The January Purge

By G. E. Shuman

A strange thing seems to happen this time of year, every year. For some reason, and I think I know what that reason is, people tend to get a form of ‘religion’ about certain things, right around the first day of every single January. This occurrence is one that has been happening as long as I can remember. Admittedly, that isn’t as long a time as it used to be, and I’m actually beginning to believe that that is a good thing.

As I just said, at least I think I just said, I think I know what the reason is for this sudden, annual bent toward commitment to some lofty goal. It is those lousy, well-intended but ill-reasoned, unnecessary and ultimately unsuccessful resolutions many of us force upon ourselves this time of year. I call this action the ‘January purge,’ and I will now tell you why I call it that.

You see, it’s sort of like a mental spring-cleaning that we do right at the ‘old’ year’s end. In our world, in our lives, things just sort of accumulate. They pile up on us, and I don’t just mean, (although I don’t exclude either,) physical things. We began ‘last year’ exactly as we are beginning this year. We wanted to make a change in some aspect of our lives. We wanted to start fresh, with our brand-new, bright and shiny new year. So, some of us made resolutions. Our good intentions were quite sincere, and we were dead serious about those resolutions. We resolved to steadfastly hold to those goals, and we were sure that we could do that. That’s why we made them in the first place, and, in fact, that’s why they are called resolutions, if you were unsure of that.

Not to depress you, just as you have made your ‘new’ New Year’s resolutions, but this is about how the following months progress for most normal, and some abnormal people. January usually floats along pretty well, even though we might slip up, just a bit. Then, simply because a month is a pretty short period of time, (especially if you have experienced a lot of months in your lifetime,) February is suddenly here, and we actually begin to forget New Year’s Eve, and things called resolutions. After all, it’s time to think about Valentine’s Day. The first resolutions to go are usually, no, always, those dealing with bad habits. I know this because I have had a lot of Februarys, and more than one bad habit. I don’t smoke, but love the quote from my old buddy Mark Twain, who said: “Quitting smoking is easy. I’ve done it a thousand times.” So, those bad habits are the first things to start piling up on us again. Next, we (or, at least, I) might forget a few goals and promises made to ourselves, (or, at least, to myself.) After all, we are all very busy. That expensive treadmill may get accidentally unplugged, and silently returned to its intended purpose of providing a place to hang freshly-ironed dress shirts. (Remember the old Paul Simon song, “Slip-Sliding Away”? I think he wrote that song to be played in the months immediately following New Years Day, and, perhaps, after the swearing-in of each new United States Congress, (So far, at least.) Next, you, (this time not I) might start using that ol’ credit card again. You remember. It’s the one you vowed, on New Years Eve, to get rid of? One little charge won’t make any difference, after all. And, even though you are totally committed to keeping your pledge to lose fifty pounds by summer, one tiny piece of cake won’t hurt a thing. You’re just eating it so that you don’t insult your host. Right? And, you already consumed that box of Valentine’s Day chocolates anyway. So, the diet thing has already begun slip-sliding away. You, also, haven’t actually gotten around to making amends with that irritating person you have promised yourself and the world that you would get along with this year, somehow.

See how things can pile up? Before any of us know it, most of us might as well have never made those lousy resolutions in the first place. We end up with that same feeling in the pit of our stomachs that is sometimes called ’buyer’s remorse.’ I have wondered for years why in the world we do such things to ourselves, over and over and over again.

My wife and I ’get rid of’ the holidays this week. She carefully packs away the Christmas and New Years stuff, and I go through the house, with vacuum cleaner, mop and duster at my side, ’throwing out the old,’ as they say. We attempt to start over, although I do like the reminiscent scent of Christmas tree needles in the vacuum cleaner for the next month or so. To me, ’in with the new’ would best be handled by ’in with nothing new’, but I know that’s not how it goes. It will still be good to make a fresh start in this bright new year, (including the new Congress.) I just won’t do it with resolutions.

My opinion and advice on how to start over this year is to just decide to do it. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate, don’t procrastinate or ‘codgertate’ too long. Be a man, unless you‘re a woman. Don’t over-think the situation. ‘Make that change’, as Michael Jackson wisely advised in his Man In The Mirror song, and move on. (Admittedly, I think old M.J. spent a bit too much time looking in that mirror.)

If your goal happens to be a TRULY spiritual one, that’s the best kind of all. The State of Vermont may not allow u-turns, but God does. I’m very glad of that fact. Happy New Year!

Christmastime

By G. E. Shuman

Snowflakes sparkle in the sun;

Wind-whipped wonders, winter fun.

Bright blue skies, so crystal-clear

Signs that Christmastime is here

Decorations: lights and holly

Words like ‘Santa,’ ‘elves,’ and ‘jolly’

Peace on earth, and Christmas cheer,

Are what people seek, each year.

Traffic bustling, shoppers scurrying

Wishing they could end their hurrying.

And find meaning in their trying

To complete their Christmas buying.

While still missing the true worth

Of the finest gifts on earth.

His great blessings, all around;

Stop and look, they can be found.

Church bells clanging, Christians singing,

Hugs from friends, good-wishes-bringing

Family gatherings, feasts and laughter,

And a fire, to warm us, after.

Evergreens to scent each dwelling,

Sights and sounds, tradition, telling

How each home, in its own way

Honors this new Christmas Day.

Brass chimes tinkling, bells a-ringing

Choirs of children, sweetly singing,

Voices all, to heaven raising,

Grateful, heart-felt Christmas praising.

Worlds are circling countless suns.

Life and love may cling to some.

If they do, they share the glory

Of our own world’s Christmas story.

Their bright sun; a star to earth,

May have once proclaimed a birth.

Shining bright, on manger stall,

And the babe, who made it all.

I Wasn't Born Yesterday

By G. E. Shuman

I was not born yesterday. If you know me, or if you are reading this in the paper and happen to have noticed the picture of the handsome man beside this column, you already know that I was not born yesterday. In fact, and just to make matters worse, that very picture was taken several years ago, and, likely, now shows a less-than-accurate depiction of the ‘real’ me. That is because photos tend to get worse with age. Also, if the picture actually looks handsome to you, you are obviously quite sight-impaired, mentally-impaired, a combination of both, or have glanced too far over on the page, at someone else’s picture.

No, I was not born yesterday. I say this because I got a phone call one recent evening, at nine, to be exact, from a lady representing “my” cable company. She, evidently, did think I was born yesterday. This lady, while never actually mentioning the name of “my” cable company, offered to send me a FREE cable box which would be of, apparently, invaluable ‘value’ to me, when “my” cable company “goes digital.” I very politely asked the lady if there were any costs associated with this ‘free’ box. Her reply was that it was free, for only six dollars a month. I, again, very politely told her that I saw nothing free in six dollars a month, and didn’t watch much TV, anyway. The truth is that I couldn’t have cared less if my cable company goes ‘digital’ or not. The number of digits that they have is of no concern to me, whatsoever. I later thought that I should have asked that lady for her personal phone number, so that I could call her at nine, one evening, to offer to send her some free gift… for only six dollars a month. Perhaps, I thought, she would like some of my old neckties or socks. You just never know.

Another group of people who must think that I was born yesterday are those dear folks at the credit card companies. Bless their hearts. They just LOVE writing to me, and keep me entertained with their wonderful offers, which arrive in my mail box nearly every day. Many days their combined kind-correspondences compete for space in that very mailbox. It is a fact; there are no more faithful people in the world than those credit card folks. Another truth is, as much as I would hate to hurt their feelings, I have had no credit cards, and no credit card debt for over a dozen years. I also desire to have none of either one, and don‘t mind being called a dinosaur because of that. Dinosaurs had their good points, after all. You know, some very well-meaning friends and relatives of ours have told my wife and me that we NEED to have cards, to establish credit. My question to them always has to do with why I need to establish something, when I don’t WANT that something. As far as credit cards are concerned, if I can’t afford a thing I want to buy today, why would I want to pay MORE for it, later? I’m no math genius, but that just doesn’t add up, to me. Years ago I learned that buying something and having to keep paying for it after it is down the drain, is not all that enjoyable a thing to do. (Note: This analogy is especially accurate, literal, and takes place at an exceedingly rapid velocity, when paying for a restaurant meal with a credit card. This happens, even more effectively, when the food is Mexican.) Also, years ago I also learned that those nice credit card people are not always so nice if you fail to send them a monthly check after accepting one of their very generous offers. I still enjoy receiving their letters, though. With the cost of fuel oil, my fireplace often enjoys them, too.

Now, let’s talk for a moment about automobile ads. I know. They don’t make ‘automobiles’ anymore. So, let’s talk for a moment about car ads. One local franchise recently offered me a new, FREE, hi-def TV, if I just bought a new car from them. Wow! I could use a new, FREE, hi-def TV. Couldn’t you? Well, those nice folks must really think all of us were born yesterday. They may know that some of us were. If you were, and are tempted by this offer, just remember that those car guys are not there to give away TVs… at least I don’t think they are. Remember, too, that they probably paid only a few hundred dollars for your free gift, and by just sneaking in an extra payment, or lowering your trade-in allowance a bit, they can actually make a buck or two extra, in giving you that ‘FREE’ TV. Also, since you are really paying for it in the first place, I wonder why they should get to pick our your new TV for you. You might get a better one by buying it for yourself. But then, I guess, it wouldn’t be ‘free’ and not nearly as much fun to take home. While on the subject of cars, I have often wondered what in the world balloons have to do with cars. Evidently, if a car dealership has gone to the trouble of tying balloons to the antennas of all their cars, there must be something very special going on that day. Perhaps one of the new cars is having a birthday. If so, I don’t want that one… but I do like the balloons; especially the big red ones.

Okay, friends and neighbors. If I could make just one request of you, it would be that you never purchase any-thing, any-way, any-how, that is advertised on television for $19.95. (plus shipping and handling, of course.) I once actually had a friend who was in that business, and he confided something in me. On my honor, he said that when you sell something on one of those TV ads, the shipping and handling covers ALL of your costs… including the shipping, handling, product cost, ,advertising cost, and the lunch date you had with the pretty advertising girl to clinch the deal. The $19.95 is all profit. How about that? This makes it easy to say in your ad: “But wait! We’re going to double the offer! You now get TWO plastic whiz-bang gizmos for the price of one! (Just pay EXTRA shipping and handling.) Humm. What was it that P.T. Barnum once said?

Next, but not last, I wish to make just a short comment on the subject of ‘fast’ food restaurants. Please understand that I do frequent those establishments, but not as frequently as I used to frequent them. (Frequent: An adjective sometimes used as a verb, but not usually twice in the same sentence, as I have done here.) Unlike my students, I had lousy high school English teachers. So, to make my intended point, at a fast-food restaurant you generally get food that is not fast, by standing in line, waiting on yourself, and even dispensing your own drink. You get to eat on paper, clean up after yourself, consume food that is not great and not great for you, and then be, ‘figuratively’, dying of a salt-induced thirst by the time you get home. You may also be ‘actually’ dying of a fat-induced cardiac arrest sometime in your near future. All of this, while you have it your way, in the presence of a clown, a king, or a little girl named Wendy.

Last, but anything but least, I wish to warn you about TV preachers. Those guys ALL think we were born yesterday. Please know that I am a Christian, and a follower of my Lord Jesus. I am NOT a follower of TV preachers in thousand-dollar suits, who aren’t even able to say the name of God without adding a ‘da’ at the end, as in God-da, and don’t even part their hair. (That hair thing has always bothered me. I guess they don’t want to choose sides, or something.) I never send those guys a nickel, and think that you shouldn’t either. Anyone who tells me that I will be blessed by sending them money should send their money to me. I would love the chance to bless them, and buy myself a thousand-dollar suit. Remember this: True Christians aren’t after your money. They just want you to get saved. (Please write to me, anytime, for more information. vtpenner@gmail.com) The gift is actually free, and there is no shipping and handling.

Having said all of this, I will admit that, occasionally, I, too, fall for the allurement of a good sales pitch. This happened the very night that I proposed to my wife. But I shopped very carefully before making that commitment, and have never regretted it. (Yes, she reads this column. And no, I am not stupid.)

Someday soon I might also be in the market for a new car. I’m going to shop carefully then, too. I intend to buy one that comes with a balloon; a great big red one!

Out of the Mouths of Babes

By G. E. Shuman

When I’m about to discuss certain subjects, I like to be aware of what manner of people will hear the discussion. I think that this is a wise thing to do. Such care has, likely, saved me many verbal confrontations, and possibly a few physical ones as well, over these many years. It may surprise you that not every single (or married) person in the world agrees with me on topics discussed on this page of the paper, although, of course, they should. Knowing this, and knowing also that it is impossible to ‘read’ readers’ minds, especially since I have never met most of you and only suppose that you are really out there, somewhere, I will proceed with some precautionary advice before continuing here. That is, if it is possible to proceed without continuing.
My advice is, if you are not inclined to listen to a short, true story of the simple faith in God of one of my very favorite people, that you should stop reading now. There is good reason for this advice. It is, simply, much easier for you to stop reading, than it is for me to erase what I have written, as I have already written it, and also happen to like it… like it or not. But, as earlier noted, you can simply stop here and move on to the classified pages if that would make you feel better. I am even willing to immediately assist you in that undertaking, if you feel strongly about it. (I like that word ‘undertaking’, especially at Halloween time. But that was last month.) Okay. Let’s go! I will count to three. Now be ready! One! Two! Three! Quick! Turn the page!

Hello? Are some of you still here? Even some of you in Montpelier?
I thank you all, and commend you for your bold curiosity. The people who turned the page and are now reading about someone’s used snow blower that is for sale, are a bit disappointing. But not you! Now, I will tell you my little story.
The fact is, there are all kinds of mentions of children, in the Bible. In one place Jesus tells his followers to let the little kids come to him, because little children are what they will find when they get to heaven. (That is in the book of Matthew, chapter 19, verse 14). In another place He actually says that unless people accept his kingdom as a little child does, they will never even get there at all. (Matthew 18:3.) If you don’t believe me, even though I have never admittedly lied to you, look the verses up.
This Biblical evidence is proof enough to me that God has a very high opinion of the opinions of little children. If I were to guess, and you know I will, I would say that He loves their simple, honest, trusting, happy way of thinking. It is not until they are older that some of them complicate things by becoming dishonest, distrusting and depressed.
The idea for this column came to me after reading a bit of wonderful wisdom from the youngest of the ten best grandchildren in the world. She is our beautiful granddaughter, Ayvah, and is only two years old. (I sent the paper a picture of her so you could see her. I hope they used it with this column, because grandparents have the right to brag if they want to.) The wisdom came as Ayvah chatted with her mom, our daughter, Cathy. Their short conversation took place as Ayvah was looking out a window. It went like this:
Ayvah: “Mommy, look! The sky is turning rainbow!” At that, her mom looked out the window too, to see a beautiful, pinkish-purplish-blue sunset-sky.
Ayvah’s mom: “Wow, Ayvah! God is a great artist, huh?”
Ayvah replied to her mom, as they looked out at the beautiful sunset: “He makes us happy!”

To me, there’s a spark of great insight into the mind of God, in the joyous comment of that innocent two-year-old. It occurs to me now that such sparks may be the ONLY insights we have into the mind of God.
One thing is for certain. I do, now, understand why “of such is the kingdom of heaven.” This precious child found happiness in the beauty of God’s creation that day, and even gave Him the credit for making her happy. Why, in the world, do not we all? “Out of the mouths of babes…”.

(I hope you’re glad you didn’t turn the page to read about the snow blower.)

Curing Virus's

By G. E. Shuman

Last Monday night I stayed up past twelve-thirty, trying to comfort and cure the victim of one of the most virulent viruses ever to enter our home. At the time I did realize that you can’t really ‘cure’ a virus, but I was trying my best, anyway, as any compassionate person would do. The patient, without naming names in the newspaper, was really out of it, and there was something quite urgent in the situation, at least it seemed that way to me. There was very little communication from the one who was ill, and what little there was made almost no sense to me. “What in the world did that mean?“ I heard myself whispering after receiving several mixed-messages, as the long evening dragged on. Perhaps a fever was the cause of the random words, but I really had no way to be sure.
I stayed by the side of the dear ill one, nearly the entire evening, and was really at my wits end, in my efforts to help. None of the usual attempts at comfort seemed to work at all. In fact, everything I did actually seemed to make matters worse. I was sure that the bug, or virus, or whatever it was, was contracted through some contact outside of our home, and was, evidently, a fairly serious one. In the end I decided that getting rest might be the best course for both of us to take. So, I quietly slid away, and headed off to bed. I knew that if rest didn’t work, the next step would be a trip to get a true diagnosis, and professional help the next day.
At this point, (or before this point,) you may have guessed that the ‘patient’ I was attempting to nurse back to health is not my wife or one of my children. It is just a lifeless, flat chunk of hinged plastic, filled with a huge, compact assortment of extremely complicated and very expensive electronic parts. It is the laptop computer that those previously-mentioned members of my family use every day. Its poor health was of great concern to them. The possible cost of curing the virus it had contracted was of great concern to me.
Tuesday morning, after my usual routine of jumping briskly out of bed and onto the treadmill for a fast hour‘s run, or maybe just dreaming of doing that as I painfully hauled my tired self out of bed, still asleep, (I’m not sure which,) I went right to my patient’s side. I guess I thought the ‘computer fairy’ might have come in the night and cured the virus, or perhaps the night’s rest might have helped, saving me lots of money and aggravation. Besides, I thought, maybe this had all been just a bad dream, (right before the treadmill nightmare.) But, alas, (What does the word ‘alas’ actually mean, anyway?) when I woke the patient, the same symptoms were still right there, glaring me in the face.
I don’t know how you feel about such times, but I just can’t stand wasting countless hours trying to get expensive, sensitive, stupid devices to work, when they simply don’t feel like doing that. I have little patience for anything that ruins my sleep, and still won’t do its job. I seriously considered using the trash can behind our house to solve the problem. Thankfully, and with gratitude for Lorna‘s quick-thinking, Sandy, the wonderful technical lady at my wife’s place of employment agreed to take a look at the fading patient.
That evening I drove the computer to her. As we, (the computer and I) rode, somberly, silently, to the ’doctor’s office,’ I felt a true sense of relief at being able to hand this problem off to an expert. And, the truth is, I was relieved to just get the thing out of my home. Within a day Sandy had skillfully injected the computer with whatever electronic serum was needed, and had expertly brought the frustrating thing back to full health. I am very thankful for this… at least I think I am.
As the years continue to pass, everything electronic continues to grow increasingly complex, requiring ever-expanding commitments of precious time, money, technical education and care from us mere mortals. (Maybe we are the infected ones.) We rely on help from wonderful people like Sandy, and businesses like The Geek Squad, to cure the ills of those devilish, fragile, frustrating machines. Perhaps it is time that we take a step back, (technologically speaking,) to examine where we have been, and consider where we are going.

Season-Senses

By G. E. Shuman

Season changes come around,
Through sights and tastes and whispered sounds.
And scents that spark remembered days-
That touch the heart, in warming ways.

See fresh-grown produce; firm potatoes,
Bulging beats, bright red tomatoes,
Passing on. Their season’s done.
Now pumpkins… big as dusk-hued suns.

Crunch tart apples while we can,
Until they’re gone. It’s God’s own plan.
He tucks the North in, by His might,
With crisp-piled leaves… for winter’s night.

“Quack!” A duck-wedge wings on by,
On whispering winds which softly cry,
In warning of what is to be:
“Soon blizzard blasts will come to thee.”

Inhale the changing scents of fall;
Those apple bushels in the hall.
Outside, a wind-born, smoky flair
Rides fresh, crisp, fragrant, frosty air.

Now frigid fingers feel the bite
Of early morn, and darkening night.
And faces wince, with stinging blow,
From falling leaves and flying snow.

Come taste the cinnamon-apple pie,
And watch the crackling embers fly.
The scents are baking’s airy lace.
You sleep, while wood-fire warms your face.

Power Sources

By G. E. Shuman

Have you ever noticed that the irritating signal from your cell phone, admonishing you that it is time to plug that little plastic plague in, always announces the fact at the most inopportune moment even remotely possible? Well, I have. Either you are standing at a urinal in a public restroom, (assuming, I guess, that you are a man,) or having a serious talk with your boss, (or your wife, or both, if they are one in the same, heaven forbid) or taking the offering in church. I hate it when any of those various scenarios happens. It is my opinion, that, if phones are as smart as we’re lead to believe they are, they should be able to sense things like churches, your boss’s office, or porcelain urinals, and just shut up until you are through doing whatever it is you’re doing at the moment. (It just occurred to me; that low-battery signal would not sound for long, if you refused to do what it is asking you to do. Hum.)
You might guess by this point that I an a bit irritated. Well, you’re exactly right. I am. I guess it just seems to me that our world is, simply, overflowing with things that need to be charged, re-charged, re-re-charged, rebooted, reset, or reconfigured. And, it also seems that everything that doesn’t need re-charging or re-booting needs to have its batteries changed, at precisely the moment we need that particular thing the most. I remember when only flashlights and car batteries could let us down. Now, practically everything we use has the same ability. (Excuse me while I enjoy a well-deserved, and hardly unexpected, angina attack.)
As I began, cell phones, to me, are the worst offenders. But regular, “old-fashioned,” (Yes, they are.) cordless house phones are almost as bad. Those things stay in their chargers 24-7, when you’re not actually using them, and STILL DIE in the middle of any important conversation. Also, and this is the truth, every single time I plug my GPS into my cigarette-lighter-that-has-never-lit-a- cigarette, long before the sexy voice from the little box suction-cupped to my windshield scares me half to death with some unannounced announcement, I get written messages reminding me that I need to wait until the thing charges up. (Nice run-on sentence, huh?) And, about that voice? All I know is that if it wasn’t so attractive I would never tolerate it… her… whatever, telling me where to go. Gee… I wonder if Tom-Tom thought of that when picking the voice. Something tells me that they did. Then, things like ipods, ipads and digital cameras also rank right up there in the category of inanimate objects demanding to be charged and re-charged.
There are, also, always those little devices which never leave your home, but simply stay there for the exact purpose of aggravating you into an early grave. That list of puny plastic pods of egregious electronics includes, but is not limited to: smoke detectors that love and live to scream at you when you have neglected to change their batteries, and TV, VCR, DVD, CD, DVR, and other such remotes, which just, simply, cease to work when you need them to. (Another nice run-on sentence, huh?) It is no wonder AA batteries are now sold in packs of so many you need a forklift to get them to your car.
I think my ‘favorite’ little battery-sucking device has to be that hand-held can opener they used to advertise for $19.95, (What else?) on TV. (You could even get a second one FREE if you just paid an additional $19.95 shipping and handling. Wow! Who could pass up such a deal? Besides, everyone needs two can openers. Right? ) You know the item I‘m talking about. It was the wonderful white plastic miracle machine that you placed on top of the can, turned on, and then it would spin around and open all of your cans “From The Side!” without even causing any dangerous sharp edges. (At this point I NEED some dangerous sharp edges.) It was also supposed to save you the many tons of counter space your old-fashioned, four-inch-wide, plug-in can opener selfishly hogged. Well, here’s the truth. My wife ordered one of those things when I was not looking. It arrived, and I haven’t seen it since. It is, obviously, buried somewhere in one of the kitchen drawers, I presume. At least I can find the old plug-in one, right on the counter, where it has always been. Also, unless there is a power failure, I don’t have to wonder if it has good batteries in it or not. If there IS a power failure, I will just have to wait until later to open my can of niblet corn. What a mind-wrenching, looming disaster that has always been for me!
With all of this complaining, I have not even mentioned the other inconveniences some of these ‘conveniences’ of life present. If you’re traveling with any of these modern marvels, remember to take along all the cables, household adapters, power converters, car adapters, surge protectors, and, oh yes, batteries you will need. You are allowed to forget your clothes while traveling, but don’t forget the stuff required to feed your electronic dependents. And, also, don’t forget to bring all of this ugly refuse home with you.
You will never believe this, but it is the truth. I was going to end this column by wittily suggesting some new ways to power our ’stuff’. Unfortunately, I need to end this immediately. My net book, which I use to write the column, just flashed the warning, and I quote, (as if it matters that I actually QUOTE this plastic writing utensil): PLUG IN OR FIND ANOTHER POWER SOURCE.
To tell you the truth, I think that advice, to “find another power source,” is good advice, indeed. So, I will now close the cover of this demanding, eccentric-but-wonderful, electronic marvel of mine. Next, I will open the cover of my Bible. (It recharges ME, and never lets me down.) Enough said.

an amazon problem

Hello all,
If you check out my novel, as advertised to the left, you might notice that the price seems a bit high. Something is wrong, and my wonderful words are obviously not worthy of commanding over one hundred dollars a copy. I am checking with amazon, and with the publisher. Sorry. George

Time, and Time Again

By G. E. Shuman


I opened my eyes this morning and stared at the irritating red numerals glaring out from the alarm clock on my night stand. (I hate that thing.) The room was dark, as usual, and the time read 5:15; a very familiar, and very disliked time, to me. I closed my eyes, as on most other early mornings, and opened them again, in what felt like only seconds since the first time. The irritating numbers read 5:25. I closed my eyes again, as on most early mornings, and opened them in what felt like only seconds more. That thing that I hate now read 5:40. I stretched an uncoordinated hand from under the covers, and snapped the all-to-familiar switch on the clock to the ‘off’ position, without even thinking about it, as I had done hundreds of times before, on hundreds of other days, just like this one. Once again, setting the alarm last night had only been a paranoid precaution against the slight chance I would not beat it to the punch, and would be late for work.
Where had the night gone? I thought, as I began my usual routine of shower, shave, dress and depart our home’s upstairs level, to let the dog out, make coffee and school lunches, and generally prepare for this new day, just as I had done yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. (Can anyone say: “George, old man, your routine is too routine?”)
As is also my habit, as much as any of these aforementioned things, I checked my email, blog sites, and news items on the net, while sipping the first of today’s several mugs of coffee. As I did, I went to one of my favorite sites. It is one belonging to a good friend, who happens to also be a beautiful photographer. (Her pictures are beautiful too, not to mention her thoughtful personal insights. Ha.) So, I now quote my friend Rene, who’s stage and screen name is Sweets, at: sweetcapture.blogspot.com, as she mentions one of her photographs, and relates another view of passing time. (Check it out.) :
“Time passes by so quickly, doesn't it? I captured this image over a month ago while taking a walk up the street with my daughter and her puppy. Has it really been over a month? There was another flower I had wanted to capture because of it's unique design and beauty, but alas, when I searched for it this morning, I was surprised to find it had already faded away. Summer is fading fast, too. Have you found that when you reach a point in life, you begin to appreciate the many ‘little things’ about it, that time seems to go into ‘hyperdrive’ and events pass us by in a blur. But... there are still 24 hours in a day... there are still 365 days in a year. How does it seem to pass by so quickly and, if it does, where does it go?”
Just this afternoon my dear wife and I were discussing the cooling nights, the seasons, and other signs of this quickly-aging year. I was talking of those things, but thinking some of my quickly aging mind and body. Haven’t we had that conversation on other afternoons, in other early falls? Perhaps we’ve had it more times than we even remember. (Or, at least, than I even remember.) I know Lorna has a better attitude than I, about time flying by, because of her unfair eternal youthfulness. (I hope flattery gets me somewhere.) In fact, at work, on the 25th of every month, she mentions the number of months until Christmas, to all who will listen. (Don’t tell her, but that would irritate me more than those red numbers on my clock.) You know, as I write this, that great holiday is actually only three months away, again, already. While Lorna and I spoke this afternoon, I was also reminded and mentioned to her how that, each December, as we unpack those timeless Christmas decorations, I feel like we had just barely packed them up and carried them back to the attic.
“Life is like a roll of toilet paper.“ someone once said. “The nearer you get to the end, the faster it goes.” What a sweet thought. I’m not sure why I remembered that one just now. I guess I’ve got it on the mind lately. (Life, not toilet paper.)
I don’t know about the toilet paper thing, but I do know this. Birthday cakes and cardiologists, red alarm clock numerals and red leaves, all have ways of reminding a person of just how fleeting every day is, and how precious that day is, also. “This is the day which the Lord hath made;” The Bible says. “We will rejoice and be glad in it.” I think I had better start rejoicing, while this is still the day, and before I open my eyes to see those irritating red numerals again.

The 'Real' Tale of Despereaux

By G. E. Shuman

“The Tale of Despereaux; being the story of a mouse, a princess, some soup, and a spool of thread.” This is how Wikipedia introduces its own description of the children’s’ classic novel by Kate DiCamillo. It is a great story, which has become a celebrated and award-winning film classic also. While being all of this, the reader must remember, it is only a novel… a fanciful story. The ‘real’ tale of Despereaux follows, for those who wish to read on.
The story begins on a sunny summer afternoon, in this very year, as a matter of fact. The lady and her family had just finished dining at a popular local restaurant, and they, together, were walking, slowly and full of rice and noodles, to their vehicle. As the family approached their awaiting conveyance, the lady’s husband happened to notice a small, strangely-shaped ‘something,’ on the ground, in the open space directly ahead of them. His first thought was that this was a stray gray rock, standing a bit up on end, right in the middle of an empty parking spot. As the family moved closer to the spot, and to their vehicle, the husband looked down and simply said: “Hum. Look at that.”
“It’s a BABY!” His wife, the lady of the story, excitedly, and somewhat sorrowfully, exclaimed. “Oh! It’s just a BABY!” She said again, as she stooped down in front of the small creature. “It doesn’t even have it’s EYES open!” She continued. “What are we going to do with it?”
This reaction was all to the immediate surprise of her husband, who at first imagined his wife disgusted by the site of a mouse only a few spaces from their ride home. He soon realized that the creature he had pointed out to his family was not a mouse. It was a BABY mouse, and the difference between the two was, simply, the very difference between God and Satan… between good and evil, to the woman he had married.
The lady immediately picked up the infant creature, and escorted the entire family to the vehicle and then to a store to purchase something to keep the baby in; a nursery, or incubator of sorts, disguised as a clear plastic food container.
The infant, rodent-resident of planet earth, which, I suppose had as much right to life and breath as any other creature here, was immediately transported to the lady’s home, and cared for as any other infant would be. ‘He‘, named Despereaux by the lady’s proclamation, was fed warm milk through a dropper, and slept in a tiny, tissue-padded home under a warming piano lamp. All this, for four days and four nights. The baby was handled delicately, and the lady and her husband took turns holding the fragile one, as he held the tip of the dropper between very tiny hands.
The entire family, even the six-foot eight-inch basketball-playing teen son and his younger sister, watched the tiny fellow, hoping that he would grow, and survive. This was a hope that was not to be fulfilled. At about that fourth day, Despereaux opened his eyes and glimpsed the strange world around him for the first and only time. As that day ended in darkness, so did the tiny Despereaux.
During those previous days of care, the husband, who’s words you happen to be reading now, was somewhat taken by just how infinitely complicated even this tiny and, seemingly, worthless specimen of life really was. This creature, which, if an adult, it would be considered a good riddance to get him caught in a trap, was, during the lady’s care, just a helpless baby. The baby breathed, and ate, and slept, and woke, exactly as all babies do. ’He’ had a heart, and lungs, and stomach, and liver, and eyes, and ears… and everything else babies have, in the same number and relative size that all babies have, and was only attempting to live and to grow… once again… as all helpless babies do. The husband imagined that this, seemingly-disposable creature was infinitely more complex than the most advanced invention of man. And that ’he’ was alive, and even had the ability to sadden us when ’he’ was no longer.
It strikes me as terribly thoughtless, that we take such tiny creatures for granted, just as if we had designed them, or, in our wildest dreams, could ever imagine that we COULD design them, ourselves. Am I strange to feel this way? I do not know. I do know that the lady’s family learned all of this from the tiny, ‘real’ Despereaux.

The Gas Price Game

By G. E. Shuman

When you have to play the gas price game,
And you go to the pump, it’s never the same.
Just scratch your head, and wonder why,
Yesterday’s price is now so high.

You check your gauge as you drive on past,
And wonder if your fuel will last.
Deciding then to turn around,
And fill-er up, while you’re still in town.

Tomorrow, when gas is down six cents,
You’ll wish you had waited, while straddling that fence,
Of just when to buy it, and how much, and where.
It must be a game; a test that’s not fair!

“That’s it!” You then mumble; “It’s all just a game,
To fuddle my thinking, confusing my brain,
Into never quite knowing the cause or the reason,
Gas prices change daily, not season to season.”

But, oh no, not now… now they’re having a ball,
Bouncing prices that once always fell in the fall.
And daily requiring, employees at Cumby’s,
To stop making change, and keep changing “numbies…”
(‘Numbers’ doesn’t rhyme with ‘Cumby’s‘. Sorry.)

Way up on that sign, to tell those at the wheel,
This could be the day, when you’ll get the best deal.
Or maybe it’s not the right moment to buy,
Come back in an hour, and give us a try.

It’s sure to be different, as the next hour gets nearer,
The price may just change in your rear view mirror.
You come back in that hour, or perhaps the next day.
And see that the new price has gone the wrong way.

And curse out the Arabs, that they’re fixing the price,
BP or Chevron can be blamed… just as nice.
But I’ve always wondered, in the midst of their pranks,
why they don’t just adjust it, when they fill up THEIR tanks.

That seems fair to me, as I head on my way,
With the gas that I purchased there, just yesterday.
Each gallon’s worth less, by six cents, since I got it.
And I feel I was cheated the day that I bought it.

I think a solution, and this may be weak,
Is to bring the gas back, the HIGH day of the week.
Tell them it’s worth more than the price that I paid,
Since it’s sat in my tank, as in theirs, ‘til today.

Life Would Be Better If:

by G. E. Shuman

Opinion columns are just that: columns of opinion. As such, they are filled with the opinions of their writers. In this case, in this space, that opinion-writer happens to be me. Now don’t go blaming the paper or my parents if you disagree with the following statements, and don‘t give them the credit if you like them, either. Having said all that, it is my opinion, or column of opinions, that:

Life would be better,

IF:

-people cherished human rights as much as they do animal rights. Children are adopted. Pets are purchased. (No offence intended. It’s just my opinion.)

-every child got to go to Disney World.

-alligators were vegetarians. The same goes for sharks.

-everyone followed the golden rule, especially at intersections.

-politicians could not be re-elected without fulfilling 90% of their campaign promises. (An added benefit: There would be far fewer promises, which makes for far shorter campaign speeches.)

-car tires didn’t wear out, ever. (Make this tire, and Bill Gates will call you rich.)

-there were no TV commercials, even if that meant that there was no TV.

-brats got spanked. (Face it. Deep down, you like this one.)

-cars were made of Tupperware. They would never rust. Just close your door and burp it.

-brides married grooms, and grooms married brides. Period. Is this really radical thinking?

-celebrities had to earn it.

-all created beings knew that they were (created).

-God had not made tobacco, or had made it flame retardant.

-Noah had squashed the two mosquitos. (I would say the same for housecats, but then you would hate me.)

-more manure was spread on farms than in D.C.

-fathers spent more time with their children and less with ‘big boy’ toys.

-gas stations raised their prices only when they got a new gas delivery that cost them more. (Is this asking too much?)

-zippers never broke. The same goes for buttons.

-any country not feeding and educating its children would automatically become ruled by one that was. (I thought of that all by myself.)

-credit cards were never invented. Your MasterCard could not be your master, your Visa could not be your pass to the poor house, and you could Discover what debt-free living is like. (Catchy, huh?)

-no-iron shirts and pants really were (no iron).

-TV preachers could not ask for money. This would free up the airwaves considerably on Sunday mornings, and more people might go to church ’the old fashioned way.’ (By the way, I’ve been asking this next question about TV preachers for years. Why don’t they part their hair?)

-bi-racial marriage was mandatory for two or three generations. Everyone would look alike; there would be no more racism. We’d have to find some other reason to dislike each other.

-NBA baskets were raised to eleven feet, (at least.)

-‘an eye for an eye’ justice was implemented.

-fast food burgers all looked like the picture.

-no one lied… not even used car salesmen.

-political bumper stickers would not adhere to old Subaru or Volvo wagons. (Watch out, Montpelier.)

-cell phones could make calls as well as they take pictures.

-my plastic bottle returns covered my trash removal bill.

-people who tout the ‘buy local’ theme had to drive something besides those old Subarus and Volvos. Now, let’s see. Where are those cars made?

-summer heat could be saved in your furnace for winter.

-there was no face book. (My kids would kill me for this one, but I’m safe. They don’t -read my column. They‘re too busy on face book.)

-everyone prayed. (Go ahead. Argue with that one.)

-everyone could have a garden.

-all the microwave popcorn popped. (We USED TO be able to send men to the moon… why can’t we do this?)

-there was no cholesterol in that popcorn, or anywhere else. (Why can’t we do this, too?)

-dieting felt good. (Yes, I’m kidding.)

-we finally cured cancer. (No, I’m not kidding.)

-toilets cleaned themselves. The same goes for dishes and cars, but mostly toilets.

-parents could skip the teenage years. Keep the kids home when they’re toddlers. Send them to daycare when they turn thirteen. (Side note: That’s why gerbils eat their young, so they won’t become teenagers.)

-vegetables tasted as good as dessert.

-there was an oil price war.

-grass only grew to exactly two inches tall. (There has to be a gene we could tamper with to do this.)

-snow blowers had remote controls that worked from your recliner, or at least from MY recliner.

-no one divulged their sexual orientation, for any reason, on TV, in print, or, especially, to me. In other words, keep your privates private, for Pete’s sake. (For my sake, too.)

-everyone agreed with me.

It's A Beautiful Summer! Have You Noticed?

By G. E. Shuman

Last night my wife and I took a ride up to Websterville, to pick up our kids. It was about nine o‘clock, and they had just arrived home from a church trip to Massachusetts. As we headed down our street and up toward that town, we were both amazed by the beauty and brightness of the full summer moon. “You know,” I said, “it’s a miracle that the earth even has a moon like that. I’ve heard that a planet the size of ours shouldn’t even be able to support a moon that large.” Lorna listened, (sort of) as I spouted this vague (fact?) I had once heard about our moon. She was more interested in the enormous beauty of that big moon than by anything I was saying about it. She is a smart lady. It was a beautiful moon!
This early morning, even as I write this sentence, the summer sun that streams through my window is warming the earth, sustaining grass and gardens, trees and toads, plants, people, and everything else that lives. Birds bicker in the trees, and squirrels scamper ‘round and ‘round limbs and trunks. It’s a beautiful morning!
Weeks ago my family was at the gorgeous Maine seashore; more recently, beside a still and shimmering Vermont lake. The same blazing, warming sun shown down on lake and ocean in the day, the same bright moon at night. The same blue cloud-studded sky swirled above them both; supporting swooping birds in search of fish. Those were beautiful days!
Wonderful sights abound on any short ride through our own state and others. Bountiful corn fields, and cattle fill the hills. Scattered wildflowers flourish along roadsides. Distant, haze-covered mountains seem as silent, gray-green waves on the horizon. People, in small cities and on large farms, tend to outdoor summer duties. Lawnmowers buzz before lawn mowers who push them; balers spit bundles behind tractors which pull them.
A few dark days of rain come to cool the air and quench the dry earth. Lawns, livestock, plants and people take a break from the sun. Lightening bolts jolt as thunder rolls over the hills and down the valleys, warning all to get inside. Then the rain pours, the clouds roll slowly past, and the sun streaks through with returning warmth, and rainbows. How beautiful!
This morning, near the end of my wife’s and my daily jaunt, the form of a little boy behind a screen door said: “hello,” as we walked the sidewalk, past his home. “Hello. It’s a nice day.” was my reply, as we continued. A moment later his slightly raised voice responded from behind us: :It’s a BEAUTIFUL day!” The little boy was right. It’s a beautiful day. It’s a beautiful summer. Have you noticed?

A Fish Story

By G. E. Shuman

I love fishing. I don’t get to do it very much, but I love to fish when I have a chance. There’s just something exhilarating in the fight, with what feels like a very large fish on your line. There’s something even more exhilarating about pulling that monster in, even if it isn’t exactly a monster, and sharing the story of the catch with your family. (In my family, all I need to share is the story, as I’m the only one in our home who likes fish.) I also love the idea of having a frying pan full of free, protein-packed, yummy food, and the fun of cooking the treat up. For me, the whole experience is just great.
Now, there are fish stories, and then there are FISH stories. What I want to tell you next a true fish story which happened to a friend of mine; more precisely because of a friend of mine. It is a story of how some of his other friends benefitted in several ways, including fish, all because he was aware of their needs.
The occurrence took place years ago, long before I even knew my friend personally. Several people who witnessed the event wrote about it so that people would remember it. I happened to be rereading one such account of the story earlier today, and actually spoke with my friend about it shortly thereafter. Now, I’m not sure how to say this, without seeming to brag, but I do happen to have a few friends in high places. This particular friend of mine was very well known at the time of the fish story, and is even more well known now, than then. Actually, he was, and is, a very famous guy. In fact, his fame was one of the reasons the big fish story happened, as you will soon see. (Trying not to brag again.)
It seems that one sunny day my friend was in another country, trying to relax on the shore of a beautiful lake, when people suddenly recognized him and began to crowd around him. He’s always been a very wise and popular speaker, and the crowd wanted him to talk to them. Well, the crowding got to the point that my friend was in danger of being pushed right into the lake. He turned around and happened to see two fishing boats tied on shore. If you read an account of this event, you will notice a detail: the fishermen weren’t in their boats at the time, but were on shore, cleaning their nets. (In that part of the world it is legal to net-fish in lakes.) Well, to avoid being trampled or soaked, my friend got into one of the boats and asked the owner to push it out a little ways from shore. He then sat in the boat and used this improvised stage to address his fans, waiting on shore.
(Okay. Here comes the fish story I promised you, even though I know I shouldn‘t begin a paragraph with parenthesis.) When my friend had finished talking, and the crowd had begun to disburse, he asked the boat owner to launch the boat out into the deeper water of the lake. My friend, evidently, had also planned to do a little fishing. He then requested that the boat owner, (also a friend of his) put his net into the water to drag for a catch. This surprised the man, and he told my friend that it would be no use; they had been out fishing all night, and had caught nothing. (I’m not sure, but I don’t think my friend was surprised by this news.) In any case, the boat owner agreed to lower his net, just because my friend had asked him to. He, likely, thought he might as well humor my friend, as they were out in the middle of the lake anyway. Besides, what would you have done, if a very famous man had asked you to do something like this? What happened next is just amazing, to an old fish-tale lover like me. Remember, this is a true story.
As soon as the owner of that fishing boat had cast out his net, it became filled with fish. Then it became OVER filled with fish, to the point that the net began to break. The fisherman immediately called to the men on shore to bring out the other boat to help. (I can just imagine my friend sitting there in that boat, smiling at the excitement of the fishermen.) The other men hurried out from shore, and, together, they all filled both of the boats, to the point that they began to sink! I would love to have heard the laughter and shouts of joy, as those guys hurriedly got those boats, full of that much needed catch, to shore.
If you haven’t figured it out yet, this very real and famous friend of mine is named Jesus. He would, and I would, love to have you check this fish story out for yourself. Just grab a Bible and read at least the first seven verses of the book of Luke, chapter five. (I promise, opening that book won’t hurt, even if you haven’t done it in a while.) I can assure you that my friend is very good at fulfilling real needs, even ones involving fish, and often to the point of being more than you can hold. You just have to launch out a bit. I wish you would give Him a try.

Maine's Rocky Coast

by G. E. Shuman

(I jotted this down during my visit to the Rockland Maine breakwater last week.)

Salt sea scents
Calling birds
Slapping waves
All conjure words

Heightened senses
Soak up scenes
Foghorns echo
Distant dreams

Bouncing bouys
On floating foam
Clinging seaweed’s
Rocky home

Luffing sails
And clanging bells
Misty, rolling
Ocean swells

Swooping seabirds
Skim the sky
Wind-swept puffy
Clouds roll by

Distant islands
Fairly float
Just beyond
The white-sailed boats

Peaceful, place
Of sea smoke ghosts
Soothing souls,
Maine’s rocky coast

My Favorite Place

By G. E. Shuman

As I write today I’m sitting on the ‘ocean’ side of my favorite place in the world. After picking up two of our grandkids in New Hampshire over the weekend, our family arrived this afternoon at the coast of Maine, and, for me, the peace and protection of the massive granite breakwater of Rockland harbor.

I know I’ve written about my love for this nearly mile-long stretch of sea-soaked granite before, and I guess I am simply doing that again. This place is just so special to me. It calls me back to visit nearly every summer, since the summers of my youth. Some of the reasons for this are very clear in my mind, and some not so clear. This place is certainly one with countless great memories for me, of camping and fishing trips with my family… and of chats with my Dad, among other things. Memories are certainly made more vivid by the senses, and oceans have a way of overflowing those senses. Sights, sounds, and scents combine easily in places like this. Salty air, softly beating waves, fog horns, and lonely seagulls calling through the mist cannot help but be remembered, here especially, somehow.
I mentioned earlier, almost absentmindedly, that I feel protection here. The harbor is certainly made safe from storms by this wide line of massive granite blocks stretching across most of its width, but am I? Truly, this is a favorite place of my childhood; of happy times unmarred by any harsh situations of life. It is a place not only of my, but even of my father’s childhood. Of sunny summer days when he and his aunt Marion would walk from home in downtown Rockland, and spend hours out here fishing for their supper. And then there were those later years, when our family would camp in the area. We would picnic here among the bouys and gulls, lobster boats and seaweed-covered stones, we kids casting for mackerel, and dropping lines between the breakwater rocks in search of rock bass and starfish.
This breakwater is a place that does not change, and that may be its ultimate protection, from the storms of life and of time, for me. The massive stones on which I sit and write have not shifted an inch since those old days of my youth. I know that every snagged hook, every wayward bobber I ever lost between these rocks is almost certainly still here. To me, every word spoken, and thought and laugh ever experienced in this place, is also still held here, somehow, just in a different time.
This very week I have another chance to share this lifelong memory-place with my children, and grandchildren. Hours pass like moments here for me, as I hope they will for them. Perhaps, someday, they too will be called to return to this place of bobbing bouys, of sun and salty mists, of slipping tides, white sails and soft sea sounds.
For me, to long for the sea is to long for the past. To sit by the sea is to search white-capped waves for signs of yesterday. As a child I could never have imagined being here, now, as now I remember being here then. I am so blessed. Everyone should have such a favorite place.

Old Books

By G. E. Shuman

I love old books. I like books in general, and perusing countless shelves of new books at a huge book store is always a pleasure, of course. My wife, who, very likely, owns more paperbacks than Barnes & Noble, seems to enjoy opening a brand new book for the first time, although she will burn through any novel, new or used, in about a day.
To me, there are many things special about old books. I have not always felt this way. I remember, years ago, walking quickly past the library summer book-lawn sale, wondering why all those people would be interested in musty, dusty old books. After all, there was certainly no new information to be gleaned from them, no possible revelations to mankind that he had not already thoroughly thought through since those old volumes were in print. To me, at that time, old ideas and old, outdated word usage were things to be avoided, not entertained.
Now, as I seem to be on the verge of becoming a moldy-oldie myself, I have learned to love cracking open the pages of an old book. Part of that thrill, to me, is in the very fact of the mustiness of them; the frailty of those elderly pages, yellowed, often stained, and occasionally even bookworm-tunneled. Just the idea that the pulpy pages of an old book have survived, unparted, perhaps for generations, intrigues me a great deal. The probability that I could be the first in many years to ‘hear’ the thoughts of some long-forgotten author fascinates me, too.
I discovered one such treasure in our cellar, several days ago, as we were doing a little late spring cleaning. The book is called Grandma’s Attic Treasures. It was written by a lady named Mary D. Brine, and published in 1885. Think of that. In that old book, which was likely passed to us by family many years ago, I held someone’s written thoughts, which were thought and written before even my grandparents were born. That same day I sat down and carefully read this little, rhyming fictional story of an elderly lady who was unable to part with old things in her home, exactly because of the memories that they held. That lady, if the story were true, would have been elderly shortly after the Civil War. Author Mary Brine portrayed her as feeling just as do many of us, as we hold on to treasures from our, and our children’s youth.
You know, time is a very strange thing. We live by it, hour after hour, as if it were the one and only, all-consuming, all-controlling force in our lives. I have told my English students that this idea is not necessarily so. The ’time’ of our lives can be partially ignored, simply because of the wonderful gift of literature, and man‘s ability to relate his thoughts down through the ages. Communication with people of the past, if only in the direction of from their minds to ours, is a very real thing, and as easy to do as opening an old book. In this way, I have befriended a lady named Mary D. Brine. The fact that her time and mine did not intersect has little to do with that. I have participated in some of her thoughts, memories and imagination, through her own words. In such a way, perhaps, someday, someone will share in my long-past thoughts as well.
This summer, in your leisure hours, I challenge you to sit in the shade with a cool lemonade, and carefully open the pages of a long neglected, dusty, musty book. Be prepared to meet a very old friend, for the very first time.

A Little Cheese, (or other fattening food) With That Whine?

By G. E. Shuman

I’m here to whine a bit, and you’re here too, so I hope you’ll listen. The situation is this: For the past several weeks I've been on this stupid diet, and it's no one's fault but my own. It is a self-imposed thing, a sort of silent, (mostly,) suffering that I have forced upon my own body. I’ve done this, I think, for several good reasons. One reason has to do with a comment made to me after I answered a friend's question. The question was, "How do you feel?" My almost immediate and unrehearsed answer was, "Old and fat." His sheepish reply, (He's about my age and weight.) was, simply, "Well?"
That got me to thinking. Having to take a breath between tying one shoe and then the other that morning, also got me to thinking. The facts that heart disease runs rampant through my father’s side of my family, and that two stents already reside in my own heart have made me think even more. Getting on the bathroom scales recently, after a long avoidance of them, finally convinced me that it was time for action, as long as that action wasn’t as restrictive as some of my pants have been lately.
I decided to not attempt to follow some ridged diet plan that I knew I wouldn't stick to. I'm not real good at following directions or doing what I’m told. Ask my wife. I did decide that I had to do something. After all, we live in a country where you can get fast food without even getting the exercise of walking into the restaurant. If you unwrap your burger fast enough, it’s even possible to get a brand new shot of cholesteral into your bloodstream before you get back into the traffic stream. Effecting a heart attack is all way too easy.
So, my recent plan has been to make a few less-than-drastic changes in my eating habits. I have had very few cheeseburgers lately, even though we have just entered grilling season. As usual, my timing stinks. (I warned you that I was going to whine.) I still eat pizza, but one or two SLICES, instead of one pizza. I am also consuming noticeably more fresh fruits and vegetables. My stomach probably wonders if it’s been transplanted into someone else’s body. I also found a new breakfast food. Remember the closing song on the old Frazier show, as Kelsey Grammar himself sang ‘Tossed Salad and Scrambled Eggs?’ Well, I tried that for breakfast one day and I loved it. Now I often have scrambled eggs and a spinach salad, instead of scrambled eggs and a bagel (or two) and sausage and home fries and... well, you get the idea.
I have also discovered something called fat-free yogurt. I actually like it a lot. I just can't let myself think about where it comes from. Besides an occasional chunk of Seriously Sharp Cabot Cheddar, artificial coffee creamer is as close as I usually come to milk products, because I do know what end of a cow milk comes from. I have contemplated what psychological advantage the manufacturer of the brand of yogurt I eat, sought, in designing the little container to nearly resemble an upside-down ice cream cone. You know, the bottom is bigger around than the top. I have concluded that you won't notice how little yogurt there is in there, because of the very small spoon you have to use to get it out. (I may have been born at night, but it wasn't last night.)
So far, in these several weeks, I have lost only five pounds. Some mornings the scales say six, some days four. I hate those scales anyway. I get out of the shower, dripping wet, and dry myself off quickly. Hopefully, getting rid of those water drops helps me to weigh slightly less. The thought of me, buck-naked, blurry-eyed, peering down over my five-pounds-lighter belly, trying to read the numbers on that stupid scale without my bifocals, does not a pretty mental picture make, I know. Thankfully, we have no large mirrors in our bathroom. I recently asked a friend about being stuck at that five pounds. She said: "Now it's time for you to start exercising." It was only a matter of time before someone brought up the 'E' word.
Adding fuel (in the form of calories) to the discouraging fire, Gerald Papineau, a guy my wife works with, occasionally brings her chocolate bars, and she likes to tell me when he does. She also tells me it’s a fact that chocolate is good for you. I think the Hershey Company came up with that ‘fact’. I eat broccoli. Broccoli is good for you. Why doesn’t someone she works with bring her broccoli? Thanks for listening. I feel much better now.

Our New Neighbors

By G. E. Shuman

Lorna and I sat on the front porch this afternoon, and, for a few moments, watched our brand new neighbors as they came and went, moving things into their new home. It’s fun seeing new folks arriving in the old neighborhood. Several years ago now, a nice young lady bought the home next to ours, and she has become a true friend to us. More recently, a wonderful, young, newly- wed couple moved into the house behind ours. They have also become good friends, and have added two beautiful children to their family since their arrival here. That brood has wasted no time in feathering their ‘love nest’ with new paint, recent landscaping, and other improvements. It is true that tenants come and go in the large apartment building next door, but, with few exceptions, they have also been gracious and friendly to us. Some of our friends wonder why we live in the ‘city’ of Barre. The fact is we have gotten to know many great people here, including Ellen, the sexy single senior two houses up on the next street. (Yes, older single guys, I can get you her number, but be forewarned. She’s a live wire. You’d better take your Geritol, if they still make that stuff.) When living in a city, even if it’s little ol’ Barre City, it’s comforting to know that you have good neighbors.
For years I have tried to encourage all manner of ‘city’ wildlife (except for Ellen) to roost, nest, or otherwise get accustomed to life at our home. I’m unsure why I have done this. I am just as unsure why I have failed so miserably in these efforts, and also why I continue to try so hard each year to raise potted tomatoes and flowers here. My thumbs are not green. Not even a little. I have had no real success with any of this, except for with my efforts at squirrel feeding. Those hungry guys are almost too ‘at home’, at our home. I think they have recently taken up residence in the attic, which is something I must soon deal with, if I cannot find a way to charge them rent. I know, true Vermonters shoot squirrels and hang their tails on the mirrors of their pickup trucks. I’m from Maine, and I don’t own a truck. So, I’m allowed, by law, to feed the squirrels. I have also had some success at attracting the occasional skunk onto our property, if you can call that success. Other forms of wildlife, birds in particular, have always avoided our home. Bird feeders here have remained full until the food rots or my squirrel buddies find it. The liquid in hummingbird feeders dries up long before any hummingbirds get to taste it. Bird houses have always remained empty at our place. Several wild bird -sized domiciles stand unoccupied and in disrepair in the upper reaches of our large maple tree. I have never understood this.
You can, then, imagine how excited I became when I first noticed our new neighbors the other evening. I had just finished hooking the dog out, and looked up into one of the trees on the front lawn. I happened to do this just in time to witness a little chickadee couple enter the fancily-painted bird house Emily gave me last summer. I watched for several moments as they flew into the precisely-chickadee-sized circular entrance, with bits of straw and fluff. Coming home from work this afternoon, I noticed Lorna on the porch, and hurried to tell her of the new arrivals. She was as happy as I was to see them.
‘Less’ has always meant ‘more’ to me. I think I fit the definition of a minimalist, at least as far as personal possessions are concerned. I believe that living simply… is simply best. Shelter from storms, protection from the cold winds of life, privacy, and a safe home for one’s family are what matter most. The rest is all ‘fluff’ for nest stuffing. I quote Lemony Snicket’s definition of sanctuary , which is what a home should be: “a small, safe place, in a troubling world.” Even the chickadees seem to know this.

Other Babies

By G. E. Shuman

I love babies. I really do. Yes, I tease my wife, among others, that newborn babies “look like lizards,” and about their crying, and their pooping, and all of that. But I really do love babies. As the father of five, and the grandfather of ten, how could I not? My wife, of course, adores ‘our’ babies too. “There is no greater sign of innocence and purity on earth, than the dimples on a baby’s hand.” No famous person penned that quote. I am quoting myself there.
Although my wife likely thinks I get along with young kids well because I’m basically on their level, I hope I got these feelings from my dad. My mother is the most nurturing, nearly OVER-nurturing person I have ever met… but Dad was a baby-lover in an almost higher way, if that is possible. I think he not only loved babies, but that he loved the purity, the fragility, the beauty and overwhelming helplessness of babies and children, with some level of insight that I will not be able to describe here. I have seen his eyes well up with tears, just in the viewing of a photograph of some child whom he thought might be in need. I have heard his voice crack, in merely mentioning some ‘profundity’ once softly spoken by one of his (unmatchable) grandchildren. I have seen his face, even while in the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease, smile and simply light up, at the sight of my then-toddler, youngest daughter, as she played on the floor in front of him.
I have always been in great awe of our universe. As a Christian, I see it, even when viewed through the mind-boggling eye of the Hubble space telescope, as more than space, and dust and gas. I see our universe as the totality of creation. I see it as something of great purpose, and nearly infinite intricacy. I understand the galaxies to be not only products of intelligent design, but the products of immense, unmatched, omniscient design. To me, to think otherwise; to imagine that all that is, exists only by chance, is simply impossible.
In case you haven’t guessed, I believe in God. I strive to trust God. I also believe that He loves babies, too, a lot more than I do. After all, He made them. He loves human babies, and, perhaps to a lesser degree, animal babies. He made them too.
In the 1990’s Jodie Foster movie ‘Contact,’ the man who played Jodie’s dad, in scenes when her character was a young girl, loved space, and telescopes, and short wave radio. In those things he reminded me of me, a little. He reminded me of me a lot when he actually said a line in the movie which is one I had been saying for many years. The young actress playing Jodie’s part had asked her dad if he thought that there were people on other planets. His reply was: “If not, it seems like an awful waste of space.”
So, is there life ‘out there’, or not? This question may not be answered in my lifetime, as it was not answered in my Dad’s. To me, it is interesting that we have eyes to see the stars, and minds great enough to wonder about such things. I think this might mean that we are meant to do so. And then, there are the very words of Jesus, in the Bible. In John 10, verse 16, he tells his disciples: “And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring,” Perhaps he was talking about his followers in other countries, or even on other continents. Or, perhaps he was talking about his followers on the many other worlds in his creation. Also, to my mind, “other sheep”, must certainly have ‘other babies.’ How cool is that?
The stars that we see at night are not simply points of brilliance in the cold darkness of space. They are billions of suns, shining down on their own orbiting planets. Perhaps, at this very moment, some of those suns are warming the smiling faces of other-worldly, but still beautiful, other babies. If you think of this the next time you look to the heavens on a clear night, you might view the stars a bit differently. Dad would like that.

Nightmare in Newtown

By G. E. Shuman

I had a rather strange experience a few Saturdays ago, and I would like to share it with you. I hope that what I share here will be of interest, but I’m not sure of that. I’m pretty sure it will help me, by getting this slightly creepy story off my chest, and onto yours. Isn’t that nice of me?
On that particular Saturday morning, my family and I arrived in Newtown Connecticut, for a basketball tournament our son would be participating in. We drove through several beautiful neighborhoods, toward our destination, and pulled onto the campus where the tourney was to take place. We then began, as usual on one of these ‘basketball weekends’ to slowly drive around in search of the athletic center.
I think it mentally ‘struck’ my wife and me at about the same second, that something was not right about the place we were in the midst of. “Wait a minute,” I remember saying. “Something’s wrong with these buildings.” Lorna said something similar, and I stopped the car momentarily to peer around us a bit. “Look at the paint on the buildings.” I said, either aloud or under my breath. What we were experiencing was the sight of absolutely mammoth, sprawling, once-beautiful, intricate brick structures that were totally abandoned. Most were three stories high; many had bell towers and/or elaborate wooden entryways and columned porticos. What I had, at first, taken for a huge white steeple under renovation, proved to be a huge white steeple in absolute disrepair. In fact, every place on every one of those brick buildings, that was wood, had once been painted white. Now, every window frame, door, and doorway there was peeling badly. Some of the wood was rotting; many, many windows of those fine old structures were broken out. It was the strangest sight I had ever seen; the strangest place I had ever visited. I, momentarily, irrationally, felt that we might have taken a wrong turn into The Twilight Zone.
Our strange distraction was suddenly interrupted a bit as we approached the beautiful athletic building that had been erected, for reasons unknown to us, in this very odd place. Andrew checked in, and we went about our usual ritual of watching and waiting as his team played their first game and then waited for their next.
During an early afternoon pause in the play, Lorna and I decided to take a walk around the massive grounds to continue our observations, and, maybe, get some answers. As we approached one of the buildings I noticed that the bricks of it were actually rounded, weather-worn and pock-marked, as bricks would be that had been tossed around for years by waves on a rocky sea shore. These buildings were old, indeed. We walked, seemingly for a few miles at least, around this long-abandoned, presumed institution of learning. We passed dozens of equally neglected, towering monuments of decay.
As we walked, I noticed that all was not neglected in this ideal location for the next Tim Burton movie, as the expansive lawns around the buildings were very well cared for. Apparently, everyone but some zombie lawn mower man had left this once beautiful place, which was still beautiful in some ways. Flowering trees adorned the manicured lawns, which surrounded stately buildings, still beautiful, as long as you didn’t look too closely. The largest impression, to me, was one of a colossal, well-kept graveyard, only here the grave stones were huge, and made of brick, peeling wood, and broken glass. In my imagination, the lawn mower man awaited the return of those long-dead former occupants of this place; people who had been sucked out, or had evaporated, or, in some other way had been made to leave. At the time, I had no idea how right I might have been. I looked through several broken window panes, half expecting to see piles of dust-covered clothes where live humans had once stood. (I have watched too many science fiction movies.)
As we continued walking, and gazing at those looming structures, I felt a lonely sensation of abandonment and monstrous waste, in the idea of beautiful buildings being left to such ruin. I knew that hundreds of hallways within those many walls must lead to thousands of rooms, unoccupied, and likely unseen by human eyes, perhaps for many decades.
Later that afternoon, with the suspense more than she could stand, Lorna entered one, smaller, renovated building there, and asked the people exactly what this place had once been. She soon rejoined me outside, with the answer. The truth is that this vast, long-abandoned, university-like complex, with its bell towers, columned halls and rolling lawns, was once a huge Connecticut state mental institution.
It has been said that there is a fine line between genius and insanity. As we walked back toward the athletic center, I pondered the notion that institutions of learning may not be what they first appear. I was glad that the walls of this ‘other’ type of campus had no voices. Sorry, but now the ‘creepies’ are on you.

Holidays, 'Holy" Days

By G. E. Shuman

Easter, passed
With eggs and sweets;
Baskets, bunnies
Yummy treats.
No time saved
By most, to pray
On Easter-
Resurrection Day!

Months fly by,
Cool fall, Thanksgiving
Laden tables
Feast bowls, brimming
Bellies full
Sit and stew
No one
To be thankful to

Christmas Day
Snow and lights
One more chance;
Get it right.
Present wrappings
Ripped this morn’
Few recall that
Christ was born!

Sunday,
Weekly holy day
Lost to most,
Each in his way:
Working, shopping
Planning Monday
While forgetting
Holy Sunday

Something’s missing
In your middle.
Sinking feeling…
Just a little
Days have meanings,
Not just moods.
Need to place
Your gratitude

Bunnies, turkeys
Gifts, in splendor
Misguide minds
To not remember.
Grateful hearts
Still seek God’s ways.
With no ‘holy’
…They’re just days.

G.P.S.

By G. E. Shuman

Last weekend my family and I had to make a quick trip to Boston. Andrew had tryouts for a quite elite (nose symbolically in the air) New England basketball team, and we needed to have him at Boston College by noon on Sunday. We are no strangers to Boston, and can usually find ourselves around there fairly easily. This is thanks only to the fact that my wife has never gotten lost, anywhere, whereas I am, pretty much, lost, everywhere. Lorna has always been the pathfinder, the navigator, and the ‘get us back on the right road’ half of our couple, since our earliest dating days. (Of course, it was easier back then, as all you had to do was pull the right way on the reigns.)
One difference in this trip than in others was that we had never been to the side of Boston that the college is on, and we really had to get there on time. Our son in law, Adam, offered to loan us his G.P.S. device for the day, and set it up for us, (We elderly people are hard to teach.) so that it would take us right from their home in Williamstown, to Boston College. I had never experienced using a G.P.S. ‘thing’ before. My father never used a cell phone. My grandfather never used a computer. My great grandfather never used a television. So, I am in excellent company, and am happy with that.
To make a long story short, or at least shorter than it could be, I have to admit that I loved using the G.P.S. device. I am fairly ‘geek-world-oblivious’, and hate many things-electronic, but not that one. From the moment we left our daughter’s driveway, the little unit began directing us. It even told us that part of the route it had chosen for us included dirt roads; a fact we already knew, as we were on the dirt road.
This is a little bit off the subject, but if you read my column regularly you know that I tend to get a little bit off-subject a large bit of the time. As we drove, at first just following the G.P.S. as a novelty, down roads we already knew well, I began thinking about three-letter abbreviations. That is likely just the boring English teacher in me, but that’s what happened. I know that by the time most of you had read the title of this column, you knew what it was about. You knew what a G.P.S. is. I began thinking of all the things, over the years, that humankind has relegated to three-letter abbreviations, and began wondering why in the world we do this silly stuff. Early on there were abbreviations like U.S.A., F.B.I., D.O.D., C.I.A., and the ever popular I.R.S. and D.M.V. Wars brought something called the D.M.Z. Politics and bigger government added titles like G.O.P., D.N.C., and. E.P.A., among many others. Add to that the entertainment industry entries of A.B.C., C.B.S., N.B.C., FOX, HSN, QVC, and M.G.M., to name a few. Law enforcement came up with DWI and DUI. UPS came up with UPS. (How imaginative.) Now, in the electronic age, we have already buried something called the VCR, replacing it with DVD. We have gone from LED’s to LCD’s, and everyone is familiar with the terms ROM, RAM, CPU, and ‘the mother of all three-letter abbreviations’: WWW. (This paragraph was just a side note. There is no extra charge for it.)
Getting back to the G.P.S. and our trip, at one point we were approaching several exits from the highway we were traveling. At that exact moment, Lorna, my nearly obsolete navigator, (Don’t tell her I said that.) touched the touch screen with her finger. In her defense, isn’t that what a touch screen is for? The screen immediately reverted to a previous display, and we, naturally, got off on the wrong exit. (Now, for the cool part.) The G.P.S. immediately, without the slightest hint of irritation in its voice, simply directed us back to the highway. At one point, after I had turned one way when I should have turned the other, it actually, calmly, almost serenely, told me to make a u-turn. Another time, during another mistake, (mine, again,) the G.P.S. instructed me to turn around “as soon as possible.” (I can’t believe I just quoted something the size of a deck of cards.) My wife also liked the little device; my guess is because it never told her to keep her paws off the touch screen; something I had wondered if it would to. During some of the short journeys back from my navigational boo boos I was also half waiting for it to utter under its breath, although it doesn’t actually have breath, things like: “You never listen to me!” Or: “Just go home!” Or even: “I have a headache.”
The trip was quite successful. We got to the college in plenty of time, Andrew made the team, and we headed home. At one point on the trip back, Lorna mentioned, a bit sadly, that if we buy a George Positioning System: “You won’t need me anymore.” My reply was that she should feel good about that, because then she wouldn’t have to go wherever I went, just to keep me on the straight and narrow.
Married guys, take some advice. Get a G.P.S. That way, even when you’re out driving alone, you will never be lonely. You’ll always have a voice onboard to tell you where to go, and exactly how to get there. (Sorry Honey.)

Hello Friends!

I hope you are enjoying my blog site. George’s World has been a real blessing to me. It’s great to be able to share my ‘stuff’ with all of you. I’m kind of old-fashioned, (wow, that is an understatement,) and have not yet ventured into the world of ‘facebook’, or other online communication mediums. (I still use a telephone with a cord attached to it… believe it or not. I will be the very last American to have a facebook account. I’m not sure why, other than an inborn stubborn streak, which tells me I will not do ANYTHING someone tells me I MUST do.) Actually, communication ‘mediums’ is probably a good choice of words for me. I am likely better off peering into a crystal ball than into a computer screen. Anyway, feel free to share my site with others. In fact, I would now like to, shamelessly, unabashedly, encourage, coerce and BEG you to link your facebook page to my site, or my site to your page,,, whichever is the right term. And then to tell everyone to link it to theirs. I have been told, by people less than a quarter my age, that this is the best way to promote the site, and also my first novel. The Smoke and Mirrors Effect is my first feeble attempt at over-the-top, metaphysical fiction, but it has been quite well accepted by people much smarter than me. The truth is, I hope you will buy a copy, because I would love to sell you a copy. Click on the link to Amazon.com. and help put my kids through college. Hugs, George

No Small Miracles

By G. E. Shuman

Miracles happen. They really do. I’m not here to convince you of this fact. I’m just here to state it as I understand it. I used to think that big miracles happened, and small ones. It would, also, only make sense that if there were big and small miracles, there would likely be medium-sized ones, too. I used to just ‘believe’ in miracles. Over the years, especially recent ones, I have become solidly convinced of them. I want to tell you of one such ‘convincer’.
With our suddenly much-improved weather, it’s hard to believe that about three weeks ago I was totally stuck in a snow bank, at the end of my daughter Chrissy’s driveway, at the very end of a long, dirt, country road in Williamstown. Chrissy and her family, along with my wife and our youngest daughter, were not close by. In fact, they were in sunny Florida, visiting Mickey Mouse. (For those of you, whom, I have heard, read my last column and believed Lorna had actually ‘left’ me for a big black ‘mousey’ guy with huge ears, well, I have no words. People, it was a joke.) Our teenage son Andrew was weathering the storm at our home in Barre City on this particular day. In fact, at the time in question, I believe he was still unconsciously weathering it from his bed. I had ventured out to the woody-wilds (or willy-wags, as I have heard them called) of Williamstown, to care for Chrissy’s alpacas. Yes, I said alpacas. (Some people have cats. Chrissy has alpacas. I have owned cats. I vote for the alpacas.) This February vacation week I had been left in Vermont to shuttle Andrew to and from basketball games, and to shovel up, and I don’t mean just snow. I had been in the process of shoveling alpaca poo, and snow blowing my daughter’s family’s driveway, during this snow-shower, freezing-rain, hale-storm sort of a day. The more I shoveled snow and other stuff that day, the more I hated Mickey Mouse.
I had parked our minivan at the road end of the long driveway, and found it necessary to move the thing to snow blow that area. I got in the van, put it in reverse, and proceeded to experience an unexpected lateral ride, (Wheeee!) as the front of the van, almost surreally, slipped softly and slowly into a roadside ditch; immediately becoming buried up to its headlights in that day’s winter wonderland scene. How lovely.
I put the van into reverse and heard the expected spinning of the wheels. Then, as any experienced, slightly-aging New England driver knows to do, I tried ‘rocking’ the vehicle, by shifting gears, back and forth, from drive to reverse. I, again, heard the stomach-wrenching spinning of the wheels, and the car didn’t rock at all. Those snow tires spun just as nicely in drive as in reverse. The thought then came to me, that someone had once told me you could use your car’s floor mats under the wheels to help get you out. I immediately tried this, and immediately messed up my floor mats, while, once more, hearing the now-expected spinning of the wheels.
Next, after shutting the engine off, I tried something I had not yet done. I prayed. I am a Christian, and I pray a lot. I pray for safety for my family, and for God’s continued blessings. Many times I pray just to talk to Him. This time, for a moment, I prayed that He would help me get out of that ditch. I was feeling somewhat alone in this fairly secluded place, unable to un-ditch the van, and had just experienced a little all-too- familiar chest discomfort as I shoveled out the front wheels. “Real smart situation to get yourself into, George.” (I said that, so you wouldn’t have to.) If I actually had been smart, my moment of prayer would have happened several minutes earlier than it did. Then I would not have tortured my floor mats so. The truth is, I looked up from praying, opened the door of the van, and saw a huge town sand truck lumbering up the lonely road, toward me. The truck stopped beside the van, and a friendly man smiled as he opened his big door.
“Do you think you could pull me out of this?” I practically begged.
“I don’t know.” was his kind, gravely-voiced reply. (Sand truck guys always have gravely voices.) “I can put some sand under your wheels.” He continued, as he jumped down from the cab.
Within two minutes, he had sanded under my front wheels, and I had backed the van out of the predicament I had foolishly gotten myself into.
“Thank you so much!” I said, through panting breaths and rain-soaked face. “What can I give you for helping me?”
“Nothing.” replied the kind man, smiling back at me, as he climbed up into the cab of the huge truck. “Sand’s free.”
I thanked the driver once more, but, to my shame, I didn’t think to thank God until the sand-man had left.

It seems very strange to me that many people cower in impending calamity, and choose to give credence to something called coincidence when such calamity is, somehow, avoided. Things that need to happen, and do happen, exactly at times when they are needed, are considered luck, or fate. Indeed, to consider such things provision for our needs would require believing in a provider; something many people refuse to do. I consider my encounter with the sand truck to have been the supplying of a need in my life, at the very moment that I needed it. That truck could well have come to sand that old icy road hours before, or hours after I got my van stuck that day, instead of one or two minutes after I had prayed for help. I would ‘wager’ that the ‘luckiest’ of Las Vegas gamblers would never have bet on a many-ton, huge sanding truck suddenly appearing like that.
Not solely, but partially because of my experience that day, I no longer believe in small miracles, or medium-sized ones either. When you are the receiver, your miracle is as big as a huge town truck, full of sand, which did not send ‘itself’ to you.

She Left Me

By G. E. Shuman

She left me, you know. She really did. After nearly thirty-eight years of wedded bliss… (Well, bliss is sort of a strong word.) she packed a bag and left last Saturday, February 20th. I know what you’re thinking. You can’t believe it. Just think how I feel. Our daughter Emily flew south with her, leaving my poor son Andrew and me to fend for ourselves this long, cold February week. I hope we don’t starve or something. Oh, woe is me! This, all happening during Andrew’s basketball playoffs week, no less.
I just have to wonder what I did to make this happen. There are so many questions. Could I have prevented it? Why did I not see it coming? I really should have known, with all of those recent phone calls to travel companies. And the internet searches I saw her doing, (for hotel rooms, no less)… Oh, woe is me again! I know it now, that all of it was planned weeks in advance. And to think, she never let on that anything was wrong, IF anything was wrong. I guess the spouse is often the last to know. Then there was the day she actually called me at work to ask if I knew where the luggage was. How naïve could I have been? Indeed, how naïve I was! I guess I was just blinded by love and trust. And then there was the new haircut that very week, and the new clothes that ended up in that luggage I actually helped her locate. Wow! My only consolation is that two of our grown daughters and their families are where she is, and will, hopefully, keep an eye on her.
How in the world could things have gone this far? And, do you know what I learned about the one she went to meet? Well, I hate age discrimination, and I’m not a racist. The one she went to see is actually much older than I am, which I could barely believe. He is also black, which is fine with me. I don’t care what color someone is, especially if they are someone whom my wife packed her bags to go be with! You know? But you should see the EARS on this guy! I have seen pictures of him. Come to think of it, she has had pictures of him in our home for years! How stupid could I have been? Anyway, his ears are just huge! What in the world could he have that I don’t have? If I had ears like that she never would have married me in the first place. And what about those silly red pants with the big white buttons on the front? What’s up with that?
Waxing a bit melancholy here, I must surrender to the idea that at our age the ‘new’ may have worn off a bit. “The bloom is off the rose”, as they used to say. Or, I think they used to say that. I never actually said it myself, before now. Perhaps she just needed a little diversion; a few thrills, a bit of amusement, a short ride on the wild side.
So, here I am, waiting… poor pitiful person that I have become. Fool that I am, just waiting for her return. And she will return. I am sure of it. By the time you see these words in the paper she will already be back, I know. And I will take her back. (That’s just the kind of guy I am.) Yes, I will! Am I weak? Am I insane? No, I am merely in love.
She will tire of the castle, the thrills, and that big black mousey-looking guy with the deceptively friendly smile and the huge ears. At least, I hope she will. I will meet her, and our daughter at the airport, and let this whole magical affair slip silently into our past. The next time she goes to Disney World, I hope it’s on a week when Andrew and I can go with her.