, I kept my eye on the back of that school van, and wondered a bit about the first travelers to explore this part of Vermont in winter. The further we went, the more I wondered about them. If I could, I would ask them a question. That question would be: “Why?” Or, maybe: “What in the world is WRONG with you?” Or: “What is up here that you wanted so badly to see?” With each of the three or so small towns we passed on our way to Richford, I imagined those same wintry explorers, stopping at about the time one of their members’ feet froze off, and saying: “Hey, now this looks like a dandy place to build a town. Let‘s just stop and live here!”
We saw many interesting things along our trek toward the north pole. One thing that amazed me was the number of large and beautiful homes along routes 104 and 105. Those first explorers must have been successful after all. If we had time I would have stopped at a cool looking, (no pun intended) business simply named Sticks And Stuff. From the outside I wasn’t sure if it was a building supply or furniture place, but it looked like a fun store. And later there was the very expensive looking, hopeful sign for an ‘Industrial and Business Park.’ This sign, from what I could see, was the only structure in a very large cornfield. I also witnessed two of the biggest, fastest spinning windmills I have ever seen, right beside a huge barn. I doubt if that farmer had to worry about his electric bill.
Two hours into our trip, after plowing through the very nice little towns of Sheldon and Enosburg Falls, we arrived in Richford. My father would have called Richford “the last jumping-off place.” He would have been right. I hit the brakes soon enough to avoid sliding into Canada. Then we enjoyed a tough and rewarding (for our team) basketball game at Richford School’s beautiful gym. Thank you Richford. We headed home, tired and a bit tested, pushing once more through wind and whipping snow. It was dark. I didn’t see one polar bear.
Last Tuesday afternoon and evening my kids and I had a great adventure. At two thirty Emily and I left the parking lot of their school, Websterville Baptist Christian, and followed the boy’s basketball team van north. And I mean north. The team our son Andrew plays on was scheduled to play the Richford varsity boys at six pm, and off we went.
I need to tell you that in summer, or in the three or four weeks of summer the Richford area likely gets, our ride would have been a lot of fun. Last Tuesday it was not. The wind was howling all the way up route 89 and far beyond, and the highway was covered with a below-freezing salt laden slush which had to be constantly wiped from the windshield. Two miles or so into the trip I remembered the three gallons of windshield antifreeze under my carport, just as the supply in the windshield squirter ran out. This wouldn’t have been as aggravating as it was, if it hadn’t been the second time in a week that it had happened to me. The boy scout motto is to be prepared. I never made it past cub scouts. So, the remainder of the ride from dear old exit 6 in South Barre to exit 19 way the heck up in St. Albans, was a real hoot. Our Vermont winter wonderland looks different when seen through mud.
In any case, we left the highway, I mean we exited the highway, at exit 19 and our sports junkie caravan stopped at a convenience store for the obligatory coffee, junk food, and for me, gallon of overpriced windshield wash. Then, you guessed it, off we went again.
You know, Vermont is a very large place. It may not appear so on a map of our country, but it is a very large place. Our trip from that convenience store up to Richford, to me, was nothing short of amazing. I have been to the northern reaches of our state several times over the years, but seem to forget just how much, or perhaps how little is up there until the next time. I have to tell you, if you have never taken the trip, you are likely in good and large company. The land is flat, and the snow covered fields go on forever. They don’t just seem to go on forever, I think they really do. (At one point I’m pretty sure I spotted a polar bear in the far distance.) We drove on, and on, and on, past the occasional farm, by one small business or another, further and further along that cold, snowy, north east bound road.
Emily missed nearly all of the desolate beauty of the frozen tundra we traversed in my little car last Tuesday. She had put her seat back, and was peacefully snoozing away for most of the ride. The fifty mile an hour wind hitting the car broadside must have rocked her to sleep. Plowing through endless drifts of snow across the road must have softened the ride to help her relax. Kids have it so rough. As she slept, I kept my eye on the back of that school van, and wondered a bit about the first travelers to explore this part of Vermont in winter. The further we went, the more I wondered about them. If I could, I would ask them a question. That question would be: “Why?” Or, maybe: “What in the world is WRONG with you?” Or: “What is up here that you wanted so badly to see?” With each of the three or so small towns we passed on our way to Richford, I imagined those same wintry explorers, stopping at about the time one of their members’ feet froze off, and saying: “Hey, now this looks like a dandy place to build a town. Let‘s just stop and live here!”
We saw many interesting things along our trek toward the north pole. One thing that amazed me was the number of large and beautiful homes along routes 104 and 105. Those first explorers must have been successful after all. If we had time I would have stopped at a cool looking, (no pun intended) business simply named Sticks And Stuff. From the outside I wasn’t sure if it was a building supply or furniture place, but it looked like a fun store. And later there was the very expensive looking, hopeful sign for an ‘Industrial and Business Park.’ This sign, from what I could see, was the only structure in a very large cornfield. I also witnessed two of the biggest, fastest spinning windmills I have ever seen, right beside a huge barn. I doubt if that farmer had to worry about his electric bill.
Two hours into our trip, after plowing through the very nice little towns of Sheldon and Enosburg Falls, we arrived in Richford. My father would have called Richford “the last jumping-off place.” He would have been right. I hit the brakes soon enough to avoid sliding into Canada. Then we enjoyed a tough and rewarding (for our team) basketball game at Richford School’s beautiful gym. Thank you Richford. We headed home, tired and a bit tested, pushing once more through wind and whipping snow. It was dark. I didn’t see one polar bear.
Monday, January 5, 2009
My Everlasting Bird Feeder
By G. E. Shuman
My family and I do something that is becoming increasingly politically incorrect. We buy bottled water. In fact, we buy a lot of individually bottled waters, in case packs. (Please don’t have us arrested.) The kids take bottled water to basketball practice nearly every day, and we happen to like the convenience of that. Besides, people are supposed to drink a lot of water, which we do. Only a few years ago buying bottled water, and more recently, buying flavored bottled water was what everybody did. Now it is considered an anti-environment act. Many people also feel that drinking water from a plastic bottle is dangerous to your health. Where were those people when we started doing it? In our defense, we at our home have probably never been on the cutting edge of the newest fad or enlightened behavior, so perhaps we may be excused for continuing to buy bottled water a while longer.
A few evenings ago I saw an ad on TV for a new product. The ad was for a reusable, earth-friendly, metal personal beverage container. It had a screw on cap, but other than that reminded me a lot of something we used to call a cup. The idea is to fill the container from your kitchen faucet and save all that plastic from ending up in the landfill. What will they think of next? The ad even mentioned that recycling was only a bit better end for plastic than the landfill, as the air is polluted in the recycling process. The ad also attempted to take me on a guilt trip, when it stated that a plastic bottle dumped in a landfill will stay there for eight hundred years. Well, in response to that statement I have two questions. The first one is this. If plastic stays in the landfill for eight hundred years, where does it go then? I wonder if someone were to watch one of my plastic water bottles in the landfill for those eight hundred years, what would happen the following day? Would my bottle go ‘poof’ and then be gone? (That is more than two questions, I know. But it was really one main question and some sub-questions after that.) My second main question is this. How do they know that my plastic bottle will last eight hundred years? There was no plastic eight hundred years ago, so no bottles from that time are going ‘poof’ and disappearing from the landfill today. In some ways I wish plastic had been invented hundreds of years ago. If it had, I could own a personal beverage container once belonging to Christopher Columbus. I could still be using it today and for the next three hundred years or so, if only people lasted as long as plastic.
A few days after seeing the guilt-inflicting ad for that new cup, I began thinking of other things we buy that come in plastic containers. Milk is an obvious one. Another is Hawaiian Punch. My son loves that stuff, and it comes in huge, square-ish clear plastic jugs, each having a big plastic handle at the top to carry and pour it with. When I was young there was Hawaiian Punch, (I’m not kidding.) but back then it came in metal cans you opened with an old fashioned can opener. Those cans have been recycled for years. I think they used to melt them down and make Buicks out of them. That speeds up the corrosion process considerably, and the metal goes back to nature by the time the car is paid for. It was sort of a Hawaiian Punch circle of life. Anyway, I decided to find a use for that big plastic punch jug. It looked exactly like new, and had at least seven hundred ninety nine years, eleven months and a dozen days left in its lifetime. So, I rinsed it out, put the cap back on, and made a small hole, on one side, near the bottom. I then made another small hole on the opposite side, in the same area. Then I got about a foot long stick and pushed it into the first hole and an inch or so out through the back hole. Next I cut about a three inch circular hole just above the first hole, and there I had it. I had just constructed a practically everlasting bird feeder. All that was left was to put some wild bird food in it, and hang it in a tree by that nifty plastic handle on the top.
I’ve been thinking that, just maybe, someone a hundred years from now will find my bird feeder still in that tree. If so, the tree will be very old indeed. Perhaps they can take it down and transfer it to another, younger tree. After all, the feeder will still have a good seven hundred years of use left.
Or, perhaps people a hundred years from now will collect antiques made of plastic, from our time. So maybe they wouldn’t put the feeder up in another tree. Someone might simply display it alongside a funny, bulky communication device their Grandpa called a cell phone, and other valuable old things like pens and pocket combs. One of those things could have been Columbus’ own personal beverage container. It would still have about two hundred years of use left in it… if only Columbus had plastic.
My family and I do something that is becoming increasingly politically incorrect. We buy bottled water. In fact, we buy a lot of individually bottled waters, in case packs. (Please don’t have us arrested.) The kids take bottled water to basketball practice nearly every day, and we happen to like the convenience of that. Besides, people are supposed to drink a lot of water, which we do. Only a few years ago buying bottled water, and more recently, buying flavored bottled water was what everybody did. Now it is considered an anti-environment act. Many people also feel that drinking water from a plastic bottle is dangerous to your health. Where were those people when we started doing it? In our defense, we at our home have probably never been on the cutting edge of the newest fad or enlightened behavior, so perhaps we may be excused for continuing to buy bottled water a while longer.
A few evenings ago I saw an ad on TV for a new product. The ad was for a reusable, earth-friendly, metal personal beverage container. It had a screw on cap, but other than that reminded me a lot of something we used to call a cup. The idea is to fill the container from your kitchen faucet and save all that plastic from ending up in the landfill. What will they think of next? The ad even mentioned that recycling was only a bit better end for plastic than the landfill, as the air is polluted in the recycling process. The ad also attempted to take me on a guilt trip, when it stated that a plastic bottle dumped in a landfill will stay there for eight hundred years. Well, in response to that statement I have two questions. The first one is this. If plastic stays in the landfill for eight hundred years, where does it go then? I wonder if someone were to watch one of my plastic water bottles in the landfill for those eight hundred years, what would happen the following day? Would my bottle go ‘poof’ and then be gone? (That is more than two questions, I know. But it was really one main question and some sub-questions after that.) My second main question is this. How do they know that my plastic bottle will last eight hundred years? There was no plastic eight hundred years ago, so no bottles from that time are going ‘poof’ and disappearing from the landfill today. In some ways I wish plastic had been invented hundreds of years ago. If it had, I could own a personal beverage container once belonging to Christopher Columbus. I could still be using it today and for the next three hundred years or so, if only people lasted as long as plastic.
A few days after seeing the guilt-inflicting ad for that new cup, I began thinking of other things we buy that come in plastic containers. Milk is an obvious one. Another is Hawaiian Punch. My son loves that stuff, and it comes in huge, square-ish clear plastic jugs, each having a big plastic handle at the top to carry and pour it with. When I was young there was Hawaiian Punch, (I’m not kidding.) but back then it came in metal cans you opened with an old fashioned can opener. Those cans have been recycled for years. I think they used to melt them down and make Buicks out of them. That speeds up the corrosion process considerably, and the metal goes back to nature by the time the car is paid for. It was sort of a Hawaiian Punch circle of life. Anyway, I decided to find a use for that big plastic punch jug. It looked exactly like new, and had at least seven hundred ninety nine years, eleven months and a dozen days left in its lifetime. So, I rinsed it out, put the cap back on, and made a small hole, on one side, near the bottom. I then made another small hole on the opposite side, in the same area. Then I got about a foot long stick and pushed it into the first hole and an inch or so out through the back hole. Next I cut about a three inch circular hole just above the first hole, and there I had it. I had just constructed a practically everlasting bird feeder. All that was left was to put some wild bird food in it, and hang it in a tree by that nifty plastic handle on the top.
I’ve been thinking that, just maybe, someone a hundred years from now will find my bird feeder still in that tree. If so, the tree will be very old indeed. Perhaps they can take it down and transfer it to another, younger tree. After all, the feeder will still have a good seven hundred years of use left.
Or, perhaps people a hundred years from now will collect antiques made of plastic, from our time. So maybe they wouldn’t put the feeder up in another tree. Someone might simply display it alongside a funny, bulky communication device their Grandpa called a cell phone, and other valuable old things like pens and pocket combs. One of those things could have been Columbus’ own personal beverage container. It would still have about two hundred years of use left in it… if only Columbus had plastic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)