A Message from Your Very Recent Past

By G. E. Shuman

                When you read this in the paper, you will learn that you and I, right now, from both of our perspectives, are actually in two different times. We aren’t in two different time zones, not unless you live further west than do most of my readers. We are, literally, in two different times.  You see, you, as you live and breathe in the day in which you exist, ‘right now,’ are on the other side of a great divide that separates us; me at this writing, and you at the reading of it, by that magical millisecond after the ball drops, the horns blow, and the fireworks blast off proclaiming the beginning of a brand new year.

                You see, I am still in the year 2015, as I write these words, and you are not, as you read them.  I am writing on Wednesday, December 30^th, 2015, and you are reading this column ‘next year’, from my point of view.  I am way back in ‘last year’, to you.  Isn’t that strange?  Okay, so maybe it’s only me that is strange. I do have a different way of looking at things sometimes.  I remember hearing a comedian one time, joke that people always want to see a picture of him ‘when he was younger.’ His reply was that EVERY picture ever taken of him was when he was younger.  I guess that’s the same concept as with me, now writing to you from your recent past, isn’t it?

                Anyway, there you are, way over there on the other side of the divide, and here I am, still in 2015.  From our opposing viewpoints on things, you can look back at me, imagine me writing this column, right now, where I am, and, more importantly, WHEN I am, and wonder a few things that people always wonder about at the time of year you are in.  You may wonder how the year 2015 could have been different, how it could have been better.  You might think of things you did or didn’t do, and decisions you made or didn’t make, in this year that I am still in, as I write.  You may be happy that the old year is in the past; you know, the old ‘Out with old, and in with the new’, idea.  But, whatever was done with my still present year of 2015, it’s over for you now, and not one thing about it can be changed.  Nothing can be changed in whatever you did, or didn’t do, while you were here with me. I once heard one of the wisest men of our time, The Reverend Billy Graham, say about a person’s past, that, and I quote him, “You cain’t unscramble eggs.”  (The ‘i’ in the word can’t is intentional, as that is how he said it.)

                 I, on the other hand, look ahead at you, and I mean straight at you, and wonder about the future.  What great things, and not so great things are YOU going to accomplish in 2016?  What person are you going to vote for and help elect to be the next President of this great land of ours? What school or church are you going to attend?  What are you really going to do with those New Year’s resolutions you made, just days ago? (From your point of view.)  (I’m lucky, I haven’t even decided whether or not I will make a resolution ‘this year’… and still have a few more hours left to think about that.)  What changes might you make in your work life, home life, or spiritual life in your brand new year?  Another sort of paraphrased quote, because I don’t know the source, simply says, “If you find yourself heading in the wrong direction, remember, God allows U-turns.”  I love that one.

                So, I will leave you now. I have to finish up whatever I’m going to do before I join you over on ‘the other side’, in that new calendar year called 2016.  Save me a spot over there, if you would.  I hope that you will please remember something else when you think about what you might do in the coming weeks, months, and years of the very precious

life that you have been given.  It is one more quote, and it is a REALLY important one:   “Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending.”- Carl Bard.  So, my friend, you lucky person who is actually living in ‘my future’ world of 2016… what will YOUR “brand new ending” be?
               Hey, wait for me… I’ll be in 2016 with you before you know it… and in 2017 before you can even comprehend how quickly that next new year came, and then, how quickly it went. For now, I will just say: Happy New Year! (Whatever new year it is.)

Stringing Popcorn

By G. E. Shuman

When I was a child, a long time ago, in a galaxy far away, many things were different than they are today. That statement seems to go without saying, but I still said it. The world has changed so much since then.  Traditions, celebrations, and even seasonal decorations are not the way they once were. I’m not sure if such changes are good, or bad. I will tell you that I was not impressed with the first ‘pre-decorated’ Christmas tree I saw in a store.

One thing that my family used to do, when I was a child, at this time of the year, was to string popcorn to use as a sort of garland on our Christmas trees. I’m not certain if we did this every year, but I do remember the ritual taking place several times in the eighteen Decembers of my youth.  What would happen is that my mom would pop a big batch of popcorn on the stove, provide us children with a needle and a lot of thread, and we would proceed to spend that evening watching whatever Christmas special was broadcast that night, assembling the corn into long strands, to be placed on the tree as soon as we were done.  The challenge, at least for us younger children, was to string at least a bit more popcorn than we ate, as we watched Rudolph, Frosty, or Charlie Brown make their once-per-year Christmas appearance on the big old, wooden-boxed television in our living room.

It would be an extreme understatement to say that things have changed in my life, and in our world, since that long ago time. This year, if you were to describe my Christmastime, you would have to move, not only past that child of the sixties, to one whose years now number in the sixties. You would need to talk about the fact that not only have I grown older, but that my children have also, and that my grandchildren are in the process of doing so, too.  The TVs that Rudolph and Frosty still appear on have gone from being clunky, blurry, heavy things which took up a good amount of floor space in our living rooms, to inch-thick, huge and brilliant devices we take for granted as they hang on our walls.

Yes, things change, as years pass.  There is no longer anyone in our home who believes in Santa, or who is interested in many of the traditions of that jolly old elf, or of our family. This year, Lorna and I decided to embrace that fact, as fighting it would be stupid and futile.  We still went out and bought a tree, but a much smaller one than at any Christmas past, in an effort to simplify things, this year. We, without the fanfare now relegated to seasonal memories, set up the smaller tree in that familiar corner of the living room.  Lorna, the wise one in the family, then suggested that we use some of our older ornaments, sort of making this tree a symbol of memories. She then went to the attic, and located those things, and also the angel treetop her family had used on their trees, since she was an infant. She brought that aging angel to me, and I tried plugging it into an outlet. To her and my astonishment, the 1950s era bulb within it glowed as if it were brand new. We immediately put that beautiful, angel on the tree.

After that, Lorna began fretting a bit over what would be the perfect garland on our new, ‘old fashioned’ Christmas tree. I didn’t know what she wanted to do, and we actually went to several stores, trying to find a beaded type of garland she had remembered from the past, but we never located it.  We then checked the totes of Christmas stuff in the attic, and found nothing suitable there, either. Then, in probably the only good Christmas idea I have ever had, I asked Lorna if she had ever strung popcorn, as a child, to put on a Christmas tree. To my amazement, and partial delight, she said that she had not. The fact that I wasn’t aware of this, in the life of my wife of 43 years, was astounding. The idea that she agreed to string some popcorn with me that evening, was even more so.

So, that very night, I went to the store and got two boxes of microwave popcorn, even as my dear wife located needles and thread.  When the corn was popped we turned on our favorite shows, and then strung it into what turned out to be the perfect garlands for our wonderful, old fashioned, Christmas tree.  

            When this issue of the paper is published, it will be nearly Christmas day. When you read this column, the holiday might actually have already passed. So, it is very likely too late to ask you to try decorating your tree, in an old fashioned way,

as we did this year. That is fine, as next year will be here before you know it. As you look forward to the new year, you might want to consider the idea of simplifying, and retro-fitting other holidays with just a few things from the past. Some of those things really are worth doing again.  I got to spend an evening watching TV and stringing popcorn with my best friend.

You Will Not Hear It Fall

By G. E. Shuman

          Something is coming to New England, in a very short time.  We receive it every year, and if it has not arrived by the time this issue of the World is published, don’t worry. It will be here soon enough. You probably are already aware that the ‘something’ I’m referring to here, is snow. 

          Snow first appears in the North, each late fall or early winter, almost in secret. Weather experts tell us, and are sometimes right, when the first or the next snowfall will happen, but it can still often take us by surprise. I still remember, as a child in Maine, being so excited to wake up some crisp late-fall morning to discover that the first snowfall of the year had come, softly, silently, as I peacefully slept.  I always think, that when that clean white snow first comes, it arrives, as the fog in Carl Sandburg’s poem “Fog”, “on little cat feet”.  It does not make a sound.

I began thinking all of this through, a few days ago, as I worked on my old snow blower, under the carport.  Each year I try to get the aging machine ready for the huge amounts of snow we usually receive here in Vermont. This year I decided to get it a bit more prepared than I usually do. The machine is showing its years a bit, just as am I, and as things age, they need a bit more care. (I hope my wife reads that.) The snow blower has rust, and some moving parts that don’t work as well as they used to years ago.  I can identify with those points, also.  And, to my shame, I changed the old machine’s oil for the first time yesterday, and installed a brand new spark plug.  Sometime in the next few days I intend to remove a bit of the rust, and spray paint some places, to provide some protection, and, hopefully, make it last a few more years.

I installed the plug, filled up the gas tank, and prayed that the blower would start, which it almost immediately did.  Only then did I remember how much I appreciate, but somehow hate the grating sound of that engine, as the device it powers helps me rid my driveway of the silent white stuff.   What a contrast, I thought, between man’s machines, and the effortless occurrences of the natural world.  My noisy, greasy, man-made thing, opposed, in more ways than one, to the silent white blankets of snow that it will soon encounter.        

My faith makes me believe that a big snowfall is a sign of God’s power, in effortlessly blessing, or hindering us, depending on your feelings about snow, with many tons of frozen water, without making a sound.  Our world meters all of this out to us, one flake at a time, because the land needs the moisture. It is a medicine which we need, and take, willingly or not so willingly, each winter.  It comes, and it will always come, but you will not hear it fall.

Rain arrives in the other seasons, and often beats the ground, splashing into itself, in the very puddles that it forms. It is a sometimes comforting sound on the roof, and then it immediately rushes to streams, rivers and lakes.  It is not the same with snow.  Yes, sleet and hail can noisily pound on your frozen windshield in winter, but not snow.  Wind whips around our homes, vibrating old window panes, seeking to enter at any spot that it might, but it’s not that way with snow.  Snow comes, but you will not hear it fall. It then waits patiently, to fill the waterways when warmer weather arrives.

This winter, go outside during a fall of snow, and just stop. Don’t talk, don’t look at your cellphone, and for a moment, don’t even breathe. Be still, and listen.  You may hear cars, or someone else’s cranky old snow blower in the distance. If you do, even those

sounds will seem quieter, more distant, and muffled, all because of the blanket of white on the ground. Unless there is wind, the new snow will drop softly, silently, in peaceful stillness, straight down to the earth. You will see it, and you might feel it on your face, but, love it or hate it, you will not hear it fall.

“Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.”

(Robert Frost)

On Being Thankful

By G. E. Shuman         

November is a month, for some of us here in the north, of settling in, of staying put, and of thinking thoughts of the soon-coming winter. For me, any spare time in October was spent doing the chores which make November’s settling in possible, like getting air conditioners put away, leaky doors fixed, and windows locked up tight in this hundred-plus year old house my family calls home. Leaves from our two huge maples are faithful to cover the lawn each autumn, and always get raked away, just before the rakes, themselves, get put away and replaced by snow shovels, under the carport.  Each year I spend some time making sure the old snow blower still starts, and is greased up, fueled up, and ready for the weather to come.  I don’t mind doing these chores that make my home as efficient and comfortable as possible when the bad weather really hits.

            I always seem to get a bit contemplative at this tucked-in holiday season, especially, it seems, in the past few years. This old house is not as full of family and their belongings as it once was. Sometimes that is a difficult thing for me to think about.  I’m alone here more often than I am comfortable with being, and am thankful for the chance to fill some of the evening hours, when my wonderful wife is at work, with writing for you, dear readers.  So, thank you for easing those hours, and for the chance to express a few thoughts that many of us, even though we are strangers to each other, likely still share.

Even now, as I sit here in silence, it is cold outside the windows of this house on the hill, and it is very dark out there.  The winds of one more late fall evening beat against the aging glass panes, but fortunately, those winds have always stayed on the outside of this place.  For this I am thankful.  Indeed, it is quite warm in here, and cozy, tonight.  The furnace works well, and there is enough fuel, although, sometimes, I still light the fireplace, as I did when the kids were young, just because. 

            All of this contemplation is not always a sad thing to me, but is, sometimes, a chance for reflection on the things my wife and I have done this year, and, reaching back further, the things we have done throughout all of the years that we have lived in this place. Obviously, without her, there would be no ‘we’, and being with her is, thankfully, where this all began, for me. We were so blessed to raise five tremendously talented children in this old place, for which I am, truly, thankful. You know… those amazing people are as diverse as any five children could ever be, and I would still do anything at all for any one of them.

 Also, so far, thirty-three Christmas trees have graced a stand, and have been placed in one corner or another of one of our front rooms; uncounted late-night hours have been spent wrapping the gifts that would fill that corner for each year’s coming December 25^th.  Seemingly countless numbers of birthday cakes, Easter hams, Thanksgiving turkeys, and other celebratory foods and fun have been enjoyed here, too.  

I have been, truly and unquestionably, very blessed. Having a beautiful, faithful, Christian wife, wonderful children and grandchildren, and a warm home to share with them all makes for quite a life.  What more could a man ever ask for?

            I’m not at all sure why the words that have assembled on my computer screen this evening have done so as they have.  When I write, that is often the case.  (I guess I’ll have to go back and read them, to see what they say.)  I think, tonight, it is just because I can’t help but tell you that I am very thankful for my life, and for the people in it; for what I have, and for what I have had.  I hope you feel the same way about your life, too.

Unless you are a member of my family, or of my small group of friends, I don’t know anything about your beliefs.  How could I?  In any case, I will let you know mine. I believe in God, in His son Jesus, in our nation, and very much, in family. I also believe it is important to recognize, and to be grateful for, all that we have in this cornucopia of a country that we share, especially in this contemplative, settled-in time of year.

 I hope you will take a few minutes, as the holidays approach, not to stop and smell the roses, as there are few roses outside right now, but to stop and sense the fullness of what your life is, and of what you have experienced, so far.  And, in a word, to be thankful.

            Happy Thanksgiving!  

G. S.

Snow Tires

By G. E. Shuman

            Dear Readers, I first published this column a few years ago, but it seems to be that time again.

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 miserable. 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 changed... 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 dealership people think that way.

This fall 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 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 a 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.

Spooky!

By G. E. Shuman

            Dear Readers, this column is not new, in fact it is quite ‘old’; a dusty, dark, true tale from the past, that I have received compliments on in the past.  I hope you enjoy it.

           

            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 happened within a mid-nineteen-sixties year.  Perhaps it could be that the late autumn wind cooled and creaked the leafless, lifeless-looking trees even more then than now; again, somehow.  Or, perhaps it is only because those October thirty-firsts were actually spookier then, at least to the one whose memory of the night it is.   Those Halloweens contained no costumes of bleeding skulls or vividly maimed souls.  They were, simply, or perhaps, not so simply, ghostly, hauntingly spooky nights.                                         

            On this one night, dusk, as dust, 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. Low voices and footsteps of other spooks were already upon the steps; 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 plan, his siblings had already slipped into the night without him.  He was very alone; at least he hoped he was alone, as he ventured into the much too chilly night air.  The cold breeze stung his eyes as he peered through the rubbery-odored mask of his costume.  He began the long walk through the frozen-dead, musty-smelling leaves covering the sidewalk. The youth hurried past the frightful row of thick and dark, moonlit-maples along the way.  He was very afraid that the dry crunch of death in those old leaves would alert of his presence whatever ghoul or ghost might be lurking behind one of those trees.  As he walked on in the increasingly-inky black, he dared not peek even slightly around any of those trees.  It was a sure thing that not EVERY roadside tree hid some witch or ghastly ghoul, 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 surpassing the haunted trees, and successfully trick-or-treated at many houses on the street.  Every inch of the way he thought about the one house he dreaded visiting most; the house of the witchy-looking old lady.  Sure, she seemed kind in the daytime, but you didn’t see her humped old back or the wrinkly look in her eyes in the daytime.  Her house was cold as a tomb, at least, such was her porch, at night and in late October.  The boy knew this well from the year before, but that year he had been with his brothers and sisters. As he walked, the scuffing of every step seemed to taunt him with the words: Every… witch… awaits… the child… who comes… alone…

            The boy’s small hands were nearly freezing by the time he reached the old lady’s small dark house far down the street.  He managed to climb to the top of the worn old steps.  He stood there a moment, and then worked up enough courage to open the narrow door which entered onto the witch’s small, windowed porch.  The rusty door spring, worn to its own insanity by countless other small boys who were fools enough to enter here, screeched a hateful, taunting announcement of the boy’s arrival.  This it repeated, mocking its original scream, as the door slammed tightly shut, between the lad and the world outside.

            The long, enclosed tomb of a porch offered no relief from the cold, but some little relief from the night wind.  The only light therein was that of a maddening, perfectly-placed jack-o-lantern which hideously smiled up at the boy from the floor, at the farthest corner of the room. The porch exuded the sooty-sweet smell of that candle-lit carved pumpkin.  This aroma mingled with that of crisp, cold Macintosh apples which filled a wooden crate at one wall.  “What could possibly be the use of cold apples to a witch?”  The boy briefly pondered.

            The one who disguised herself as a regular, kind old lady during the daytime was very cunning indeed.  Her trap for little boys was a porch table full of the biggest and best treats in the town.  Those very famous treats were the single reason the boy was even on this terrifying porch.  There was a tray which held beautiful candied apples and another laden with huge, wax-paper-wrapped popcorn balls.  A bowl between them overflowed with candy corn; the boy’s favorite.  Thoughts of poison 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 toward the door to the porch, he headed out, past the screeching door, down the steps, and toward home.  If she had ever invited any little boy into her home, that boy certainly had never come back out.  This boy, that night, had, somehow, survived another visit to that house.  He had gotten away with the biggest popcorn ball of all!  His only fear then was in getting past the street-side ghouls that certainly stared at him from behind some of those huge old maples. But, the horror was, behind which ones?

            Yes, Halloween was different in the nineteen sixties, before the age of sugar and plastic holidays. There was something hauntingly powerful about the cheap paper cutouts, cheesy cardboard skeletons and black and orange streamers of those years.  Fold-out paper pumpkins and eerie (and probably dangerous) cardboard candleholders lit our yards. Homemade, totally safe treats filled pillow cases and paper bags. Those bags belonging to night-prowling, costumed, youthful vagabonds, whose parents had no fear at all that they would not return home safely.  Halloween nights were ones of simple, frightful fun. Cartoon ghosts and goblins, fake witches and funny Frankenstein monsters were all that stalked the innocent imaginations of children then.  True evil had nothing to do with those nights at all.

            The ghouls of Halloweens long-past may live only in aging, dusty memories, but the dark and distant nineteen-sixties Halloween you just read about really did happen, just as written here.  At least, that’s how this old trick-or-treater remembers it.

A Note of Thanks to the Grill Thief

By G. E. Shuman

            

            I would like to say thank you, to whomever took the barbecue grill off my front porch a few nights ago.  In doing so, you accomplished several things for me.

            Firstly, you have completely restored my faith in the unfailing ability of mankind to do, progressively, ‘stupider and stupider’ things.  I have witnessed stupid things before, but what you did was a true masterpiece. Somehow, you felt the need, or at least had the desire, to steal a very used, dirty, greasy, slightly rusty item that wasn’t very expensive, even when it was brand new.   You, and probably a partner in the barbecue-grill-stealing crime community, had to lug that greasy, grungy grill down off our front porch, down our long walkway, and further down our flight of crooked granite steps to your awaiting getaway car, truck, or whatever you left the engine running in, in front of our house.  That all was just a brilliant scheme. (That last statement was sarcasm, in case you are unable to understand things like that.) I hope you didn’t break an ankle before you finished the job. Actually, I don’t really hope that.

            Secondly, you helped me get rid of something that, although I enjoyed using it, and although it was a birthday present from my wife, was probably not the safest thing in the world.  The truth is, shortly after we purchased that grill, three summers ago, it had a safety recall, and I was supposed to take it back to the store.  I did not, as I liked the grill. The problem, as stated on the recall, was that the gas could build up in the grill, causing it to explode.  Thank you so much, as I no longer have to think about that every time I cook a steak.  It is now your problem. 

            Thirdly, that grill really was dirty. Because of the busy lives most of us lead, we may take better care of some things when they are new, than after they have many miles on them, or, in this case, have had many burgers on them.  I know that’s the way it is with me. (If grill snatching is a full time job for you, you know just what I mean about being busy.) It was getting harder and harder to get that grill clean, and I had given up on it ever looking like it did when it was new. Now I don’t ever have to clean it again. Whew!

            So, as I began this column saying, Thank You, to whomever relieved me of my gas grill a few nights ago.  Grilling season is about over in Vermont anyway, and now I will start next summer with a brand new gas grill. (God is good to me.)  I do hope you enjoy my old one. (Just be careful how you light it.)

She Smiled At Me

By G. E. Shuman

            One day last week I was in my car, and happened to have just approached an intersection in downtown Barre, when something simple, but somehow profound, happened to me. Just as I was slowing to stop at the intersection, a young woman came around the corner of a building and headed down the sidewalk, facing toward me. This lady was pushing one of those ‘double’ baby strollers, which was occupied by two very young infants.  Although I am not normally a very ‘smiley’ person, it is my natural inclination to smile when I see a baby.  I’m not sure why that is, other than the fact that I have always loved babies and small children.  (For this very reason, I am attempting, personally, to go right from my first childhood into my second, and avoid all of that nasty adulthood stuff in between. So far I have succeeded quite well at this. Just ask my wife.)

            The thing that happened next, as you have probably guessed from the title, is that the young woman must have seen me smiling at her beautiful twins, as I waited for the traffic light to change. I looked up at her, and she immediately smiled back at me.  That was it… that was all, and you might be wondering why I was so struck by her smile, to call the occurrence profound.  Well, you see, as I drove away, probably never to see those infants or their proud mom again, I realized that she had appreciated MY appreciating her children, and let me know that, with a smile.  I think that that appreciation doesn’t happen much today, especially with strangers.   I also think that fact is a sad one.

            We live in a sinful, dangerous world today, where kids are rightly taught to not speak to strangers; and one in which children are kidnapped, or neglected, or abused.  Such horrifying things are in the news almost daily. When I was young such terrible occurrences were rare, and most parents felt safe allowing their kids to play throughout the neighborhood. Even as preteens, my friends and I would spend summer evenings playing army or cops and robbers on our street and even in the woods, guided only by moonlight. There was not the fear of danger then that parents must face today. 

            Even though I hate the idea, I think that people like me, from my generation, need to be careful these days, for the sake of the kids, and I need to heed my own advice. For years now, when my wife has been pushing a shopping cart around the supermarket on a Saturday morning, (and I am dutifully following her,) I just love waving at the young kids in their carts, and getting smiles and waves in return.  (I have to have some fun.) Truthfully, and sadly, this is probably counterproductive, if their parents are teaching them to not trust strangers.               

            Still, that day in my car, at that downtown Barre intersection, I felt a bit of hope, that not everyone is suspected of evil intent just because they are someone who is unknown. I happened to be in the right place at the right time that day, to see the double blessing that was riding in that double stroller.  I also saw a joyful young mom, and she smiled at me.   J

Cars Aren't Much Fun Anymore

By G. E. Shuman

            My wife and I buy new cars. Actually, we lease them, we don’t buy them. For our purposes leasing works better than buying. The payment is reasonable, and, even though there is that payment, there are no thousand-dollar surprises like there used to be so many times when we owned VERY used, un-warranted vehicles.  I like that idea of no surprises, and the fact that if they break down it’s someone else’s problem. For me, long gone (hopefully) are the days when it was an adventure to climb into, on top of, or, most stressfully, UNDER a car, to solve one problem or another.  I am an English teacher, writer, editor, husband, father, grandfather, son, grandson… etc.  I am not, nor have I ever claimed to be, a mechanic. I can still change your brake pads or oil, but don’t tell me about your bad coolant pump or rotting exhaust system, please. So, as I said, in my family we buy or lease new cars, or purchase gently used ones, even if we have to scrimp somewhere else in the budget. I love warranties, guarantees, promises and roadside assistance, and don’t care who knows it. 

            Lately, though, I have been wondering about cars in general, and don’t like what I am wondering about.  You see, it seems to me that today’s cars, even though they are highly advanced in comparison to the ones I grew up with, are getting to be pretty boring. They just aren’t fun anymore.  The cheapest of them will get you, especially if nearly new, simply, anywhere.  Don’t get me wrong, the great quality of today’s cars is a wonderful thing.  And… I know, I just told you that I hate fixing cars, but today’s cars are not a challenge. A mechanic recently told me that if you keep your oil changed, today’s cars just go on forever. His opinion was that there isn’t a nickel’s worth of difference in quality between the brands anymore. To him, gone are the days when being a ‘Ford’ man, or a ‘Chevy’ man, or a ‘Chrysler’ man has any real meaning.  You can get into any of them and drive to Canada, Mexico, California, or Florida from here in Vermont, and never have to worry about whether or not you will make it. I drive a Kia, and you can do it in my car, too. That is a good thing… I guess. See how confused I am?

            My mixed feelings about this subject could just be because of the generation I hail from, and the cars we grew up with.  I am aged (I hate that word.) enough to not want to be out there changing a tie rod or solving some other mechanical problem, but the wonderful reliability of today’s cars, to me, really has taken some of the adventure out of owning one.  When I was a teenager, getting a set of new spark plugs for your car was a special event. Getting ignition wires to go with them was something to celebrate. I remember turning that ignition key, wondering if I had set the gap correctly on those new plugs, (Most people today probably think a gap is just that space between their front teeth.) and listening for the purr of that engine, freshly supplied with new, tuned-up power.  Today, none of that seems to mean anything.

            Before I finish whining, let me say this. Cars today are all about features. The truth is, they always have been. Have you noticed that? It’s just that today, most of those features have nothing to do with the performance of the car at all.  They are all just electronic stuff, and have become more addicting to adults than a play station to a pre-teen. No one wants to buy a car that has one less option than the last one they owned.  I know I don’t. Do you? My car has outside mirrors that fold in when you lock the car. I think they’re cool, but have no idea what the value of that dumb feature is, other than letting me tease my wife that her car doesn’t have them.  Yes, power ‘everything’ used to be what was looked for, and now power has little to do with it. Cramming the newest electronic gadget into the dash is what it’s about now, while half the car buyers out there probably don’t know if their car has four, six, or eight cylinders, and most of those couldn’t tell you what a cylinder is, anyway.  “Yup, I think I’ve got a two liter engine under that hood-thingy, and two liters of Diet Coke in the fridge.” Okay, so now I’ll stop whining. I do feel much better. Thank you. You folks out there really are my therapy.

I don’t know.  Having a great sound system, a rear view camera, satellite radio, a navigation system, electronic traction control, and electronic everything else available in a car today might be important to some people, and I guess that’s okay, not that anyone has asked for my permission.  To my generation a fresh oil change, a new air filter, clean spark plugs, a Turtle Wax shine, and the open road were way, way cooler.  

The $99 Cure

By G.E. Shuman

          

          Three weeks ago I went to my doctor for my semi-annual checkup, fix up, tune up visit. As I arrived at his office for the visit, it seemed like I had just left that place from the last one. Have you ever had that feeling? Time flies… especially lately. Over the years I have developed a good, casual relationship with this knowledgeable medical man I was about to see, and feel fairly comfortable discussing my health issues with him. Unfortunately, over the years, I have also developed lots for the two of us to talk about during the visits.  Heart problems, digestive issues, diabetes, high blood pressure, glaucoma, all of their related symptoms and medications, and, of course, weight gain, have sort of crept up on this once-trim, once healthy, once young person.  So have gray hair, wrinkles, and a general ‘old man’ curmudgeon-ism that I have actually grown a bit fond of. (Don’t mess with old people.) 

          Near the end of the visit my doctor said something that didn’t actually shock me, but did wake me up a bit.  He told me, in pretty straightforward terms, that I had a month to convince him that I could get the blood pressure and sugar numbers down, on my own.  He didn’t actually say, ‘or else’, and I don’t know what the ‘or else’ could have been, if he actually had an ‘or else’, as I was already pretty much on the maximum medication I can take for those particular complaints… not that I’m complaining. (Lately, taking all of my pills in the morning leaves little room for breakfast, but that’s another story.)

          Now, here’s where the $99 cure comes in.  I actually left the doctor’s office that day thinking about his admonition, instead of immediately forgetting most of what we had discussed, as I sometimes do. It’s my health, and my tired, fat old body, and all of that, but there was a tone of concern in his voice that shook me up, just a bit. So, I got into my car, went from that appointment over to the mall across from his office, and picked out a bicycle.  Don’t laugh at me… I really did.  And, it wasn’t just ANY bicycle.  It was a really sharp looking, shiny new green one, with a

comfortable seat, tires that looked like they could hold up my several hundred pounds, and only seven speeds, (so that I didn’t have to learn too much.)  Being a shiny new green one, it was perfect, AND, it was only $99.  I couldn’t believe it. 

          I immediately went home and talked to Lorna about the bike, (a lot,) and casually threw in a few words about the doctor’s appointment.  ‘Oh, woe is me… how can I possibly survive…?’ and stuff like that. That evening, (after she went to work,) I drove back to the mall, with my old bike rack already attached to the back of my car.  I headed for the sporting goods department of the store, hoping, and nearly praying that no one had bought ‘my’ bike before I could get back up there.  They hadn’t, so I did, and felt like a kid on Christmas morning as I wheeled the bike to my car.  It was actually strange that I was so excited about such a simple thing, at my age, no less. Go figure.

           The very next day I began a routine that has become an adventure I thoroughly enjoy and look forward to each morning. I will admit to being a bit grateful for an extra half hour of sleep on a few recent rainy days, but I generally am anxious to wake my tired old body up, and climb aboard that new bike.  Since that first day, each day that I can, I ride a predetermined route that covers over five miles of Barre, including our towns nicely wooded recreation path.  To date, after only these three weeks, I have lost eleven pounds, (Notice that I didn’t say ten pounds. I said eleven. One bag of rice thrown off a barge-full might not be noticed, but it still counts,) and I have reduced my blood pressure, considerably. My sugar numbers are still somewhat high, but when you’re as sweet as I am such things can take time to change.

          Now, here’s my admonition to you. If you are at all like me, which means that you are middle aged, (Okay, so middle age was a few years ago.), and feeling a lot fat and a little feeble, and if your favorite doctor has said something that suggests the words ‘or else’ to you, I would suggest that you go somewhere and get yourself a comfortable, sensible, sturdy bicycle. (If it’s a shiny new bright green one, all the better.) Then get out to the bike paths every morning that you can.  I can guarantee that you will feel better physically, and better about yourself in general. Wave to me if we pass each other.  I’ll be the one on the shiny new bike, with the slightly red face and the gray helmet, but without the eleven pounds.

          

What's Between the Rocks?

By G. E. Shuman

            

            Once again, a few weeks ago, I had the wonderful good fortune of spending a day, (or two) depending on how much I think you need to know, at my favorite spot in the entire world.  I seem to write about this place at least once each summer, so I guess this column will be that ‘once’, unless I have a chance to get back there before fall.

            The place is the beautiful granite breakwater extending out across the harbor in Rockland, Maine.  My extended family and I have been going there, to fish, and to just enjoy the rocky Maine coast since I was a young child. In fact, some of them have been going there since my father was a child.  Somehow, the granite never seems to age, or change. That could be part of its attraction, for me.

            I was at the breakwater due to the kind generosity of my dear wife, who actually suggested that I go there while she attended to some important family business ‘inland’, in that great state in which we both grew up.  I do appreciate Lorna very much, and am truly thankful that she had the idea for my short solo trek to the coast.  Now, enough of the introductions.

            The first day of my little excursion I arrived in Rockland, took my rod, my bait, a lunch, and my camp chair, and walked out to about the halfway point on the nearly mile long, ancient breakwater.  It was so foggy that I could not see the lighthouse at the end, and could barely see the water.  A smooth layer of sea smoke hovered over the small, rippling waves on that very calm June morning, and I proceeded to set up my fishing spot in this overwhelmingly peaceful place.  I was quite alone, and somehow surrounded by the sea, the scents, the soft breeze, and the calls of the gulls and lonely blasts from the lighthouse fog horn.  It was, simply, magnificent.

            I sat in my chair, baited my hook, and cast out onto the harbor side of the rocks.  I was not anxious about hooking the mackerel I was accustomed to catching here, other years. It would be nice if I did, but I love this spot, with or without the fish.  That was a good thing, as I caught none that day.  

Suddenly, and somewhat sickeningly, I heard a faint, metallic, slipping-scraping sound, as if something had just fallen into a crack between the huge granite pieces. That is because something had just fallen into a crack between the huge granite pieces.  I immediately felt in my pocket for my brand new iPhone, and was relieved beyond belief that it was still there.  (Lorna would not have been quite so amicable when I returned to her side, if I had returned without that phone.)  You see, over the years, we have come to realize that what the breakwater takes, the breakwater keeps.  The two or three inch wide crevices between the stones are wide enough to accept many sacrifices to the ocean, and are happy to do so. Those granite blocks, weighing many tons each, are there to stay, no matter how many phones may slip down between them. 

            What I had heard, tinkling, lightly scraping, making its way down, a yard or two, to a nearly eternal spot between the stones, was my favorite, like-new, sporting knife.  It was, or is, depending on how you feel about something that is lost forever but still exists, a beautiful, steel blade with a very smooth, polished wooden handle, and it was a thing that just felt ‘right’ when held in your hand.  I had, only moments before, decided to ‘fish or cut bait’ and pulled the small knife from its sheath on my belt, to cut the bait and then get to the fishing part.  My line was in the water, I had settled back in my canvas chair, and then I heard that sickening sound.  Tank-tink-scrape-tink, as my knife left me, as surely, and as ‘for forever’ as if it had left the planet.  The loss did not affect the fishing at all. I had another knife. 

As I, eventually, gave up on the idea of actually catching anything that day, I packed up my gear and headed back off the rocks. One of the very few other people out on the breakwater stopped and asked if I used bait, jigs or lures to fish.  I told him that I had used them all, one year or another. The problem was, in fishing, and in life, it really doesn’t matter what you use for bait, when there’s nothing there to catch.

Stepping over all of the cracks between those very old stones, I began to wonder just what really might be between them all.  Surely, the knives, and line, and hand reels, hooks, bobbers, and more hooks, and lures, and more lines upon lines and hooks upon rusty hooks, and sinkers of other amateur fishers, were there.  Indeed, the hand lines I had used as a child, some fifty years ago, and had let slip out of my hands were, surely, still there, and so were whatever small things my dad might have lost while fishing with his aunt, some thirty years before that.

           I continued to wonder, as I walked back to shore, about time, and the record of change, captured in the things we own, and use.  Surely the breakwater was now in possession of lost things from many generations, from cell phones, paperback books, small radios, sunglasses of styles long forgotten, faded Coppertone containers, cassette tapes, zippo lighters, maybe even a few 45 rpm records from some 50’s teen parties, and more than a few fishing knives. 

            Someday mankind may dismantle this great monument to his past efforts to keep the sea from destroying this harbor town. I wish I could be there if they do, but I actually hope that they never do. If it happens, they will find a cache of wonders, in a many-layered record of sunny or foggy family fishing days since the very start of its construction in 1881.  And they may even find my knife.  For now, that knife belongs to the breakwater; the best fisher of all, for it catches all.

(Note: You may have your own spot where memories are kept by the sea. If not, I will gladly share mine with you.)

            

Curve Balls

By G. E. Shuman

          

          This one comes from the heart. It is personal, and will still seem a bit vague. That is intentional, and is an effort at privacy. 

          The thing is… as the old saying goes, at times, life really can throw you a curve ball.  That analogy is one of a ball coming at you that you cannot avoid, and of one that is impossible to hit with your bat.  It is one of the unexpected; of the very ‘negatively’ unexpected.  That said, life really can throw you a curve ball once in a while. Days pass, things go along very much as expected, right up until the time that the ‘unthinkable, unexpected’ occurs.  And, those things do occur, to be sure, to all of us.  “Been there, done that…” right?

          The personal, and hopefully vague part of this, today, is that the ‘unthinkable, unexpected’ has recently occurred for my extended family.  Tragedy has struck, once again, as it seems to do in every family, more often than any of us would ever be prepared for.  The reason I am sharing even this much is to let you know that it is not just you, when such things happen to you.  Things happen, bad things, to all of us.  Life is hard. There is no way to get around that.  Personalities sometimes chafe against each other, causing unnecessary stress and hurt feelings. Things like too much or too little money, or time, often affect decisions and actions, sometimes in very negative ways.  And then those big, unthinkable things just jump out and hit us, once in a while, like that unexpected curve ball.

          So, what do we do? How shall we then live? Do we keep going, or give up? Do we soldier on, or do we angrily throw that cursed, ineffectual, curve-ball-missing bat as far and as fast as we can, without thought of where it lands, or who it hurts?  Also, and probably most importantly, what do we believe, and who do we really believe in?

          So far, the words of this column have been less than uplifting, and I wouldn’t blame you if you stopped reading them, right now.  No, I wouldn’t blame you at all.  But, it seems that you are still here.  You are still reading.  Maybe that is because you have not only been where I am, and where my family is now, but you might also be there, right now.  This day, for you, might be one in which you have just been thrown that big, nasty, unexpected curve ball.  If so, I wish you would read on.  This one will be short.

          My all time, favorite, most cherished poem is one called Desiderata. I have discussed that poem in at least one of my columns, before.  In explanation, the word desiderata is Latin for ‘desired things’, and the poem was written in 1927 by the American writer, Max Ehrmann.  The poem was largely unknown in the author’s lifetime, but became more widely known after its use in a devotional, and after spoken-word recordings in the early 1970s. If you have never read Desiderata, I wish you would google it and do so. It has been, and continues to be a very real comfort to me. 

          The poem ends with the words: “And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

To Barb, Art, Ron, and family… may our loving God bless you all.

Becoming a Summer Time-Traveler

By G. E. Shuman

The subject of technology, both what I believe to be the good and not-so-good of it all, has been on my mind quite a bit lately.  I will never be certain that our society’s headlong plunge, never looking back, into the world of cell phone apps, social media and cyberspace is a good thing. (Do they still call it cyberspace?)  In some ways I am a bit, but not completely, out of the electronic loop, and, as such, am probably not a good judge of those things. So, please don’t take offence.  I’m just not sure that having a device in our hands all day long is a great idea.  You may disagree. If so, just chalk my opinion up to my rapidly ascending age. (…It does seem like everybody’s dead lately.)  I just feel that relying on all that tech, as exclusively as is now the norm, may have a downside or two.  That’s all.

It’s not my job to figure all of that out, and I am happy that it isn’t. I’m sure I cannot convince you to give up your phones and Facebook friends for the summer, although I think I would if I could.  I do have a suggestion for one fantastic thing you could do at least a few times in the warm weather months, which might prove to be just a bit better than sitting on the couch with your distant cyber friends.  (Do that in the winter, if you want.)  My suggestion is to simply ditch the device, wean from the screen, and become a time traveler.  No, really.  I mean that. Become a time traveler.  I feel that I have already done it, many times, and here’s how:

I believe that time travel is possible, from many spots in your area and in mine. One such spot in mine is a place that my family and I have visited for many years.  It is a place that has always put things of the present into perspective for me, as I travel into the past, while there.  The place is called Shelburne Museum, and it is located in the beautiful town of Shelburne Vermont. I highly recommend it, if you are in the area. I highly recommend it even if you have to come into the area to visit it. In that place I have traveled to the days of the steam engine, the paddle wheel steam boat, coal fired railroads, and long-past circus trains.  I have touched there a Conestoga wagon, a Concord Coach, and sleighs and sleds of winters which were melted away long before my grandparents were even born.  I have, in my time-traveling mind, become a student in a one room schoolhouse, admired hundred-plus year old tin toys, and chatted with a real blacksmith as he actually stoked the fire in his authentic shop. I’ve witnessed printing presses from the eighteen hundreds, still printing, if only to demonstrate their work to the people visiting them. I have even stood in awe of original masterpieces of art from the likes of Monet, Degas, and Cassatt, and have been inches from a handwritten letter from the pen of Abraham Lincoln.  I just love visiting the past!

Of course, but in case you didn’t know, there are time travel spots all over the world. All you need to do is to visit one in your part of it.  I have many readers in central Massachusetts, and those folks are certainly aware of their own, best place for time traveling. It is a great spot to do so, indeed, and is a place that I have also visited, myself.  Old Sturbridge Village really cannot be topped, for a day truly spent in the past. It has been years since my last visit there, but I remember watching clothes being dyed in an outdoor cauldron, wool being carded and spun, and the wagons and ways of that wonderful, early New England town. The people in period costumes there seem to not be acting at all, as they chat with you in early American English, explaining their day’s work, even as they do it. In fact, as they are immersed in the long ago time with you, they do not need to act, do they? As you leave from your day at Old Sturbridge Village, there will be no doubt in your mind that you have visited the past, while there. 

It comes to mind that the great state of Massachusetts offers many other wonderful spots where slipping into our nation’s past is a very easy thing to do. Boston’s Freedom Trail, Plymouth Plantation, and Plymouth Rock are among the best to see. I would love to have you try them all this summer.

In addition, and as only one addition of many that I could mention here, my home state of Maine is just as full of time traveling spots as anywhere else I know.  I love Wiscasset, not only because my own father was born there, but also for Fort Edgecombe, a relic and reminder of the Revolutionary War. You should also spend a day at Fort Knox, up toward Bucksport, with its never used cannon emplacements, granite walls, and grassy slopes overlooking the river.  A bit to the south, along the rocky Maine coast, is my favorite spot in that entire state, and, perhaps, in the entire world.  That place is one I have visited, and written about, many times.  It is the very old Rockland Harbor breakwater.  There, huge granite blocks, put into place over a hundred and thirty years ago, still protect the harbor and provide a foot trail to the ancient lighthouse at its end. If those rocks could talk, what tales of the past they would tell.

You know, as Americans, we live in a truly wonderful land, full of opportunity and ease, and steeped in good things, including what I hope are the best uses of our amazing technology. Most of us are so busy accomplishing the things of today that we barely remember yesterday, much less our nation’s past.  I’m just suggesting that we might all take a break for a few days, and take our families to witness that past, where things were tough, and neighbors were known, and the people who made our way of life possible, lived. Try doing a bit of time traveling this summer. I promise, you won’t regret the trip.

                                            

The Explosion!

By G. E. Shuman

I enjoy all of the seasons here in the north, with the exception of the six month long one which begins with the letter ‘w’ and ends, way too late.  Don’t get me going on that one. Of the others, fall might be my favorite, although I just re-read this column, and now I am not sure.  I do love the vibrant colors, the crunchy leaves, the cool, crisp apples and breezes, and the golden sunsets of fall. Summer is, obviously, fun too. We actually get to run air conditioners here then.  It is also the one season of the year when even ‘northerners’ can dip their toes in the ocean without freezing them off.  Of course, an ocean is pretty scarce here in Vermont.  We have to go over to Maine or down to New Hampshire to find one of those.  Yes, summer is super and fall is fine up here in maple sugar country.  Believe it or not, some people even like the ‘w’ word season, but, since I am not one of them, that strange fact is not my fault.

          Hum… There seems to be one season left.  Oh yes, the one we are in right now.  It is spring, and spring has, indeed, sprung upon us.  If you happen to be reading this column someplace besides the recently thawed tundra of the north, say, if you are in Florida, for instance, (Yes, I have a few readers down there. One of them is my mother. Hi, Mom!) you might not understand or remember the way in which spring does spring out at us.  The season, up here, literally jumps out, like someone hiding behind a door might, just to scare the ‘s’ word out of you. (I guess we’re going to be using letters instead of words today, from how this is going. I never know what my computer is going to say when I hit the keys.) 

          Anyway, in case you weren’t here for it, or just, somehow, missed it, let me explain how spring happened this year, up here.  It all started about a month or six weeks ago, after the final gasp of a grizzly winter gave up the ghost and left us.  The four foot tall snowbanks, almost overnight, sneaked back to wherever they come from every year, and the brown grass of last summer and brown mud of another mud season appeared.  Truthfully, if you missed mud season this year, there is a reason.  That wonderful phenomenon left us as quickly as it came this time, and few people were upset by that. (The only folks who really like mud season own towing companies and car washes.) 

          Then, and, although this occurrence happens each year in a land where spring must hurry and take place so that there are at least a few weeks saved for summer, before heating season starts again, spring simply EXPLODED upon us this time.  I know I am older, and older people sometimes exaggerate one way or the other about the passage of time, but, the grass, this spring, simply sprung up and turned the landscape green, nearly overnight.  Also, on our own lawn, the two maple trees, which, all winter, were as naked and gray as a newborn elephant, (Okay, that was just weird.) have suddenly not only budded, but, in just the past few days, have produced full sized, very green leaves.  And, this ‘and’ is one that always amazes me, there are our lilac bushes. Let me tell you about those, because those things are simply amazing. Three weeks ago they were just scraggly, old, sickly looking stick-like things that made you think last season was probably their last ever season.  Two weeks ago they showed some signs of life, with little green buds popping out. Literally four days ago, and I know it was only four days ago, because I know it was Monday, and I’m writing this on Thursday, and I can count to four, I told my wife that very small, green lilac blossoms had come out on them.  Today the lilacs are in full, bright purple bloom. Now, I know I am no botanist, and have trouble growing a potted tomato plant, but I just don’t understand how that is possible.  Each year I wonder how the material that lilacs and leaves are made of can even take the form of those things in so very few days.  This year, it almost seems that I could have stood there and watched it all happen.

          Life is really something. In fact, it is more than something. It is everything, and our world is abundantly blessed with it, everywhere, in nearly countless forms.  Here in Vermont, more than anywhere else I have seen, most of that life hides, waiting for the thermometer to rise, just enough, this time of the year. When that happens, something, like the baton of the conductor of some vast natural symphony, seems to signal it all.  Great melodies of life, then, simply explode upon the land.  How strange, and how wonderful that is.  Step outside, and enjoy the music!

The Enjoyment of It All

By G. E. Shuman

          

         Last month Lorna and I had the extreme pleasure of spending a week with my mom, at her north Florida home.  Mom lives in a retirement community called the Advent Christian Village at Dowling Park.  Being a very young 91 years old, it is quite appropriate that she does so. Mom is totally active, and she is just as happy as a bug in a rug there. Truthfully, I don’t blame her, and somewhat envy her. If you are anywhere near retirement age I would suggest that you check out the organization’s website. It is a truly wonderful place.

Mom still lives on her own, in her own home in the village; she still drives her car, and, in fact, has one car in Florida and another in Maine, for her jaunts up there in the summer to see the family. Her Maine car has roses painted on it, and is, appropriately, named ‘Rosie.’ (No one else but Mom could do that. Trust me, you need to meet her to understand.) Mom even has a golf cart parked just outside her Florida place, for those quick trips to the village’s beauty parlor, grocery store, post office, restaurant, or nursing home, (where she helps take care of the ‘old’ people.)  Not to embarrass Mom, (Okay, so maybe I do want to embarrass her just a bit,) but one morning during our visit I came out of her guest room to see not one, but TWO elderly gentlemen standing in her kitchen, vying for her attention about some problem one of them was having.  Wow.

          My Aunt Jean also winters in the town Mom lives in, and we had a great time with her there, also.  Jean and Mom make a wonderful, spicy, giggling pair, who spend most of their ‘together’ time chatting, eating, and doing more chatting, and more eating, and planning the very next time of chatting and eating.  (It is true that during our several trips to town, with the bickering banter of these two ladies in the back seat of my car, I did feel a bit like Morgan Freeman in ‘Driving Miss Daisy’, (but times 2.)  I loved it. Did you see the movie?)  The four ‘C’s of coffee, chocolate, cakes, and cookies are always on the next meal’s menu for these two ladies. Any thought of skipping one of those is quickly dismissed, I soon learned. It was also pointed out to me that there is a difference between chocolates, and ‘good’ chocolates. The idea that such foods might not be all that healthy for them is not a concern.  Truthfully, while visiting with these elderly saints I enjoyed that attitude, a lot. There is much freedom in it.

          I found it fascinating that Mom and Aunt Jean, both of whom I have obviously known my entire life, seem to be, in their advancing years, more concerned with living, than with such silly issues as what is appropriate to eat.  I’m sure that they do not neglect their health, but they are also, very wisely, I think, not consumed by the subject.  For them, life is about the enjoyment of it all. They love to go out to eat, but equally enjoy conversing over an uncomplicated meal of simple sandwiches and a salad, (With the cakes, cookies, etc.) Morning coffee is often taken out in the screened Florida room, so that the birds can more easily be heard, and the vibrant flowers more readily enjoyed. While we were there Aunt Jean reported being ‘entertained’ by two tiny ants, cavorting on her windowsill. How ultimately profound is that?

I have also learned something about Mom’s neighborhood and relatives. No one there seems to eat cereal and yogurt. Everyone there eats donuts and bagels.  At one point I said to my mom that such things might be less than healthy.  Her answer was: “So?”  How can you argue with that kind of logic, especially with a 91 yr. old who walks faster than you do?  I should not have been surprised.  Several weeks ago I called Mom, and mentioned that she was so spry that she had better be careful; that she would probably have to beat the old men off with a stick.  Her answer to that one?  “Why would I want to do that?” 

          I thought about all of this for hours during the long drive back to Vermont from Mom’s home in sunny Florida.  I came to two conclusions.  One is that the Advent Christian Village is a wonderful place for Christian people to enjoy their lives after retirement.  Seriously, if you are a Christian, check it out.  If you are not of the faith, you need to know that God allows U-turns, and that you should take one. (In MY old age, I don’t like mincing words.) My other conclusion is that my mom’s generation really is the greatest generation. Period. They are patient, and are living in the moment, even if their moments may be fewer than those of some others.  They are also acutely aware of the beauty of their world. And, they may know little about facebook, youtube, wifi, or cyberspace, but they know much about what makes a ‘good’ hotdog, (Don’t forget the fried onions.) which fast food place has the best fries, and how to keep a hydrangea in bloom. Those things are much more important.