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
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
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 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.
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