From S.O.S. to L.O.L.

Dear Readers, This is an updated 'repeat' of a column I posted here a few years ago.  Time was short this week... and I thought this was still appropriate. 

By G. E. Shuman

     Many, MANY spring days ago my grandfather Shuman and I were traveling along a long stretch of road somewhere in the Maine countryside. I was probably about ten years old, and remember few specifics of the trip now. I do recall that we were on our way to, or on our way home from, one of the great gatherings our family used to have on the coast of that state. I also remember that we were in Gramp’s Rambler American, and that he loved that car. (‘American’… not a bad name for a car.) I'm surprised that such trips with my grandfather are remembered at all, only because they were so few. He was a retired man by the time I was around, and wasn’t the type to play with the grandkids, if you know what I mean. In any case, there we were, on that road, on a bright spring day, and Gramp’s car suddenly had a flat tire. I had no idea what he would do, but knew he would likely do something unusual to remedy our situation. That’s the way Gramp was. He did not disappoint me. Gramp sat there a moment, then calmly got out of the car and went around to the trunk, but not to get the jack and spare. He had worked for the telephone company for most of his life, and still carried some of his equipment with him, just in case. I looked back to see Gramp strapping his climbing spikes onto his legs. He soon proceeded to climb a nearby utility pole with those spikes and his test phone. He then simply ‘borrowed’ someone’s phone line for a moment and called a garage for help. I have that wonderful old test set in my top dresser drawer, and remember my Gramp, and that day, every time I see it there.
     Memories of another man of long ago come to mind each time I see the telegraph receiver displayed in our ‘antique’ room. This piece of equipment was used by my wife’s grandfather, who, at fourteen years of age, began taking telegraphed train orders in an office of the Maine Central Railroad. This, even earlier device than Gramp’s old phone, used Morse code to communicate across the miles, and get the message through.
     Fast-forward now to a much more recent time, in fact, to just a few weeks ago. I was standing in line at a local convenience store, and witnessed another, but less memorable communication ‘moment’. A man in line in front of me had a slight problem. He held four two-liter bottles of soda in his arms, along with at least one other item, and his cell phone began to ring. I offered to help. He said no. There was no room on the small checkout counter for his purchases, so, somehow, he simply held them, and answered the phone. Well, he didn’t exactly answer it… he opened it and read a text message. Next, this stranger, who, by then, I imagined must certainly be a circus juggler or magician, somehow held those bottles and the other item, and texted the person back. He then turned to me and said: “I hate this (expletive) thing! Now she can always find me!” How times have changed.
     I have given up marveling at and /or screaming at the electronic devices all around me. When I get some new thing, like a music player, or computer, or phone or camera, (Observe that there is very little difference between those inventions now.) I just hand it over to my teenage daughter to ‘set up’ for me. That way I end up liking the device, not hating it.

My true bewilderment now is this recent, great, world wide attraction to such texting. It is something that I do, but do not truly enjoy. My further opinion of texting is that it may become the ruination of the English language, even though people in England, with some justification, feel that we in America accomplished that years ago. One student in my seventh grade English class recently bragged to the class that she could receive a text during dinner, and answer it without looking, with her phone out of sight underneath the dining room table. The problem is that such great adeptness in keypad use spills over into the compositions she and others do for me in class. The word ‘you’ often becomes the letter ‘u’, and abbreviations abound, LOL. (I actually recently read a book report from one of those kids, that actually contained that LOL acronym.) 'Like wow.' Besides, why not shut the stupid phone off for just a few moments and be more than only physically present with your family at dinner time? (If I sound like the parent of teenagers, guess why.)
     I also find little convenience in the convenient act of texting, especially if you are the man in line at that convenience store. To my mind, this seemingly-modern communication method is not far removed from the dots and dashes sent over those telegraph lines nearly a century ago by my wife's granddad. Our daughter recently mentioned that she couldn’t tell her friends moods from their texted messages. No kidding. Smiley faces can only infer so much. :) My wife’s grandfather probably could not tell the mood of the person tapping out letters on his distant and distantly related device all those years ago, either.
     Hey kids. Guess what? A man named Alexander Graham Bell made an invention that he hooked up to those old telegraph lines, much as my grandfather hooked up his test set on that telephone pole. Because of this, whether you’re in line at a store with your arms full, or just getting a message from a friend, you can now simply pick up the phone and say: “Hello?” Gee... What will they think of next?

Frozen. Not the Movie... Just Frozen

By G. E. Shuman

  

     I don't mean to be a complainer... but this evening, as I write this column, the temperature is simply ridiculous. My home is fairly warm, (I can actually hear the tinkle of tiny wood pellets falling to meet their doom in the pellet burner in our cellar.) but I am not happy. I just came in from letting our two small dogs out on the lawn for about a three minute 'potty break' and there are goose bumps on my goose bumps. I am sure there are icicles on the icicles hanging from our front porch, too, and the world outside our door is just, simply, frozen solid. Well, not the whole world, but all of it that I can see from here. I think I could bring anything in from out there and warm it up in our deep freezer, at this point. I did glance momentarily at my two potted tomato plants that I neglected to pull up last fall. They didn't look too good tonight. And now, I will take a break after those three minutes I mentioned, and let the dogs back in before they become pupsicles. (Sorry.)

     Okay. Fast forward a few. I'm back in my recliner after letting the dogs in. They are both shivering under a blanket on the couch, and will probably run for their lives when I try to let them out again before bedtime. For now, as I sit here on this dark, cold, Vermont winter evening, my kitchen wall thermometer should be shaking with fear as it tells me the outdoor temperature. Minus fifteen degrees and falling is not exactly the information I wanted to receive from it tonight. Minus fifteen degrees

and falling could not possibly be the news that ANYBODY wanted, this evening. The Internet weather forecasts are for twenty below temps and a wind chill of up to, or down to, minus fifty degrees before the night is over. Really? I mean... Really? Personally, I fully intend to experience no wind chill at all tonight, if the dogs won't let me let them out later. Truthfully, I probably will not try that hard to catch them, to do that. The walls of this old house have protected my family and me from such things as winter winds for over thirty years now, and others before us, since the house was built in 1905. I intend to let those walls do that again tonight.

     I am sorry, truly, for any people who might have to be out on this cold and dangerous winter evening. And, believe me, a night like this really is a dangerous one. Sometimes I think that we don't fully understand that fact. Think of this. An unprotected astronaut in space or on the surface of the moon might stay alive for ten to fifteen seconds, if he were lucky. An unprotected Vermonter would last, probably, only thirty minutes more than that on my front porch, just on the other side of a few thin panes of glass, at temperatures and wind chills to fifty below. Neil Armstrong bravely walked across the surface of the moon, and I bravely walk the dogs across the front porch. See the similarity? Okay... so that was a stretch.

     I began this column by stating that I don't mean to be a complainer. It is true that I and my family live in the north by choice, (sort of), and are free to move to a more hospitable climate whenever we like. Sure we are. At this point in our lives, my beautiful wife Lorna, and spooky old Yours Truly, would be hard pressed to find good jobs elsewhere. (My gray hair caused less than enthusiastic looks from prospective employers nearly ten years ago. At least I think it was my gray hair.) I probably have not grown younger looking between that time and now. And, a word to the wise, if you want too move away, do it before your grown kids settle down and have kids of their own. (Grown kids might be 'leavable'... grand kids are not.)

     I guess I'll end here, and go check the pellets and the furnace. Oh, a man once asked me if our heating ducts were insulated in this old house. I told him we had hot water heat, and no ducks to insulate, but that we do make the chickens wear sweaters. True story... and he also gave me a less than enthusiastic look. Go figure. And go stay warm!