Planning Big, Thinking Small

by G. E. Shuman

Christmas 2012 is over.  In fact, by the time you read this column, it will have been over for over a week.  How strange that seems to me, after all the planning, preparing, procrastinating, and purchasing that went into it.  Hopefully, many of us did remember the true reason for the celebration.  Along with Christmas now past, another year has passed with it.  Like it or not, for better or for worse, whether over a fiscal cliff or into a prosperous new year, we have all begun the journey 'round the sun one more time.  The world did not come to an end on December 21st., so we must be meant to continue into 2013.  I do hope your new year is a happy and prosperous one.  (No, that's not the end of the column.  You can't get out of it that easily.)
Christmas was a bit difficult for me this year.  Our daughter, Emily, is sixteen now, and her brother Andrew is nineteen.  For the past few years there hasn't been much desire to have us read "The Night Before Christmas" and leave cookies and milk out for Santa.  Big surprise.  But old habits do die hard, especially when you have been 'doing' Christmas with your children for thirty-eight years.  At this point, in our family, some traditions are slipping into the past, and even the remembering of some of these things can become a thing of the past.   But, enough about the past.
We have always told our kids, as they have grown, to plan big.  "Get a good education, so that you can get a good job!" and "Don't let your grades in school determine your future!"   I stick by this advice, and always will.  Lately, though, I would also advise my children and yours, to think small.  In that, I mean to think past the 'big' things, the big job, the big home, the possible big bank account.   It has been my experience that the small things, the details, are the things that will be remembered most fondly when their family nest begins to empty, as is ours. I would tell them to spend every possible moment, day, and vacation with their families, and to work to live, not live to work.  I would also love to have our children continue our family traditions, and would advise them to add their own.  That way, times like Christmas and other holidays will be truly theirs, and belong to their family.
The new year is just beginning, and, so far, it looks to be a very trying one for our world.  If so, family, and family traditions may prove to be more important than ever before.  And, if times become tough, such things may be exactly those things that keep us together.  Our future may well rest on the simple acts of planning big and thinking small.

Mary's Christmas

Dear Readers, This is a reprint of my last-year’s Christmas column.  The reason it is here again is not entirely because of my busy schedule or tendency toward laziness.  The column generated many kind comments last year, and I thought you might like to see it once more.  Merry Christmas!

By G.E. Shuman

          I have occasionally been accused, (primarily by my wife) of not thinking like "other people."  I'm not sure if this is true, as I simply think as I think, and don't really know how other people think.  I do know that I like to mentally experience, or ponder the world around me.  I especially enjoy history and the things that have survived history and are still with us.  I think of things like the old house we live in, and about the fact that these walls, and even the nails that hold together the massive woodwork of the place, were right here, exactly as they are now, on the day I was born.  Likewise, they were here, just as I see them now, on the day my father was born.  Things like that, thoughts like that, ponderings like that intrigue me a great deal.  The antiques around me as I write tonight, including the house itself, are reminders that the days in which they were new were just as real as today is.  Each day had weather and sounds and smells and situations and pain and joy and people loving each other, and people hating each other.   If this is not how other people think, well, that’s just the way it is, and this is just the way I am.

          Today I have been thinking, in my probably odd way of doing it, about Mary, the mother of Jesus.  As a protestant Christian, I think about her son a lot, but not so much about her.  Today I have been thinking about what she went through for her son, and what she might have been experiencing in those days surrounding the first Christmas.  The Bible does not say a lot about Mary, and so the world knows little about her.  But she was a real, live, feeling, caring person.  She was also one without the benefit of history, to know the whole story of the very history she was helping to create.  Here's my idea of what she may have been thinking on part of that first, very real and rough Christmas day.

          I imagine that Mary might have awoken after a short evening's nap, to suddenly realize once again that she had just given birth.  Before rising she may have looked up into the rough rafters of the shoddy stable in which she lay, and pondered exactly what was happening to her.  Barely more than a child herself, here she was, with an infant son asleep in the stable’s manger, only inches from where she slept on the hay-strewn floor.  And this was not just a child, but one miraculously born from her own young womb, from her own virgin body.  He was a son for which she had been visited by an angel months before, who had proclaimed to her that the child within her would save His people from their sins.  

Mary may then have been stirred from her thoughts as she heard the baby move a bit, and whimper, where he lay.  Still unrested and uneasy, she was somehow comforted by her tired young husband's loud breathing as he slept in the hay, just to her other side.  She thought again of the angel's visit, and of the hard trip by donkey to get to this town of Bethlehem, so that Joseph could pay his taxes.  Mary could have then recalled the bumpy ride, the cold nights along the way, and her husband's smiling glances back at her as he led the beast upon which she rode.  She likely remembered the innkeeper's gruff voice and awful smell, as he told them to stay in the barn if they had to, and then slammed the door in their faces.  The Bible says that she thought about what the shepherds had reported.   Their talk included the angel which had spoken to them, and she might have wondered if it were the same angel as had come to her in that seemingly long-ago night.  She may have well imagined the heavenly host those shepherds described, and pondered their quick trip to this very place, to see her sacred son.  She remembered, only briefly, that agonizing thought of whether Joseph really, truly believed what she had said about the angel’s words, and of the bigger fact, that she had never known a man.

          Mary would have then arisen to pick up her tiny, sweet son from the manger hay, and then hold this most precious one to her breast.  How, as she did so, would she not have also wondered and worried for the future of this nursing infant child, this most Holy One, born in such a noisy, dirty place. 

          None of us can know what Mary actually thought during that wondrous night, but think she surely did, and maybe not like “other people.”  The stable, the cold air, the smell of manure, the hard ground and the soft and dusty hay were as real as was the night itself.  So also was her own body; real and sore and tired from childbirth.   She certainly considered that the greatest reality of all was that child, which she now held and felt in her arms, none other than the very Savior of the world.

"But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart."  Luke 2:19.

It's That Time of Year... Again

By G. E. Shuman

Well, friends and neighbors, it’s that time of year again.  No, I’m not referring to a time of sleigh bells and snow flakes, or tree lights and tinsel.  I’m not talking about the “packages, boxes and bags,” that the old Grinch once went on about, or even "the reason for the season."   No, good people, what I want to mention here today has to do with this blessed, wonderful season when American Christians have to suffer through irritating and unrelenting anti-holiday, insulting news stories from the national media.

You know the stories I'm talking about.  They always start to appear the very day you finish the Thanksgiving dinner leftovers and find that it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, just as sure as Jack Frost nipping at your nose.  Reporters 'dutifully' tax their expository talents for us, relating, in all seriousness, how some special group, person, place or other is the first this year to be offended by a show of religious free speech, such as a manger scene in a city park, or a cross on someones front lawn.   Each year someone always manages to persuade a judge or two to ban Christmas music in public places, too.  To me, it has always seemed a bit of comical irony that the malls still play carols through their music systems to put people in the mood to shop.   Hearing "Joy To The World" helps ease the pain of slipping that piece of plastic into the checkout card reader, it seems.   And, guess what?  Those songs are not 'holiday carols,' as if all of us didn't already know that.  Like it or not, ye easily offended people among us, they are CHRISTMAS carols.  As for the trees and gifts?  Those are not holiday trees and gifts, they are CHRISTMAS trees and gifts.  Thankfully, although somewhat strangely, our increasingly secular society will never convince big business to shun Christmas.   At least we still have that. 

Now, I have to ask, am I the only one who has noticed that the anti-holiday sentiment is always aimed at the Christian holidays alone?   Why don't unbelievers EVER pick on the Muslim or Buddhist holidays?  For some reason, doing so must be more wrong, I guess.  Something tells me that there is much more going on here than acts of caring folks heroically protecting people from the terrible fate of having to look at a cross or a manger for a few weeks in December.  If that were all, those folks could just look the other way, as I would need to do if in the vicinity of that 'free speech' piece of 'art' that is a crucifix in a bottle of urine.    

The most recent Christian holiday attack seems to be the new revolt against the television broadcast of "A Charlie Brown Christmas."  For people like me, who grew up with this Charles Shultz classic, this effort at censorship is just stupid. "Good Grief!" as Charlie would say.  For  those who disagree, I have a suggestion that has always worked well for me.  If I see something on TV that offends me, I don't need to write to the networks and the newspapers to get it removed from the airwaves.  My television remote has a cool little rubbery thingy on it, which solves the problem for me.  It is called an 'off' button.  Maybe you guys could get a remote like mine. 

I do have an idea for people who think the public display of Christian holiday symbols is wrong.  Folks, if you believe in the big bang theory instead of a loving God and creator, then hang up some planet models this time of year.  Yes, those things might look a little like big tree balls, but that's okay. They're not a manger, so no one will stop you, even if you display them on the state house lawn.  And, most of us do love to see the planets.  If you also believe in biological evolution, celebrate Charles Darwin's birthday with statues and banners proclaiming his birth.  No one who disagrees with you will care or find a judge to make you take them down.   Best of all, if you don't believe in anything, your job is really easy.  You can just relax.  

I do, also, have one word of caution.  Current world events, even including the rise and boldness of people who say that there is no God, are quite clearly predicted in the Bible.  We all stand somewhere on this issue.  You might not believe in Biblical miracles and prophesy, but I'd be careful.  Just tell me one thing these days that really seems totally impossible.  Can't think of one?  Me either.  If it were me, (and it is not) before I protested too strongly against the celebration of Jesus' first arrival on earth, I might consider the idea that He really is coming back here, probably very soon.   He and his Father made the universe, and He's not gonna be happy.   ...Just sayin'.

George's World, a new 740 page collection of George's columns from The World, is available at xlibris.com, amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com and your favorite bookstore.  The Smoke And Mirrors Effect, George's first novel, can be seen at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.  Enjoy!

Kids, Eat Your Turkey!

by G. E. Shuman

Call me an outdated, carnivorous dinosaur if you like. I'm getting used to the idea of living in the past, and I'm actually pretty comfortable here. As proof of my 'oldfashionedness,' I was disturbed by a recent advertisment put out by PETA.  You know, PETA; the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Did you see the ad? It's okay if you didn't, because I'm going to tell you about it in the next paragraph.  As an introduction, let me say that, personally, I like animals, (even when they are in places other than right beside the mashed potatoes,) and could not care less if you or anyone else leads a vegan lifestyle.  Unlike PETA, I don't tell people what to eat or how to live, so I should be commended for my great tolerance, don't you think?
I do think that I am, at least, more tolerant than those PETA folks who put the particular ad I'm referring to into circulation just before Thanksgiving Day.  (This is the part where I tell you about it.)  The ad said, precisely: "Kids. You wouldn't eat your dog.  Why would you eat a turkey?"  Evidently, those well-meaning folks at PETA were never taught the difference between a farm animal that was raised specifically for consumption by humans, and a pet. If you are unsure of the difference, remember that dogs have leashes... turkeys usually don't.  (If you do have a pet turkey, please forgive me.)  I suspect that the PETA folks don't care a whit that many families in this country will be grateful to have a turkey, or a chicken, or some other poor, "unethically-treated" animal as the centerpiece of their Thanksgiving feast.  They also must not care about any division their advertisement may cause those families on that day, or the fact that there will  have been a certain amount of sacrifice for some families to even provide the yearly feast, this year.  No, let's just be sure no turkeys are harmed, and that they all live long and happy lives.  I know, my ideas are outdated; I am that old dinosaur.  It's just that, to me, our world has, sadly, become a place where animal rights are revered high above those of people.  You will never happen upon an abortion clinic for pets, and rightly so.
There are thousands of family-run and industrial turkey farms in the United States, providing over 254,000,000 turkeys anually. (USDA 2012 stat.) That's two hundred fifty four MILLION of these great individual sources of economical protein, for consumption by American and foreign families, each year.  (Hey, forget the dog, it sounds like the turkey is man's real best friend.) Those family farms must also mean little to people who actually spend money advertising against turkey eating, but PETA isn't about people, after all.
Regardless of a person's predisposition to the eating, or not eating of meat, isn't it a little late in the year to suggest to kids that they not eat turkey... (or their dog,) this Thanksgiving?  Most of the dogs will be full of dog food, which is yucky and usually contains poutry (chicken and turkey) byproducts. But, it's probably okay for dogs to eat turkey, even if kids shouldn't.  Right?  Most of those big birds that families will consume on Thursday are already processed and in supermarket or home freezers.  If not eaten, wouldn't they have all died in vain, PETA followers?  Perhaps between now and next spring you can convince all of those turkey farmers to grow soybeans instead of poultry, but I hope not.  If you do, next Thanksgiving I'll have to go out for a burger.  (Kids, eat your turkey, while you can.)
Seriously, dear readers, I wish you all a wonderful, loving, thankful family time this week, however you choose to celebrate the holiday.  As someone who cherishes Thanksgiving as a day of giving thanks to God for all of our blessings, including meat on our table, I never thought I would be saying this, but, Happy Turkey Day!  (Save me a drumstick.)

It's Not My Puppy

By G. E. Shuman


So, last night I was out on the side lawn, in the dark, in the rain, watching my wife’s new puppy do her little doggie duty.  She’s already pretty well trained, I think, for an eight week old. (Not my wife… the puppy.)  But, nothing’s perfect. Nearly, and I mean nearly, every time we pick Day-Z up after a meal and plop her on the lawn, she succeeds in doing some plopping of her own, and the other thing too.  I’m not sure if that really means the puppy is trained, or if we are, but it keeps little presents off the carpet, either way.  And, either way, I’m not worried.  It’s not my puppy.   Now, as I said, I was out on the lawn with my wife’s puppy, watching the thing wander around in the dark, and the rain, and wondering why I was there.  Suddenly, a man who was walking his own dog down our street in the rain, stopped and said, and I quote: “What am I looking at?”  To which I failed to respond, as I wasn’t certain who he was talking to, or who he was ’looking at’; me or the dog.  He then repeated: “Hey, what am I looking at?”  And then: “Is that a ferret?”
“No.” I responded, a little put out that he would mistake the baby dachshund for a ferret, until I realized how much she looked like one, with her short legs and long little body, ’ferreting through the grass’ in the dark.   “It’s my wife’s puppy.”  I said.
“Oh!”  He replied.  “I thought you had trained a ferret. Ha, Ha.”
“No. It’s a puppy.  It’s not my puppy. It’s my wife’s.” I repeated, somehow thinking that I might look less strange standing in the rain with someone else’s puppy, I guess.
“Ha!”  He said again, as he continued walking down the street.
“Ha, indeed!”  I thought to myself, feeling slightly insulted that someone would think I would be outside in the dark, in the rain, with a stupid trained ferret.  Did I look like a ferret-training type of person?  No, I didn’t think so.  I looked like a person who had a puppy out for a rainy poop, as if that was a more dignified type of person to be.  Besides, it wasn’t even my puppy.
I will say that Day-Z, my wife’s ferret, I mean puppy, has fit into our home pretty well, so far.  I’m not sure how it all works, but she seems to have succeeded in filling what must have been a little tube-shaped hole in Lorna’s heart.  My thinking is that the last two kids are threatening to leave the nest, and that Lorna, evidently, wants to always have something to pick up after, and something for ME to pick up after.  I had no hole in my heart, but probably had one in my head, for suggesting that we go look at the litter of puppies when I heard about them a few weeks ago.
Please understand, we are not people who think of puppies as members of the family.  No matter how many sweaters and booties we walk past in the pet stores, to us, puppies are pets.  I will never have an “I Love My Granddog” bumper sticker.  (Another sticker I will never have is one I noticed recently on a lady’s car: “All My Children Have Four Paws.“  Really? Well… um… if that is true, what does that make you?  Just sayin‘. )   No, Lorna and I have adopted two beautiful children, and the adoption of a child is a wonderful and binding legal proceeding which I highly recommend.   We didn’t adopt Day-Z. We bought Day-Z.  Sorry Day-Z.
So, here I am this evening, in my recliner, writing about an animal, even as that very animal snuggles down in the small space beside me.  I’m sure she has not made her last mistake in the house, will continue to drag my shoes behind the couch, and will cost more in maintenance over the years than she is probably worth.  That’s okay.   It’s not my puppy.

My Halloween Conundrum

By G. E. Shuman

My mother used to use the word conundrum every once in a while.  She probably still does.  When I was a small child I sometimes wondered at the meaning of that strange word.  Those were the days before wikipedia, and children such as I also wondered at the meaning of words like dictionary, so for years I never really learned what conundrum meant.  I did have some idea what that meaning was, and now have no idea why I didn’t just ask my mother at the time.   These days we do have wikipedia, and I have learned what the word dictionary means, so I looked up the word conundrum.  According to wikipedia, the word conundrum means: A logical postulation that evades resolution, an intricate and difficult problem.   I knew it!  I was right all along!

So, I am now faced with a logical postulation that evades resolution, an intricate and difficult problem, a conundrum.  My conundrum has to do with Halloween, but you know that if you read the title.  You see, I have always loved Halloween.  If you know me, you know that I am also a quite imperfect Christian, but do love the teachings of the Lord, and appreciate the council of my church family in matters of how to live.  I just can’t do the church-family advice-thing completely, on the subject of Halloween.  

I know that most Christian churches, including my own, discourage the celebration of what has been called the devil’s holiday.  This may seem a little spooky, but I just don’t see it that way.  I never have.  I know that bad things are done by bad people on this particular fall night, and I hate all of those things.  Still, to me, Halloween is about kids dressing up to get candy… and maybe a slight fright. In my day this special night was all about witches and goblins and ghost stories and pumpkins. The scariest sound you heard was someone yelling “BOO!”  Maybe the problem is that it’s no longer my day.

I once wrote a column which included the true childhood memory of “the sooty-sweet smell of candle-lit carved pumpkins.”  To me, Halloween evening also brings back memories of dead leaves, and the first brisk bite of winter, whipping around in the nighttime air.  I actually have been known to stand on the front lawn, just to conger up this feeling, on this bone-chilling night.  I also always recall the scent of baskets of crisp apples on Halloween-decorated porches at trick or treat time, and the seasonal taste of popcorn balls, candy corn, and cider.  

I know that all of these memories are just a yearly re-sensing of coldness and darkness, and the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of autumn. Halloween is not necessary for one to experience any of them.  Still, there is something deliciously scary in the idea that something might just be there in the darkness, watching from behind that familiar old tree.   This year I will decorate the front porch a bit, in the hope of ‘spooking’ trick or treaters just a little.  I don’t go overboard, but I have not given up on the spirit of Halloween yet.  

I will now return to my mental cauldron, and continue stirring the seasonal ingredients of my terrible Halloween conundrum.

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My Great Air Conditioner Ritual

By G. E. Shuman

Our lives are filled with rituals.  I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s just the way it is.  Some of these rituals are intentional and cherished ones, like holiday traditions and church attendance, although church attendance should mean more than that.  Some of our rituals, or oft repeated happenings that become rituals, are much less lofty things than holidays and church-going. (Look at me. I used the word ‘oft’.)  Some, like taking daily medication, making the morning coffee, or even washing the flea-bitten dog are simply parts of our repeated routine, but soon become rituals.  I have actually walked from the kitchen, after making that morning coffee, and listened for the sounds of the coffee maker, to be sure I had just made the morning coffee.  That’s how ingrained into my routine that ritual has become.  Be honest, you have done things like that, too.
One ritual I always perform happens less frequently than coffee-making, but two times as frequently as a holiday.  These times are my twice-yearly encounters with our three upstairs window air conditioners.  We bought the necessary but bothersome things four or five years ago.  My wife pointed to the ones in the store that she thought we should get, and from that moment on they have been my sole responsibility.  It’s funny how some things seem to work out that way.  Each spring I take those air conditioners, one at a time, out of Andrew’s, Emily’s, and our bedroom closets, and proceed to mount them in their respective bedroom windows.  Each fall I reverse the entire process, returning them to their winter resting places on those same closet floors.
Right from day one I have tried to care for those precious little devils. (The air conditioners, not my kids, although I do also care for my kids and almost never refer to them as little devils.)  Our units came with remote controls, as does everything but toasters and toilets these days.  (I am waiting for those developments.)  Every spring I remove each remote from the little zip lock bag I taped to the top of the machine the previous fall, and reinstall the also-bagged batteries.  I then prop our tired old wooden windows open, and, after gathering my strength and courage, wrestle each AC into its place, with most of its boxy body hanging precariously, in mid air, outside of the second floor of our home.   I do this quickly, hoping I can screw the window down and into place, before the AC obeys the law of gravity and plunges to its small-appliance doom, imbedding itself into our lawn some fifteen feet below.  So far, (Knock on old wooden window frame,) I have done this successfully.
Then, in the late-fall, reverse-half of the ritual, I have also, so far, successfully pulled each unit back into the house, and nearly hear each one sigh in relief as I rescue its little metallic body from the precipice.  Perhaps, and more likely, the sigh comes from me, although I’m not sure.
The time for this second, routine, and necessary AC event of the year is once again upon me.  Sometime within the next few evenings I will climb the stairs, hammer and power screwdriver in hand, and perform my de-air conditioning ritual once more.  Please wish me luck.  I do hope that none of the boxy little things falls to its mechanical demise, although that would make the job one-third easier for me next spring.

George's World

By G. E. Shuman

It is difficult for a person to hide a thing like blatant self-promotion.  You can always try, but, somehow, people usually see right through it.  So, I decided to ask myself the question “Why Bother?” and I got the answer “You shouldn’t.”  I now ask you to please tolerate the following example of just such self-promotion.
The thing is, I have recently published a new book, and I’d like to tell you about it here.  Actually, the book is very new, but its contents are anything but.  Those contents consist of a fairly complete compilation of columns that my friend Gary Hass has allowed me to taint this wonderful newspaper of his with for the past eighteen years.  That sentence was a mouthful.  The book is many mouths full.
I think George’s World is a book that you should buy.  That is not because of the glorious contents of the book, but more because the columns are short. At 740 pages and several inches thick, such a book appears to be a ponderous undertaking in publishing, and even more so, in reading.  As such, George’s World is the perfect book for you to read at the beach next summer.  You just cannot avoid having the look of sophisticated intelligence while cracking such a large volume open to the middle and staring intently and wistfully at a page.  None of the beautiful beach passers-by ever need to know that you are only reading a little one or two page story.  It is true that you could attempt the same effect with a copy of War and Peace, but no one would fall for it.  No one reads War and Peace at the beach, and everyone knows that.
This new book of mine can be purchased at The Next Chapter, in downtown Barre, or ordered through any other fine bookstore.  It can also be seen at the publisher’s site, Xlibris.com, and at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.  I guess all of these book sellers know how valuable it will be at the beach next summer.
All kidding aside, (Who am I kidding? I can’t put all kidding aside.)  I think you will enjoy owning George’s World.  You might even learn a few things when you read it.  I know I did.  As the cover states, ‘I hope you will buy this book, as I would like to sell it.’

The First Footprint

By G. E. Shuman

I believe that Friday, August 31st was just a usual day in America, other than for two either very coincidental or, perhaps, ordained events which took place that day. One of those events was a rare but reoccurring one of our natural world. The other event was a very human one.  You see, on that Friday evening there was a blue moon, which is a rare thing, indeed.  August 31st was also the date of the private memorial service held for my childhood and adulthood hero, Mr. Neil Armstrong, who had passed away the weekend before.  Mr. Armstrong was a rare person, indeed.
I was, as a child, one of those boys who wanted with all his heart, to be an astronaut when he grew up.  I followed the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs throughout my youth, building scale models of rockets and space capsules, which would adorn my bedroom for years.  I was barely fifteen years old on that night of July 20th 1969, when the lunar module Eagle was skillfully piloted by Mr. Armstrong, to its landing place and resting place in the Sea of Tranquility.  I watched it all on television, and would say that I remember it as if it happened yesterday.  In fact, I probably remember it far better than I remember yesterday.
It is sad that some of you younger people may not really know or care who Neil Armstrong was.  That is an almost unbelievable thing to me.  I would have given much just to have met that man.  It is also sad that, even though many people today may remember Mr. Armstrong as the first man to walk on the moon, some think that he was the only one, or at least that his flight there, Apollo 11, was the only one.  A few people I know actually still doubt that man has gone to the moon at all.  To me that is ignorance of gigantic proportions.  I recently posed the question of how many men had walked on the moon to one of my high school classes.  The answers from those bright and mostly college-bound students ranged from one man, to three or four.  In further discussion I got proud and smiling answers like: “Neil Armstrong?  He was THE man who walked on the moon.” None of them knew that twelve American men have walked there… none of them.
Mr. Armstrong was a true American hero.  He was a quiet, unassuming gentleman, who put country first, and, throughout his entire life, refused to accept acclaim or personal gain from his greatest feat.  He is my hero for that fact, as much as for his courageous landing and walk upon the moon.  In some ways, my keen interest in space has never left me, partially because of the man who was Neil Armstrong.  I just finished my third reading this year, of his authorized biography.  It is entitled First Man, and was written by another great and unassuming individual, Professor James R. Hansen.  It is an extraordinary book that you really should read.
On the evening of that last day of August, as I looked up at that beautiful blue moon, I thought about Mr. Armstrong, but also about those first footprints on the moon.  My earthly hero is gone, but the evidence of his skill and courage never will be.  In the undisturbed, atmosphere-free lunar environment, those fragile footprints on the moon’s dusty surface, along with Eagle’s spindly-legged descent stage, and the American flag and other things that Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin left behind, are nearly immortal.  They have changed very little since July 20th 1969 and will be artifacts of far greater endurance than the Pyramids of Giza, the Great Wall of China, or any other earth-bound monument of mankind.  I take some comfort in that fact, as I remember Mr. Armstrong.
I am grateful to Professor Hansen for helping me get to know Neil Armstrong a bit, through his wonderful book.  I hope you will buy a copy of First Man and preserve the memory of a true American hero.  Share his story with people who may be among America’s future heroes, your own children.

Faces

By G. E. Shuman

Friday, August 17^th, was Lorna’s and my fortieth anniversary. Yes, I know. I already told you about that momentous event, in my last column. This time I just want to mention something that I came to realize, not because of that anniversary, but because of how and where we celebrated that anniversary. Most couples, when reaching their late fifties and having been married since Richard Nixon was president, would spend their anniversary taking a cruise, or going to a Broadway show. If you know my wife, or if you know me, you know that we are not ’most couples.’ We spent our anniversary at Disney World. That’s right, just the two of us, and about a million sweaty strangers, visited the big mouse for the solid week that included August 17^th. Who actually goes to Florida in August, anyway? Apparently, a lot of people do.

What I want to talk to you about today is a realization that I had while we were strolling around one of those huge, ornate, and over-the-top parks in the wonderful world of Disney. (Remember the TV show?) I would call my realization an epiphany, but I can’t even spell epiphany without a word processor, and am not altogether sure I believe in something I can’t spell. You know, you have time for realizations in a Disney park. In fact, you have time for many realizations, while standing in those lines, or while looking for a shady spot to rest in. One thing that I realized is that we humans have done at least one thing that God told us to do. We have been fruitful, and we have multiplied, and those are understatements. We have replenished the earth… and then some. God did not need to tell us twice, on that account.

The bigger thing… the thing I really want to talk about here, is the idea of faces, and the realization of what they truly are. I know, humans are not the only living earth creatures with faces. If you are an animal lover you will be quick to point that out to me. Our dog has a face. So does yours, unless you don’t have a dog. In that case it doesn’t have a face. Our dog happens to be a Pekingese, and so she barely has a nose, but she does have a face. (Someone once said that she looks like she has been chasing parked cars.) Vegetarians say that you shouldn’t eat anything with a face. I agree, and always check to be sure that my cheeseburger is not smiling back at me from the plate.

I do believe that, of all of God’s creatures, humans are the only breathing beings who are like snowflakes. No two of us are alike… because no two faces are alike. You can trust me on this point, as I have checked. No one at Disney World last week looked exactly like anyone else, not even among the several sets of twins that I saw there. I never actually realized that before, and wanted to tell you about it. I hope you are duly impressed. To me, that is one realization that is amazing. Every one of those many thousands of sweaty people I saw last week was unique. Every single face was different from every other, and this is different from in the animal, non human, world. Although our dog might not look exactly like every other Pekingese dog, she is the spitting image of about a million of them. The same goes for bats and rats and alley cats. And for camels, and lions, and dolphins. Also for ants, and uncles of ants, and cows, and daughters of cows.

My biggest realization last week was that I believe there is a reason why humans are all so different from the animals, and from each other. I believe it is intentional, and that our different faces are part of what makes us individuals. It has been said that we are all the same on the inside, in spite of our outer appearance. But that is not quite true. We are all equal, but are not all the same, on the in or the out side. I am me. You are you. We are all, more than any of the animals, unique. I once received a birthday card that said “You’re special, just like everybody else.” That was supposed to be a joke. The truth is, it’s the truth. I am special, and so are you. I am unique, and so are you. I believe that God, in His infinite wisdom, created humankind as a race of individuals, and somehow arranged for all six billion of us on the earth to have different faces. We are not just another animal species. We are aware of our mortality, and, whether or not everyone wants to admit it, we are aware of the reality of the existence of God. If this were not so, why are so many people trying to deny Him? I know that you know that this is the truth. Just look in a mirror. It’s written all over your face.

A Milestone

By G. E. Shuman

　
Today I checked Wikipedia, for the definition of the word ‘milestone’. I did this for a reason, which you will soon be aware of, if you have the patience and perseverance to make it through this column. According to Wikipedia: “A milestone is one of a series of numbered markers placed along a road or boundary at intervals of one mile or occasionally, parts of a mile.” They wrote that entire sentence using only one comma. This is partially the reason why I don’t entirely trust Wikipedia. To continue: “They are typically located at the side of the road or in a median. They are alternatively known as mile markers mileposts or mile posts. Mileage is the distance along the road from a fixed commencement point. Milestones are constructed to provide reference points along the road. This can be used to reassure travelers that the proper path is being followed and to indicate either distance traveled or the remaining distance to a destination. …This term is sometimes used to denote a location on a road even if no physical sign is present.”
Okay, from this point on the words are mine, and you might see a comma once in a while. The reason I checked for the definition of the word ‘milestone’ in the first place is because someone told me that a date my wife and I will soon celebrate is a milestone, and I wanted to be sure they were right, and how much we should be celebrating. My guess is that they were right. You see, Friday, August 17^th is the fortieth anniversary of the day Lorna succumbed to my irresistible charms, and married me. Well, one of us succumbed. After forty years it’s hard to remember which.
It is interesting, to me, how a big anniversary like this one just sneaks up on a couple when all they are doing is going about their daily lives. Time flies when you’re trying to survive, I guess. It’s also interesting, to me, how the Wikipedia definition of milestone really does describe an anniversary. As mentioned, the definition contains the idea of “a series of numbered markers.” The number on this milestone, for us, happens to be 40. And, “located at the side of the road” depicts how things like anniversaries are observed. They are celebrated as they pass by. The mile they represent all too soon fades into the past; into the distance. Next, the definition mentions: “the distance along the road from a fixed commencement point.” I will say that forty years is a fair distance from the fixed commencement point of that young lady and I beginning our lives together. She is fortunate that I have not changed a bit since that day. At least, if I close my eyes and never approach a mirror or bathroom scale I feel like I have not changed a bit. More words to describe ‘milestone’ were “to indicate either distance traveled or the remaining distance to a destination” and, later, “to denote a location on a road even if no physical sign is present.” Oh yes, our big milestone certainly indicates distance traveled. It also, at least vaguely, indicates the remaining distance to a destination. In this, we travelers realize that the trip is very likely, almost certainly, more than half over. Our destination together grows closer every day. There is some level of peace in this, and it is okay. “Even if no physical sign is present?” Well, there probably are a few physical signs to mark this spot in the road Lorna and I are traveling. Time is something that can be measured, but not seen, other than in its effects. My good fortune is that time’s effect on my wife is one of constantly-maturing beauty, and of ever-increasing faith in God and love for her family.
You may have noticed that I skipped over one Wikipedia quote. I did this intentionally, in the lazy writer’s method of saving something for last. In defining a milestone, it was said that “This can be used to reassure travelers that the proper path is being followed.” Let’s see. For the past forty years my wife has endured a moody, often sickly husband who has not hesitated to unload family and workplace burdens on her. She has, every one of those years, somehow, skillfully kept our family’s leaky financial ship afloat, and has been a steady force of Godly discipline for all five of our children. Amazingly and incredibly, she still loves me. For this traveler there is no question that “the proper path is being followed.” Lorna, if we had it to do over, I would not change a thing. Happy Anniversary!

Hard Boiled Eggs

By G. E. Shuman

I love hard boiled eggs.  I guess I always have.  I recall that back when I was a child my mother would often make soft and hard boiled eggs, and I always liked the hard boiled ones.  I don’t think I ever figured out how she knew some were soft and some hard, and which were which.  They all looked the same to me.
My fondest memory of hard boiled eggs, (Doesn’t everyone have memories of hard boiled eggs?)  is of something we used to call deviled eggs and/or picnic eggs.   I remember that my aunt Mary used to make them every Memorial Day, for our big family picnic.  She would boil them, slice them in half, remove the yolks and mix things like mustard, mayonnaise, and who knows what else with those yolks. Then, somehow, she got the yolks back in the eggs, sprinkled them with paprika, and wrapped each one in saran wrap. How she knew which yolk went with which egg was another thing that I never figured out as a child. The last thing she would do is place those eggs back in the egg carton, and bring them to the picnic that way.  I thought it was pretty ingenious, that Aunt Mary brought those picnic eggs to the picnic every year, all wrapped up and back in their egg carton. (It takes very little to amuse some small boys.  At least it did in my day.)  Also, I loved eating those things.
Ever since the first of the year I’ve been on a diet, or at least have been eating a different diet than I used to.  Now that I am ’slightly’ diabetic (Which is, I think, similar to a person being ‘slightly’ pregnant,) doing things like eliminating sugar, reducing carbs and eating salads has not only kept my numbers in line, but has also allowed me to lose twenty or so pounds, so far.  One hint my diabetes counselor gave me was to, within reason, eat more eggs.  So, being the obedient, borderline obese patient I am, I now eat more eggs.  They provide a lot of protein and not much sugar, and I eat them for neither of those reasons.  I eat them because I love them.
The strange thing is that I devised a totally unnecessary method of handling my eggs after I boil them.  In hind sight, it reminds me of a story I once read about Abraham Lincoln.  It seems that young Abe once made two cat doors in the door of his house.  He made a small door for the small cat, and a large door for his larger cat, not realizing until he was finished that both cats could have used the larger door.  I guess if doing dumb things is good enough for Mr. Lincoln, it’s certainly good enough for me.
What I did was this.  I boil my wonderful eggs a dozen at a time, and had to have a way of distinguishing those eggs from the raw ones still in the fridge.  Cracking open a raw egg at the table would not be a welcome surprise.  So, with a marker, I carefully labeled an egg carton “Hard Boiled” and have kept delicately putting my cooled, hard boiled eggs back into that one.  Then, a few days ago, we happened to be at our daughter’s home, and I noticed a bowl of eggs in her fridge.  “How ingenious!”  I thought.  “I can just toss the cooked ones into a bowl.”  So, now, if you happen to open my refrigerator, the cooked eggs are the one in the bowl.  Such small revelations into how stupid I can be probably delight my wife, but I take no responsibility for this one.  It’s all your fault, Aunt Mary.

Buddy The Clown

By G. E. Shuman

I have a friend who’s a real clown. He just is. No, wait, I’m serious. He’s a real clown… a REAL clown. In fact, he comes from a whole family of clowns. I’m not clowning around here, and I’m not kidding, either. Buddy really does come from an entire family of REAL clowns. In fact, if you can believe it, this clown family’s last name is Jolley. Seriously, it is. I guess, with a last name like that one, what else could a family be, but a bunch of clowns? I mean, if my last name was Baker, I’d probably start making cakes. Anyway, you get what I mean.

Although I just told you that I’m not clowning around here, my friend Buddy does a LOT of clowning around. Buddy is simply everywhere, spreading laughter, smiles, and balloon animals all across Vermont and New Hampshire. There really is only one, authentic, Buddy the Clown, even though he seems to be at every parade, park, and party around.

Believe it or not, my buddy, Buddy, can even be found on railroad trains. In fact, my family and I most recently saw Hobo Buddy, (Buddy’s most recent adaptation,) riding the rails of Hobo Junction Railroad in Lincoln NH. He wasn’t actually “workin’ on the railroad,” because Hobo’s don’t work. Right? Or was he? I’m not sure. He looked to me to be having way to much fun to be working. The Hobo Junction train chugs for about forty minutes, far out into the woods, and then stops and goes into reverse. That’s when my ‘Pied-Piper’ friend Buddy goes into full speed ahead and into action, entertaining kids and parents, all the way back to Hobo Junction. I guess that means that Buddy really isn’t going anywhere, unless you believe, as do I, that making a good living bringing smiles to parents and laughter to their children is going quite far.

Yes, we rode the rails with Hobo Buddy that day. We then returned to the station, for more jokes and juggling at Buddy’s hilarious balloon and magic show. What a great time that was!

It’s usually easy to find Buddy. Just find a crowd of people who seem to be having tons of fun. He’s probably right in the middle of it. If you don’t see him around, check out: buddytheclown.com. My buddy, Buddy the clown, is family fun and pure entertainment as it used to be, and as it should be. No foolin’!

　

Independence Day

By G. E. Shuman

It would simply be wrong of me not to write about Independence Day in a column which appears in a newspaper with a publication date of July 4^th. I hadn’t intended to write such a column this week, but I need to do so. My intention was to write about all the ‘stuff’ we import from other countries; stuff like cars and can openers, and televisions (Does anyone call them televisions anymore?) and tea cups. I was going to call that column something to do with the balance of power. You know, it would be relating how much in sheer weight and value is coming here in exchange for our dollars. But, I’ll probably write that column next week. This week I need to write about Independence Day. I do suppose that that balance of power column could be worked into an Independence Day piece, as we are certainly not as independent of other countries as we once were, or probably should be.

One other thought I had, before I realized that this column would appear in a paper dated July 4^th, was to tell you about a traumatic experience I had just this morning. But, as with the balance of power article, I will save that for another time. Today I need to write about Independence Day. When I do write that column I’ll tell you how a stranger and I saved a baby duckling this morning, from being killed on the highway. It was a terrible thing, as we were too late to save three other ducklings and their mother, from being killed by the traffic. It was also too bad that two other ducklings from the family scurried off into the deep grass, and, likely, into the woods before we could catch them. Hopefully, those two will survive. The good news was that I was able to take the one we saved to my daughter’s home in Williamstown, where she put it in her barn, in a brooding pen, along with the two other ducklings she already has. But, I will tell you all about that, when I do that column. Today I need to write about Independence Day. It is true that the love of life, and it’s protection in freedom was a big part of our country’s fight for independence.

Today is the Fourth of July! It is Independence Day. Firstly, if you don’t know what that means, find your second grade teacher and ask her.  Next, take out the flag, the AMERICAN flag, that rightfully should be hanging from your home every sunny day, and get it put out there. Thirdly, remember our forefathers, who fought for our country’s independence, and gave you the right to fly that flag, and all the other rights we have in this country. Then thank God that, so far, those rights have not been taken from us. You could also thank Him that you also have the right to thank Him in your own way, or not at all. We are also free to buy things from all over the world, and rescue baby ducks. Those forefathers thought of everything. Happy Independence Day! I’ll write the other stories later.

Turn It Around, Man

By G. E. Shuman

The habit of turning one’s baseball cap sideways, or around backward, is something I have long chuckled at. It looks like a fine and youthful thing to do, when done by fine and youthful people. Also, ladies in hats look great, to me, no matter how they are worn. I know, it’s not fair, and it‘s not fair that I don‘t care if someone thinks that it‘s not fair. My chuckling, which has lately become more in amazement than in amusement, happens when I see people who are supposed to be men, with such an anything-but-manly appearance, under one of those backwards caps. To me, it looks like either the cap is headed in the wrong direction, or the person is, and I am not always sure which is the case.

I bring this subject up, because, somehow, it seems related to a much more serious phenomenon occurring in our country. That, being the total shirking of responsibility by many of our young men today. Think of this. What extended family line today does not contain young women raising young children, alone, with no one’s help but that of Uncle Sam, because fathers act like children, and abandon the results of their own actions? No, I am not blaming backwards baseball caps for abandoned families. I am blaming aging juveniles for abandoned families. In this, we can also not excuse the female side of the equation. For better or for worse, sometimes, one plus one does equal three, or more. Indeed, it does take two to start the equation, at least in my day it did. The mother is likely as much at fault as the father, but is also the one left holding the baby and the burden, at the end of the day, and at the end of the equation.

Guys, I’m sorry, but you can be spotted a mile away, and, I‘m also sorry to chuckle at how ridiculous you sometimes look. A person has only to take one drive downtown, in most any downtown. You are everywhere, you are anything but individual in your attire, and your attitude of self-centered rebellion is more than obvious. You know, unless you are a catcher in a baseball game, that cap visor really was meant to shield your eyes so you can see where you are going. In some cases, in retrospect, I guess backwards might suit, after all. The three-day growth of beard shows that you are no longer a boy, even though you may dress like one. The visible tattoos don’t make you look tough. They do make you look like you let someone use thousands of tiny needle pricks to inject ink under your skin. Wow. The ‘wife-beater’ undershirt, (See how elegant our slang has become?) looks pretty cool with that pair of huge shorts that cover your ankles better than they do your butt. Guys, I have a serious question. Is that a swagger, or are you just having trouble walking, with your boxers above your butt, and your belt below it?

You’re right, I am prejudging, and that is wrong, wrong, wrong. It is possible that when I see you on the street, you are walking to work to support your family. If so, I’m proud of you, no matter how you look. If, and I mean IF, instead, you are approaching thirty, still living with mom, (Not with the mother of your child.) and you are actually walking to a friend’s house for a day of playing video games, you might want to re-think that.

Man-up, men, face your responsibilities, and reap some worthwhile rewards. You seem to have been able to be there for the conception. That part was easy. (Hee, Hee, Hee, Yeah, that was COOL, Man!) You know what? Just grow up! This would be a good time to have someone slap you, if someone is nearby, and tell you to pull up your saggy shorts, for Pete’s sake! Go ahead, find someone to slap you… I’ll wait. It’s time for you to be there for the delivery and the diaper changes, the teething and the terrible twos, but also for the dreams, the diplomas, and the college degrees. Get your life turned around, before you’re a granddad and still wearing your belt below your butt. Hint: If you also turn that cap around it really could help you see where you’re going.

The Word "Adoption"

By G. E. Shuman

So, I’m probably going to get into trouble with this one. Please understand. This column is where I get to blab my opinions on issues, and, as time goes on, I am becoming more and more in the minority with those opinions, and therefore more and more likely to offend someone. It’s simple math. There are few of us dinosaurs around anymore. If I upset you, I ask you in advance to please forgive me. Anyway, here goes.

As the adoptive dad of two, and the adoptive granddad of one, I try, with no apparent success at all, to be less than irritated when the word ‘adoption’ is thrown about willy-nilly, helter-skelter, and used to describe other actions than that of bringing a child into your family, to legally become a part of your family. A supreme example of this irritation happened recently, as a teen I know joyfully related the story of how a litter of kittens she knew of had been spared, as some of them had been ‘adopted’, and some placed into ‘foster care’. What? I’m sorry. She meant well, of course, and I said nothing, even though that conversation made me more sure than ever that I must be a relic in this society. Adopted? Placed into foster care? Kittens? Really? What in the world is going on here?

I realize that, literally, you could adopt the habit of taking literal litters of puppies or kittens into your home. And, literally, it is not incorrect English to adopt things other than people. A country can adopt a new constitution, an organization can adopt new bylaws, and companies can adopt new methods of doing business, among the probable hundreds of other uses of the word adoption. To all such countries, organizations and businesses, I have to say, I see how you mean to use the word. You are simply taking on new rules or laws. You are not referring to those rules or laws as becoming a part of your family.

When people tell me that they have adopted a new puppy or kitten , I try to not look at them funny. I said, I try. There just is, or if there isn’t there should be, a rule of English grammar and vocabulary against using the word ‘adopt’ when referring to the action of taking into your home any creature other than a human being. My family has always had pets, but, to me, pets are pets, and are purchased. Just ask the guy at the pet store why he wants your credit card. I’m sure that farm animals are also purchased, (I think that there are few pig adoption agencies around the country, but, these days, I‘m not certain.) So, if this is so, where do you find the difference between piglets and puglets? Why are pigs bought, and pugs adopted? Especially since they look so much alike? To me, all animals are purchased, even in our animal-rights, circle-of-life, doggie-daycare land. Sorry. Actually, nope… not really sorry, any more than your local dairy farmer is sorry that he doesn‘t adopt his heifers. Side note: He also probably doesn’t speak baby talk to them.

People are not purchased. If they are, then we have much bigger problems than animal adoption. People, (children) are adopted, and that brings me to another point which is probably related to all of this. To me, a dog or cat is not a member of my family. They may live in my home, (Unless they are a cat, then they can‘t.) but I will never split my children’s massive inheritance with one of them. We diehard dinosaurs still think that dogs should sleep in dog beds, eat dog food, and pee outside. I do not ask my children to do any of those things. If my children have ever peed outside it is not because I trained them to do so. My pets are not my children… my children are my children. Seems like a simple concept to me. Last Christmas I actually saw one large pet supply company that took Christmas pictures of ‘pets and their parents’. Their parents? Sorry again, but, for me, that was way over the top, although I do actually see some family resemblances in some of those situations. Hum. The truth is, our dog’s parents were not human beings at all, they were Pekingese dogs who were not married, and probably were not even in love. (I think they were just after sex.)

As I have said, in all of this, I don’t mean to be mean, and harbor no hatred in my heart for our four-legged friends. I just think they have their place, and that place is way down the ladder from my children. Wayyyyy down.

For you who think I am heartless, consider that there are signs in our area, requesting that people ‘adopt’ a fire hydrant. I do understand the idea, but I’m not speaking baby talk to one of those, either. Couldn’t we just come up with some other, caring, wonderful word, and save “adoption” for our kids?

Hey, are we still friends?

Our Graduates

Our Graduates
By G. E. Shuman
  Please forgive me for the following blatant, boastful, family bragging session, which I’m not really sorry for, and which goes something like this:
               A short dictionary definition of the word ‘graduation’: “ A mark on an instrument or vessel, indicating degrees or quantity; also, the award or acceptance of an academic degree or diploma.  As I look at this picture of two of my favorite graduates of 2012, it seems almost comical to me that both of the definitions seem to apply to them.  We measure the size of a person, typically, not quite in degrees, but in feet and inches.  The two kids in this picture seem about as opposite as they could be in that area.  Our granddaughter, Sofi, is just as tiny as our 6’8” son Andrew is tall.   But, be advised,  they only seem to be opposites; she, with her petite frame and the straight, dark hair of her heritage.  And he, with his giant stance, dark skin and head of curly hair.
               The truth is, those two young graduates have much in common.  Firstly, they are both graduating, this very month, from the same school; Websterville Baptist Christian.  (By the way, it is a school which I highly recommend.)  Andrew will graduate from high school, and Sofi from kindergarten.  They are also both children who have been adopted into our amazing extended family; Andrew from Florida, and Sofi from China.  They are both loved by their parents and siblings more than words can say, and love each other exactly that amount, also.   And, they are both born-again Christian young people, and as such have both been adopted into God’s family, too.   See, I told you they had a lot in common. They are also both very powerful people, Andrew in his size and athleticism, and Sofi in her personality and determination.   At times, I’m not sure which of these two wonderful young people is the strongest.   Sofi is quite accomplished at getting her way with ‘the big guy’, when she needs to.  They, also, are quite inseparable.  The love they share puts the total foolishness of racism squarely in its place.   I think that is wonderful.
               Our photographer-daughter, Emily, took the picture of these two students, at their school.  She later posted the pic on face book, with the note: “They do everything together.  They even graduate together.”   To me, it just doesn’t get any better than that.  Congratulations Sofi and Andrew!
           

Popeye For President!

By G. E. Shuman

“I’ve had all I can stanz, and I can’t stanz no more!”  These famous words of one of my most beloved childhood cartoon characters, Popeye, still ring in my ears as I ponder the morals and madness of today.  If you are of my generation, you know the story well.  Popeye would say those words at the height of his ultimate dilemma in the cartoon, and, somehow, would work up the strength to open that old can of spinach, which would immediately provide the super power he needed to save the day.   My question is, where is Popeye when you need him now?
I’m not depressed or too distressed, and don’t intend to depress or distress you.  I am just fully aware that we are in the middle of a huge mess in our country, and are topping the mess off with the slung-mud of the grandest display of fibbing and finger-pointing possible, known as a U.S. presidential political season.  How fortunate we are.  We not only get to vote for a new or used president this year, but we also get to spend a day’s pay for the gas it takes to drive to the polls.  Depending on your pay, and your distance from downtown, that may be less of an exaggeration than it at first seems.  Still, it all might be worth it, if there was the slightest reason to believe what your, or my particular flavor of politician tells you, or me.  It is probably true that politicians have always been habitual liars, and skin-wasting windbags.  It’s just that, these days, they seem to be willing to say anything at all to get our vote.  Sitting presidents try desperately to defend indefensible records.  Primary candidates sling mud onto each other until one is chosen.   Then they immediately unite behind that exact person they were calling insincere and unworthy only yesterday.  It just proves that there is no longer honor among thieves.  Right now our country is in dire need of better treatment than that.

I do miss the old cartoons, with characters like Popeye.  Somehow, they really did embody the spirit of the America of their time.  It was an America that, I hope, can be revived in our time.  Those cartoon characters all had mottos, and they were all ‘American’ mottos.  Today’s Sponge Bob, Family Guy and others are hollow, shallow, flawed and foolish failures next to them.  Remember Yosemite Sam?  I recall a cartoon when he was riding, instead of a horse, a camel, across the plains.  He said: “Whoa camel!”  But the camel kept loping along.  Then he said: “Ah said WHOA Camel!”  And the camel still kept loping along.  In the next scene Yosemite was running along in front of that camel, and bellowing: “When ah sez whoa, ah means WHOA!”  With this he whacked the camel over the head with the butt of his rifle, and the camel definitely ‘whoa’d.   His next line was his famous motto:  “Ah sez what ah means, and ah MEANS what ah zez!”  We need a president with the guts to say Whoa, and to whack a few ’camels’ (translated: overspending bureaucrats.) on the head if they don‘t obey.  Thank you, Yosemite.
I could go on and on, reciting the mottos of the characters of my childhood.  Mighty Mouse, Under Dog, and many others instilled American values into the children of my day.  Just google them, and you’ll see what I mean.  Any one of those fictional entities would make a better presidential candidate than some people running today.  

The ultimate super-SUPER hero, to me, was Superman, himself.  His motto should be the war cry of us all.  He fought for things that even, in my opinion, our present president shuns:  “Truth, Justice, and the AMERICAN Way!”  Like all of the cartoon characters of my youth, and unlike our present-day leaders, there was no doubt at all where he stood.  He stood for right, and for truth, and for the things that defined America.  His word, like that of Popeye and Yosemite Sam, was his bond.  The Bible says: “Let your yea be yea; and your nay, nay;” James 5:12.  Our politicians could learn a lot from the Bible, (Talk about an understatement.) and even from Popeye, who simply said: “I am what I am and that’s all what I am.  I’m Popeye the Sailor Man.  Toot! Toot!  (Those were the days!)

Those Sneaky Seasons

By G. E. Shuman


I have been thinking lately, about the seasons.  I guess that means I have too much time on my hands, or, perhaps, that for me too much time has gone by. I know that sounds like a contradiction.  It’s just that spring has now completely sprung; flowers are forming, trees are budding, grass is growing, and even mowers have begun mowing in our neighborhood.  I can‘t help but notice those things.  Last winter was a strange one here in the North, to be sure; milder than any other I can recall, and spring came early, as you know.  There was no huge shifting from winter to spring this year.  This time around, we just sort of slid from colder, darker days into warmer, brighter ones without much fanfare, or even much melting snow.  I did enjoy those milder-than-usual months since fall.  My snow blower might as well have winter-vacationed in Florida, as I didn’t use it, not even once.  I have never enjoyed owning that machine so much.  My son in law Adam once told me: “A snow blower is like life insurance.  You need it, but you never want to use it.”  I wish I had said that one first.
Yes, spring sort of snuck up on me this time, but I’m now thinking that this is not so unusual at all.  Sultry summer seems to always do the same, followed by fall, and then winter.  The seasons are tricky things, you know.  Tricky, tricky, tricky things. Yes, the days are getting noticeably longer now, but it is happening very gradually, very sneakily, and will continue to do so, right up until the moment they begin getting shorter again, so silently, and soooo sneakily.  Spring will soon simply turn to summer, and the tomato plants I have just started will suddenly have green fruit.  Several weeks later those green balls will be red. Several weeks after that they will be in my refrigerator and my salads, just as others were, only last year.  Then the cooler, darker days will slowly creep back, and we will wonder where summer has gone.  Big orange pumpkins that are now only seeds, will be everywhere.
Life is short.  There is no doubt about that. Time does fly when you’re having fun, and it flies even faster when you’re having grandkids.  I have heard that years pass more quickly for older people, because each year is a smaller percentage of the total time they have lived.  I’m not sure if I believe that, but it seems to make sense.  I do believe that we don’t always notice those sneaky seasons as they approach, stay a short while, and then leave again.  I hope we realize that as they do so, they are not simply a repeat of the four seasons of all previous years.  All is not the same.  This year we are a little older than last.  Some of us are a little grayer, (This assumes that grayer is possible.),  but, hopefully, a little wiser.  The wrinkles are a bit deeper, the eyes, perhaps, a bit weaker.  Children grow up, graduations happen; so do weddings and those wonderful grandchildren.
Don’t be fooled by the seasons as they roll around again, each one creeping up on you, just as it did last year.  Seasons may seem cyclical, but life is not. Life is ever-changing and never repeating.  This time last year no longer exists; this time next year never has existed, yet.  Enjoy today, and cherish this sneaky springtime as if it were the only one we have,  because that‘s exactly what it is.

After the Sugar and Plastic

By G. E. Shuman
 I remember, somewhat strangely, what I think of as being the ‘remainders’ of holidays past, sometimes as much as I remember the days themselves.  This, likely, is a bad thing, and probably comes from my many years in retail management, along with our own big family celebrations of those holidays.  Families have always had a certain amount of ‘clean up’ to do after any of the major holidays, and stores have many times more of that cleanup.  If you think it’s work to pack decorations away, try doing it a thousand times over, quantity-wise. That’s what people in retail are faced with, after every single holiday. I have always disliked decorating, both at home and at work, and have always doubly-disliked ‘un’-decorating.  When my older kids were little, ‘tinsel’ was something that everyone decorated their Christmas tree with, and something that everyone sucked up with their vacuum cleaner, at least until the following summer.  At the department stores I managed, Christmas items like tinsel were packed away, and reordered before even  Easter had arrived.  Holidays really were a never-ending story.  And, speaking of Easter...

Easter is one of the holidays that I always think of as a 'sugar and plastic' day.  Christmas is big, and in most homes the decorations are stored and saved until 'next year'.  Thanksgiving is mostly a big meal, and, hopefully, some big thankfulness.  But Easter is different.  For kids it is largely celebrated with sugar and plastic.  There are plastic eggs for the Easter egg hunt, and even plastic grass to put in plastic Easter baskets, for those eggs when they are found.  There are lots of sugar sources, like jelly beans, marshmallow peeps, and, of course, big chocolate bunnies.  I always thought it was funny, that 'filled' baskets had hollow bunnies.  Yes, for most kids, Easter is about eggs, those hollow bunnies, and fun but hollow stories.
 Now it’s over for another year.  If you are in an average American home as you read this column, you can probably look around the room you are in, right now, and see some now-empty plastic eggs.  Hey mom’s and dads, don’t despair that another holiday has ended, and your kids are one Easter closer to being grown and gone.  I have very good news.
 Firstly, I hope that the kids in your home have been taught the true meaning of Easter; that it is the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus from the grave, of his full payment for their sin, and of the free gift of eternal life.  If they haven’t been taught this, show your kids one of those hollow, once- filled, but now empty eggs.  Tell them that, right now, in Jerusalem, there is a once filled, but now empty tomb.

 Parents, you know, you don’t have to kill off the Easter bunny in your child’s imagination.  God has always had room for fun stories.  Just make sure that they know the true story of Easter.  And you don’t have to wait for another Easter to do it.  Sunday is just around the corner.  Take your kids to church. They’re worth it.  If you don’t know where a good church is, that‘s okay. I know where there are several, right in our area.  Write to me.  I’d love to direct you. vtpenner@gmail.com

Balsamic Vinegar

By G. E. Shuman

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, Jews and Gentiles, just and unjust, men, women and children of all ages, sizes, races, creeds and even political persuasions, step right up to see the ultimate culmination of the accumulated knowledge and wisdom of the entire history of mankind! Yes, men and women, boys and girls, feast your eyes on the miraculous essence, the healing balm, the bountiful blessings of the fortuitous fluid within the bottle before you. Why, never has there been and never will there be a medicine, a tonic, a potion more able to cure what truly ails you, the person standing beside you, and all others on the face of God’s green earth! I now present to you, for the paltry sum of only a few dollars, the healing, blood pressure reducing, diabetes controlling, fat melting properties of the elixir of the angels themselves: balsamic vinegar.

Yup, balsamic vinegar. Pay no attention to that man behind the preceding paragraph, but balsamic vinegar really is what we’re gonna’ chat about today. It’s important. In fact, I think it’s very important. Balsamic vinegar is something I have known of for years, but only personally discovered over the past few months. Listen, (or more accurately,) read closely, dear friends, because this just might save your life. Yup, again. It’s true, and nope, I’m not kidding. Not even a little.

You see, or you will see… that several months ago, yours truly was diagnosed with the common but dreaded and irreversible disease of diabetes. Previously to this I thought that this malady was reserved for older folks than myself. That was before the day I happened to look in a mirror. And so, weeks ago, with no fanfare, newspaper headlines or interviews by the press, it was announced to me that I am now, officially, a diabetic. In deference to my mutually Christian, obviously scholarly friends, I should not mention that my first reaction was an audible, less-than-gentlemanly exclamation to my physician of “Oh… Crap.” But, I guess I did just mention it. Since that time I have been getting used to my brand new, tiny diabetic meter and the annoying little prick that came with it. (Can I say that?)

Shortly after the dastardly diagnosis was made, I happened to be on a phone conversation with my daughter Cathy, discussing the problem. Cathy is a very accomplished pediatric nurse, and, although I probably should have been talking more to a geriatric one, she had a wonderful bit of advice for me. You see, a big part of controlling diabetes is in the act of controlling weight. My weight was, at that time, at an all-time high, and I’m sure that was a contributing factor to my recent high sugar numbers. My doctor had told me that carbs, more than anything else, brought on the ‘D’ disease. So had Sylvia G., my very patient and helpful diabetic councelor. (Before this I hadn’t had a councelor since teen summer camp.) Cathy’s wonderful advice was to eat less bread and pasta, and substitute whatever my evening meal was with a big green salad of my choice, (Now listen carefully.) and use just balsamic vinegar AS the dressing, not IN the dressing. She and my councelor had both suggested adding protein by putting some chicken strips or tuna on the salad. I’m telling you, friends and neighbors, that that wonderful balsamic stuff is simply delicious. Yum! My biggest meal of the day is now loaded with vitamins, minerals, protein, and is almost totally fat-free.

Less than two months after my conversation with Cathy, and with few other adjustments, my blood glucose numbers are down, almost to normal, my tri-glycerides (Those are bad things.) are less than half what they were, and I have PAINLESSLY lost nearly twenty pounds, so far. Another great thing is that I’m not tired of what I’m doing. I still love those salads!

I have since been reminded by my wife that her grandmother always drank a juice glass of vinegar-water every morning. I remember seeing her do this. She had been told it was good for your arteries. She lived well into her mid-nineties.

If you’re overweight, (If you’re in America, and eat food, odds are, you are.) then, sorry, Pudgy. Don‘t pout… you’re just one of us. Lay off the ‘Lay’s’, forget the fries, and deny the McDoubles for a while. Step right up and get yourself a big bottle of balsamic vinegar. It just might save your life.

I Knew a Man, Who Had a Friend, Who Was a Friend of Abraham Lincoln

By G. E. Shuman

I knew a man, who had a friend, who was a friend of Abraham Lincoln. I guess that makes me pretty old. But, facts are facts, and facts are often strange things. That one fact happens to be true. And, no, this is not a riddle, with some strange twisting of words like the old brain-teaser “I’m my own ‘grandmaw‘.”, or anything similar to that. Neither am I writing here about some clairvoyant or supernatural experience of someone, supposedly, speaking with the dead. I don’t believe that that is possible. The simple truth is, I knew a man, who had a friend, who was a friend of Abraham Lincoln. And, yes, I mean THE Abraham Lincoln. I have thought of this fact during times when my family has visited Washington DC. Standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, looking up at that famous statue of my favorite president, it is difficult for me to believe that someone I knew well, knew a close friend of his, well. Read on, if you’d like to learn how this strange fact is possible.

It is strange, to look down the imaginary, or not-so imaginary tunnel of time, into the dusty past. Such a sight, to me, is of a well-worn, dry-leaf scattered path, into years of yesterdays, and decades of things which no longer are. In the mind’s eye, there is a thread, which somehow connects us to that past, as long as consciousness continues. It is a fiber of reality, of the physical, tying us to what once was. Something about the fact that the memory of this cord will be broken at my own death is why I write this now. For some reason, it is important to me that the dusty, mildew-y, musty years of the ‘back then’ and their connection to the ‘now’, are not forgotten.

The truth is, I have always been fascinated by the idea of time. Another truth is that I’m not quite sure that time actually exists, other than in our own observance of the endurance of the things and people around us. I am reminded of the old riddle: “If a tree falls in the woods and there is no one around to hear it, does it make a sound?“ Likewise, for instance, in deep space, where there is nothing to wear out, or get old and dirty, and no clock to measure the moments, does time exist, or need to? I guess I’m not sure. Things happened ‘in the past’ we say, or will happen ‘in the future’. Things are thought of as being either behind, or ahead of us, as this is how our minds work. I have always wondered where those things ‘really’ are, right now. (So, have I given you a headache yet?)

And now for my slight thread of a connection, only three people ‘back‘, to President Lincoln. You might have heard of a very diminutive man with the stage name of Tom Thumb. You may wish to ‘Google’ Mr. Thumb, if you have not heard of him. Being a famous performer, Tom Thumb, who’s real name was Charles Sherwood Stratton, and his little wife, the former Lavinia Warren, were good friends of Mr. Lincoln, and were frequent guests of his at the White House. Mr. Thumb died in 1883, at the age of 77, but Lavinia lived on until 1919. During her later years, around the turn of the century, Mrs. Thumb frequented the small town of Palermo Maine, and happened to stay there at the Shuman House, a small hotel which was operated by my great grandparents. My grandfather was a young boy of about ten at the time, and was in charge of caring for the guests’ horses; a chore he disliked very much. During this time, he and his mother got to be good friends with Lavinia (Warren) Thumb…

And then the thread of time extended out, all the way to us, and to now. Gramp Shuman lived well into his nineties, and I knew him for many years. Therefore, and without trickery or exaggeration, I knew a man, who had a friend who was a friend of Abraham Lincoln.

That old thread of time is, indeed, a strange thing. If only it were, instead, a wire over which we could communicate. I would love to hear some of the conversations that must have taken place in the parlor of the old Shuman House. I guess I’ll have to work on that.