Here We Go Again

By G. E. Shuman

Well, just a few days ago our beautiful planet arrived, once more, at the starting place of a new year.  She, (Planets, as all beautiful things, must be “she’s“.) reached that precise point, in empty space, in her orbit of the sun, where we humans have decided that a new year begins.  Please note that what we decide may have very little to do with the true beginning point, but God isn’t telling, so we do the best that we can.  And, since our entire solar system is actually speeding along in a big black infinite bunch of nothingness, we are never really where we have ever been before, anyway.  In any case, as the calendar, the seasons, and our conception of what a year is demand, we have just begun a new one. Happy New Year!
So, regarding the new year, and I probably have asked you this question several times at this point in our previous annual trips around the sun, what are you going to do with it?  Do you have any real plans for it?  Are there any positive changes in your life that you have been putting off making because, well, people make life changes when the earth gets to the point in the circle that it did a few days ago?  If so, guess what?  It’s that time again.  In fact, you’re behind by several degrees by now.
Personally, I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.  I regularly set myself up for failure throughout the year, and have no need to do it again on New Year’s eve.  Besides, a few weeks ago my doctor made a resolution for me, in making an appointment for me to see a specialist, to get a certain weight-borderline diabetic problem under control.  How rude of him.  I guess a resolution in which you really have no choice, if you want to stay above ground as long as possible, is a good thing, especially if someone else makes it for you.  It reminds me of an email joke I received recently.  The joke was a drawing of a man who looked too much like me, in his doctor’s office.  The caption was a simple question from the doctor to the patient:  “So, which fits into your busy schedule better, exercising an hour a day, or being dead twenty-four hours a day?”  Hey, I wonder if my doctor was the one who sent that to me.
Truthfully, for our family, the past year brought many good times, and some really tough ones.  We have shared the blessings of being together, and have, I believe, witnessed more than one personal miracle.  We have also shared the burdens of serious illness within our family, and even of recent death and personal tragedy.  All of these things, the very good and the very bad, seem to be unexpected and inalterable elements of our many yearly journeys around the sun.  So, get healthy, love God and your family, and hang on tight during the ride, because…  Here we go again.

The Guardian

(a fanciful story)
By G. E. Shuman


It has been many years since I first became guardian of this place, for these few weeks, at this magical time of the year.  I have no idea of the number of those past years, and have failed at counting the long periods of rest and darkness in between the wonderful times of light.  Those most recent eleven black months are over, again, and I have been elevated, once more, to my high position in this lofty corner of my domain.  From here I look down upon my world, and seem to be master and ruler of all within my sight.   In truth, my job is that of overseer.
My world certainly is beautiful from up here.  The green and spreading expanses below me are filled with sparkling, colored things; collected, cherished objects hang down, leading from my feet all the way to the vast, carpet-plane below.  
I accept my unspoken but obvious duties, without question, each year.  As sentry and sentinel of the realm below, I am placed here to observe, to guide, to guard.  I silently protect the peace of this place, and am always grateful for the great trust that has been  placed in me, all these many, watchful Decembers.  My supreme duty, my highest calling is to attend and enlighten the time of the great reading, and of the prayers, and of the explanation to the little ones, the truth and the cause of this time of celebration.
These past several weeks I have observed, from my high post, many and wondrous preparations.  My entire world is now adorned; and more and more the glad and seasonal songs have echoed up to me from far below, somehow, flowing up the ever-smaller branches , until they reach my ears.  It is safe in this place, and I am warmed by the glow of both fire and family love.  I have sensed some stress in the accomplishment of the preparations, but that is usual, and to be expected.   Negative feelings and actions are far outweighed by a sense of seasonal excitement, and true joy in all that is done.
As the great day approaches, delicious food aromas waft up to me, as do chattering conversations, and the strange, unmistakable sounds of paper being cut and fitted onto boxes.   These familiar scents and sounds jog memories of many other such times of preparation; memories which had somehow left my thoughts until now.  I know that I have also felt this experience of remembering things from the further past, IN the past, as I feel it now.  How strange, but similar are these yearly repetitions.
It is now the evening just before the great celebration day!  I must be alert!  I must fulfill this, my greatest yearly task.  I must watch all that is done, and listen to all that is said.
Now the sacred book is opened, and the story is read, once more, to the few within the reader’s hearing, on this late evening.  It is the story of that other night so long ago.  The man in the great chair below begins reading aloud to his family: “Luke 2:7-8 ‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.  And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night‘…”   The man continues on, sharing with his loved ones greatest TRUE story ever told.  The story is the reason for my own existence.  Much more importantly, YOUR family is the reason for the story‘s existence.   Read it to them.  It is meant for them, and they are meant to hear it.
I know that within the next several days I will be decommissioned from my post, and placed, once again, into a new time of darkness.  I have no fear, as I have done my duty as a tree-top angel.  I have witnessed the great truths of Christmas being proclaimed once again.

Those "Uncomfortable" People

By G. E. Shuman


Have you ever known one of those people whom you just don’t feel completely comfortable being around?  That person is not one of the type you would actually cross the street to avoid running into because of some rude thing they were likely to say.  I have known a few of THAT type.  I had an uncle who was one.  He was a good man, just rude.  Yes, somehow, I have learned, you can be both.  When I was a child my whole family would cringe and do anything possible to hide or go away whenever my uncle’s car would pull into our driveway.  It was almost as bad as the duck-and-cover routine to avoid nuclear fallout that we learned in grammar school back then, and the situation was exactly as futile.  In both cases, you just can’t get away.  Like I said, my uncle was a good man; a minister and everything.  He was just rude, and unavoidable.  The way people like that operate, and get their way, is that most decent people would rather not ruin their own day with some big verbal confrontation. Therefore, my uncle always seemed to get his way.  As an associated side-note, I will tell you that a company I once worked for actually encouraged their upper management to read a terrible book entitled: “Winning Through Intimidation.”   The premise of the book was to make people who worked for you scared to death of the sight of you, and that doing so would make them work harder.  I never read the book.  I never wanted to.  I already knew my uncle, and he probably wrote it.
The type of person I’m referring to as making one simply uncomfortable is much less harsh a type than my uncle was.  This person is one who says slightly cutting things that are just not necessary to be said.  He is one who would have never heard his mother tell him: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.“  He would have been far too busy pulling the wings off from a housefly to listen to that.  You know the type, and I‘ll wager you have a mental image of an individual, in your mind, right now.  I have several.  I used to think that a person like that was just trying to be funny, in saying some stupid and, coincidentally, hurtful thing.  Come to find out, in most cases, there is no coincidence about it at all, no matter how much ‘stupid‘ is involved. To be fair, there are some legitimately stupid people, and those are okay to say whatever they want.   Doing or saying something because you can’t help it is always okay, in my book.  I would rather put up with a thousand stupid comments made by legitimately stupid people, (I have several liberal friends.) than with one stupid comment made by a smart person.   You see, smart people do it on purpose, and that, to me, is inexcusable.
I’m writing about all this today because, over the years, I have been verbally accosted, although accosted is too strong a word, by a handful of  people whom I believe to be smart, but who seem to like to say ’uncomfortable’ and unnecessary things, and thought you might have had similar experiences. Those unnecessary things, unfortunately, always seem to be etched deepest in the memory.  They are particularly difficult to erase.  I do take heart in the fact that there is justice, in the next life for sure, and in this one, for some.  Such people as we have here discussed soon exhaust an ever-diminishing list of friends, who may not actually cross the street to avoid them, but who also would not cross the street to bid them “Good day.”  
If you know someone like this, who says ’uncomfortable’ things to you, figure out if they are smart people, or stupid.  If stupid, then chalk it up to that, give them a big hug, and move on.  I they are smart, move on still, only a bit faster.
I have learned that many people go through life completely unimpaired by the rare speech impediments known as tact and manners.  If you are one of those people, stop it.

A Rich Thanksgiving

By G. E. Shuman


There is a small wooden plaque on the wall in our kitchen.  The plaque was given to us several years ago, by our daughter, Cathy.  It simply reads: “We Are Rich With Priceless Grandchildren.”
As I remember, Cathy gave us that plaque at a time when my wife and I really needed such a reminder of our great wealth.  The position I held with my employer at the time had recently been eliminated, meaning that ‘I’ had recently been eliminated, and things were in a state of slight upheaval at our home.   I was on unemployment, for the first time in my life.  I was out of work, for the very first time since before my eighteenth birthday.  Until that terrible day of first unemployment, I had received a full-time paycheck, every single week, since President Nixon was in office.  I was quite proud of that record, which had just been tarnished by what I will always consider to be a very unscrupulous and unfair former employer.
The reminder of our wealth, painted on that slight stick of a sign, was much more, to my wife and me, than some sappy platitude or sentimental prose.  It was, and still is, a fact.  True wealth cannot be measured by something as fleeting and fluctuating as dollars.  After all, “you can’t take it with you,” we are told.  To my family, true wealth, and I mean REAL and true wealth, is weighed, measured and counted in the one valuable asset that we can take with us, and that asset IS us.  Heaven holds no dollars, but all of my kids and grandkids are saved, and already have homes there.
I was in the kitchen earlier today, glancing at that plaque, as it rests atop a collage of pictures of our grandkids.  We will all be together, this year, at Cathy’s home, on Thanksgiving Day.   I am looking forward to an afternoon of food and fun with my wonderful family.  Soon after dinner I will be pulled by my thumbs to a recliner, and will read many stories to the tiniest two or three of my family treasures.  I will thank God for them, and for the truth of that plaque at home on our kitchen wall.
I hope you have a rich Thanksgiving, too.

Reproduction

By G.E. Shuman

First of all, regarding the title… what I mean is that this column is about reproduction, not that this column is about reproduction by G.E. Shuman. It all depends on emphasis, and if you read the title and my name with or without a pause after ‘reproduction.’ Frankly, I think it’s always good to pause after reproduction. Actually, truthfully, the column isn’t even about that subject at all, as it might commonly be discussed. It is more about the ability to reproduce… Oh, just read on, and you’ll understand.

My daughter Cathy’s family’s dog, Nellie, had eight puppies recently, and we went to their home in New Hampshire to visit them, (not the puppies so much as the family.) To me, and to others, it was just amazing that these tiny puppies actually knew when their mother entered the room they were in, and called to her, to get her attention. In fact, they would nearly whine their heads off whenever she was present. This action was pretty universal to them all. It was not done with radar, or magic, but probably by scent, and possibly by sound. Those little guys (and gals) simply knew when their big, warm, caring food supply was near. They knew all of this from instinct, which they happen to come equipped with. They needed to find Mom and the food dispensers, which she also happened to come equipped with. How convenient.

As I sat there watching these pups scramble for their mom, and her seemingly ’loving’ attention to them, the whole thing just seemed so planned and perfect. It then dawned on me that the reason for that was that it WAS planned and perfect. This lowly animal not only had the equipment necessary to reproduce herself in these tiny offspring, but also the desire and ability to provide for their greatest needs; a source of nourishment, and a warm and safe place for them to rest and grow. It seemed to me that someone just had to have figured this all out, before even the second generation of dog-life ever existed on the earth. Otherwise, that generation would never have existed at all.

If you have read much of my ‘stuff’ here in the paper, you know that I believe the Bible. I make no apology for that, in fact, I feel that I would need to apologize if I didn’t believe the Bible. In this belief, I also believe in creation, not by an intelligent creator, but by an EXTREMELY intelligent creator. I believe that, in a literal six day period, God created everything that exists, out of nothing. Yup, nothing. To me this belief takes much less faith than to believe that there was a big bang and that that’s how everything came from nothing. I have always wondered what it was that went bang, in the big bang, if we are really talking about the very beginning. Some folks would say that the stuff of the bang came from a previous universe, and I would argue that there really must have been a ‘first’ universe that needed to get its ‘stuff’ from somewhere. But, that’s another column.

(Caution, this next paragraph is x-rated, sort of. In saying that, at least I know you will read it)

Then there is the subject of the desire for reproduction. My thought is that God loves life, His creation, and wants it to continue. The fact that the act of mixing genes to form another life seems to be an enjoyable activity to humans and probably to animals just confirms that. I think that if it hurt, we self-centered humans would have been out of business eons ago. 
I sometimes think, in amazement, of the intricacies of not only the
human body, but of animal bodies, even down to those of creatures like
mice, which we consider vermin. The females of even those creatures nurse
their young, which are BORN with every egg they will ever have, to
reproduce the next generation. That seems like a plan, to me.
The truth is, I have never wondered which came first, the chicken or the egg. I believe that the chicken came first, complete with the ability to produce the egg. After all, the egg had to come from somewhere, and we know where they come from. Don’t we? They come from a chicken-sized egg factory. That also seems like a plan, to me.

Mankind is quite good at producing machines. I would love to have someone come up with just one machine capable of not only functioning in countless, useful and deliberate ways, including caring for itself and repairing, (healing) itself, but also of reproducing an exact, operating and maturing copy of itself, and then nurturing that copy until it is able to function totally independently, and, in turn, generate another one just like itself and the original, ‘grandma‘ machine. That would be a great trick, even for the most brilliant inventor. My heart-felt conviction is that it was no trick at all for the GREATEST inventor. His inventions, including both lowly mice, and us, can reproduce themselves quite well. So can Nellie, my daughter’s dog.

A Few Things to Think About

By G. E. Shuman

Sometimes I think that I just don’t think like most other people think. I’m not extremely outgoing, and can spend hours alone, or with others, but without any conversation at all. Being free of conversation is probably a good thing in those times when I am alone. I, simply, sometimes, think that I think strange things, (sometimes) in those alone times. In fact, this may just be one of those times. My possible future misfortune is that I am sharing this fact with you, my readers. Read on, if you will, then feel free to write and tell me what you think about my thoughts, and whether or not I may be certifiable, in your thoughts. Of course, I’m not at all certain I’m ready for your replies, and dialing 911 is always an option for you. Regardless of the outcome and all of that, here goes.

One thing that I sometimes think about is that some things in life can be easily counted, like birthdays, pounds, debts and dollars. Other things, while being just as important in their own ways, are not so easily counted, or accounted for. It is difficult to measure a hug, a heartache or a headache in any precise way. Likewise, tears are not actually without number… they are just not numbered, nor, probably, should they be. Smiles also are never enumerated or categorized by their cause, whether by pride, or joy, or embarrassment. You have, without question, not held an ‘infinite’ number of babies in your arms, in your lifetime, nor have you shaken an infinite number of hands, even if you are a politician and it seems that you must have. Truthfully, I ask you, have you ever pondered these thoughts before? My guess is, probably not. (FYI: My straightjacket size would be XL. Extra long sleeve goes without saying. Thank you very much.)

For some unknown reason I do think about those types of things, and often. I also wonder, occasionally, how much is the weight of the printed words in a book, as that might compare to the weight of their meaning. I know, that’s weird. I may, in an idle moment, imagine the very beginning of a life, not really as happening at the moment of conception, as do most of my like-minded Christian, pro-life friends. I tend to ponder further back, in the thought that no life could come from anything else but living cells; so that each type of being truly was created just once, really, and then multiplied “after its kind.” That is why extinction is such a permanent thing; there are no more living cells to get together, to cause another dinosaur, or whatever. I also have sometimes thought that, if we do ever encounter beings from another world, they almost certainly, if they wear clothing, will not have garments with zippers in them. The zipper, to me, is clearly an ingenious invention, but one which is unique to this world. It is, after all, a strange-looking thing, and is probably not a universal answer to the problem it solves. They, (the aliens,) likely will have fixed the problem the zipper solves in some other, equally ingenious way. Maybe they have Velcro. Maybe they do not. I actually included that idea in my first novel, somehow, just because I wanted to. (I am George Shuman. I never said I was George Eliot, who was actually a woman, or George Lucas, who is not.) Please, feel free to purchase The Smoke And Mirrors Effect on amazon.com or someplace, and find out for yourself. Again, PLEASE. Okay, the aliens may have buttons. Buttons are universal in their simplicity, I think. What do you think, besides that I need to find a hobby? Too late. I have a hobby, and you are reading it.

I would love to visit the moon. I really would, and I would go right now if someone could make that happen. When I was young… very young… I was actively interested in watching all six of the Apollo moon landings. (Yes, there were six landings. Twelve Americans have walked on the moon. It wasn’t just Neil Armstrong.) I would like to be the first person back to Tranquility Base, to see that first footprint of Mr. Armstrong’s, which is, most definitely, still there, right now. I want to see those things that have become artifacts of history, and replant the American flag, if it was blown over by the blast of the lunar lander as the ascent stage lifted the astronauts back into orbit, producing the only gaseous ’breeze’ that flag will ever know. By the way, the writers of the latest Transformers movie, “Dark of the Moon”, got a lot of stuff wrong, and should be ashamed of their lack of historical accuracy. Getting it right doesn’t cost a cent more. Yes, I think about stuff like that, too. Just ask my son.

And then there are my thoughts of things like Christmas trees. I will bring our family’s twenty-ninth ’current home’ tree in through that same back door in another month or so. I know, nobody counts the years by counting Christmas trees. It’s just that twenty-nine is a lot of trees, and I am thankful for each of those Christmas’s with the best family in the world.

Also, I need to ask, while I am posing questions, why are women so beautiful and men so ugly? I can only think that maybe God tried harder the second time.

Then there is the miracle of literature, and of the written word in general. I have often pondered the fact that it doesn’t matter a whit if the writer of a book is a young person, or has been dead for many centuries; their thoughts, in print, are very much alive. I have several friends who’s lives were spent entirely in the past. There are my naughty friends, like Mark Twain, and some priceless ones, like the apostle Paul.

Lastly, before, or until the psychiatrists begin knocking on my door, (Did you make that call to 911?) I want to tell you that I am fascinated by, and think often of the idea of what is ‘me‘, and what is ‘you.‘ I once heard someone on TV say that we live, and I quote this unremembered person: “somewhere behind our eyes.” Those words have haunted me ever since I heard them, with a some soulful revelation that I haven‘t quite figured out yet, but believe. Have we not always heard that the eyes are the windows to the soul? To me, in my strange way of thinking, “somewhere behind our eyes” is really where we exist, and that fact makes me, me, and you… you. The core of individualism is certainly not the crowd. It is that solitary soul, in residence, somewhere behind our eyes. 

Now you know about some of the things that I think about. I will go peacefully, if the doctors knock at my door.

Grumpy Old Men

By G. E. Shuman
I think that, as we men age, (I can’t speak for women.) or, when we become a bit aged, we also become less and less concerned with appearances, appeal and appropriateness, as least as far as those three things abide in ourselves. We still appreciate other people’s appearance, appeal and appropriateness, but, I must ask, are ours as important as theirs? Not so much, I think. This may be simply a matter of maturing and acquiring wisdom as to what is important in life and what is not. I like to think that, as it makes me feel good. I like to feel good. Perhaps, and far more likely, it is due to our slowing down and tiring of our world of pretension and the efforts to obtain. By ‘obtain‘, I do mean the obtaining of things, but also of position, posture and power in our world. Keeping up with the Jones’s gets a bit old, as we get a bit old, (Who really cares?) and posture becomes more and more difficult. When you are fifty-something or older, sucking in your belly at the approach of an attractive younger person of the opposite sex is less than futile; it is ridiculous. You are an old dog which might as well not chase that pretty car, as you will never catch it, and would have trouble remembering what to do with it if you did. Also, at this age, the idea of attaining power is just too much work to bother thinking about anymore. Like I said, who really cares?

Personally, speaking of persons and attractions, (See the ‘sucking in the belly’ comment above.) I find myself very much attracted lately to the writings and ruminations of Mark Twain. One reason for this is that Mr. Twain’s words invariably remind me of the sayings and cogitations of my own dear paternal grandfather, Grampy Shuman. Another reason is simply that I like the man’s plain-spoken, damn-the-torpedoes style of living, and of writing. Mr. Twain said it like it was, or at least like he saw it. Lately I am inclined to not only agree with him on many subjects, but to admire, and even mimic him a bit. He was, as was my grandfather, quite aware that others might disagree with what he said, while being completely unruffled by that fact. Twain, and Gramp Shuman, had a similar way of disarming a conversational foe with the driest variety of humor, while, at the same time, destroying that person’s argument with simple facts. Over the years, both men became caring but grumpy old men, in their own ways.

Now for the bare, naked truth of the matter. In contrite confession, I must admit that I can sense, with the passing days and years, that I am feeling more and more like those two men. The proof of this is that I don’t care that I am, and am actually beginning to enjoy the idea, if only slightly.

I do appreciate most people, but in small doses and even smaller numbers, most of the time. My wife thinks that I will someday end up an old hermit, living all alone, in a dark and dank cave somewhere. She is so very wrong. My cave will be well-lit and dry as a bone. Please don’t get me wrong. My family means everything to me. I know I don’t deserve those people, would die for any one of them, and have no intention of leaving them.

Still, my position, right now, these fifty-seven years since my mother gave me birth, (No wonder she moved to Florida.) is that I am just tired. I’m not tired of life, but tired of the great mounds of never-ending stupidity that seem to accompany it. (My grandfather would have said something like that. Mark Twain actually did say: “I don’t know why God puts up with people, when lightening is so cheap.” I loved that one.) Self-centered people irritate me, pushy people aggravate me, and politicians just make me want to go out and kill something. (Sorry, to my politician-friend Michael.)

Several months ago, as my wife and I were perusing the wares of a coastal Maine gift shop, I spotted a great bumper sticker. (You know how much I love great bumper stickers.) Please don’t take this personally, as it does not apply to any of my readers. It may apply to some of my “cool” high school students. The bumper sticker read, simply: “THE OLDER I GET, THE MORE REDICULOUS YOU ALL SEEM.“ The telling thing is, I actually bought that sticker. I guess I’m earning my Grumpy Old Man degree… one day at a time. Gramp and Mr. Twain would be proud.

The Puppy

By G. E. Shuman



It’s the break of dawn, and if that’s not enough,
I’m out on the lawn, with a small pile of fluff.
He’s a cute little puppy, and belongs to my spouse,
(Who happens to be quite asleep… in the house.)

But I’m up anyway, getting ready for work,
So I stand in wet grass, feeling like such a jerk.
I’d demanded, when she, longed to bring home her ‘Teddy’,
That she ask of herself, if she, truly, was ready,

To care for the thing, and to clean up his ‘doings’.
To trot him outside, for his peeings and pooings.
But now here I stand, in the dew and the dawning,
As this brown ball of fluff, does his stretching and yawning.

I wait, feeling stupid; just looking to see,
As he sniffs and he snorts, if he’ll actually pee.
And to get the whole ‘scoop’, these late-summer dog days,
If he’ll consent to poop, (which requires great praise.)

I have nicknamed him ‘Clock-wise’: a term of affection,
As the poor fluffy thing spins in just one direction,
When he chases his tail, or some sight, or some sound,
And flips, flops, and falls, from his twirling around.

Like some slight ballerina, or a little girl’s toy;
If he only spoke English, I’d tell him, he’s a BOY.
But Teddy knows not that he weighs but three pounds.
In his own tiny eyes, he’s a brave, fearless hound.

He will growl at just nothing; this small thing, and so hairy.
You can tell by his barks that he longs to be scary.
It’s a battle he fights, on this lawn, in the fog.
His tough stance tells the world, he ‘wants’ to be a dog.

Now I take him back in, to his toys and his house,
And I understand, some, what he means to my spouse,

Who will try all the day to housebreak her new pet;
The cutest hairball we have ever met.

Photographs and Memories

By G. E. Shuman



It’s an old Jim Croce song; ‘Photographs and Memories‘… the lyrics continue with: “Christmas cards you sent to me, all that I have are these to remember you.” I absent-mindedly ran this song through my head recently, as our family and extended family slowly strolled through the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. As we reverently took in the specter of countless museum masterpieces and antiquities, our daughter Emily captured much of it on, well, not on film. Actually, I’m not sure what it is that cameras capture images ‘on’ anymore, if they capture them on anything of substance at all, as they store them in some tiny electronic chip’s memory. I guess Mr. Croce’s tune from the seventies captures that image completely; one of photographs themselves being caught in memories. How prophetic the old storyteller was.

At only fifteen, Emily has, truly, become the family photographer. Progressing upward through ever-more intricate and expensive cameras, she is slowly ‘earning to buy more’ and buying to learn more about her hobby, photography. I am amazed at her ever-expanding knowledge of the digital world, and of our world in general, which I sometimes feel this very driven young lady may just, someday, rule.

Lately, through things such as museums full of antiquities and various anniversaries being brought before me, I have come to realize that life is, somehow, both long and short. It is long in days of labor and pain, but very short in the accumulation and remembrance of passing years. Albert Einstein once related that time really is a relative thing. He said that an hour, when passed in the presence of a beautiful woman, may seem but a moment, but that a moment, when passed in the dentist’s chair, may seem a very long hour, indeed. The ten short years since 9-11-2001 have seemed to fly buy, to me, just as have those same ten years, when defining the span of time from today, as it is viewed, backwards, to the day my father was placed in his grave. He missed 9-11 by only a few weeks, having fallen asleep on August 20^th. 2001. The thirty nine years of married life which Lorna and I celebrated just three days before that August 20^th date seem, in some ways, to have flown by, although I could almost be convinced that the early years of it belong in someone else’s memories and lifetime. How strange that is, to me.

As I watched Emily, methodically, carefully, capturing images on, or in, the memory card inside her camera on the day of our visit to the museum, I pondered at what she was really doing. As ‘Photographs and Memories’ swam through my mind, the ancient Egyptian mummies and several-millennia-old sandstone statues of men and women somehow seemed but efforts to photograph the past. They were, and are, the time-bandits of their day, just as are the more recent, but still ancient Victorian- era paintings, sculptures, decorations and furnishings that Emily captured. All of those things have accomplished what little else could, in their time. They cheated death. They did this, not by keeping their subjects and craftsmen young and alive, but by preserving their images and ideas, in stone relief, chiseled writings, and hand-polished things, stretching way out from them, into unseen future times, until they, finally, fatefully, have arrived in ours. I then looked, to see Emily in the process of photographing the smiling face of one of our beautiful, ‘momentarily’ motionless grandchildren, and I realized that what she was doing was exactly the same thing.

'Forward' Thinking

By G. E. Shuman

In these days of facebook and countless other means of worldwide social networking, I suppose that a column dealing with email might seem a bit outdated, and even antiquated. (How could that have happened so quickly?) I’m going to write this column anyway, as I too am a bit outdated and antiquated and, thus, feel quite qualified to do so. My hope is that there are a few people left out there who can identify with what I’m going to say.

I check my email several times a day. It’s not that I need to do this, as what I receive is at least ninety percent forwarded jokes and spam. My mailbox is usually full of this interesting but unnecessary stuff, just as my physical mailbox is usually full of junk mail. One nice thing about the emailed ‘stuff’ is that you don’t have to physically throw it away. It adds nothing to a person’s trash bill or ‘landfill footprint’, if there is such a thing, and I would bet the farm that there is. I check my email because I enjoy doing so. Sometimes I get actual notes from friends and relatives, but mostly it’s just forwards and spam. Now don’t get me wrong, and don’t stop sending me things because they are forwards. Most of them are fun to read, and I happen to like spam. (Did you know that it takes the meat of nearly three little farm-raised spam critters just to fill one of those small cans? I think I read that someplace, but maybe not.)

I do feel, for us face-less, face-book-less people, that it is still important to understand the email we get, including forwards. Thus, the purpose of this column. Below I have listed a few futile rules which may be helpful in ‘forward‘ thinking:

1. If you receive an email forward from someone and return a compliment about that forward, you will definitely receive more forwards.

2. If you receive a forward from someone and don’t return a compliment about that forward, you will still definitely receive more forwards.

3. If you receive a forward and tell the sender that you did not appreciate the forward, you will, regardless of that fact, definitely receive more forwards

4. If you reply, agreeing with the sender’s added comments about a forward, you may or may not receive a smiley-face reply or some other cute thing, and you will definitely receive more forwards.

5. If a forward you receive from a friend has one of those warnings at the end, stating that if you do not forward the forward to at least ten people something terrible will happen to you, please believe it. (Nice friends you have there.) The terrible thing that will happen is that you will definitely receive more forwards. Of course, if you do forward the forward to ten people you will have instilled a fear of possible death, or worse, in some of them, and will still definitely receive more forwards, including the one you just sent them.

6. If a forward you receive tells you to send it on to ten of your friends, and states that if you do so, you will receive an unbelievably funny or profound reply, don’t do it. You will never get the funny reply. You will just have annoyed ten your friends by making them have to decide if they should forward the forward to get the reply. As payback, you will definitely receive more forwards.

The math is simple. Forward a forwarded letter and you will play a part in immortalizing and rapidly multiplying that letter on into the near infinity of time and space. It will be almost like raising a pair of rabbits, as there is no such thing as a pair of rabbits. If you don’t forward it, you will become one small cog in the wheel of effort to not allow forwards to take over the email universe. Either way, your efforts will cost you nothing, not even a stamp. If there was a cost, you would not have received the forward in the first place. None of your friends would actually pay to send you junk mail. So, barring forwarding things that are in poor taste, what’s the harm? Forward away, or throw it away, remembering that email junk can’t harm the landfill. Just realize that, whatever you do, you will definitely receive more forwards.

Of Grass and Goldfish

By G. E. Shuman

Several weeks ago I read an online news report about goldfish. It was a serious account of some new legislation enacted in the city of San Francisco… yes, about goldfish. I only state that it was a serious account, because, from my viewpoint, it seemed to be a totally ludicrous one, and some of you may agree with me. Some other readers may wonder why I would feel this way, and might sympathize completely with the article and that new law. If you agree with the law, then my lack of sensitivity to the feelings of lower animal life would be as repulsive to you as the law, to me, is ridiculous. To this, I must remark: “Oh well.”

The article in question here alleged that a new law, in the city of San Francisco, makes it illegal to possess a goldfish within that city’s limits. This hugely silly reasoning, to me; this appropriate reasoning perhaps to some others, is that taking the goldfish home in that plastic bag is a traumatic experience for the fish. Again, yes, they are serious, (for those of you who think like me, about fish.) I must also admit that the fish I caught a few weeks ago must have been just totally traumatized. If fact, I’m pretty sure I traumatized the life right out of him, BEFORE I put him in a plastic bag. At this point I’m thinking that someone should ask the lawmakers in the city of San Francisco three questions. First of all, if any of them have ever actually eaten fish. That, to me, would be the ultimate insult to a species of life who’s emotional condition must be taken into consideration. Secondly, what is to become of all those homeless goldfish, after they have been told to leave, and kicked out onto the streets of California? Who will speak for those tiny, perfect pets? And lastly, how do they know that the goldfish are traumatized, riding to their new home in those nifty plastic bags. Have they asked them? Think of a goldfish’s life. It is entirely possible that the roller coaster ride home in that plastic bag is the most fun a goldfish ever has! It could be Disney World to him!

A related subject, sort of, (Hear me out.) is that in early spring, I can’t wait to see green grass. At that time of year I just love the scent of freshly cut lawns, and enjoy shaping things up outside, raking, trimming, and cutting the grass, golf-course close. The problem is that, for me, the new sort of wears off the pretty grass, pretty soon. Fortunately, I have the perfect lawn for when that occurs. Right around August first my lawn begins drying up… and slowing down. The grass then almost ceases to grow at all. This all happens, thankfully, right about that time when I have become tired of caring for it.

Now, back to the goldfish. I remember once hearing a comedian who agreed with me that a goldfish really is the perfect pet. His point, and mine, is that just about the time you get sick of your goldfish, it dies anyway… just like my lawn. Sorry San Francisco.

Under Construction

By G. E. Shuman



I once heard that the Golden Gate Bridge is so long and so maintenance-intensive that a permanent crew of men starts at one end of it, painting, and by the time they are done, have to begin at the first end again, and paint it again. I also heard that the bridge is always painted the same color; orange vermillion. Well, when I hear stories like that, especially when they include the color orange vermillion, I tend to doubt them. I doubted the bridge story, so recently looked it up. The story is dead wrong. The crew doesn’t have to continually paint that bridge at all. More precisely, the crew just has to continually touch up where it, relentlessly, rusts. To me this was an improvement of the situation, but not a great one. This, especially, since the color really is orange vermillion.

Just imagine, someday in the future, having been a member of that painting crew, and having a conversation with someone else, near the end of your life.

“Well, young fella, what did you do for a living?” (Whenever someone calls you “young fella” you know your days are numbered. I have had it happen to me, once or twice. I could have killed them, but didn‘t.)

“Oh, I painted a bridge.” The elder would reply. “Actually, more precisely, I just touched up the paint on the bridge.”

“Well, then what did you do?” The younger would respond.

“That’s it. I touched up the orange vermillion paint on a bridge.”

“How long did it take you?“

“Fifty years.”

To me, working on such a never-ending orange vermillion project could drive a person crazy. It would be similar to raising teenagers.

Somewhat similarly, I have a friend who used to paint one outside wall of his home, every summer. His house always looked freshly painted, and the idea was that he never had to paint the entire house at once. My take on it was that he never, ever, finished painting his house. He did it every single year. I wish someone would tell me which is worse. Painting a whole house, or going, forever, round and round, painting a never-ending house.

I began remembering the aforementioned examples of endless work yesterday, as I waited, less than patiently, in a long line of traffic at a road construction site along Route 2. Please know that I’m not seriously complaining, as I like smooth roads, but it seems like those yellow construction signs, and the human, hardhat-wearing, orange-(vermillion?)-vested SLOW/STOP sign spinners are on nearly every street this summer. I understand that last spring’s flooding has caused much of the road construction, but it seems like many towns have also chosen this year to be the one for straightening curves, exhuming sewer pipes, and planting new traffic signals.

I guess I just need to accept that road work, like bridge painting, is never really done, while it is always BEING done. The next time you’re in line at a big construction site, listen to the sound of those big diesel engines. You can almost make out the words: :Tearrr it up, pave it, tearrr it up, pave it, stripe it, patch it, tearrr it up, pave it.” Maybe that was just my strange imagination acting up again.

I do wonder what it would be like to go down a road in summer, and not eventually come upon a yellow, diamond-shaped sign with the words ROAD CONSTRUCTION AHEAD painted on it. It would probably be like getting to the end of the Golden Gate Bridge, and putting down your paintbrush.

Can Anyone Spell Graffiti?

By G. E. Shuman

The definition of the word ‘graffiti,’ according to Dictionary.com, is as follows: “Graffiti: plural of graffito. Markings, as initials, slogans, or drawings, written, spray-painted, or sketched on a sidewalk, wall of a building or public restroom, or the like.” Now you know what the word means, if you didn’t before. (It is my extreme pleasure and goal that you always leave this column at least slightly more informed than you were when you came here, even if that information gained is of no use to you in the future, whatsoever. Such will likely be the case here today.)

There are differing types of graffiti, just as mentioned in the definition, and I would like to elaborate slightly on those, for a purpose which, I think, is a good one. One type, learned at an early age, is what I would call ‘crayon’ graffiti. These are the lovely pictures of kittens, kites, and other things, sketched in crayon for Mom, on her newly-painted hallway walls or antique mahogany dresser. How adorable! Words are not incorporated here, as a picture, even in crayon, is worth a thousand of those. These early artistic attempts are meant to hone the twin talents of mischievousness and naughtiness at the youngest age possible, and they usually succeed.

Another, only slightly more advanced graffiti form is that which is found on restroom stalls and walls. I don’t have a name for this one. I would call it ’potty pics’, but that term is a bit too obvious. In these hurried attempts at art, (Who would stay in a public bathroom long enough to paint the Mona Lisa?) the pictures have changed dramatically from the crayon ones, but have not improved in quality to any great degree, although the talents of mischievousness and naughtiness are quite well-developed. Of course, the artist’s age can only be guessed. He is, after all, hiding in a toilet stall. Those pictures, and their accompanying words, are usually rendered in permanent marker ink. (It is surprising how many people are equipped with permanent markers when they enter public restrooms.) From the efforts I have seen, spelling is not a huge problem with restroom graffiti, as four-letter words are not that difficult to spell, even for restroom writers. This does bring me to the reason for the title you see way at the top of this tall stack of words.

The reason for this column topic is this: I hate the misspelling of words, even in graffiti. It just irritates me to no end, and makes the writer of those words seem a bit dim-witted, especially if his intention was to express some great bit of profound wisdom, in something as semi-permanent as the defacing of property. Here I’m not talking about abbreviations, or typos. I’m talking about good old-fashioned, honest, awful boo-boos. (By the way, in speaking of abbreviations, is there an abbreviation for the word abbreviation? If not, there should be.)

I come, at last, to my favorite type of graffiti. I would call this graffiti the bricks and mortar of the business, and it is commonly expressed on those very bricks and mortar. It is there, and on huge expanses of cinder block or cement wall areas that the graffiti artist finds the ultimate ‘concrete’ expression of his art. Although often unappreciated, especially by the owners of the bricks and mortar or concrete ‘canvases,’ such works can actually be quite nice. The medium of expression has further evolved and the words and pictures are now depicted in spray paint. (I knew that there had to be some real use for that stuff. I never painted anything very successfully with it.) The theme is, hopefully, a bit more refined and less mischievous than that seen in the restroom stall, and thus, the words tend to be not only much larger, but more complex, as well. Many actually contain two syllables, and more than four letters. Thus, to some graffiti-artists, the spelling can become a challenge.

I must just say that it would behoove the artists to do a quick spell check of any noble thought before performing the toil of transferring it, in huge form, to an unsuspecting wall or bridge abutment. It is a terrible thing to waste a perfectly good act of civil disobedience by spelling it incorrectly. To see a fine example of this problem, take exit 5 on interstate 89, and ponder the artwork wrought on one concrete end of the highway overpass there. Someone has painstakingly written, in large and lovely balloon letters, the kind sentiment, and I quote: “DON’T WORRIE, BE HAPPY!”

Good grief.

　

Lost Nation Theater

By G. E. Shuman

I have a confession to make, and it’s an embarrassing one. Making confessions has never been easy for me, and this one makes me particularly un-easy. The confession is that, well, you see, for reasons I don’t even remember, I had, until last weekend, never attended a production of Lost Nation Theater. There, go ahead and leer, laugh, snicker and snipe all you want. Its okay. I actually feel a bit better now.

As I mentioned, I’m not at all sure why, in all these years of living here in Central Vermont, that I never before got to Lost Nation. My wife and daughters have attended a number of plays there; my number was zero. Likely, in most cases, I was usually unusually tired, after battling the evils of the world all week, protecting and providing all the world’s necessary protections and provisions for my family, along with performing the duty of sharing un-paralleled wisdom here with you, and just couldn’t go out for an evening play. Such is the life of a self-sacrificing husband, father, grandfather, author, English teacher, and all-around overly-modest and self-deprecating, (if culture-denied) guy.

Now, joyfully, the culture-drought that had pervaded my life for several years has been, finally, ended! My thirst of mind, spirit, and bone-dry humor have all been quenched by Lorna’s and my experience at this great little local theater, two Sunday evenings ago. The evening out had been a birthday present to my wife. She is getting along in years, and it is always good to accommodate the wishes of one in her situation, whenever possible. It is even better if doing so brings a great experience to the present-giver, also. (That would be me.) Just as sharing a great meal at a fine restaurant in celebration of a birthday is as much a gift to the giver as to the give-ee… (That can’t be a word.) so also, sharing a great play in celebration blesses the giver, too. In these cases, payback is always fun for both. (My birthday is next month.)

The play Sunday evening at Lost Nation was ‘Moonlight and Magnolias.’ Flawlessly acted by Dan Renkin, Bob Nuner, Maura O’Brien, and Shawn Sturdevant, and directed by Tara Lee Downs, the performance was a simply joyous escape into Hollywood’s past. The comedy was hilarious; the characters were captivating. Bravo, Lost Nation Theater!

I began this column with a confession. I end it with an admonition. I highly recommend, if you have never found your way to the thoughtful theater that is Lost Nation, that you do so, and soon. (Remember, my birthday is just next month.) Nestled in the heart of downtown Montpelier, and tucked away, coyly, upstairs in our capital city’s City Hall, you will find music, mystery, satire and comedy, all presented, quite brilliantly, in a diminutive house of absolute theatrical magic.

Lost Nation Theater is a treasure! I’m glad I finally found it.

Strange Times

By G. E. Shuman

I think that I must not be the only Central Vermonter who is wondering what’s going on in our state, and in our country, in the year of our Lord, 2011. These times simply seem to be strange times. Two or three Saturdays ago we were promised the Biblical rapture, which did not occur. No surprise, but please note: This writer believes, with zero doubt, that Jesus will return to the earth, and could do this even on the day you’re reading these words. He just didn’t do it on the day one man told us that He would. That guy could have saved himself and a lot of other people some trouble, as the Bible clearly says that no man will know when that day will be.

The following Thursday, (after the non-rapture) and nearly every day since then, our beloved portion of the state has been flooded, re-flooded, wind-blown, sandbagged, washed out, cleaned, re-washed out, and re-cleaned, only to be rained on still again. If you have felt, lately, that you might have been moved to the Amazon, you’re not alone. Vermonters have lost driveways, (That includes this Vermonter.) vehicles, and even homes. Mud has been just everywhere, and is still being cleaned up. Rivers rose, and roads eroded. Cellars filled with water, and residents and businesses paid the price. Insurance policies and nerves have been strained to their limits. Bank accounts have been busted. (Please don’t tell my English students that I used the word ‘busted’. Thank you.) It’s hard to believe that only a handful of weeks ago we were wondering if winter would ever end. And, all of this is little, compared to the devastation some other of our fifty United States have recently experienced because of tornadoes. Even Springfield, MA just had their first tornado in fifty years. Yes, to my mind, these are strange times, indeed.

At this point some of you are thinking, and may even comment to our editor, as one reader recently did, that I’m “rambling on” about the odd things happening in our world today, and that those things have always happened. Yes, earthquakes and tsunamis have always occurred, just like thunder storms and tornados have. Still, something these days just doesn’t seem right. Can you feel it? I can’t speak for you, but a combination of things, including natural disasters, a very hard winter, political unrest around the world, political unrest here, and four dollar a gallon fuel prices, causing rising prices on everything else has me a bit un-nerved about the times we live in. These days, our scientists are seriously discussing issues like time-travel, anti-matter, anti-gravity, the “God” particle, and even zombies. Yes, zombies. If you don’t believe me, google it. Strange times, yes.

To me, perhaps all of this is for our good. It takes a lot to scare, surprise or amaze people today. Just ask a Hollywood movie producer. But, things have been pretty exciting lately. Perhaps nature, and our unwitting politicians are simply providing unnerving happenings capable of convincing the world that even an event like the return of our Lord is not so far-fetched, after all. Christians like me are not looked upon as quite so wacky these days. Just ask some of our acquaintances who were a bit uneasy as the day of the predicted rapture approached.

For what it’s worth, and you may think it is worth nothing, these are strange enough times to just actually be the last times. I wish you would consider that.

　

Barre’s New-Growth, Traffica-Signalia Forest

By G. E. Shuman

I believe that it is certain, above all other certainties, that we do live in an exceedingly strange and changing world. Take, for example, and for instance, the very peculiar, odd, and unprecedented phenomenon presently occurring in the city of Barre, Vermont; Barre City, to be more precise and local-friendly. You see, and if you live here, you cannot HELP but see, that things are a-changin’ in downtown Barre. As a long-time resident and former downtown business owner, I can attest to this fact, irrevocably, irreversibly, irreverently, incontrovertibly, immodestly, immaterially, infinitely, and any other ‘im’, ’in‘, and ‘ir’ adverbs you may wish to consider here. Yes, for sure and for true, things are happening in Barre.

Last summer, and into last fall and early winter, construction work in the downtown area concentrated on the re-shaping, and re-configuring of several street corners and intersections in the city. Most of the work centered around Main Street corners and Summer Street intersections, if you will recall. Yes, the heavy equipment was out last year, and those efforts succeeded in shaving off lawns, slicing back sidewalks, and re-directing ditches and curbs to the (somehow) desired effect of widening Summer Street and Main Street intersections. Now, everyone who knows anyone, and even everyone who knows no one in Barre City understands that these things being done are only the first steps in the ‘Barre Big Dig’; that is, the reconstruction of the Main Street of our fair city. The street corners were widened to accommodate large vehicles, which will necessarily be re-routed down Summer and other streets when the greater work on Main Street begins. Indeed, Herculean efforts are hurriedly underway, to keep traffic flowing, businesses going, and pedestrians pedestering.

Spring has definitely sprung of late in the Granite City. My wife’s lilac bushes have gone from tiny buds to huge leaves and even small blossoms appearing, in what seems to be only days. Our maple trees have leaves which have come upon the branches at such a pace that you can almost see them growing. You actually can see how much they have grown from one day to the next. Also, finally, and not a minute too soon, flowers have arrived in Central Vermont yards!

Now, and here‘s the big question of the day, or at least, of the day you are reading this column. Have you noticed the other things that are sprouting up all over downtown? I don’t mean to site the obvious, but within the past few weeks, many huge, black, tree-trunk-like poles have appeared at those same, afore-mentioned, Main and Summer Street intersections. The big black things are of varying heights and widths, but all appear to be of the same origin and species; namely, the dreaded traffica-signalia variety, to use the official, biological term for them. Why, some of those huge, black, bean-stalk-looking things are probably twenty feet high and several feet thick at the base, already. Others are smaller, but of similar proportion to their larger cousins. Many of them would make fine masts for Capt’n Jack Sparrow’s Black Pearl, if she is ever in such need. The largest one of them all has, evidently, chosen to attach itself along the horizontal plane, part way up, to two of the Main Street growths. This behemoth-sized new-growth stretches, above traffic, all the way from the Aldrich Library, right out onto the island in the middle of Main Street. That pole’s functionality might be vital for the city project, but it is anything but pretty. Last week one of my students actually asked me why they put “that big sewer pipe” across Main Street. I tried to explain that I thought it was just some new-growth happening in Barre. I’m not sure the student was convinced. I only hope that someone will, at least, put a string of Christmas lights on that thing late next fall. (That is, if other, even larger growths haven’t sprouted up by then.)

Best Friends

By G. E. Shuman

Two children, as different as they could be

Are grafted, forever, to our family tree.

One older, one young, and while sharing no genes

They define for us all, what true family means.

A tall, dark teen, with muscles and might

And a light little child, may seem a strange sight,

As they walk hand in hand, in a life-long love,

As uncle, and niece, thanks to God above,

Who arranged it all, in His masterful way

That against all odds, they would meet one day,

To become fast friends; this tall boy and small girl

From opposite ends of our wondrous world.

He came to our lives from the Southern U.S.

And she, from China, our family to bless.

The two share a bond, as strong as can be;

This uncle and niece, in the picture you see.

The act of adoption; a wonderful pleasure

Providing for families the quite priceless treasure

Of kids and of grandkids, with love that won’t cease.

Who walk hand-in-hand, as uncle… and niece.

What Should I Write About?

By G. E. Shuman

So, let’s see… I’m sitting here alone this evening. Lorna is at work, the kids are at a church youth group meeting, and it is my big job to come up with a column for next week’s paper. No, actually, it’s for the week after next. The point is that tomorrow afternoon we are all leaving on vacation, and I would like to get this to the paper before we go.

So, again… let’s see… what do I have in my challenged little brain that I could write about? I could write to you about that upcoming vacation, but I don’t want to sound like I’m either bragging or complaining about it. I get to drive a very long way, but it is to arrive at a wonderful vacation place. Or, I could write about the great privilege that I have, in being a teacher at a wonderful Christian school here in Vermont. Also, I could talk about our country, and how much better a place it is to live than anywhere else on our entire, beautiful, big-blue planet. I could also invite you to visit my fantastic church, (Bible Baptist in Berlin) but I think I have written about all of those things several times, although some things (like the church invitation) do deserve repeating.

At times I just like to tell you about how much I love to write, and how much I appreciate all of you who take the time to read my words. (It is true that there might be something wrong with you… but I didn‘t cause that.) At other times I can’t seem to help talking about how blessed I feel, with all the wonderful things I have been given, and especially with all the wonderful people who have been placed in my life. (This could include you.) I, also, on occasion, love to just mention the fact that I believe that all of those things were done; all of those people were placed in my life, by a ‘doer‘… a ‘placer’. In other words, my life has been blessed, deliberately, by someone who loves me enough to give me much more than I will ever, ever, deserve. That someone, as I have, likely, told you several times, is God. He isn’t ‘a’ god… you know… like the god of agriculture, or the sun-god, or something. He is THE God… the Real God, the one who simply, (or not so simply) made every single thing that was ever made… anywhere. (This DOES include you.)

I have written here, over the seventeen or so years of the life of this column, many thoughts on the holidays, including family observances, and my own, sometimes, not so well-accepted opinions of those holidays. As a Christian I suppose I’m not supposed to like Halloween, for instance, but the fact is, I LOVE Halloween, and always have. I have told you about that. We have discussed caring Christmas’s, thankful Thanksgivings, and joyous Easters, including eggs, in this very spot in my favorite Central Vermont newspaper. -Thank you Gary Hass.- (Unfortunately, this year my every-other-week writing’s didn’t align with the Wednesday before Easter. It must be the moon’s fault, or something.)

We have also, at times, thoughtfully thought together about everything from potholes to phone booths; from the rocky shores of beautiful Coastal Maine to the rocky craters of our beautiful moon. I have extolled the virtues of having a very patriotic wife, and I have, I believe, written more than you might have wanted to read about my five kids and ten grandkids. Oh well, if I can’t brag about having the best family in the world, which happens to be a fact, what can I brag about?

Well, (I like beginning sentences with ‘Well’… President Reagan did it all the time.) as I asked earlier, what do I have to write about? Well, again, here’s a possible answer. I really don’t know. I do know that writing is a bit like painting a fence. Sometimes ya just gotta’ start, and before you know it… you’re done. I invite you to try it sometime. It’s a lot of fun. I mean writing, not fence-painting. Now I can go on vacation.

The Phone Booth

By G. E. Shuman

A weekend or two ago, depending on when in time this column caught your eye, my family and I were on one of our frequent adventures, the purpose of which was to watch our son, Andrew, dunk a bunch of basketballs in a high school AAU game. I’m not going to tell you what the exact location of that game was, as there was something at the place, which I might just want to try to bring home someday, and I don’t need any bidding competition. I trust you, implicitly… I’m just not so sure about that guy looking over your shoulder as you read on.

The thing I am referring to is a phone booth. It’s just not any phone booth; it’s a very old, wooden phone booth. I guess my initial worry about bidding competition on the booth might be an over-reaction. To worry about someone else claiming my prize assumes that there might be interest in such a thing, and, further, that readers these days even know what a phone booth is, (or was).

Anyway, and in any case, I was surprised to see what I saw when we got to the game. There, in an adjoining hallway to the gym, was the old, hardwood phone booth I have thus far labored on about. The phone was, I presume, necessarily gone, but the booth remained; a herald of times long past, a solid, stalwart steward of another age. (Okay. So, I get carried away with my descriptions sometimes.) Yes, the booth was exceedingly old, quite solid, and heavy to the point of over-preparedness bordering on the ridiculous, by today’s standards, for making a simple phone call. It’s very mass and detailed construction amazed me, in that it once must have been felt that the words spoken and heard within the booth held the same great weight. I felt that, somehow, in those days, perhaps they did. As I stood in front of the booth, I briefly felt my front pocket for the tiny shape-outline of the cell phone I knew was there. How things have changed.

I stood, casually examining the booth, and eventually touching the door and opening it. I marveled at the lengths that were once spanned to provide privacy for a simple call. Inside was the wooden wall-mount for the phone, a glass-encased ceiling light, and even a small shelf for counting change for the call, or taking notes. Most noticeable of all was that ingeniously-folding door I had just opened, and also what looked to be an ‘emergency escape‘ door in the back of the booth. I though of how different things are now; how we openly bare everything, (or at least ‘things-telephonic‘) in our present world; of people chatting with friends as they walk the mall, or casually sit in a restaurant. At that moment I was not at all sure which world I was more comfortable in.

Such a booth of hardwood was totally unsuitable for outdoor use, I knew. Outdoor booths were a newer development in telephony, (Yes, telephony is a proper word.) that someone, somewhere, must have, eventually, deemed important. Outdoor booths came to be made of aluminum and glass. As our society ‘progressed’ from elegant calling stations to ones of purer and purer necessity and cost-savings, those metal booths became simple phone-shelters, mounted to poles. The shift was from sheltering the caller, to sheltering the equipment; a societal observation which seems a bit telling, in itself. I remembered the 80’s Superman movie which showed Clark Kent stopping at one of those little phone-posts, and looking bewildered.

These days almost no one uses pay phones. They have all but totally gone the way of the rotary dial and the party line. It’s funny that the word ‘dial’ somehow still exists in the communication lexicon. We still ‘dial’ 911 in an emergency, although no one has used a phone dial in years. Today even our cars, thanks to something called blue tooth, can answer our calls. Technology is wonderful, but a bit scary, at least to me. I’m not at all sure I want to know what’s coming next. To be sure, it will not be a huge wooden phone booth, although I sometimes wish it would be.

Yes, I really enjoyed checking out that old booth, and contemplating a time when mankind was less concerned with portability, and more with privacy and rugged reliability, at least in matters of communication. But I may be giving those people of the past too much credit. They used every ounce of the technology of their day, just as we do now. They were, likely, quite amazed with the technology behind that shiny metal wall-mounted phone. Whether ‘booth’ or ‘blue-tooth’, if you don’t understand it, you don‘t understand it.

Still, as I looked into the booth, I wondered about making a truly private call in such a place, about the people who carved the graffiti I saw there, and why it was that they produced those particular wood-groove etchings in time, as they made their calls. I wished that the spoken words of those people were as-immersed in that wood, to be called back at will. I thought of calls to parents, and children; to bookies, bosses and secret lovers… all of whom are now long gone. I knew that the slang of the thirties and forties, and that’s era’s many dilemmas, all made necessary contributions to those conversations.

Still wondering, but with a basketball game about to begin, I shut the folding door to the past, and slowly walked away.

Get Ready! Look Up!

By G. E. Shuman

Am I the only person who feels like things are getting just a little creepy, crazy, and out of hand in our world, lately? I mean, it’s not enough that no one in our country’s capital seems to know how to add or subtract anymore, at least, not when it comes to dollars. (Note on this subject: I would suggest that each member of Congress and the Senate, and especially all White House employees from the oval office occupier on down be required to demonstrate proficiency at operating a pocket calculator, although I’m not sure that would help. The dollars they are burning through wouldn’t fit on the screen of a pocket calculator. Still, it bothers me that my great grandkids will have to pay for those people’s poor decisions.)

Add to that those pesky, three, count ‘em, three wars we seem to be fighting right now. You know, it has long been said that war is hell. If this is the case we are now faced with at least three hells, when in the past, one has always been sufficient. Strange.

I wish our government would also consider an obvious shift in the way people choose to get into our country. Aliens were once willing to die to get here. Now they are willing to kill to do the same thing. In either case, someone might die. The shift is in just who that is. Like I said, things are getting crazy.

Next, and since I’m writing in Vermont, you may not agree with me, there are those evidently sleepy Wisconsin state senators who ran away to a hotel someplace, to either catch up on their sleep, or to avoid the chance to do exactly what they were elected to do: vote. I’m not sure how much they believe in their side of a cause, if they are so tired that they turn tail and head to an out-of-state hotel. Ho-hum. Nightie-night. It just seems that casting a simple vote could not be all that strenuous a thing to do.

Another strange thing: right now, right here, right along the Barre-Montpelier Road, and just last week, gas prices jumped forty cents. In my view the gas companies think too highly of their product, but take heart. As my wife’s grandmother used to say, “Don’t get all excited and tear your shirt.“ Here’s one thing you can do, that will help, if only a little. Gas at Cumby’s seems to be the most expensive on Friday’s lately. I know it is probably quite by accident and coincidence, because those good people would never abuse the fact that some folks have to wait until their Friday pay check to buy their week’s worth of gas. (Sarcasm.) My advice is to go to their pumps on The Lord’s day. For whatever reason, they must seek forgiveness on that day, as their gas seems to be cheapest on Sunday. Plus, gas prices should come tumbling down soon, anyway. Although we’re not allowed to drill for oil and buy it from Louisiana, our president just arranged to pay Brazil billions of dollars to drill for oil off it’s shores. We can buy it from them. (He forgot his pocket calculator, I think.)

Now, add to all of this, the biggest, creepiest, craziest event of all: the strongest earthquake that Japan has experienced in our lifetimes… (strong enough that our entire massive planet was shaken off it’s axis by ten centimeters…) and the resulting huge tsunami… followed by out of control nuclear reactors, and you get a very pregnant set of disasters. One news columnist that I read recently actually termed all of these as ‘end-time’ events. Humm. I wonder why he called them that?

The answer to that question might just be found in the Bible. In fact, the answer to most big questions can be found in the Bible, although that’s not too popular a place to look for solutions to problems, in our ‘modern’ world. None the less, the following are the words of Jesus, in Luke, chapter 21, when he had been asked about the end times. Vs. 11: “And great earthquakes shall be in divers places, and famines, and pestilences; and fearful sights and great signs shall there be from heaven.” Vs. 22: “For these be the days of vengeance, that all things which are written may be fulfilled.” Vs. 25-28: “And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; 26: Men’s hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken. 27: And then shall they see the Son of man coming in a cloud with power and great glory. 28: And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.”

But that’s all from the Bible. We’re much too sophisticated, these days, to believe two thousand year old words, even if they are those of Jesus. Aren’t we? We need to consult the stars, mother nature, our spirit guide, Al Gore, or the bumps on someone’s head to learn the real truths of things. Maybe it would be best to just consult the bumps on Al Gore’s head. (Sorry. Sarcasm, again.)

Seriously, think of those words, just for a moment. Open a Bible and read them for yourself. “Look up”; “for your redemption draweth nigh.” We might want to get ready. We might want to start looking up.

Tree Shadows

By G. E. Shuman

Our daughter, Emily, is a photographer. She’s not a professional photographer, (at least, not yet,) but she is, truly, on her way to becoming one. Emily just seems to live for pictures and pixels, images and designs, graphics, ‘gig’s’ and anything else that relates to transferring her own optical creations from a camera, disk or stick-drive to a computer, and then onto face book, email, or photo paper. I don’t pretend to understand all of that.

I really love how interested Emily is in our natural, and sometimes unnoticed world. We will be driving along on some snowy day, (Not that those are uncommon lately.) and she will just remark to me about some sight, some scene, some spot along the road that intrigues her. I like scenery as much as anyone, but when I’m on the way to work, or to church, or to the store, I am on a mission, and it isn’t a mission of world-exploration. To Emily, it truly is.

I can’t tell you the number of times this sharp-eyed, sharp-minded photographer-type person has asked me to stop the car so that she could snap an image of some amazing scene that just happens to be glaring right at us, from right beside a road we have traveled a thousand times before. I guess that’s what makes a good nature photographer. I do know that it is helpful, if, at that particular time, such a photographer-person has a good ‘natured’ driver.

With all of our recent winter weather, Emily has just become acutely aware of snow scenes, wind-created sculptures, and other ‘accidental’ examples of beauty all around us, and always wants to capture it on, (no, not film) but on some infinitesimally small area of the digital memory chip inside the postage stamp-sized plastic chip-holder inside her camera. (Today’s technology scares me a little, just as yesterday’s technology scared my dad a little.)

As I said, Emi is all about scenes and images. She can take something that I would chalk up to a random winter snow storm effect, and turn it into a visual feast; a masterpiece of sun, shadow, sparkle and sculpture. I have no idea how she sees a scene and deems it worthy of ‘capture’ in her camera, but she does. Some of her work is truly amazing. Just last week she insisted that I stop the car so that she could snap a picture of the ‘shadow’ of a tree on the snow. I don’t even remember precisely where we were. I do remember that Emily spotted this ‘spot’, and that I needed to stop to let her capture the moment, which, on that particular day, I was happy to do.

Tree shadows on the snow are fleeting things, you know, and are fully dependent on timing, illumination, and our ability to observe, and to appreciate them, before they are gone. In this, they remind me of the as-fleeting moments with our children, as they express themselves to us in their own, brilliant ways. Tree shadows are things that kids notice, as adults speed past on their way to more important things. But tree shadows, like the thoughts and vividly-expressed feeling of our children, are important. I know this because Emily observed one of those shadows, one of those moments, and decided to keep it. It could be that I need to pay more attention to important things like tree shadows… and the fact that my daughter likes to share them with me.

Out of Wood

By G. E. Shuman

I’ve often read of the ‘olden days’

And the ways people lived ‘back when’;

Of horses and buggies, of wagons and sleighs

And of trust and honor in men.

Life was a tough and trying test

That helped people do more good.

As if, when there’s less, men become their best

And rise to the place that they should.

The few things folks had were made to last

And were fixed, when they broke, not just thrown.

Most things were of wood, hand-carved, nailed fast;

Not the plastic-y junk that we own.

The men were strong, and worked all their lives

So proud, to toil, to succeed.

The women were treasured as mothers and wives

And the family cherished, indeed.

The big family Bible was opened, and shared

Round the stove in the parlor each night,

In the old rugged home, filled with folks who cared

For each other, with all of their might.

Sometimes I think I’m alive too late;

That my days would have been better spent

Born in time long past, on a simpler date

When everyone said what they meant.

Life was slower, back in those days of old

When each person helped out where they could.

The men were of steel, the women were gold

And things were made out of wood.

The Warriors -A Band of Eleven Brothers-

By G. E. Shuman

It’s 5:05 am, and I’m in my teenage son’s room, grudgingly shaking him; awaking him to his first, and most driven task of the day. He groans a bit, then forces his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, eyes still closed. As long as he is upright, I feel safe to head downstairs to make my pre-dawn pot of coffee. I then go out to start the car, and reenter the kitchen moments later, listening carefully for his size-seventeen footsteps upstairs, as he gets his things ready for the day. Soon we are out the door, and driving through the darkness to Andrew’s early appointment for training with the nine other Warriors.

This is a ritual of dedication to a cause, to a team, which is repeated the entire winter, five days each week, by these eleven young men. Their’s is a noble and worthwhile pursuit of excellence in what they do. Their extreme dedication to each other, and to their unified cause has held them together through many recent trials of faith and challenges of spirit which have not been of their own doing. They have weathered injury and defeat, and have also tasted great victory, all as a team. Each time they go out to face some giant of another team, they make their school and their families very proud. Each time they topple one of those giants, scores of applauding fans in the stands are amazed.

Call this a blatant plug for a high school sports team if you wish, but those of you who have been to one of their games know exactly how I feel. The team is Websterville Baptist Christian School’s Varsity Boys Basketball. They are eleven young men of a total high school of only about sixteen guys, and they practice at Spaulding High School in Barre at five thirty each morning because they don’t have a gym of their own. They go out to battle together, and very often come back victorious. They usually make the state finals, and, this year, may just go all the way to the championship.

As the very proud father of one of this team’s players, let me invite you to enjoy a game of high school basketball at its very best. Check the school’s website for the schedule, and come watch The Warriors play very hard, and very fair. Believe me, the Hoosiers had nothing over this band of brothers!

The Warriors

The Warriors

-A Band of Eleven Brothers-

By G. E. Shuman

It’s 5:05 am, and I’m in my teenage son’s room, grudgingly shaking him; awaking him to his first, and most driven task of the day. He groans a bit, then forces his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, eyes still closed. As long as he is upright, I feel safe to head downstairs to make my pre-dawn pot of coffee. I then go out to start the car, and reenter the kitchen moments later, listening carefully for his size-seventeen footsteps upstairs, as he gets his things ready for the day. Soon we are out the door, and driving through the darkness to Andrew’s early appointment for training with the nine other Warriors.

This is a ritual of dedication to a cause, to a team, which is repeated the entire winter, five days each week, by these eleven young men. Their’s is a noble and worthwhile pursuit of excellence in what they do. Their extreme dedication to each other, and to their unified cause has held them together through many recent trials of faith and challenges of spirit which have not been of their own doing. They have weathered injury and defeat, and have also tasted great victory, all as a team. Each time they go out to face some giant of another team, they make their school and their families very proud. Each time they topple one of those giants, scores of applauding fans in the stands are amazed.

Call this a blatant plug for a high school sports team if you wish, but those of you who have been to one of their games know exactly how I feel. The team is Websterville Baptist Christian School’s Varsity Boys Basketball. They are eleven young men of a total high school of only about sixteen guys, and they practice at Spaulding High School in Barre at five thirty each morning because they don’t have a gym of their own. They go out to battle together, and very often come back victorious. They usually make the state finals, and, this year, may just go all the way to the championship.

As the very proud father of one of this team’s players, let me invite you to enjoy a game of high school basketball at its very best. Check the school’s website for the schedule, and come watch The Warriors play very hard, and very fair. Believe me, the Hoosiers had nothing over this band of brothers!

Childhood Truths of the Past... (My Past)

By G. E. Shuman

The following are a few childhood truths. They are lessons I learned as a youth… a few of them, the hard way.

They CAN make calendars ahead of time, and sell them the summer before the new year, even if you are baffled by the idea that anyone can know which days will have what numbers next year.

Electricity will not leak out of the light fixture in your closet, wasting all that energy, even if ’someone’ smashed the bulb with a baseball bat while it was turned on, to see what would happen. I asked my dad if that hypothetical situation would waste power. He wanted to know why I was asking.

I was once very sure that a vegetable peeler would do a great job of smoothing the sharp corners of the woodwork of our kitchen and dining room doorways. I was right.

Stretching out on the three side chairs pushed in under the dining room table is a great way to take a secluded Sunday afternoon nap, especially if the table cloth comes down and hides you, and more especially if you want to have the whole neighborhood searching the woods for you.

A pot of gasoline placed under a pile of dry leaves you’re getting ready to burn makes a wonderful airborne projectile. I just knew it would.

Swallowing a bottle of nose drops, thinking it was cough syrup, can help a five year old sleep very soundly for two or three days straight, and help his mom get that nice gray hair she always wanted.

Snow banks also make great places to take naps. I love naps.

If you are a boy, and dress up as a witch, (rubber mask required,) on Halloween night, after all your friends have gone home, no one in the neighborhood will ever know you went around trick-or-treating twice. And, all the old ladies who have run out of candy will feel sorry for you and give you cookies… and money.

If you shovel a snow-maze all over your front lawn, from the driveway to the house, the mailman really will follow it to get to your front door. It’s great, until your mother sees you watching him do it.

If your least-favorite fifth grade teacher leaves his car’s convertible top down on a sunny fall day, that’s not your fault. It’s also not your fault that it requires only a few minutes after school for five boys to fill that convertible, level, with dry leaves. I’m sorry, Mr. Oullette. (It’s only taken me forty-six years to say that.)

Nothing tastes better than a stolen watermelon.

Old guys at the American Legion Hall will share their Halloween party with young kids who sneak in the back door. They will also share their punch.

If you wire an old car antenna onto your walkie-talkie, you can make your friend’s mother think aliens are in her TV.

If your five foot tall model rocket with the letters U.S. Govt. stenciled on it lands in your neighbor-lady’s tree, she will not give it back to you.

Don’t be deceived. Your first grade teacher is not in the next room for a VERY important conference with another teacher, and she really can’t see you through the walls. She went out for a smoke. (Shame on you, Mrs. Jones, wherever you are.)

When your pastor comes for a Sunday afternoon visit, sticking fireworks up his car’s tail pipe probably won‘t impress him, or your dad.

Old neighbor-ladies with clean floors have no sense of humor when it comes to mud.

If you’re about eight years old, and you notice two neighborhood dogs that seem to be, mysteriously, stuck together, just walk away. It isn’t worth it.

It’s better to go to Sunday School than to fake a side ache and go to the hospital.

If you own a small pet monkey, and your new girlfriend’s mother stops by for a visit, don’t let him sit on her shoulder… not even for a minute.

Water rockets, when launched with Dad’s air compressor, will never be seen again.

If Mom tells you to go clean your room, covering the junk on your floor with a throw-rug will not work.

Your sister’s cat can be neither bathed nor baptized, no matter how much it needs both.