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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