More Than Just Another New Year

by G. E. Shuman

     So, Christmas is over, the relatives have gone home, the wrinkled wrap and battered bows are in the trash, and there is nothing left of the leftovers, hopefully. Thursday is New Years Day, and Wednesday night is the traditional time for making resolutions, watching a big shiny ball drop, and, for some, partying to the point of getting stupid. To me, some of these things are just sad.

     I have been thinking about all of this, as even my youngest children are grown and have made it known to us that they are less excited about the traditions of Christmas and New Years than they used to be. Christmas morning just isn't the same without a house full of smiling, small children excitedly emptying stockings and tearing into presents. Oh well, maybe that's what grandchildren are for; so that grandparents will not be sad during the holidays.

     The same thing really goes for New Years Eve and New Years Day, at our house. My wife still likes to watch the parades, and I usually find reasons to spend time in the kitchen or here with my column, when she does. Parades are okay, as are resolutions, and 'Dick Clark's Rockin' New Years Eve', even though Mr. Clark is no longer with us. But, somehow, those same old things, to me, lately seem to be just the same old things. They seem tiring and unimportant.

     As we approach midnight on December 31^st and then move forward into, believe it or not, the year of our Lord 2015, it is my hope that this new year can be more than just another new year. I have no magic formula to make it so, but it seems that resolutions, if any, could be more than a promise to lose twenty pounds, or to give up some silly habit. Those are the 'traditional' resolutions, and they have become predictable. In January, EVERY January, you can't turn on your TV without seeing ads for the latest exercise equipment and diet plans. Admittedly, some of that equipment, which can be useful, is gathering dust in our own spare room upstairs.

     My point is, as a citizen approaching senior citizen status, I am thinking that time is growing short and that we can do better. We, as Americans, have the collective resources, knowledge and power to actually change our world for the better, forever, at least in some ways. If you think about it, we live on a really big place. This is not a 'small world', as some would have us think. It is a massive, living, fertile, water-rich sphere that is more than capable of providing for every single person and animal that lives here. The people of the world do not have to be hungry because of their numbers. It has been shown that every single person on planet earth could stand in the state of Texas, each with a thousand square foot piece of land around him. (Let's not invite everyone to Texas, let's just help them where they are.) For instance, the rice patties of Japan and the rocky plots of land of Ethiopia are toiled over and harvested, largely by hand, not by machine, while, I am sure, many no longer used tractors sit idle in barns across our own land. Also, our government is not responsible for world poverty, but does still pay our farmers to not grow all the food they can. I am not an economist, and will never understand that, at least I hope I never will. Simply, and sadly stated, the selfishness of many other governments around our world keeps their own people poor, on purpose, and some, desperately so.

     And so, it is my own feeling that the adults of the world need to wake up, grow up, and care, in the year 2015. My family is committed to doing more for others, and began fulfilling that commitment nearly a year ago. I am not bragging on us, and, in fact, intend to increase what we do, as we are given the resources to do so in the new year. I do believe in our capitalistic system, and also believe that it is the best way to produce more to help others with. Ironically, our government is the most generous in the world, when it comes to helping the planet's poor. But, are we, personally? Will we even remember the Christmas presents we received this year, next year? Will we keep that resolution to lose weight, and will it really matter if we do not?

     I know that this has not been a 'feel good' column, but I also know that one of the best ways to feel good is to help others. It really is. If you want a truly rewarding new year, don't make some resolution because you eat too much, make one to try to help those in your neighborhood or in another country, who are unable to eat enough. Lets all make this more than just another new year. Send me a note at: writetog.e.shuman@gmail.com and let me know what you find to do. God Bless.

The Ornament

By G. E. Shuman

Only weeks ago we climbed the stairs,

To the attic, behind the old door.

And went to the corner, where ʽChristmasʼ is kept,

In boxes stacked high on the floor.

We brought the stack down to the living room,

Two flights from its cold storage spot.

And opened it up, just like every year,

Quite amazed at all weʼd forgot.

The boxes held ornaments, bound for the tree,

And garlands and wreath bows and wire.

Most things quite familiar from years of use,

Like the stockings we hang by the fire.

We opened up memories, box after box,

But some things I could barely recall.

Did we use these lights on the tree last year,

Or the archways in the hall?

And then, there it was, as it always is,

One more thing I forgot to remember.

It waited so patiently, most of a year,

To be shown just the weeks of December.

The small ornament, I admire so much,

And display on the mantle each year;

A ceramic love story, proclaimed without words,

With a meaning quite beautifully clear.

For there Santa kneels, in most worshipful prayer,

By the tiniest manger of hay.

His gaze toward the infant lying there,

On that very first Christmas Day.

Not a sign of a bow, or a gift, or a sleigh,

Not a reindeer at all to be seen.

Just St. Nick, with his furry hat tossed to the ground,

In a show of what this day should mean.

When Christmas has passed, weʼll just go get the stack,

to pack up the ribbons and lights.

And Santa will wait, to remind us next year,

Jesus came on that most holy night.

Here It Comes, Again

By G. E. Shuman

     Well, here it comes, again. For many of you the fact that last Thursday, Thanksgiving Day 2014 brought about a foot of wet snow to the New England states, including ours, was a good thing. For you the snow is beautiful, as it hangs from the branches of the hillside trees. It just brightens your day to see the white stuff coming down out of the sky, and, as Robert Frost said, “filling up the woods with snow.” Also, for you who enjoy Vermont winters, that first storm is a harbinger of soon to be experienced snow machine rides, ski trips, and snowman making afternoons with the kids. You see winter as a wonderland of sunshine sparkling off from frosted evergreen bows, and chestnuts roasting by an open fire.

     I, truly, wish I could share your joy. The truth is, I find very little that I like about this time of year, and that is probably not good, as someone who has spent every one of the past sixty winters in the north. (How dumb is that?) To me, winter is just a very dangerous time up here. If you have children, and if those children have advanced to the age of driving around in the wonderful stuff of winter, you might know how I feel, especially if they are not very experienced drivers. I am a Christian guy, and, truly, always try my best to trust God for the safety of my family members... but winter is a tough time for me to do that. It is true that He has always kept us, not necessarily from any accident, but from any resulting in injury. In fact, just a month ago our twenty year old son was forced off the highway, (at highway speeds), and into the median, by another car who didn't see him in the passing lane. Andrew succeeded in doing damage to his car as he mowed down several mileage markers, but also got the car back on the highway, and drove home safely. I believe that God was responsible for that night not resulting in something much worse than a banged up car. Still, I am a human father, and will always be concerned for my kids as they drive. Andrew's recent brush with being hurt, or worse, was all without that added danger of snow. I know that in the days and evenings to come my wife, my married-with-families kids, and my unmarried ones will be out there, facing ice, snow and cold, until the arrival of spring. I do need to remember that protection Andrew experienced a month ago, and attempt to have the faith that I have always told my family to have. See how much fun winter is for me?

     You may agree with me about winter, or you may not. Maybe it's just my age beginning to creep up on me, and the fact that my hair is now close to the color of the snow on the roof, but I do not welcome the cold, dangerous, pavement-icing season we are now entering. If you are a 'winter person,' you just keep on loving your time in the snow. I will keep on checking the weather and dreading bouts with my shovel and finicky snow blower. I, truly, don't want to be a stick-in-the-mud. I would just rather be stuck in the mud than in a snowbank. And, if you could say a prayer for my family, I'll say one for yours.

Thoughts of Thanksgiving, …and a great recipe.

By G. E. Shuman

Thanksgiving, in a word, and as a word, is a mouthful. The long, feasting-table-length wish of “Happy Thanksgiving!” fills the air with syllables, and the mind with fond memories of food and family. The very thought of Thanksgiving Day, to many of us, brings an anticipation of aromas wafting from warm, turkey-scented kitchens. Gravy-drenched garlic potatoes, steamy stuffing, pickles and pies all come to mind when we ponder this casual and cozy, butter-basted, late November holiday. It’s the day of pilgrims, Indians, and cornucopias that we learned of as young children; the day with the name which even begins with the ‘turkey’ letter. Yum, yum!

This coming holiday will be the forty-third Thanksgiving Day Lorna and I have celebrated together as husband and wife. Some recent Thanksgivings have been spent at the home of one or another of our adult children, and those times are wonderful. Still, over the years, most of these family feasts have taken place right here in our old Barre, Vermont home.

To Lorna and to me there has always been something special about such times in this solid, well-aged place. Home is a house where your memories reside, and that is likely what makes this one so special to us. The sturdy, tall, thick-walled, elderly rooms of this house nearly echo with sounds of holidays past; of hours spent here, sheltered from the cold world by those big walls, and by big love. Here we have cooked dozens of family-sized Thanksgiving turkeys together, and have stuffed them all with stuffing of only slightly varying stuff. We have also stuffed celery and pumpkins here, have opened scores of cans of cranberry sauce and peeled hundreds of potatoes, all for fleeting, passing, Thanksgiving Day dinners. I enjoy the notion that even earlier families who occupied this old home had their own holidays filled with scampering children and sumptuous kitchen scents. Their Thanksgivings were certainly graced with laughter and love, smiles and silliness, and grand kids and gratitude, as are ours. At least, I hope that they were.

Over these years our own Thanksgiving menus and recipes have changed little, but, with the passing of time, the company around the table has, necessarily, changed greatly. Years ago grandparents came to help us celebrate our first years together. Years later, our parents and cousins occasionally shared our feast with us and our then-young children. In more recent Novembers, people who look somewhat like those small children we used to have come and bring children of their own to sit around that same old table. How wonderful, and yet how strange that we have now become the grandparents; the elders at the feast. Such positions hold great joy, but also at least a bit of trepidation for me. I know in my heart that, as our family grows ever-greater in number, such future family times must be growing ever-fewer for Lorna and me. Maybe that is okay. We are here together, again this year, and that is enough for now. We do our best to live by faith, and will anxiously await and always enjoy as many family Thanksgivings as God allows us to share.

Years ago we, somehow, found a recipe that I wish you would try this year. It has filled us to overflowing, time and again, and has been the very basis of many nearly perfect Thanksgivings for us. To follow the recipe, you simply turn this holiday's name around a bit, and remember to make Thanks-giving Day a day of consciously, gratefully, giving thanks.  

Everything, and Nothing, Has Changed

By G. E. Shuman

     I got the notion for this column from a combination of things, which fits well, as a combination of things is what this column is all about. A few evenings ago I was sitting here, in my recliner, and happened to glance over at my antique telegraphic receiver, (a gift from my wife's grandfather's past) as it sits in its place, in the corner of the family room, atop our small and elderly pump organ. I had just come from the living room, after a frustrating bout with my cellphone, which was not working, and which I had left alone on the couch, in the hope that one of the dogs might use it for a chew toy.

     As I looked at that old, wooden telegraph box I started thinking of how much things have changed, in the area of communications, since Grandpa Burr's youthful days, working with the telegraph system of the Maine Central Railroad. At first I thought about how little the telegraph has in common with how we communicate today, but then I wondered if those differences are as vast as I first imagined.

     In communications, the whole idea is to communicate. Wow, give me a gold star for figuring that one out. Actually, as long as people have been around, and talking, communication has existed. (A few people I know were probably talking as they exited the womb, but that's a story for another day, or not. You know the type.) When the written word was invented, those communications became portable, independent of the presence of the individual, and even somewhat permanent. Still, the system was slow. It took just as long to send a papyrus or paper message to another person, as it did to go visit them yourself. This system is still in use today, by the United States Postal Service.

     A truly novel departure from those written words, and, likewise, the post office, was invented by Native Americans, and they were using it long before any mailman was ever bitten by a dog. They called their system smoke signals. Actually, I don't know what they called it, but smoke signals were what it was. Those signals, and their message, reached the receiving person at the speed of light. No, smoke doesn't travel at the speed of light, but the signals actually did. It is known that the signal would be seen in the light of the sun, shining on the smoke. One encampment immediately saw that far off signal of another, and replied, obviously, with their own returning signal, spelling out the timeless letters: L.O.L. A few glitches in this system were little things called cloudy days and nighttime. Also, it had privacy issues, as we would call them today. Hence, the invention of the aforementioned postal service, and the sealed envelope.

     You see, from the reading of words on a page, or a scroll, or a cave wall, to smoke signals, telegraphs, and beyond, it has always been about the speed of light. It has always been about receiving a message from a sender, sent to the one the message was intended for, through light entering our eyes, or sound entering our ears after some device has turned the lightning-fast signal into sound waves. The brain receives a signal through one or both of those senses, and declares “I am not alone. Aunt Mildred just said hello to me.”

     To me, all the rest is just window dressing in the grand scheme of communications. (Do people still dress windows?) This opinion is probably because I do hate my phone. The advancements are, admittedly, monumental, but are only icing on the cake of the very idea of a message, a thought, actually leaving one brain and slamming into another. In my time we have gone from black and white television and rotary dial phones, (We really don't dial someone's number anymore, even though we might use those words. There are no more dials on phones, and there haven't been dials for a few generations now, if you haven't noticed.) to high definition, wall sized, curved, inch thick video systems, and high speed, world-wide internet connections. We also use those things called cell phones, or now we just call them phones, which is where this column started in the first place. We 'post' things without postage or the post office, and some of us twenty-first century dinosaurs still use email more than social networks. True, vintage dinosaurs, like myself, also still use the post office once in a while. One day I will probably consider stepping up to smoke signals, but not quite yet. One thing at a time.

     So, the other night my phone failed me, just as telegraph wires must have occasionally failed Grandpa Burr and the other users of their time. I thought of this as I looked at that old telegraphic receiver, there on the antique organ. I sat there, realizing that communication is about the message, indeed, but not just about what the message actually is. It is more about the fact that a message has been sent in the first place, at the speed of light, and then received, as a welcome gift, from one thinking brain to another. Everything, and nothing, has changed. Whether by smoke signal, snail mail, cell phone, a smile, or the nerve signals sent from one hand holding another, we are all just humans... trying to connect.

Autumn Moon

By G. E. Shuman

     Our daughter, Emily, is studying photography at a very prestigious (another word for expensive) art school in Georgia. She is doing wonderfully well there, and, a few nights ago, sent me a few samples of her recent work. One of those samples is a really gorgeous photo of the moon, as seen from her location in Savannah.

     One reason Em emailed that picture up to me is because she knows how much I love the moon. Yes, I love the moon. I can't fully explain why, I just do. One reason is, undoubtedly, because of my ongoing fascination with our country's seemingly-ancient human exploration of that place. I remember the Apollo program very well, and often wonder at the present condition of those artifacts of mankind, those remnants of what seems to have been a bolder time for our country, as they still sit on that silent landscape. With that, I have also always been intrigued with that orb's “stark beauty,” as Neil Armstrong described it, even as he stood there, forming footprints that are still there, perfectly preserved, in that powder-gray dust. (Those astronauts were, and are, the definition of the word brave.) That place, that world which orbits ours, is nearly black and white; at least it is, as seen from earth. Emily's picture of it was not taken in black and white, but that is what it is, beautifully displaying those vivid but mottled grays on a truly endless sea of black.

     The moon, today, and for all of the past ages of mankind, has been an object of wonder, and of romance. It has been pondered and written about by modern man, and by the ancients. The eyes of Moses undoubtedly gazed upon it as he led the Israelites in the wilderness, as did those of the constructors of the pyramids of Giza, and those of the earliest cave-dwellers. Just the sight of that beautiful place, shining its soft light down on the people of our world, has convinced countless love-struck couples to share their lives together, and poets, play writes, and composers to new heights, in their respective crafts.

     The very phases of the moon arouse our oceans to produce their tides, and, some feel, to influence moods, medical conditions and even the rhythms of life. The old idea of the full moon affecting attitudes has recently been proven. And now, consider these fascinating facts. Fact number 1: A lunar month, the time it takes the moon to circle the earth once, is exactly 27 days, seven hours and 43 minutes. Fact number 2: The average human menstrual cycle is 28 days. The difference between those two cycles, at most, is only 16 hours and 17 minutes... per month, if I did the math right. To me, it seems that that old, romantic moon may have had some part in deciding who we are, and now, even which ones of us 'are'. Another fact, perhaps unrelated, but still interesting, is this. Ocean waves, caused by winds, which are caused by the lunar tides, arrive on shore exactly 26 times per minute, no matter which ocean it is, and regardless of the weather. The number is 26, not 28, but it's still pretty cool.

    Finally, if you haven't had enough of my lunar love story already, I think that the moon is a wonderful companion of the earth, and a uniting force for her people. It is something that, regardless of who or where we are, has the power to bring us all together. The moon that Emily photographed from Savannah earlier in the week is the same one I will see if I look to the Vermont heavens, tonight. She and I can even view it together, whenever the weather permits. And we can see it, seemingly, side by side, as the relative distance which separates us is slight, being only about one half of one percent of the distance the moonlight traveled from Mr. Armstrong's famous footprints, to the lens of Emily's camera.

     Autumn, and even winter, with their cool, clear night skies and haunting landscapes, are wonderful seasons to gaze at, ponder, appreciate, and fall in love by the sight and light of our nearest neighbor, the moon. (I know that last sentence was a very full one, but one inspired by an image of a very full Savannah moon.) Still, I highly recommend that the people of the earth give all of those things a try. Thanks for the photo Em.

The First of October

By G. E. Shuman

     I'm sitting here, in my recliner, in my home, in near disbelief, as the sun sets outside my window, on this first day of October, 2014. Truly, as I opened up this old laptop the first thing this morning, I found the startling news nearly impossible to believe, that it was already the first day of this new, cooler, if prettier month. I'm sure I knew October was coming; it just shouldn't have come so soon. Don't you agree? Now, as I sit here again, after a long day of teaching high school, and terrifying seventh graders, (I wasn't terrifying them. They are just terrifying seventh graders), and the day which started so startlingly, is nearly over. Still, this very moment, I wonder where the day has gone. I also wonder where the past week has gone. I presume it is hiding somewhere, nestled right inside the past year, and that, inside a quickly-receding decade. It is strange to me, that, as I keep aging, the passing moments, hours, days, weeks, years, and so on, seem to be accelerating in their race to leave me far behind. Perhaps that is only because each year is a smaller portion of the total time we have lived. I don't know. I do know that it is as likely due to the fact that a year is really not that long a time in the first place, and a month is only a twelfth of that, and a week but a quarter of that. No wonder a day, like today, can slip by so quickly. Even now, as you read these words, another full week has already passed, and I am somewhere, wondering more, how that could have happened, so soon.

     If you are anything like me, and you are SO lucky if you are, (I keep telling myself that.) you are also wondering where the time has gone. I know this is an old subject that keeps getting older. Come to think of it, doesn't everything keep getting older? But, really, the summer that just began, is done. As I write these words, it is only seven pm, and the sun is down... and the air is cool out there beyond my window pane, and I can no longer feel comfortable skinny dipping in the pool. Okay, so I don't do that... mainly because I have no pool. A plastic kiddie pool just won't do for such things, especially here in the city.

     I guess I just have to face the fact that it really is October. October. Hum. You know... that's the month of dry leaves, pumpkins, and frost. I do remember those things, and normally like those memories. Halloween has always been one of my favorite days of the year. It probably shouldn't be, but we humans seem to just like what we like, even if we don't always like the fact that we like it. I loved carving jack-o-lanterns with my kids, so long ago, or maybe not so long ago. Okay, so that's a lie. I hated carving those slimy-gutted things, but did love taking pictures of my wife and kids doing it. Lighting them the few evenings before Halloween was always fun. My favorite Halloween quote is this: “There's nothing like the smell of a sooty-sweet, candle-lit carved pumpkin, on a dark and windy Halloween night.” The fact that I am quoting myself there should have no bearing on whether or not you like the quote.

     It is so strange. I no longer hear a neighbor's lawnmower, or smell his or my own freshly-cut grass. But the sweet aroma and crackling crunch of the newly fallen leaves makes up for those things, in some ways. Another of my favorite quotes comes from my very favorite poem, Desiderata. It says: “Take kindly the council of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.” I am trying my best to follow that ancient advice. For now, maybe it's enough to surrender the things of summer. Fall is here, and it is beautiful! So, take heart, and hang on. Before you know it, you will probably be reading an article stating how startled I am that winter has already come. If you're not a winter fan, take heart, and hang on, again. If God doesn't care, I intend to be here, sooner than I will be able to comprehend, to see the first buds of another spring popping out on my old maple trees. I hope you will be here, too.

Discovering Life on a Green Planet

by G. E. Shuman

    I know how strange this probably sounds, but I truly believe that I have recently discovered life on a planet. I really have. I'm not exaggerating, lying, fibbing, or fantasizing. The fact that the planet I recently discovered life on happens to be the one you live on, does not make the discovery untrue... at least it doesn't for me. You see, I feel that I have recently become more aware, and much more appreciative of all of the life that is around me. Perhaps this has something to do with my slowly, relentlessly, advancing age. I'm not sure, and I'm not sure if I care. I do believe that older people seem to appreciate the day, the hour, the present moment more than most younger folks do. Younger people are far too busy in the business of being in business, or of being in love, or being preoccupied with themselves and of their own personal comforts to truly discover life. Not so, for most older folks.

     In my youth, or more in the period of my life from true youth to semi-youth and on to middle age, I managed a fairly large retail business. This business managing actually lasted for twenty five years or so, and I, therefore, spent most of my weeks, and months, and years inside a building. I saw the sun... but mostly on Sunday, until stores began being open on Sunday. Then I saw the sun... less.

I think that my eyes began to be opened more to the life that is all around me on this green world, after leaving those buildings, the sixty-hour-a-work-week world. I think that the realization that, looking down the road, I had many fewer days ahead than in the rear view mirror also had much to do with this discovery of life. I think I might not be alone in this feeling. You readers of my age might agree.

     Speaking of looking down the road, my youngest daughter, my wife and I did a lot of that just last week, as we transported Emily to her first year of college, in the deep south. The trip to Georgia was a really good one, and, although we had traveled old route 95 many times in years past, both the immensity of our country, and the abundant life it holds struck me more on this trip than perhaps during any other. This time of the year, green is everywhere, even here in the North, but, seemingly, more so the further you submerge yourself into the deep South. Everything, simply everything down there is very much alive. The beautiful, but sometimes unwelcome Spanish moss laces the trees; an example of life building and literally living on top of and because of other life. The woods, the towns and even the cities in the South are teeming with every form of vegetation imaginable; insects, animals and humans dwell, and thrive, within it all.

     Since childhood I have been very interested in our country's space program. (Yes, there was a space program when I was a child.) I watched men walk on the moon, (And, yes, they really did do that.) and I have been watching, more recently, NASA's Mars rovers, as they trek across the surface of the Red Planet. Those rovers and the scientists who sent them just amaze me, as the machines struggle on that lonely world, and the scientists study the data, in an effort to find life... ANY life. I have often wondered at what effect such a finding by one of those machines from earth would have on the inhabitants of our world. Just catching a glimpse of a tiny shoot of a plant, much less some mouse-like creature scurrying across the video screens at NASA, would be the event of the century, or of several centuries, for our entire world. If a giraffe happened to walk in front of the camera, just think what would happen then. But, so far... no martian giraffes have shown themselves.

     What a contrast. On our world giraffes are not common in most places, but they are here, and we are not really amazed by them, even if we should be. And life, in all its glory, is, literally, all around us. Our planet has been blessed with it, in abundance. In fact, as much as I would love to believe that the entire universe is just as blessed with life, so far there is not one bit of evidence to prove that it is. Our world may be as common as a blade of grass in a field of billions, or as rare as a blade of grass on Mars. In any case, I wish you would just look around you, and take the time to see, and to appreciate, what is here. It is life, and it is truly amazing.

Dear Readers,

Just for the sake of variety, I sometimes submit a poem for use in my column space. Variety is the spice of life, as they say, and I do want to keep my column 'spicy.' Lately, living has consumed every second of my life, (I guess it has to.) and I have had no time for writing new poems. Here is one I published about a year ago. If you remember it, I hope you enjoyed it then, and don't mind a re-run now. If you don't remember it, forget what I just said about it being a re-run.

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.

Some 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 we might wonder

Is a rash choice, or thoughtless blunder.

'Petunia,' a pretty name, somehow...

To call a flower, or even a sow.

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

But just try it on a huge quarter-back.

                                                     

And then there are names for restaurant 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.

B.T.S.

by G. E. Shuman

     I won't keep you in suspense. The letters 'BTS' are a bit of old retail jargon for the selling season of 'back to school.' I know this, as I am an old retail jargon person. I don't know if the letters BTS are still used in that industry to abbreviate the words back to school, but I think that they probably are. Why would they not be? In retail, as in many other professions, words and titles of people and things, (CEO, CFO, etc.) have been abbreviated for a very long time now. It makes one wonder why abbreviation is such a long word in the first place. Long B-4 (Get it? Of course you do.) face book, texting, and tweeting, my generation was using terms like BTS. As a reformed and recovering retail manager, I can tell you that that profession coined many such terms, including the shortened version of health and beauty aids; HBA. I can't imagine why we did those things. It's not much harder to say the words health and beauty than it is to mouth HBA, at least I don't think it is. The least effective, and fairly stupid such abbreviation that I can remember all these years later was actually no abbreviation at all. Christmas merchandise, in retail, was once termed 'red and green'. Now think about that. 'Red and green' is three syllables. 'Christmas' is two syllables. Not all of us in retail were geniuses back then. Similarly, or if not similarly, at least also, my wife works for a big, international shipping company, (The brown one, with initials for a name.) and comes home from work each night speaking in alphabet soup and acronyms, not in real words. The sweet nothings that she whispers into my ear each night, really are nothings, at least nothing that I can understand. I'm not sure why I told you all of that, other than I felt like discussing back to school, which I will now do. I do get off on a rabbit trail now and again.

     For most families, at least for those families containing small children, the vacation is over... at least for the kids and the teachers. Fall is in the air. Sweatshirt-and-sneaker weather is on its way, or, perhaps, is already here. These days, many, if not most families have found it necessary for both parents to have jobs outside of the home. For many other families there is only one parent in the home, and that parent works outside of the home. Some other parents get to stay at home. For all of those moms and/or dads, in those very diverse families, it is now the case that they have recently begun dropping their little angel or angels off at that big brick building, or at the stop for that big yellow bus, and, with tears in their eyes, (The mom's and dad's eyes, not the kids') watching those precious cherubs plop out of the car and waddle up to the door of that building or long yellow vehicle. (I do love children. Please forgive my choices of verbs, sometimes.)

     I know those old parental feelings well, and have experienced the tears, especially the very first day of school each year, and more especially when the kids are very young students AND it is the first day of school. All five of my kids have withstood the momentary torment of standing in front of our fireplace on that first day, backpacks in hand, while Mom and I took their picture, for posterity, I guess, if posterity happened to be paying attention. I have no idea where any of those pictures are right now. They never made it to face book, but it might be worth our getting them on there, just to be held as blackmail for future favors from those now-grown former juveniles of ours.

     Each new year means that your children are entering a new grade, and that grade brings them one year closer to graduation, college, marriage, and lots of other terrifying things that enter your mind as you take them to the school or watch them board that big, ugly, yellow bus. I know those parental feelings for another reason, in that soon my wife and I will be driving the last of our five children to a far away college. ('Last times' are often even more scary than 'first times,' I am coming to realize.) That event will be no picnic for us, but will likely be party time for her. Having already processed four children out of high school and into college, I know that things are not, they are not, and we are not the same when they find their way home, for good, or even for a semester break. They are changed, and we are changed, at least a bit. It is no longer a relationship between an adult and a child. It is a relationship between an adult and another adult, assuming that we parents can act like adults while they visit. Stranger changes have probably taken place in our world, but only probably.

     Still, and I know this to be true, what you younger parents need most to do at this time of year is to daily, cheerfully and bravely, dress your little bundle of joy, slap that peanut butter sandwich, juice box and apple into his lunch box, and put his backpack back on his back. Then, off you go to the school or the bus stop. The dirty little secret is that for some of you, what happens next is that you can head back home, to a quiet house that will not be disturbed or dirtied until your child arrives home in the afternoon. For you, there will be time on the couch today, to continue reading that wonderful book, as the sunshine beams through the window, warming both you and that big mug of mid-morning coffee. You will experience a bit of guilty pleasure in this, it is true. But don't feel too guilty. In fact, enjoy it while you can. BTS doesn't last forever. Before you know it your vacation will be over, and the school will gladly give the cherub back to you.

Happy New Year!

By G. E. Shuman

     For most adults, unless you happen to be of a similar profession to mine, the new year begins, each and every year, on the first day of January. Not so, in some ways, for the millions of children in our country, and for their teachers. For them, the new school year, whatever day it starts for them, is a much bigger event than some snowy day on the calendar, shortly after Christmas.

     The start of the new school year, for kids, can be an exciting, and/or exasperating time. For some it is the beginning of a season of true dread, as summer vacation draws to a close, and the prospect, in their minds, of nearly countless days of classes, tests, and homework assignments looms ahead. For other kids, and even for some of the doubters of the benefits of going back to school, there is a feeling of excitement in the air right now. For them it is a chance to see friends (and foes) that they haven't seen for three months. It is an adventure filled with things like new backpacks, lunch boxes, notebooks, pens, and some nicely-sharpened, brand new, bright yellow, 'number 2' pencils.

     As a young child I always loved those new pencils. I actually remember wondering, since everyone had to use those number 2s, or, I thought, go to prison, why they were not called 'number 1' pencils. Those pencils, somehow, were actually an important part of this yearly new beginning, for me. I don't know why, but they made me feel like my grades would be better, and my mind sharper, by having those sharp new pencils to use in the fresh new year. (Don't blame me. I was just a kid.) It didn't always (or ever) work out that way for me, but those bright yellow, pointed pencils were good to have on that frightening first day, in a new classroom, with a brand new, scary-looking teacher. In my day we even had something called a pencil box. I'm not sure if kids still use those, but one that I had was pretty cool. It had a roll-top desk type plastic cover that slid inside of the box to reveal those pencils, some pens, and another of my favorites, a big, pink, rubber eraser. Remember those?

     If I had a time machine, and was able to go back and redo all of those school years of my past, there is one lesson I have learned that I would try to remember, and follow. It is something I should have stuck to at that time, and something I have always encouraged my own kids to do. (I used the word 'encourage' in that last sentence, because to say that I have tried to beat it into my kids heads all these years would sound a bit harsh.) Truthfully, the latter is what I have tried to do, and, as a teacher, the lesson is something I still try, hopefully more tactfully, to relate to my students. That lesson that I wish I had learned, and am still encouraging my youngest children to follow, is this:

     (Here is where it gets a little serious.) Kids, and students of all ages, you NEED to study, do your best, and take advantage of the 'advantages' you have, in being in school in our great country. I know that statement sounds like something one of your grandparents would say, but the reason they would say it is because they love you, and, because, by the way, the statement happens to be true. You have heard for years that this is that land of opportunity, and that you can be anything you want to be here. I don't think that all of you can be President, as we don't need that many presidents, but you certainly have more opportunities for success here than you would have if you lived any place else on earth. The truth is, your parents and grandparents aren't lying to you, or trying to torture you, as they hassle you about grades, and homework, and studying for that next big test. Your future, in many big respects, really does depend on your grades, and what you do about them, right now. Going to a late, week-night movie with your friends, or staying up all night texting before a test will not seem like it was such a hot idea a few years from now when you are refused acceptance at that special college you're going to apply to. That college's admissions office won't care that you were too 'busy' to study. They really won't.

     So, (Here is where it gets VERY serious.) this is what I have always told my own kids: Don't, and I repeat, DON'T let your grades decide that future for you! Don't let them limit your options for further education. Your high school accomplishments, recorded in those grades, will be either the key, or the lock, to what you do the rest of your life. Master them now, and you will be the master of that future. As the school year begins, it is the perfect time to make a fresh new start, with a great determination to succeed. As harsh as this may sound, you need to get your butt back to school, and get to work. (And don't forget those number 2 pencils.) Happy New Year!

The Wonderful Land of August

by G. E. Shuman

Dear Readers: This column will make more sense if you read it after August 1^st. Feel free to read it now, if it's not August yet, but read it again then. (That way I get to visit with you twice.)

     Well, fellow travelers, here we are again. For any who are unaware, we have all just arrived in the wonderful land of August. If you're reading this, which you must be, you have been to this beautiful place of sun and fun many times before. (That is, unless you are a child prodigy, the likes of which the world has never seen, and you are reading this on your first birthday or something.) Discounting that improbability, it is a good bet that you have been to this place in the year at least several dozens of times. My writing attracts few tweens and teens.

     In my particular case, I'm making this visit to August for the sixty-first time. I'm sixty years old, (barely) as I was born in July, so, yeah, that makes sixty-one Augusts, I think. (By the way, I figured that out all by my lonesome, without consulting Google or face book or twitter or anyone else.) Sadly, it's hard to imagine that someone with such boyish youth and good looks as myself could possibly have taken the magnificent voyage around the sun, (an event which we have chosen to represent the 'years' of our lives,) over sixty times already, but I'm afraid that it is true. My vehicle and yours is both the earth herself, and time, the combination of which never stops, or even slows, and ultimately proves, relentlessly and without exception, to be deadly. And we all seem to be its semi-reluctant passengers. But... 'Stop the world, I want to get off?' No. I don't think so, and neither do you, really.

     In my youth, August meant to me what it likely still means to kids today. It meant days at the lake, being with friends, bike riding, lawn mowing, beach-walking, car washing, fishing, cookouts, sunbathing, strawberries, watermelon, the smell of cocoanut oil, the taste of corn on the cob, Popsicles, and most importantly, the fact that school summer vacation was not yet over. As an oldish, school-teaching, textbook toting visitor to August for the sixty-first time, it means days at the lake, being with friends, bike riding, lawn mowing, beach-walking, car washing, fishing, cookouts, sunbathing, strawberries, watermelon, the smell of cocoanut oil, the taste of corn on the cob, Popsicles, and most importantly, the fact that school summer vacation is not yet over. Oh, so much has changed.

     The reality is that August, truly, is a wonderful place to spend a month, and we all seem to stay here for exactly that long, every time we visit. Isn't that strange? I love how long and sunny these days are; how green and alive everything is. The more Augusts I experience, I think, the more I appreciate those things. Every summer, every August, I pray that I will see the next one. No, I really do. The 'green and alive' part of it all is a big reason for my love for this month, as you could probably already tell. 'Alive' is what we are supposed to be, and being surrounded by life is just wonderful. Maybe we're not supposed to be green, but you get the idea. The warm nights in the land of August are wonderful too. My wife works evenings, and it's so neat that even at midnight the two of us can enjoy a mild summer breeze together, talking and rocking on the front porch swing. (Yes, we really do have a front porch, and we really do have a front porch swing. This time of year we use them both, all the time.) If that sounds corny and dated to you, then you need to adjust your 'corny and dated' meter.

     That front porch swing is also useful in a very informal game my wife and I tend to begin playing, at about this time each year. The game has no name, but it involves being the first to spot a bright red leaf peeking out from the green depths, high in the very large and elderly maple tree on our front lawn. When that happens, we both know that our visit to August has ended, in more ways than can be shown on a calendar. The month is always quickly overtaken by those of fall; that one red leaf is soon swallowed up in a sea of scarlet and bronze. Then cooler evenings come, bringing smokey scents from neighborhood wood stoves, and fewer visits to the front porch swing.

     I hope you enjoy your thirty-one day visit to the land of August as much as I will. I'll see you later. In fact, lets make a date of it. I'll meet you back here, I promise, at this very spot, exactly 365 days from now.

A Wonderful Diversity

by G. E. Shuman

     Our family is a very diverse one. I suppose, these days, with all the traveling people do, and with our society's total absorption into social media, and because of other factors I don't even realize are happening, most families are more diverse than they might have been years ago. “We are,” in many respects, not only “what we eat,” as they used to say, but also what we experience, and who we experience, these days more than ever before.

     

     Our family's diversity is a wonderful one, and I feel totally blessed by the various backgrounds, views, and heritages of the people in my life. Our family shares one faith, in the one true God, and in His Son, but even in some points that relate to that faith I and some of my own children differ.

    

     Another diversity that makes our family what it is, is our ethnic diversity, which is probably what you thought I wanted to talk about today. If you did think that, you would be right, at least partially. We are blessed, through marriages and adoptions, with a wonderful 'blend,' if you will, of many of the talents and beauty of the diverse people of our world. Lorna and I have biological children who look somewhat like us, adopted children who do not, grandchildren of mixed race and others who are not who look somewhat like their own parents, and two grand kids who are of Chinese heritage. Our family is truly blessed, with, and because of, all of these wonderful and diverse people.

     

     One reason you would only be partially right if you thought I wanted to talk about ethnic diversity today, is because my main reason for beginning this column is because of two deeper subjects, in my view. Those are the subjects of love, and of adoption. And here is where things get a bit mystical, misty-eyed, and wondrous for me. Firstly, I need to say that if you and your spouse both want to adopt a child, and can do it, I have a very short piece of experience-born advice, which is this: If you want to adopt, if you need to adopt, if you yearn to adopt... do it. Period. Don't wait for the perfect time, or the perfect home, or the perfect financial situation, because none of those will ever come. I have made many mistakes in my lifetime, but adopting children, twice, was not among those mistakes. I remember the night, over twenty years ago, as my wife and I lay in bed, talking about the baby boy whom we had never met, but who would soon join our family, thinking and saying to Lorna, “It's so strange. I love that baby, already.” Lorna's reply was that she, of course, did too. And that love for him and for the then not even conceived infant girl who would, two years later, also be adopted and become his sister, has only grown, every single day since that night. How amazing is that?

     

     About a week ago, on a beautiful, sunny, Sunday afternoon, our family and our friends gathered for a surprise 'adoption shower' for our daughter, Chrissy, her husband Adam, and their kids, in celebration and anticipation of the soon arrival of our newest grandchild. Actually, as you read this paper, you can be a part of that celebration if you would say a prayer for them, or think of them. Right now, the week of this publication, they will be on their way to China, to meet that precious child for the very first time. It is true that she will not arrive into our family in what once was the 'usual' way, but will join us, forever, when she arrives in our country. She will add much to the beauty and diversity of our ever-growing family, and we are very excited to meet her! Just as parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents love a child even before birth, you guessed it, we all love Zoe, already.

Things That I Believe

By G.E. Shuman

Dear Readers:

This column is a slightly updated version of one used in the paper several years ago. When I repeat a column I like to make that fact known, so that no one thinks I'm 'cheating', even if I am. I feel that, in this Independence Week, it is good to reflect on a few things that might be worth believing. I hope you agree.

Several days ago I began thinking about some of the big things and not so big things that I believe. Then I started writing those big and little things down. I’m not sure why or if anyone would be interested in reading this partial list of what I believe, but here it is anyway. (Most of the thoughts are mine, but one or two were picked from whatever part of my brain stores ideas stolen from others.) If some of these beliefs sound abrupt, it’s because I’m getting cranky in my old age. I do not mean to offend. Consider the source, and consider yourself warned.

I believe that technology is good, but that following it blindly into the future may not be so good.

I believe that all men, women, and born and not-yet-born children, are created equal. I also believe that, to believe this, you must first believe that they are created.

I believe that if your teenager is asking for a fight, you should not disappoint him.

I believe that intolerance of everything is wrong.

I believe that tolerance of everything is wrong.

I believe both in parachutes and seat belts. It’s just that more people are killed by not using seat belts.

I believe that “gratitude is the best therapy.” (My favorite bumper sticker.)

I believe that "you are a long time dead." (My favorite Yiddish saying.)

I believe that men should remove their hats when entering a building. This includes baseball caps. This also includes my disbelief that this one has to be mentioned.

I believe that everyone should honor their father and their mother.

I believe that corporal punishment should be permitted in schools, and administered liberally to deserving students and their parents.

I believe that Metamucil* works, and that I still will never buy it. (*The word Viagra may be substituted for the word Metamucil here.)

I believe in the resurrection of the dead, and not just when the work day is over.

I believe in my wife, my children, my grandchildren, and even my sons in law.

I believe that Hitler would have loved the idea of abortion in the U.S.

I believe it is possible for schools to become so attuned to the social needs of students that they lose all hope of actually educating them.

I believe in the hereafter, but that it is here, and after.

I believe that twelve brave men walked on the moon. I believe that twelve braver men walked with Jesus.

I believe that you become a political conservative when you mature, and that you don’t, if you don’t.

I believe that there is no place like home. (I really do.)

I believe that God allows U-turns. (And I’m glad He does.)

I believe in hot coffee in the morning.

I believe that all living things are organic. What else could they be?

I believe that you should eat and drink what you like, that other people should do the same, and that everyone should mind his own business.

I believe that Charlize Theron is the world’s best movie actress, regardless of her acting ability.

I believe that these are the good old days.

I believe that less is very often more.

I believe that God answers prayer.

I believe that adoption is a great way of guaranteeing that you get good looking children.

I believe that we are all faced with a series of great opportunities, brilliantly disguised as impossible situations. (My Dad taught me that one.)

I believe that life may exist on other planets, but that even if it doesn’t, we are far from being alone in the universe.

I believe in miracles.

I believe in Cinnabons with the hot coffee in the morning.

I believe that forgiveness is easier to get than is permission.

I believe in using the television’s ‘off’ button, frequently.

I believe in equality of the sexes, except that women are much better looking.

I believe that we are to be good stewards of our planet, but that mankind thinks too highly of himself if he thinks he can destroy it.

I believe that humans should never cause the extinction of an animal, but that we deserve to be here, too.

I believe in the Golden Rule. I also believe that if you don’t know what that is, you are probably a young person living in the U.S.

I believe in second chances, and third chances and fourth chances, just like God does.

I believe that each species of animal has its own special place in the world. I still view chickens as the dumbest animal God ever created, and believe that their place is right next to the mashed potatoes.

I believe in freedom of speech, and that displaying a crucifix in a bottle of urine is not speech.  If it is speech... what is it saying?

I believe that dogs, cats and other domesticated animals are pets, and that pets are purchased, and children are adopted. My family owns two dogs. I am not their daddy, and my wife is not their mom. I have eleven grandchildren. You may be able to have grand dogs.  I cannot, and would not.

I believe that there is a plan for each of our lives, and that we are perfectly free to ignore that plan, completely.

I believe that a person can be forgiven for any offense, but still may face the consequences of that offense.

I believe that living with teenagers is likely the reason gerbils eat their young.

I believe that Americans should honor and respect the flag of our great country. If any feel the need to burn or otherwise desecrate it just because this is a free county and they can, I believe they should try doing it in downtown Beijing with the Chinese flag, and soon.

I believe in the right to bear arms. In the event that our government ever became oversized, overbearing, overtaxing, and morally impotent, our forefathers saw the value in a combination of testosterone and gunpowder.

I believe it is a parent’s responsibility, not the government’s, nor the school’s, to “train up a child in the way he should go.” This is one reason becoming a parent when you are still a child has never been a very good idea.

I believe that abortion kills a human baby every time it is performed.

I believe that abstinence works every time it is tried.

I believe that there’s always room for Jell-O, but I still won’t eat it.

I believe that marriage was intended as a lifelong union between one man and one woman. It is my opinion that any other arrangement shows a misunderstanding of morality, anatomy, or both.

I believe that everything that is was created by a loving, all powerful, all knowing God in six short, actual, twenty-four-hour days, about six thousand years ago. Yes, I really do. I lack the necessary faith to believe that hundreds of millions of years ago this all fell together by pure accident, especially when I look at my eleven grandchildren.

It's Picnic Time!

By G. E. Shuman                                    

     Well, I waited all winter for this, and it's finally here! Picnic time! In some ways I can't believe it, because only last week I took my snow shovel from under the carport and put it in the cellar, but it's actually true. As most people know, winter here in Vermont is only separated from summer by about three minutes of spring-like weather, so I might be excused for not tucking that shovel into its summer, basement home more promptly. Anyway, I am very happy that it is picnic time!

     When I was a child, summer family picnics were almost a ritualistic project. These days things are a bit more 'disposable' and 'instant' than they were then, but people still enjoy picnics. Back in those far off days of my youth, picnics were complicated, and required more equipment than the Israelites packed up for forty years of wandering in the wilderness. (If you think I'm kidding, you should have seen my mother's lists of things to bring.) Also, at least as far as our family was concerned, picnics never happened at home. We did have a picnic table in the backyard of our central Maine home, as I remember, but we never used it for a picnic. In fact, I'm not sure what we did use it for. Our picnics always involved traveling, usually the hour or so it took to get to the beautiful Maine coast. Our family get-togethers, even the ones on Sunday, after spending the morning in church, nearly always happened within sight of the Atlantic, which was fine with me.

     In those distant days of the past, cars were big, and it was a good thing that they were big, because families were big, and picnics were big. You could pretty much have made a small apartment in the trunk of my dad's 1960 Chevy Biscayne. That's no joke, or at least it's not a big joke, not as big as that trunk. My point is that for a big family picnic we would pack that trunk so full that a stuffed olive wouldn't have a chance of making it in there in one piece, without removing the pimento. Such trunk-packing was no picnic, if you know what I mean.

     For our family, it just wouldn't have been a picnic without three or four picnic-table tablecloths, even though we would only be using one picnic table, (It was always safer to have a few spares.) and for each one, some of those nifty plastic (Yes, we had plastic back then.) clips to hold the tablecloth down, just in case the wind came up, which it always seemed to do, just as Dad was trying to light a charcoal fire. Oh yes, then there were those wonderful charcoal briquettes. Back then those things weren't as user-friendly as they are now, if memory serves, and no one had gas grills. Oh no. In those days you couldn't just light a match and flip it into one of those charcoal grills. Those briquettes had to be coaxed to life. First you had to pour about a gallon of lighter fluid on them, and quickly light that, before it evaporated. If you were lucky, the briquettes would catch on fire, and in three or four hours they were hot enough to grill something. I think all of that is because charcoal is somehow related to wood, and coal, and the dinosaurs, I think, and they weren't nearly as 'aged' when I was a child as they are now. At least, that's my theory.

     Along with the briquettes, if you were grilling, you had to bring the grill, in case the picnic area you went to didn't have those ones that are mounted on a steel post, and cemented into the ground so that picnic area grill-thieves wouldn't steal them. Also, if your mom was like mine, she usually thought the grills at those places were dirty or something, after cooking 'other people's' food, and not worthy of her family's burgers and hotdogs. And then you needed the grill utensils, and aluminum foil, which we called tin foil then, and the lighter stuff, and newspaper, and short sticks, and matches, (of course,) and long sticks for roasting marshmallows, in case you actually got the coals going in time to cook meat and still have time for marshmallows before the sun went down, or a storm came up. Oh yes, it might only rain a little, or get cold, so you needed sweatshirts, just in case, and cleaning supplies to wipe down the table, the utensils, and the kids with. (In our family there were six kids to wipe down.) All of this stuff, and much more, including paper plates, napkins, and cups had to get into that trunk. If there was not room for the food, we six kids got to hold grocery bags of it on the car floor our feet were supposed to be on, and/or on our six laps. I think that is why my folks had six kids. You know, six kids; six laps to hold picnic food on.

     No picnic would be complete without ants. Believe it or not, for many of our family picnics we actually invited our own ants. There was Ant Mary, Ant Ruth, Ant Myrtle, Ant Alice, Ant Marion, and several other ants I probably don't remember. (I know. Bad pun.) Our family and our picnics evolved in Maine, so we called them aunts. We still do, and we are right. Just check the spelling.

In all of this ranting about family picnic memories, there is one thing I remember more than all of the rest. I remember getting together with family members we had not seen for what seemed like years, and sitting around those rough old picnic tables, feasting on those hotdogs, hamburgers, chips, sandwiches, salads, and corn on the cob. My 'ant', I mean, my Aunt Mary always brought her special deviled eggs, and one bunch of us or another would contribute a huge watermelon, every time. After we ate, we kids would go climb rocks and trees, or find some other way to get bruised, as the 'old people' sat and drank strong, camp-stove coffee from those new-fangled Styrofoam cups, while reminiscing about picnics of the past. Those very special days, as complicated as they seemed to be to prepare for, were wonderful times. I wouldn't trade the memories of them for the world.

     This summer, be sure to give your kids the special, lifelong memories found in the simple pleasures of a family picnic. It doesn't matter if you have a traveling, trunk-filled, complicated picnic like ours used to be, or if you just go through the drive thru for a bag of burgers or subs, and eat them at the playground. You just can't have a bad time at a picnic. You could even invite your ants.  

Bitter-Sweet Changes

by G. E. Shuman

     “It's a funny ol' world, isn't it?” (That happens to be my favorite Jack Sparrow quote, from the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series.) Yes, Jack, I would agree that it's a funny ol' world. Unfortunately, at least to me, some of the 'funniness' isn't all that funny, this year.

     You see, Friday, the week that this paper comes out, is the day that our youngest child, Emily, graduates from high school. (Tears welling up already.) The day will be both heartening and a bit heart-breaking for Emily's mom and me, for certain. Em is a very accomplished student, the valedictorian of her graduating class, a member of the American Christian Honor Society, the president of her student council, a wonderful nearly-professional photographer, and just a natural leader. Whew! Just writing all of that was a bit tiring, but I did need to brag a bit. Emily will also soon be heading out on her second summer missions trip to assist the students at a Christian school in Africa, and then, for her, it's off to college. She, who has accomplished all of this while excelling at a full-time fast food restaurant job, will make a speech and sing a solo during what will be the last high school commencement I will ever attend where one of my own children is graduating. Her mom and I could not be more proud of her.

     Yes, the end of this school year will be remembered as a bitter-sweet experience for me, as it may be for you, if one of your children happens to be graduating. I have the honor of being one of Emily's teachers, so will be on the stage with her, physically, that graduation evening. Mentally, emotionally, I will be elsewhere; a basket-case, in a corner, watching, thinking, taking in the near-future events for what they are; for what they will be. What else can a proud parent do? I will do my best to stay out of the way; to silently observe the graduates, especially my daughter, having the times of their lives, both on graduation night, and as their summer progresses.

     As time goes on, and as I get steadily older, (I have realized that this getting-older bit will probably continue until I die.) I think that part of living, and indeed, of surviving, in this 'funny ol' world', is found in an attempt to heed the following advice that I once read, and frequently recall: “Take kindly the council of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.”-Desiderata. (Google it. You won't regret it.) When I was younger I wondered why older people seemed to move more slowly than younger ones. I almost pitied them, as I watched them prattle around in stores, or on the street. Now that I am closing in on being one of them, I understand all of that a bit better. I have come to the conclusion that some older people move slowly because they have no choice. Others, because they do have a choice, and choose to take their time. That is a lesson seemingly impossible to learn when young, but one most older folks have learned very well. A good friend of mine once said: “I don't mind leaving early, but don't rush me.” I heartily concur.

     As you read this, my family will be right in the middle of a very busy week. We will have a lot of company visiting in the area, and all will be celebrating Em's great accomplishments, with us. Soon after that, plans will begin to form around the Africa trip, and then of packing her off to college. To me, all of that has the potential of being very stressful, and very sad. My goal is to not allow the idea of 'sad' to be how I 'experience' the experience. Life will be changing for our family, as it perhaps has, or soon will be changing, for yours. Such changes, even though they are positive and good, are forever, and I am doing my best to see those things in a positive light.

     Parents pass the torch to the next generation, even as we pass the tissues to each other. Graduations, truly, are the commencement of wonderful future adventures for those graduating, and the ends of eras for those left behind. Both of those things are as they should be.

     Congratulations to the Websterville Baptist Christian School class of 2014! To my daughter Emily... (This is my newspaper column, so I can say it if I want to.) I love you more than I can tell you, I will always pray for you daily, and I will never be more proud of anyone than I am of you. Dad.

     I am trying my best to graciously accept the fact that Jack Sparrow was right. This really is “a funny ol' world.”