Right Around the Corner

by G. E. Shuman

When I was a child, and when you were a child, summers seemed to last forever. Tell me if I'm wrong. A school year was painfully long, but summer break made up for it all. Each warm month off seemed like a year in itself, or seemed, at least, long enough so that, as we played in the sun, September was not even a thought until only days before it arrived. Also, in those days, holidays were things strung loosely together, separated by nearly endless weeks and countless days. The distance between Memorial Day and Christmas Day was nothing that any of us even tried to measure. Our lives were just beginning, and a year was much longer to us then, than it is now. I have often wondered if this all may have actually been only because one year was such a large percentage of time, in relation to the total time that we had lived, as children. I'm not sure if that is true, but each passing year seems to confirm it more to me. I think of that idea again now, as we have just survived another Christmas season, and are right at the beginning of a brand new year.

New years are special. Slates are wiped clean, resolutions are made, and we all seem to have that “out with the old, in with the new” mindset. If there is anything I like, (as Grinchy as this sounds,) it is a clean slate, along with a newly-undecorated, uncluttered, 'UN-Christmas-ed' house at the first of the year.

If you would tolerate my armchair philosophizing one more time, for the last time before the big ball falls in the Big Apple, (Unless you are reading this on January first of after. Then, I guess, it's the first time.) I will return to my theory of why holidays, especially Christmas's, seem to happen right on top of each other these days. Firstly, I'm beginning to think, as each year passes, that a year simply isn't a very long period of time. Most days seem to turn to night before I accomplish half of what I had intended to do that day, and a week is only seven of those short, twenty-four hour failures to fully accomplish. Then, if we do those short weeks a little over four times we have blown through a whole month already, and only twelve months brings the earth one full circle around the sun, and brings us right back from one Christmas Day to the next. (There is something slightly sickening, to me, in that last statement.) I really do think that all of this 'time travel' seems to take place for us faster and faster, as each of these short years becomes a smaller and smaller portion of the total time we have survived on this planet. Here's a 'travel and time travel' example of what I mean. For years, our family dreaded our long trips over to Central Maine, to visit relatives, because the car rides were so long. Then one year we drove to Florida and back, and later made another trip to Maine. That Maine trip seemed to fly by, simply because of the longevity of the recent trip south. Everything, including time, (Thank you Mr. Einstein.) really does seem to be relative, even when you're going to visit relatives.

Also, at least as far as the Christmas holiday is concerned, we are our own worst enemies in making it seem to be eternally here, or at least right around the corner. I made my living, for many years, operating department stores. Although it is probably different now, in those days Christmas merchandise was ordered in February, and began arriving in the stores the following August. Some companies actually had certain areas of their stores reserved for only two purposes; Christmas trees, and barbecue grills. As soon as Christmas ended the grills went up; by the time the kids entered school in the fall, the trees went up. For us managers, Christmas was nearly a year-round event. That fact, sadly, nearly ruined many perfectly good Christmas Days for me. It's better for me now, but the stores we visit are still all set for Christmas by Halloween, complete with advertising and music, and many of us begin buying red and green before the days of orange and black have even passed. So, we have then reduced those twelve short months between Christmas's to only nine, and, although lots of things can happen in nine months, I don't think the celebration of Christmas should be one of them.

As I end this column, I am tempted to suggest that the answer to the problem of rapidly-repeating holidays is careful planning. In reflection, I suspect that it is actually in planning to be not quite so careful. As far as Christmas goes, I think we should spend less time making a list and checking it twice with the results of filling our closets with gifts before the Thanksgiving turkey has even been stuffed, and more time pondering the real reason we celebrate Christmas Day at all. As Ebeneezer Scrooge eventually learned, we should keep Christmas every day, but in our hearts... not so much in our minds and shopping carts.

This new year, if I were to make any resolution, it would be to simplify my life, to help others more, to enjoy each season exactly as it comes, and to refuse to rush the next one. It would be to let tomorrow be the only thing that is right around the corner. Happy New Year!

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, 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 of 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 the 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. 

It's About Time

By G. E. Shuman

The cheap, white plastic wall clock in our bathroom just died the other day. I think the reason is that it was just not designed to survive in a humid place like a bathroom. Go figure. I tried electro-shock, replacing the double-A Duracell in the clock, but it still only ran for another day or so. I took this as a sign that the clock's old ticker was about shot, and gave up trying to revive it. Probably not a lot of families have a clock on the wall of their bathroom, but this one does. We decided, several years ago, that it would be better to know how far ahead of, or behind schedule each family member might be, in using their share of precious morning shower time. Time really can run away from us, 'at times,' especially during a sleepy, steamy turn in the shower.

To me, the problem with time (Yes, I do have a problem with time.) is that we feel the need to keep measuring every second of it, 'all the time' and we live by those darned measurements. We set our clocks by them, so to speak. As I mentioned, my family even showers by them. The moment a baby is born the time is recorded, just as if knowing the exact second that child left the womb will someday have monumental significance, to someone. The baby is born at a certain hour, minute and second, am, pm, eastern, central, Pacific, or whatever other time might be the precise local moment of the birth, on earth. Then, for that baby, the main goal is to just make it to his or her first birthday, celebrated with presents, before the babe has any idea what a present is, and a cake with one candle. A year later there will be another cake, but with two candles. Next July tenth one of those babies, (your's truly) will need a cake with sixty candles. The Barre fire department has been notified of the date, and is very happy that I don't particularly like cake.

It has lately occurred to me that all of this candle-counting, life-measuring stuff could be a waste of 'time,' because I'm pretty sure that there is no such thing as that thing we call time. Truthfully, honestly, I believe that our race, many years ago, tinkered around, fooled around, and frantically fashioned mechanical things, (Such things eventually evolved into our cheap plastic bathroom clock.) to measure something that really doesn't exist at all. That's right. I'm taking some time to think that time, the thing we humans stress over and live by, does not exist. Minutes and hours and weeks and months and years and centuries define us, but those things may be only in the human mind. They are, simply, the accumulating and accumulated results of us, and our machines, attempting to measure the distance between two precise points in something that does not even exist at all. Spooky, huh? Well, let me explain just a little before you send the men in the nice white coats to give me one of those jackets with the long, wrap-around sleeves.

You see, to me, with the accompanying nod of many of the world's poets and scientists of the past, all that we human beings have is 'right now.' We have this moment... this very moment. That is all. In fact, we barely have even that. Right as we realize that we have a moment, that moment is gone. “The Present is a Point just passed.” -David Russell. Time is, as the Bible says the very life of man is, “a vapor.” We cannot change even one tiny thing about the past, not even something within the moment that only just passed. There is good reason for this. The past no longer exists, and you cannot change anything about something that does not exist. (I'm starting to get a headache.) We, also, although we may plan, cannot control the future, as it is not yet here. Not only is next year not yet here, neither is the next nanosecond. Therefore, the future exists no more than does the past, that is, until that fleeting moment when the future becomes the present. And a nanosecond after that, it does not exist again, as it is now in the past. As humans, we are probably the only living things on earth that even think about time. I am unconvinced that my wife's dachshund has any notion of the passing of a day, or of the idea of 'now.' And, even for that dog, 'now' is all that there is. Somehow, this doesn't seem to worry the dog at all.

I have no idea why the sad passing of our bathroom clock got me to thinking about all of this, but I'm glad that it did. It seems to have given me the opportunity to remind you, and myself also, to not fret about the past, as it is unchangeable, gone from existence, and the negative things of it should be gone from our remembrance. The apostle Paul knew this, two thousand years ago. “Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,” Philippians 3:13-14. 

Likewise, we also have no promise of tomorrow, or even of the next second, as recorded in Matthew 6:34  “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” We need to live in the only time we have. We need to live right now... no, not in that point few seconds ago, when you began reading this sentence, right now.

I believe that we human types have no idea what in the world time really is, even as we try to capture it, keep it, and measure it with our machines. Really, all we can do is record time's passing, and I do suppose there are reasons to do that. It is important that I get to work on time. I need to end this column and go buy another cheap plastic clock for the bathroom. I think it's about time. You probably think so, too.

                

                                                                            

Something to Think About

With relatively little national fanfare, today, November 19th. 2013, marked the 150th anniversary of President Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address.

 If you didn't notice the passing of this momentous date, you are not alone. Many of us went about our day unaware of, or unconcerned with this day's significance.   Even our President, Barack Hussein Obama, who was invited to the ceremonies at Gettysburg, declined the invitation to attend.  Think of that.  Our country's first black president, only fifteen decades past a date when he, himself, could have been enslaved here, would not make time to attend a celebration in honor of the end of our country's Civil War. 

 Vermont is known as a very progressive state, but progressiveness hints at the idea of actual progress.  Those who follow any leader had better look ahead, and see in what direction that leader is taking him.  It's something to think about.

George Eleon Shuman
Barre, Vt.

Snow Tires

by G. E. Shuman



There are parts of the usual ritual of fall that I don't really mind... and then there are snow tires. “Tucking in” for fall is just something I do every year; checking the house for leaks around the outside doors, removing window air conditioners, arranging for fuel deliveries, and so on. And then there are snow tires. I just hate snow tires.
I realize, and I appreciate, the fact that we have these special tires to make driving here in the north at least a bit less life-threatening, but there is no way that getting those things put on my cars every year is anything less than torturous. Firstly, every year you have to figure out where the best place is to mount them. (I know, you mount them on your wheels. Ha Ha. I mean, what garage is the best place to have them mounted AT.) I have sometimes had tires mounted, and the first time on the highway realize that someone forgot to put a wheel weight on. Oh darn. Silly garage man. This is not a big deal, unless you think it's a big deal making another appointment at the garage, and then waiting and waiting for your weight, as the man runs back and forth from balancing your tire to pumping gas for someone, to answering the phone while ringing up beer and potato chips for a guy standing at the checkout in the garage's attached convenience store.
One factor in choosing a garage is the price they will charge for installing the tires, but this is not the only factor. (Please see the previous paragraph.) One other factor is the time it takes to get the job done. A local car dealership (I will mention no names here.) that I have paid in the past to swap my tires, keeps you waiting in their waiting-and-waiting room, for at least two hours. It doesn't seem to matter if you are having your engine replaced or a light bulb replaced... it just always takes at least two hours. They do have a nice TV to watch, but I'd rather spend a day on my couch than on theirs. I think that a lot of car dealerships are this way. Maybe they think that you will just decide: “Well, since I'm sitting on this nice couch, watching this nice TV, surrounded by all of these nice, shiny, new showroom cars (which are evidently watching the nice TV with me,) I might as well buy one, so that this is not a complete waste of my time.” I really do think those dealerships think that way.
This year there are three cars in my driveway... which means that there were three tire appointments to make, and twelve chances for a wrongly-balanced tire, and twelve more chances that one of them won't hold air or have some other dumb, irritating, and time-consuming problem. Not to seem pessimistic, but this means that I have at least twenty four chances of having to take one of the cars in to have a tire looked at, again. What better odds could there be than that? Fortunately, this year I have a plan. The plan is called 'my nineteen year old son.' I'm not the kind of dad who feels that he has 'paid his dues,' and that it's someone else's turn to do some of the dirty, tedious jobs. That is, I'm not that kind of dad... until it comes to snow tires. In the case of those things, it's payback time for Dad. This year I may just not be the one to lug snow tires up from the basement and wait in some waiting room 'til my hair turns gray. (It's a bit late for that, anyway.) Truthfully, I really do hate snow tires.

Spring will, hopefully, be here before we know it. So will the time to spend another fifty dollars or so to have those ol' snow tires removed again, from EACH car. I have recently heard a saying I had never heard before. It is that “The outcome of a rain dance has a lot to do with timing.” That has nothing to do with the subject of snow tires, but I thought it was profound, and wanted to share it with you. (Minds tend to wander with advancing age.) I will say that your snow tire changeover has at least a little to do with timing, but more to do with where you take your car. I think the best place for me to take my car this year is somewhere in Florida.

Late Fall in the North

by G.E. Shuman

I'm writing from my usual spot on our glider-swing, on the breezy front porch of our old Vermont home, on a chilly, late-fall Sunday evening. Our house is in the city, but the city is small. Our street ambles along the top rim of one side of a crater-like bowl or ravine; above the muted bustle of the business that is Barre, down in the hollow, below. Without even looking up, I know that people are passing by, as they kick the dry sidewalk leaves in front of our home. I could not make out faces in the dimness of this unlit end of the street, even if I needed to, and I do not.

It is overpoweringly peaceful here, in the dark, on the porch swing, in the constant, cooling, evening fall breeze. The air is fresh, with the slight, musky scent of withered lawn leaves, and it somehow delivers the dampness of a soon-coming overnight shower. No stars shine tonight, but, across town, on the opposing slope of the 'bowl,' street lights form vague reference points as to where the hilltops end and the sky begins.

How strange it seems, that the air is cool, almost brisk, but still quite unseasonably warm tonight. I do appreciate this milder than usual fall, and the tardiness of any coming frost. My furnace has run little so far, and that makes me very happy. Our largest, lawn-front maple still holds a few of its leaves, as if reluctant to let them drop. Amazingly, on this late autumn weekend I enjoyed a beautiful Sunday sunset clothed only in tee shirt, shorts, sandals, and chest-clenched coffee mug.

Every late summer and fall conversation that I can remember, during every late summer and fall season that I can remember, has brought the same comments and predictions from neighboring folks and friends, about the direness of the coming winter. I have yet to hear from anyone that we, this time around, are going to experience a milder than usual one. The comments, the stories, are always that “signs” are pointing to a rough winter “this year.” Either the almanac, or the moss, or the wooly-bear caterpillar has figured it all out, and we are doomed to receive lots of cold, and lots of snow. Invariably, these proclamations are so proclaimed with the utmost of sincerity, and supposed foreknowledge of the truth.

Lately, I have actually come to believe such comments, to accept such predictions, for what I believe is a very good reason. That reason is that we really will have a cold winter, with snow, and ice, and freezing rain here in the North, this year. This is because, well, as obvious as this seems... we always do. No mater how 'mild' the winter turns out to be, my furnace will get a good workout, as will yours, because they always do. I, and you, will spend lots of quality time this winter with our snow plows, snow shovels, and/or snow blowers... because we always do.

I think that it may only be that we forget, in the heat of summer, and the mildness of a comfortable fall such as this, that winter always comes. Yes, it always comes. But, I am now considering that the predictions about the hard and cold coming winter may be prompted by something more than forgetfulness. The comments about the approaching weather may be because, deep down, we, somehow, want the cold to come. Some of us, myself included, do not enjoy the cold, but we do enjoy the changing of the seasons. One person actually, recently, told me that she feels that we, in the north, have “weather attention deficit disorder.” (Her words.) She stated that she feels that we are always impatient for a change of the seasons, no matter which change we are facing. After all, cold means cozy fires; cold means close times with loved ones, the unexpected holidays of school closings, and being 'trapped' at home in a blizzard, with nothing to do but drink hot chocolate or coffee and stare out at the somehow-blessed falling excuse for laziness today. There is a bit of abandon and romanticism in the very idea of being out of control of the weather, and of being confined to sit by the fire and wait for the terrible storm to pass.

This time of year, even our language changes a bit, as we ready for the coming season. People talk of 'buttoning-up' for winter, in a batten-down-the-hatches sort of way. We go about our yearly 'winterizing' duties, and some 'stock-up' on emergency essentials. We are anxious, strangely, to be seasonally 'tucked in'; to be made safe, warm, and ready for winter's onslaught. I have never loved winter, but still have not only cleaned the furnace of our old home this fall, but have amassed, under the carport, a pile of split wood and sticks to fuel the fireplace on exceptionally cold evenings. In truth, the fireplace is not necessary. It is but a comforting, aromatic addition to the inevitable seasonal situation which will soon be upon us. Even though I do hate the cold, I love that fireplace, which, strangely, is useful only IN the cold.

 It's even darker now, and I'm thinking seriously of abandoning this chilly porch swing for a warmer spot on the couch just the other side of the window pane behind me. Hopefully, I'll be back out here on future evenings, until the coolness and the calendar convince me to build a fire and button up.

Spooky!

By G. E. Shuman

It is a distant memory, cold and old, dusted off now as a long-neglected, rediscovered book might be. It matters, somehow, that this nearly forgotten evening lived within a mid-nineteen sixties October. Perhaps it could just be that the late autumn wind cooled and creaked the leafless, lifeless-looking trees even more back then than now, again, somehow. Or, perhaps it is only because those old October thirty-firsts were actually spookier then... at least to the one whose memory of that long ago night it is. Those decrepit Halloweens of the past featured no costumes of bleeding bodies or vividly-maimed, tortured souls. Those nights were, simply, or perhaps, not so simply, ghostly, haunting, spooky nights, indeed.

On this one particular Halloween night, dusk, as dust, had settled slowly upon the small New England town of the boy's youth. Supper had been a hurried affair, gobbled by giggling goblins anxious to get out into the night... where they belonged. Low voices and footsteps of other spooks were already upon the steps of the boy's home; knocks and bone-chilling knob-rattling had already begun at the front door.

The boy of ten or so was more than ready to go out. By accident, or by plan, his siblings had already slipped away... without him. He was very alone; at least he hoped that he was alone, as he ventured into the dark, and into the much too chilly evening air. The stone-cold wind stabbed at his eyes as he peered through the rubbery-odored mask of his costume. The boy began the long walk through the frozen, dead, musty-scented leaves covering the sidewalk. Those deathly dry leaves crunched and cried out his location with every foot fall. He was fair game for any ghouls lurking behind the large maples which lined the street. As the boy walked on in the increasingly inky-black, he dared not peek even slightly around any of those rough old trees. It was a known fact that not EVERY roadside tree hid some witch or ghastly ghost, but the boy knew that he was certain to pick the one which did, if he were to dare to look.

By sheer will, or by chance, the youth succeeded in passing the haunted trees, and successfully trick-or-treated at many old homes along his own home's dead-end street. Every inch of the way he thought about the one house he dreaded visiting most; the house of the witchy-looking, hunched old lady. It was true that she seemed a kind soul in the daytime, but you never saw her humped old back or the shadowy, wrinkly look in her eyes in the daytime. She saved those things for just such a night as this. Her house, at least the enclosed porch of it, was as cold as a tomb every October night. The boy remembered this well from the year before, but that year he had been with his brothers and sisters. Even then the old witch seemed more interested in him than she should have been. He was small, and likely the only one of the group who would fit in her cauldron, he had always thought. As he walked toward her house this evening, every scuffling, leaf-crunching, spine-chilling step seemed to taunt him with the scratchy words: Every... witch... awaits... the child... who comes... alone.

The boy's small hands were nearly frozen by the time he reached the old lady's house, so very far down the street when it is night. He managed to climb to the top of the worn old steps. He stood there for a time, and then worked up enough courage to pry open the narrow door which guarded the witch's small and dark, windowed porch. The rusty door spring, worn to its own insanity by countless other small boys, who, the boy thought, must also have been fools enough to enter here, screeched a hateful, grating announcement of his arrival. This it repeated, mockingly, as the door slammed tightly shut; a stubborn-looking windowed wall between the boy and the world outside.

The long, enclosed tomb of a porch offered no relief from the cold, but some little bit from the cold night wind. The only light therein was that emanating from a maddening, perfectly-placed jack-o-lantern, which hideously smiled, glaring up at the boy from the floor, at the farthest corner of the room. The entire porch exuded the sooty-sweet smell of that candle-lit carved pumpkin. This aroma devilishly mingled with that of the crisp, cold Macintosh apples which filled a wooden crate at one wall.

The one who disguised herself as a regular, kind old lady during the daytime was very cunning, indeed. Her trap for such little boys was a porch table full of the biggest and best Halloween treats in town. Those very famous treats were the only reason the boy was even on this terrifying old porch, on this terrifying night. There was a tray which held beautiful candied apples, and another laden with huge, wax paper-wrapped popcorn balls. The container between them overflowed with candy corn, the boy's favorite. Blood red punch filled a crystal bowl, with paper cups all around it, to tempt just such a one as he, with likely poison.

Thoughts of tainted apples and boiling cauldrons momentarily filled the child. He then nervously picked his treat, and got it safely into the candy-stuffed pillow case he carried. Hearing the nighttime witch walking across her kitchen floor, right toward the porch, he headed out, past the screeching door, down the old steps, and toward home. The boy knew one thing for sure, as he tramped back up the street. If the witch had ever convinced any small boy to enter her house, that boy certainly had never come back out. But he, that night, had somehow survived one more dark visit there. And, he had gotten away with the biggest popcorn ball of all!

Yes, Halloween was different in the nineteen sixties, before the age of pre-packaged sugar and plastic holidays. There was something hauntingly powerful then, in the cheap paper cutout decorations, the cardboard skeletons, and the black and orange party streamers of those years. Fold-out tissue pumpkins and eerie (and probably dangerous) cardboard candle holders lit our New England yards. Homemade, and totally safe treats filled our old cloth bags. (The very thought of doing actual harm to some young trick-or-treater was inconceivable then.) Those bags were the carefully guarded property of night-crawling, costumed, youthful vagabonds, whose parents had no reason to fear that they would not return home safely. Those Halloweens were ones of simple, frightful fun, when cartoon ghosts and goblins, fake witches and funny Frankenstein monsters were all that stalked the lives and imaginations of innocent children. True evil had nothing to do with it at all.

The ghosts of Halloweens long-past may find their haunts only in aging, dusty memories, but the dark and distant night you just read about really did happen. At least, that's how this old trick-or-treater remembers it.   

The Leaf

by G. E. Shuman

At my wife's and my daughter's mutual suggestion, as a possible inspiration for this week's column, I ventured out onto our front lawn this afternoon to pick up a single maple leaf. Our lawn, today, is totally covered with such leaves, and our big tree is not empty yet. It wasn't difficult to find one leaf to bring in. I simply bent down and got a nice, bright red one.

As I look at it now, my simple maple leaf seems both exactly like all the others on the lawn, somehow, but, at the same time, different from all the others. When I first picked the leaf up, I thought of how the red-tinted sea of gold at my feet blanketed the earth just as the snowflakes of winter will, not many weeks from now. Picking my leaf was vaguely similar to observing a particular snowflake, among millions, after they, as the leaves, have settled down onto the lawn, from their ride through the air. As you know, no two snowflakes are exactly alike, even as they form a covering that seems as if it is made of precisely identical, tiny objects of white perfection. Today, so it seemed with the leaves.

I just now looked at my leaf again, as it sits on the arm of my recliner, as I continue to write. You know, and I thought, as I looked at it, that there is nothing inherently special about my leaf. It is a bit unique, in some ways, but I know that if I were to go out onto the porch, close my eyes, and allow the breeze to take the leaf away, I would never see it again. It would disappear into the crowd. If I did see it, I would not recognize it. Its 'specialness' at this moment is in the fact that it is an individual, and that it has been picked from the rest, to fulfill a purpose that the others have not been asked to do. It is here to help me write this column. While being as different from all the others as one person's face is from all other faces, my leaf still shares its entire identity with those others, even as we share our identity with all of mankind. Please let me tell you how I feel that this is so.

My leaf has a particular shape, a particular heritage, by which it is known to be nothing else but a maple leaf. It was formed for the same general purpose as all those other leaves now laying in the yard. It had, approximately, the same life span as the other leaves. Looking carefully at my leaf, I see the beauty of the bright red color which made me notice it, and pick it up, in the first place. But, up close I can see the leaf's imperfections, and notice that it has small blemishes, and even pock-marked signs of disease. My leaf, as all the others, has a stem, through which it was connected to its family tree. This connection nourished and coaxed it to grow, from a spring bud, to an unfolding, youthful version of the lush green example of vibrant life that it soon became. Looking closely again, I can see the veins through which the leaf contributed to the life of that family tree; the same passageways through which it, in turn, got its own life.

My leaf's future is not one of continued growth and vibrancy. Right now it is still somewhat soft, and not yet brittle, but that will soon change. It is interesting, to me, as my daughter Faith recently taught us on the ride home from a family apple-picking afternoon, that a red or gold leaf always contained the color that it assumes in the fall of its life. It's just that it isn't until the chlorophyll finally leaves the leaf that its true color, its true beauty, shows through. When Faith said that, the realization came to me that leaves reveal their greatest beauty as they approach the end of life. It is as if they go out in a blaze of glory, announcing to the onlooking, leaf-peeping world that their job is finished, that they can now show who they really are. I thought, as I thought of this, that we should take heart in the possibility that, in some ways, we can be just like the leaves. We can live, and grow, and nourish our family tree, and then go out as something that is aged, but beautiful.

Now I'm going to head back outside, and allow my leaf to colorfully rejoin the others on the lawn... that are just like it, but still so very different.

Lost Nation Theater -A Spark Worth Kindling-

by G. E. Shuman

     In writing, or in speaking, extolling the praises of anyone or any thing, too often, or too loudly, can get you into trouble. It is the writer's and speaker's greatest fear that boredom with the subject would take place, and that their audience would stop reading, or get up and leave, whichever is the case. That being said, (I normally don't say 'that being said', because it is a much overused phrase.) so, that being said about that, I just have to write again about my love for Montpelier's Lost Nation Theater. If you haven't taken my oft'-proffered advice to see one of their productions, I'm here to rattle your cage, once more. You need to get over there. It's that simple.

   
     Sunday evening my wife and I, along with our oldest daughter and her oldest son, attended the brilliant Gordon Clapp performance of “Robert Frost: This Verse Business” at the theater. I must tell you that the evening was a wonderful one for us. Clapp's very personal, jovial presentation of this quaint play by A.M. Dolan was just exceptional. It was as if Robert Frost himself was welcoming us into his life, into his heart, and into his great love of poetry. The wisdom of the poet, so thoughtfully presented in this one man play, captivated me, with many revelations of how Frost felt about his own work, especially the thrill and mystery he experienced in taking the theme of a new poem to its completion. The way Mr. Clapp effortlessly filled the shoes (at one point, literally) of my favorite American poet brought tears to my eyes, and joy to my heart. Having taught high school English literature for some years, and having written poetry myself for many more, I felt as if I were in the comfortable presence of a great old friend, as he shared feelings for the written word that I have experienced myself. Bravo, Mr. Clapp!

   
     You know, in our sometimes disconnected, diabolically-digital world, there seems to be fewer and fewer sparks of true cultural brilliance around us. Many venues for experiencing the fire of live human talent, such as concerts, professional plays and literary readings, have been largely replaced by violent videos and quick internet interactions, today. We 'friend' and 'un-friend' pixelized folks we have never met, without ever vocalizing one word to them; we watch increasingly low quality programming on our high definition TVs. (Now that paragraph was depressing. Sorry.)

   
    That being said, (ha,) I find it important to encourage the craft of those who love quality entertainment and the enrichment of life, and work hard to bring those things to us. For the past twenty-five years Kim Bent and Kathleen Keenan have been doing just that, with great artistic success.

   
     In the past I have referred to their fine theater as a gem, an oasis, and now it seems, to me, a spark. As such, it is one of few that remain around us, and certainly one worth kindling.

I repeat, you need to get over there. Enjoy!

(To support Lost Nation Theater with your attendance, and your gifts, call 802-229-0492 or visit lostnationtheater.org)

'Taking' Pictures

By G. E. Shuman

Vacation season is about over. For most families the camper is put away, the pool is due for its fall cleaning (as soon as the leaves finish filling it up), the motorcycles and barbecue grills are still in use, but much less than weeks ago, and the kids are back in school. Yes, vacation season, for the most part, is over. So is all the sunny-day picture-taking fun that goes along with that season.

My daughter Emily is a photographer. Although she is barely seventeen years old, her talents with a camera are fairly well known in our area. She has taken many senior portraits, and has done at least three weddings already. She has a real knack for seeing and catching the moment; for 'taking' pictures.

I was thinking about her, and about this subject of picture-taking several days ago, and the English teacher in me made me think about the give and take of the way we phrase things. You see, when we talk about photography, we do refer to it as 'taking' pictures. Strangely, we do not think of artists as 'taking' anything when they draw or paint a scene on paper or canvas, even though they are attempting to copy the likeness of someone or some thing. They actually 'give', in their craft, it seems. Pen, pencil or brush strokes put down on the paper or canvas the impression expressed by the artist's mind, through his or her hand. Not quite so with photography. Photography is an invention which does more than portray something simply through the eyes of the picture-'taker'. Photography copies what is actually there. It grabs... it 'takes' pictures. The quality of today's digital photography is almost scary-good, in its ability to capture a moment, freeze an expression, or steal a scene. (I know. I tend to over think things. I get boring when I do that, and I am sorry.)

Sometimes, when I look closely at a face in a picture, I am reminded that Native Americans, many years ago, when photography was a very new science, did not allow their picture to be 'taken' at all. They, with a degree of wisdom others might not have understood at the time, expressed that when a picture was 'taken', so was the soul of the person in the portrait. There was something, to them, that was wrong in capturing that split second of a person's life, and displaying it over and over to onlookers. Although we, today, know the reality of what photography actually is, I have wondered recently if those Native American people might have been onto something. They were not, scientifically, correct, but in some ways they were far from completely wrong. You see, what they were seeing, when they saw a picture of a person, was a momentary outward appearance of that person, and that outward appearance revealed the person's feelings at that moment... it displayed their 'soul', if you will.

Something else that photography does, although there is nothing necessarily wrong with this, is that it 'freezes' time. It 'takes' time, as we take a picture. One company, years ago, actually advertised that with their film and cameras you could 'capture the moment'. Well, isn't that the true purpose of photography in the first place? Back in the days of film cameras, I have no idea how much film I wasted taking multiple pictures of one scene, in efforts to capture the moments of my family's lives without missing anything. My home is filled with pictures of past Christmas's, birthday parties, graduations, and weddings, all for the one purpose of being able to re-live those events, because those events meant so much to us at the 'time'.

You take pictures. I take pictures. My daughter Emily takes GORGEOUS pictures, and would love to take yours, if you ever need her to. (That was a shameless plug for her.) These days, nearly everyone takes them, and loves to take them. If this were not so, a seemingly unrelated electronic audio device (the cell phone) would never have evolved to also be a camera. Those manufacturers really know how to grab us, don't they?

Life is very short. People and things change. Your parents don't look like they did ten years ago. Neither does your wife, your child, or your grandmother. Everyone has aged, except for me, and that's only because all you see of me is the ten year old picture that lurks around one corner of this column week after week.

Here's another thought, and then I'm going to stop thinking and boring you, I promise. It has been said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. Well, when you look at a cherished picture of a loved one, from the past, what is the first thing you see? To what are your eyes immediately drawn? They are drawn, exactly as in real life, to that other person's eyes. It is in the eyes that we can truly see the person, and can almost sense their heart, their soul, their thoughts, no matter how old the picture is. In fact, the most common phrase someone might say when taking your picture, is to “Smile,” and “look at the camera.”

Pictures really do freeze time in the windows to the soul. This fall, get your family outside under that big maple tree, and 'capture the moment.'

By Any Other Name

By G. E. Shuman

I think a lot of sounds of words;

Of why I like some I have heard.

And wonder from where those sounds came,

When calling something by a name.

William Shakespeare, Bard of old

Is often quoted, it is told,

That a red rose would smell the same

If called by any other name.

But I do doubt it, as I write

That dawn would sparkle, if called night.

That big blue oceans would be fond

Of someone calling them just ponds.

And what of names of babies, new?

While parents, pondering what to do,

Pronounce their new sweet daughter, 'Myrtle'...

A name best suited for a turtle.

Words frame feelings, I have found,

As through our brains they swirl around.

Nice names sound sweeter when we say them

And bring us joy when we display them.

Some just fit well; and show some wit.

While others make us cringe a bit

When tied to something that we ponder

As a rash choice, or thoughtless blunder.

Petunia, a pretty sound, somehow...

To call a flower, or even a sow.

It may be the name of your pet razor-back,

But then try it on a huge quarter-back.

And there are even names for food;

Business ones that set a mood

“Joe's Spaghetti” may be pedantic,

But “Olive Garden” is more romantic.

Yes, old Shakespeare would shake his head

At my dispute of what he said.

That the red rose would smell the same

If called by any other name.

Still, I contend, our thoughts are rounded

And finished when a word is sounded.

If rose was known as squash or beet

Somehow, it wouldn't seem so sweet.

A Change is in The Air

By G. E. Shuman

Have you noticed it yet? If not, you need to get outside and do so. I'm talking about the very recent change in the air here in the North. Have you felt it? The first thing this morning, as I was carrying my wife's long little dog out to the end of our long front porch, for her morning 'constitutional', -or pee, whichever you prefer,- on the side lawn, I sensed that something was different. (Have you ever picked up a dachshund by the middle?  It's sort of like picking up a furry snake, if there was such a thing as a furry snake. What I mean is that both ends kind of hang down.) Anyway, it had rained in the night, but this morning something was going on that seemed to be more than just the effects of rain. The outdoors seemed quite cool, and clean, and refreshing. The air was clear, to the point that the bushes, trees, and even the houses down the street actually appeared brighter than usual. I momentarily wondered if someone had cleaned my glasses without my knowledge, in the night. Then, as I thought about the people who live in my home, and the fact that I don't really believe in eyeglasses-cleaning elves, I soon dismissed that idea as being highly unlikely.

For some strange reason, this year I seem to be noticing changes in the seasons more than I remember doing in the past. Yes, my memory of other years, or lack thereof, could account for this, but I don't think so. This spring I actually noticed the buds on our lilac bushes when they first appeared; I also kept watch of the daily changes in our maple trees, as the first signs of budding life quickly burst into full-blown, huge, green leaves. It's amazing how quickly that happens. It's a little faster than watching kids grow up, but not much. Maybe it is just my age, and/or that memory thing. Perhaps we humans begin to take things in more, to enjoy this big roller coaster ride of life more, as we start to see that the length of the track ahead is shorter than that which is behind. I'm not sure, but I would like to think that that is the case.

Whatever the cause, it was not just my usual armchair philosophizing (better use the ol' spell checker on that last word,) that got me to notice the change in the air this morning. It really has become cooler and clearer lately. This is not to say that we will have no more hot and humid days before fall truly hits, but they will be fewer and farther between in the coming weeks than in those recently passed.

Now, you may have noticed that I seem quite okay with this new cooling and cleansing of the air. That is because I am. Summer is wonderful, and I still intend to get some color on this sagging body of mine before the long nights of winter arrive, but that refreshing air is just what the doctor, and my overworked air conditioners ordered, this morning. This morning reminded me of an uncle of mine who transplanted his family to Florida many years ago. He once told me, in the Maine accent which has never left him, that the thing he misses most about the North is that we have 'real' air here; that it is easier to breathe here. I had never thought of that. It's funny that the quality of something as all-encompassing as the very air around us could go completely unnoticed and unappreciated, until this morning, at least by me, and probably by many others.

The 'spice of life' changes, embodied in our northern, seasonal weather variations will not disappoint us in the coming weeks. It will soon be sweatshirt and sneaker weather, as fall 'springs' forth, so to speak, in all her glory. The crunch of dry leaves underfoot, and the scent of a neighbor's wood stove laboring away will be back before you know it. So, I hope you will take the time to get outside and notice... a change is, truly, in the air.

Unplugged

By G. E. Shuman

     I've been thinking lately, and more and more often as the days pass, about what it would mean for a person to be “unplugged.” The idea of being unplugged, to me, is not one of being taken off the power grid, and to rely on wind mills, solar cells, or water wheels to provide my electricity, as some in our area have done. Those people take great pride in the fact that they are 'off the grid'. To me, that's their business, but not a big deal. They still have power, and may still hunker down around their various screens every single day. No, to me, to be unplugged would mean to be disconnected from those screens, and intentionally cut off from all the interconnected, interfering, meddling, identity-permeating 'stuff' that being on the grid has graciously provided for us. It would mean accomplishing the much braver act of pulling the plug on things like email, television, and, as impossible as this might seem, cutting the cord from the increasingly omni-present 'god' of the electronic world, the internet. It would certainly mean the elimination of the newly-discovered face of that 'god', face book, itself.

     For some, but not all of us older adults, the idea of getting off the information grid would actually be a relief from some of life's complication, at a time when we feel the great need to un-complicate. For some of our kids and grand kids that idea would be simply absurd. To them, there is little more important in life than maintaining contact with their 'twelve hundred friends', online. That, to some of us, is what is absurd. (By the way, no one has twelve hundred friends.) I have been chuckled at, and seen the grimacing faces of some of my own children, at any mention I might make of not being 'into' social networking. Kids, just so ya know... being treated as some bony old object in a Jurassic-period museum display is uncomfortable, especially when the ones you are teasing still see you as the little, drooling, diaper-dirtiers you were about five minutes ago. Also, don't blame us older folks when you look up from your screen someday and realize that you just spent your allotted eighty years without ever looking out a window.

     An elderly uncle of ours recently died. We didn't even know about this, until days after the funeral, because, well, it was announced on face book, and we didn't see it. Because of this I have, seriously, asked my own kids to not note my passing in that way. If you hear that I have recently assumed room temperature, just call around, like people used to do. I think that missing a family picnic because you missed seeing a face book post is not a big deal. Missing the funeral of a loved one because you're not online all the time is tragic. It really makes me wonder what our society is becoming. Admittedly, I'm sure there was a time, not so long ago, when making a phone call to deliver bad news was also considered less than proper by some. After all, with a phone call, you're not present to see the person's face, to give them a hug, to comfort them. I guess this is all relative, to our older and younger relatives.

     I am not unplugged, and am not sure it would even be possible for me to be so. But, as you have just read, I have given the idea some thought. In some ways, that thought is a very appealing one to me. It would mean that the people, my real friends, who wanted to talk with me would have to come and visit me. That would be nice... an actual three-dimensional visit with a real person, with a voice, and intonation in that voice, and expressions, and hugs, and handshakes, instead of abbreviated words in texted messages. (LOL). It would also mean that the friends and relatives who never call me would still not do so, so... not much would really change there. It would mean that news would travel slower, but since most news is bad news, I could live with slower. I would not have TV, or even be able to send this column, electronically, to the paper. I would just have to be happy with reading the classics, writing more books myself, and visiting my favorite newspaper office in person. I wonder how terrible all of that would be.

     Someday, when I am gone, I hope that people remember me for who I was to them, not for what my screen name reminded them of. If I suddenly disappear from the electronic world, it will be more evident to some people than to others. You will know, if you know me well, exactly what happened. If not, you may have to wonder if I am truly gone, or if I have simply become unplu----.

Wrist-Watches and Cracker Jack

by G. E. Shuman

A few weeks ago I was standing in our kitchen, and happened to notice something about my sixteen year old daughter, when I saw her sitting on the couch in the next room. “You don't wear a wrist-watch, huh Em?” I remarked.

“I don't wear a what?” Emily asked back.

“A wrist-watch.” I repeated.

“Dad, they don't call them wrist-watches anymore. It's just a watch, and, no, I don't wear one.”

“Why not? Don't you have one?” I asked, in honest ignorance of her point.

“I don't NEED one. Everyone always has their phone in their hand, and the time is right here.” Emily responded, holding up the electronic appendage which seems to be permanently attached to her palm.

“Oh. Yeah.” Was my only reply, as I was, once again, technologically trounced back into the old realization that mine is not exactly the cutting-edge generation anymore. I looked at my left wrist, and at my watch... my WRIST-watch, wondering if I will see the day when 'old' people like myself are actually laughed at for wearing one of these things. I suddenly felt like I was carrying around a spittoon and a buggy whip instead of a watch. Maybe, just maybe, that day is here.

It may have been that very same day, or perhaps a day or so later, that I noticed (I guess I'm noticing things lately.) something familiar and somehow exciting from my own childhood. My wife has recently taken to buying boxes of Cracker Jack, to take to work with her, as a snack. And, that day, right in front of me on a small round table in our kitchen, lay an actual Cracker Jack prize! Do you remember those? For generations Cracker Jack has proudly, (and rightly so) announced 'A prize in every box!” ON every box of their product. I remember vividly, as a child, ripping the entire top off my Cracker Jack boxes and squeezing the sides to see if I could see that cherished, tea-bag sized white envelope that I knew was buried somewhere among the caramel corn and peanuts. If I saw the prize I would immediately dump out enough of the Cracker Jack to get my fingers far enough into the box to snag the prize and drag it out. (Tell me you have never done that.) Now, everyone knows, and knew then, that whatever prize was inside the envelope had no great value. There was always a blue-ink printed joke to read on the outside, and something less than magical on the inside. To me, as a child, making fun of whatever the little plastic something was that was inside that envelope was half of the fun. Do you remember people saying things like: “Where'd ya get the ring... a box of Cracker Jack?”

I thought of all of this, as I picked up and looked over that genuine Cracker Jack prize envelope. The fact that it was still unopened proved to be too much for me to resist. For the first time in years, I opened a Cracker Jack prize, and, for the first time ever, was quite disappointed. In an effort to please the kids of today, even this has changed. Rather than some chintzy ring or other cheap plastic thing, inside the envelope there was only a note. The note said this: “Now you can download fun, authentic Cracker Jack prizes to your smart phone at:” with a website address following. In other words, at least to me, the prize was... well... nothing. It felt the same as when someone gives you a lottery ticket for your birthday. What did they really give you? Nothing. Frankly, I don't have a smart phone, and would rather have had a dumb toy than a stupid app.

I recently read an article in which the author lamented that: “Modern technology is taking away all of our stuff.” That we no longer need cds to play our music, or dvds to play our movies, were his main points. Some people now take virtual vacations, (Gee, those must be fun.) and others completely lose themselves in games which require no cards, game boards, game pieces, or even other players. I think today's kids are actually missing out on a few REAL things, as they willingly view virtual ones, displayed on small glass screens, in place of them. One of those real things is the proud feeling of a shiny new watch wrapped around your wrist; another is the joy of holding, instead of an iphone, a cheap and cherished Cracker Jack toy, right in the palm of your hand.

Crazy for Summer!

by G. E. Shuman

To me, there is something simply stupendous in the whole idea of summer. It is the 'coming of age' of the tiny blossoms of spring; the intensifying, from early spring samples, of the warmth and wonder in the whole world of nature; the confirmation of what I consider to be the true arrival of 'good' days. From my perspective, at least for the next few months, there is no such thing as too much sun, too many flowers, or too large a crop of fresh fruits and vegetables abounding on plants and vines. (I just reread those first sentences, and know they sound a little crazy, but I love summer, and we are now “smack-dab in the middle of it” as people used to say. So don't make fun of me.)

I do get overheated when doing outdoor summer chores, like mowing, or washing the cars. At those times I try to remember how cold my feet and hands get when I'm shoveling snow or scraping the windshields of those now sun-drenched, soapy vehicles. Such thoughts seem to help a bit. Also, during summer, if my home seems a little too warm inside, I sometimes close my eyes and imagine how good such warmth would feel if a howling, zero-degree wind was blasting right outside my windows. The warmth then seems a pretty cool thing to have. Those of you who have been reading my articles for a while should try it, if only to confirm your conviction of my loosening grip on reality.

I also love the beach. I really do. Although an ocean beach is best, any time beside the water is wonderful, whether that water be the edge of the mighty Atlantic, or that of some small pond or lake. My tiny sailboat likes small ponds best; my fishing rod is more at home casting out into salt water waves, and my feet love walking the sand of the shores of either one. Still, there are few things more satisfying than the feel of the sun, and the wind-born scent of the ocean, well-mixed with that of coconut-oil or Coppertone. It is right to mention here that coconut-oil and Coppertone do accent some earthly bodies better than they do others. For some strange reason I felt compelled to point that out, as if you didn't already know it. Oh well.

To further confirm my slightly overboard love of summer, I believe that there is also something nearly magical about the fires of summer. (I used the word magical, and I'm not even at Disney World. Perhaps I AM crazy.) I'm sure that cookouts have attracted crowds since caveman days; and campfires the same. My mother has always said that anything tastes better when cooked outdoors. I believe that, and I would love the idea of it even if I didn't believe it. Barbecue pits and bonfires; tiki torches and gas lanterns; fourth of July fireworks and even fireflies all have their places in the spectacular fires of summer.

Then, even when considering life's storms, those of summertime always seem bigger and better, to me. Winter storms are mostly silent, and even tend to quiet the world, with their sound-muffling fluffy-flurry coverings. Summer storms simply come crashing and pouring down, with giant booms and fantastically frightening lightening. (Yes, there really may be something wrong with me.) And, those great summer storms also leave on their own, without the work of shovels and plows to get them gone.

  I hope that we all, here in the North, take in every bit of the bounty and the beauty of summer, while we have it. Spring was a wet one, and the leaves and plants seem bigger and brighter than ever this year. Get out there and enjoy this sizzling season, dear readers. Smell the roses, but don't 'stop' to do it. Before you know it, those bright lawn canopies and beach umbrellas will be replaced by boat covers and wood-pile tarps; the picnic baskets by school lunch boxes, and the green grass by fallen, golden leaves. As crazy as it sounds, that's okay, too. By that time I will be willing to trade in my strawberry shortcake for a fresh-baked apple or pumpkin pie... but not quite yet. How about you?  

Five Things You Can Do to Improve Your Health in the Next Sixty Days

by G. E. Shuman

Dear Readers; I wrote this article a few days ago for a health magazine. I'm sharing it with you now, because I care about your health. (Like I'm an expert, and like this has nothing to do with the fact that my submission deadline is fast-approaching.) Seriously, although 'seriously' is a word I have trouble with, try these suggestions, and feel great by the time the kids go back to school. Enjoy!

Improving your health does not have to be a complicated or expensive proposition. Contrary to media ads, there are no potions or pills, pre-packaged diet foods or pieces of exercise equipment that will do more for your health than simply taking a common-sense approach to healthy living. The following suggestions will cost you nothing, and, along with improving your health, will actually save you money. (Noted by: $) Give them a try. Start with suggestions 1-4 first, and check the results with suggestion number five. I would wish you good luck, but if you follow these tips, you won't need luck.

Thing number 1.

Get rest. All living things need rest. You may have noticed that animals go to sleep soon after the sun goes down. Animals never invented electric lighting and electronic screens to stretch their day far into their natural sleep period, as we humans did. We seem to think that shortening our nights lengthens our days. Unfortunately, doing so may actually shorten our NUMBER of days. A very wise person once told me that the best time to go to bed is when you are tired. I liked that advice so much that I married that person, over forty years ago. We still sleep very well, thank you, and don't burn the lights far into the night. ($)

Thing 2.

Get going! Doctors agree that some of the best exercise a person can get is in simply walking more. Since we humans were designed for walking, that idea seems to make sense to me. We were not designed so much for steppers, treadmills and stationary bikes. Throw those out. No, don't do that. Sell them on your yard sale, ($) and get some comfortable shorts and a good pair of sneakers. Then get out in the fresh air and sunshine. Enjoy the scenery, and soak up that oxygen and those solar vitamins. Hint: Thing 2 will also make thing number 1 much easier to do.

Thing 3.

Get off the junk food and candy. Not to seem UN-American, but one of the best and simplest things you can do for your health is to drive past the King, the big chicken bucket sign, and those old golden arches. (Is it my imagination, or are those arches shaped just like big french fries?) Eating fast food, if done in moderation, will probably not kill you. It might just make you fat and unhealthy. Replace all those carbs and calories with a salad and a piece of fruit at home, at least occasionally. ($) Your body and your bowels will thank you. Also, did you know that you would have to walk the length of a football field to burn off the calories in ONE M&M? I saw that on the news recently, and that idea alone has made it much easier for me to resist those little chocolate-colored bags in the checkout line. ($). (Also, I hate walking on football fields.) One other little health tip that I will throw in for free is one my doctor suggested to me years ago, right after taking my blood pressure. He simply looked at me and said: “Take the salt shaker off the table.” I could have added: “And take the french fry out of my mouth?”

Thing 4.

Get rid of a bad habit. This 'thing' may be much easier to say than to do. Still, everyone knows that smoking will kill you, too much alcohol will pickle your liver and overeating is probably no better for you than either of those first two. Conquering any one of those three things is worth the effort. You will feel better, live longer, and your wallet will be MUCH fuller. ($$$$)

Thing 5.

Get a checkup. Along with checking your blood pressure, weight, and general physical condition, your doctor can run a simple blood screening to check your blood sugar, your cholesterol, your liver function, and other factors in your overall health. Schedule this appointment for sixty days from now, and begin working on things 1-4 today. Then, later this summer, when you get the results of your tests, you and your doctor will both be smiling.   

Gas and Pollution- The True Solution

by G. E. Shuman

My grandfather Shuman was an inventor. He retired from his local Maine telephone company in the early nineteen-sixties, and spent the next thirty years or so casually puttering away in the big barn attached to his home. I still recall, vividly, the messy, mixed-up workshop out there, with baby food jars filled with screws and nuts, and nails pounded into walls and beams just to hold many old, odd metal parts, saved for the express purpose of conjuring up many useful things that most people will never even know about.

Gramp Shuman invented no new scientific wonders. Not one. The things he made were for convenience and enjoyment, HIS convenience and enjoyment. As I remember it, Gramp could make almost anything out of almost nothing. His projects were sort of simple home improvements for the retired, thinking, sedentary man. I recall that he once put two wheels on the back of his outdoor chaise lounger, before anyone else seemed to have thought of doing that, so that he could more easily drag the thing to the sunniest spot on his lawn, or to the best sniper-position from which to shoot squirrels with his BB gun. And then there was the old hair brush that he screwed onto the end of his wooden tool box, so that his cat could scratch itself when Gramp didn't have the itch to do it. (I recall once talking to Gramp about some project I thought he would like to be involved in. His answer: “That sounds too much like work.” Enough said? Gramp was retired, and he took that commitment very seriously.) Another thing I remember that he made was a long, fiber tube of six size-D flashlight batteries, with a wooden plug at the bottom, and a scavenged nine volt battery clip on the top. Gramp could, likely, run his small transistor radio for a year or more on that battery, without ever bothering to turn it off. And then there was my favorite thing, the little ‘washer-woman’ windmill that remained mounted on the peak of that old house for many years. I remember, as a child, sitting on his lawn and watching that small painted lady doing her laundry in the wash tub made from an old tuna can. Today she resides on a shelf, on a wall in my family room. (If you were to offer me a thousand dollars cash for her, you would leave with your money.) I think that one of Gramp's most ingenious inventions was in the way he unlocked the big, sliding door of the barn. He's gone, so I guess I can tell you now. You see, there was a small hole in one of the planks of that door, that looked just like a knot hole. Gramp, and the few family members (like Dad and me,) who knew the secret, would just stick a finger through that hole, and push a hidden wooden button in exactly the right way, to unlock the door.

To me, the true success of Gramp’s little inventions was in their simple utility, but also in their cost, which was generally nothing more than making use of stuff he had around the barn. He was probably one of Maine's first, real, conservation specialists. Nothing was wasted; few things were ever thrown out.

So far, I have not shared the true solution to gas and pollution, and I will do that now. Well, first I want to relate a short conversation between Gramp and his brother-in-law, my Great Uncle Charlie. The conversation took place one summer, long ago. We were all at a huge family picnic, and Charlie drove up in his big old Ford, sputtering and spewing a billowing plume of burned oil behind it. After Charlie parked, Gramp just went over to him and said: “You know, you can get that motor fixed for two hundred dollars.” (In those days you could.) I will always remember Uncle's response of: “Well, you can buy a lot of oil for two hundred dollars.” (Again, in those days, you could.)

To me, therein lies the problem. Uncle Charlie was only showing an attitude of conservation of another kind; monetary conservation. Money was tight in those days, (as it is now) and, although Charlie was not out to harm the environment, his wallet simply came first, just as did Gramps, when he was making his inventions.

Some things have changed little since Charlie's time, and that of his oil-burning car. New solutions to old problems always seem to cost more than putting up with the problems themselves. Now, pay attention. This fact, more than anything else, is what needs to be overcome. It is as if we are all supposed to relish the idea that personal pain is a good and noble thing. Perhaps it is. Still, as much as I wouldn't mind driving a hybrid or electric car, or one that runs on cow flatulence for that matter, (It has been suggested.) I simply can't afford to pay an extra ten or twenty thousand dollars for the privilege. Even in these days, as Charlie would sympathize if he were here, “You can buy a lot of gas for ten thousand dollars.”

Gramp Shuman's solutions to problems were born in his old garage, and came about by using what he had, to make something useful, for free, or, at least, inexpensively. In the same spirit, Henry Ford mass-produced the model T, for the very reason of making it less expensive to buy. If he had not done so, it would never have sold, and buggy whips might still be very popular.

So, I challenge all of you 'garage-inventors' out there. Tackle the problem of getting a car to run without burning fossil fuels and creating pollution, but also without costing one cent more to own than one that does. Only then will America willingly jump on the bandwagon, (or in the car.) We are not uncaring folks, we just have to balance the checkbook. The one of you who first accomplishes this task will become rich enough to hire Bill Gates to clean your pool, I promise. (When that happens, PLEASE remember where you got the idea.)