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.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
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.
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.
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