A Message from Your Very Recent Past

Dear Readers,

I wrote this column exactly one year ago, this week,(Or last week, depending on ‘where you are’, time-wise. Don’t worry, you’ll understand after you read it.) I did not ‘update’ the dates, intentionally. Time is a funny thing, and how this column ended came true, ‘in no time.’  Happy New Year!  Don’t waste a minute of it.

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 last week? (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 your 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 that 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 2016 came, and then, how quickly it went. So I will say: Happy New Year! (Whatever new year it is.)

My Favorite Christmas Tradition

By G. E. Shuman

Near the end of each December my family has two celebrations. You may have guessed that one is Christmas.  Actually, and to be precise, both of them are about Christmas. My kids are grown up now, and most of them have families of their own, so, on December 25^th, we, at each of our homes, celebrate Christmas in our own way.  Then, a week or so after Christmas, we do Christmas again, all together. I love the fact that we still do that. This year the big celebration will take place at my daughter Chrissy’s home, and I am looking forward to it.  

                It’s interesting, to me, how families seem to follow their own holiday traditions, nearly to the letter, year after year.  Although things have changed somewhat in our own home, simply because so many Decembers have passed here, we still celebrate Christmas pretty much the same way every year.  The tree goes up in the same spot, with the same angel sitting at its top, and the same decorations adorning its branches, just as they have adorned the branches of so many other trees placed in that spot, during so many other Decembers, past. Christmas lights are first unwound and put on the tree, by me. Then, since my 6’8” son Andrew no longer lives here, I put the highest ornaments on it, in precisely the best spots for them. (This actually means I put them wherever Lorna tells me to put them.) We decorate our two archways, the same way, every year. On Christmas Eve Lorna still reads the Christmas story from the Bible, and then The Night Before Christmas, to whatever part of our family happens to be gathered with us in the family room that night. We still hang stockings on the fireplace mantle, and Santa, somehow, still seems to fill them before Christmas morning. In the morning we even eat the same breakfast together and begin cooking a big dinner, without many changes. A few years ago, one of my kids actually told me that our celebration was a little boring, because we always do the same things every year. Contrary to what that child’s opinion was on that particular Christmas morning, I think that family traditions are good things to have, and to keep, and in this crazy world may even provide some stability and sense of permanence for us all. In any case, Lorna and I will, likely, continue these old family ways for as many years as we can manage to do so.

                One more tradition that my family keeps nearly every year, usually at the big ‘second’ Christmas family feast, has to do with the dessert that is served after that day’s Christmas dinner.  This tradition is a special one to Lorna and to me, because, if you don’t know already, we are born again Christians, and feel strongly about the true meaning of Christmas Day. (And here I feel that I must make a confession to you, my faithful readers, even before I tell you about that special dessert.) The confession is that years ago, and for many years, in business, here in the paper, and in my personal life also, I know I downplayed the roll that my faith in God has, in my life.  It was easier to just not discuss ‘religion’ and not have to explain all of that stuff to others, no matter how real it was to me, and no matter how much I knew I should discuss it with them.  In more recent years that apprehension has simply, somehow, left me, and I am not ashamed, but proud, to have the world know of my belief in God, and of my personal faith in my Lord, Jesus Christ.  I’m in my 60s now, and at this point in life I have just received far too many blessings to ever doubt the reality of God, or to worry about what others may think, if they do not agree with me. There, I feel much better. Don’t you?

                Anyway, back to our family tradition of that special Christmas dessert. The dessert is a big cake, decorated for Christmas, and with the words ‘Happy Birthday Jesus’ spelled out on it. After all, doesn’t it make sense to celebrate Christ’s birth, in some way, on the day that has been designated to do exactly that? Some years we actually sing the birthday song for Him, and blow out the candles together.  To many people that tradition would seem really strange, if they happened to visit our celebration at that moment.  If they did visit us, we would just keep on singing, and invite them to ‘join the family’. 

                

The Freedom to Elect- The Freedom to Cry

By G. E. Shuman

Well, after about two years of campaigning, reporting, sniping, chiding, protesting, polling, and many other gerunds, our country’s presidential election is finally over.  The people have spoken, as they say, and we have a new president-elect.  In all earnest, I do wish he and his  team well.
        I don’t use this column to push any political agenda, (not that people want to hear my opinion anyway,) and, although I do have my own thoughts on little issues like the future direction of our nation, I don’t spend much time trying to persuade others to think like I do on such things. Maybe that’s not the attitude I should take, but it is the one I do take. The truth is, I believe that there was a reason for the invention of voting ‘booths’.  Those booths exist to make making our choices, and filling in those little ovals beside all of those names on the ballot, private.  It’s really none of anyone else’s business who you voted for. I hope, if an exit polling person asked you that question, that you lied to them. To me, this is the only situation of life where lying is good. If the information they cull from that question turns out to be wrong, maybe they’ll stop asking. It’s not like knowing how voting is going will change the end result anyway, or, at least, it shouldn’t.
        Our two main political parties have always been opposed, because if they weren’t, there would only be one real party, and we would be Russia. What fun would that be?  In some ways the national political game in our country seems to be very much like a sport, and one that every adult citizen here has a chance to participate in. I think it would be healthy for our nation if more of us got off the bench and into the game, but no one should tell any of us what team to be on.
        I am not a conspiracy theorist, and do not believe in some shadow government being behind the scenes, pulling the strings of the democrats or the republicans. For Pete’s sake, the elected people in Washington D.C. haven’t been able to get along long enough to pass any meaningful laws that will ‘stick’, for a very long time. If some shadowy types are trying to take over, they certainly are taking their sweet time doing it.
        Also, I don’t believe that Hillary Clinton is the devil, or that she will likely ever go to jail. I also don’t believe that Donald Trump is the devil, or that he will ever try to send her to jail. Both of those people, for better or for worse, for straighter or

for ‘crookeder’, are just people. I do hope that our President-elect will do all that he can to unite our people, and to get our economy perking again.
        A few days ago, I read an article about a new law in the country of China.  The law, somehow, forbids the Chinese people from calling the leader of North Korea, Mr. Kim Jong Un, fat. Seriously. If you haven’t heard about this, Google it. Even though calling someone a derogatory name does not show good manners, in China it is against the law, at least if you are referring to Mr. Kim.  The fact that he really IS fat is irrelevant. (In some parts of the world speaking the truth isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, if you want to avoid going to jail.)
        Our country is much more tolerant than that. Here you can get college credit for protesting the results of an election, you can be excused from exams if you are just too torn up by the thought of the coming presidency, and on some campuses, you can even enter crying rooms and play with Playdoh to help you cope with it all. (Oh, dear dear).
        Personally, I’m very thankful for our system of electing our leaders, that we still have the freedom to do so, and that we always have a relatively smooth transition of power in our country. Also, here, although it may be rude to use less than complementary nicknames for people, you probably won’t go to jail if you call me fat. Still, I may be forced to find a crying room and some Playdoh, if you do.

Thoughts of November

By G. E. Shuman

                Today I’d like to think about what I think, about the month of November. To me, November is a sort of unexciting month, in many ways. Here in the North it is gray, most days, and that grayness is amplified by the fact that the leaves are off the trees, and all that gray bark on all those naked trees is showing through, all across our state.  This saddens me a bit, because I love both the green leaves of summer, and the red and golden ones of fall. At my house those fall leaves have fallen, too, and, when you read this column, I have either spent a day raking them up, or need to do so. My back is either killing me, or it soon will be. Such is life in Vermont.

                This increasingly chilly month also makes me think of many good things. As the weather turns colder, there is some sense of, and even some actions, involving a subtle ‘tucking in’ that occurs here, almost ritualistically, at this season. Windows are sealed, air conditioners are stowed away, and wood is stacked and prepared for the coming winter. Other fall rituals also take place up here. Local hunters hone their skills by shooting fake deer and beer cans in the back yard, but some will still blame the sight on their rifle when that big buck gets away. People line up at the tire stores to have their ‘snows’ put on, and discuss how much snow we’re ‘supposed’ to get this year.

The warmth of ‘indoors’ can be a very good, and satisfying thing right now.  I think of the scents of the wood fires that heat so many homes here, and of a closeness that is, somehow, borne of, sort of, ‘having to be closer’, within our homes, with our families. In November, each year, we seem to learn all over again how to stay in more, out of the cold. Out come the sweaters and quilts and comforters, to bring comfort when cold winds howl outside our windows.

The scent of those wood fires can be wonderful, this time of year, and, also the scents of kitchens, as more things are cooked there, now, as we northerners abandon the backyard grills of summer. This is the month of the ‘feast of all feasts’ for most families, and of my very favorite holiday, Thanksgiving Day. On that day, a celebration with family, including a table decorated with reminders of fall, usually features the best scents of all, including the unmistakable aroma emanating from the kitchen, of a huge, slowly roasting turkey. Yum!

I suggest that you, just for fun, when that holiday comes, ask the youngest of your group what the word Thanksgiving means. Some might actually say ‘turkey’, as an almost interchangeable ‘T’ word. You then might discuss something we old English teachers would tell them, that Thanksgiving is a compound word made up of the words thanks, and giving. Then have those little ones tell you what each of those words means.

Thanksgiving: a day of giving thanks, and of being truly thankful for all that we have been given. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above,” James 1:17, Holy Bible. To me, those gifts are my family, my friends, my home, my career, and my free country. For such things, and others you may name, let us be truly thankful.  The best bumper sticker I ever saw, proclaimed: “Gratitude is the best therapy.”  Being grateful, being thankful, in the cold and often gray month of November, can really bring out the sunshine! 

No Small Miracles

By G. E. Shuman

                Albert Einstein once stated, and I paraphrase: We must accept the premise that either nothing is a miracle, or everything is a miracle. Well, Mr. Einstein, I am one who, if that premise is true, believes that everything is a miracle. I have eyes, and I can clearly see this beautiful, immensely complex world. From your statement, I think you saw it too.  I certainly do believe that miracles happen, and that they probably happen more frequently than we realize.  After sixty-two years of living and of observing life, I don’t see how I could ever believe otherwise.  I also believe that miracles are where you find them, and that, to our dismay, sometimes we don’t even look for them. I don’t think that this means some miracles are ‘small’, in fact, I think that none of them are small. They are all big, especially when they happen to you.

                I’m writing about this today because of something that happened to my grandson, Devon, just last Sunday evening.  It was about ten pm, and that thoughtful grandson of mine had just driven to the Walmart in Manchester, NH, where he and his family live. He had gone to the store because his girlfriend was having a craving for oranges, and he wanted to buy her some. What a nice guy, right?  Somehow, during that late night run to the store, Devon’s wallet had slipped out his pocket, in the huge parking lot.  Now, it’s never good to lose your wallet, but much worse when that wallet contains your license, your debit card, your social security card, and, (This part gives me a sick feeling in my stomach.) $400 in cash from the paycheck you had just received.  Ouch! It also didn’t help that the wallet was lost in that large city, at a very busy shopping center.

                We, as a family, believe in the power of prayer. So do our children, and, also, their children. Our daughter, Cathy, (Devon’s mom) and her distraught son obviously prayed that night, and so did my wife and I, and others, when we heard about what had happened.  Yes, you need to understand, this was a joint effort. “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there I am in the midst of them.”  Matthew 18:20. Holy Bible.

Okay, so now let me tell you about the miracle. (Pay attention, as there will be a quiz.)  As I’m sure you have already guessed, the wallet was found, which, to me, was miracle enough. A young lady about Devon’s age contacted him on Facebook, told him she had found his wallet, and asked if they could meet so that she could give it back to him. They arranged that, and Devon went to meet her.  To Devon’s surprise, and obvious relief, his wallet still contained his license, his debit card, his social security card, AND the $400 from his hard-earned paycheck. Wow!  My grandson thankfully offered to give that young lady a reward for what she had done, or to at least buy dinner for her, but she wouldn’t let him. Devon told her that it was a huge blessing for him, and she replied that people have done many good things to help her before, and she wanted to help him.  Now… here’s the quiz. Did you understand the miracle, or did you miss it?

                It was surely a ‘God thing’, that Devon got his wallet back, with his identification, his license, and even his money… every penny of it. To my grandson, I’m sure this was no small miracle. Still, to my mind, the miracle really happened in the heart of a young stranger, who found someone’s wallet in a parking lot that night, could have kept the cash, thrown the wallet away, and never given a thought to finding its owner. No one would have ever known. Really, no one would have. Instead, this young lady chose to remember what others have done for her, and to ‘pay it forward’, with no thought of self, and without ANY reward, even when it was offered.  

                In this strange year of terrorism, fear, and an increasingly nasty presidential election which seems to shout uncertainty, distress, and danger for the future of our nation, there are still people of integrity, and still young people of surprisingly sterling morals.  This, to me, is no small miracle.

               

                

Sweatshirt and Sneaker Weather

By G. E. Shuman

                For all my usual complaining about spending the past sixty-two winters here in the frozen north, at this time of year I usually have to play the hypocrite.  Truthfully, and I don’t think I even realize this myself until the summer begins to turn to fall, I love this time of year.  I do complain at least a little, or maybe a little more than a little, about the cold weather during winter in Vermont.  I do not like my snow blower, although I am grateful for it.  I also don’t like paying for heat for our old home, and gripe about that just a bit, too.

                Still, with all of that said, as I said, I do love fall here in the green mountain state.  That could be because, at this time of year, the mountains are no longer so green, although I have nothing against green leaves.  Okay, so I can’t explain it by the trees.  I do love fall, at least partially because I no longer have sweat pouring off my face and every other body part whenever I do anything out of doors.  (I don’t think anyone says ‘out of doors’ anymore, but you get what I mean.)  It really is great to ride through the hills of this northern state, with the windows down and the AC off.  My wife and I recently took such a trip to Burlington, about thirty miles from our home, via old Route 2. Check it on a map if you’re “from away.” That means you’re not “from here.” It was a beautiful ride on a wonderfully winding wooded road. (I know, too many w’s.) We took the trip in my favorite car, my 1970 vintage Volkswagen Beetle, which doesn’t even HAVE air conditioning. (It doesn’t have much of a heater, either, and therefore will be tucked in for a long winter’s nap long before snow flies.)

                I have often thought of, and have occasionally written of this time of year as ‘sweatshirt and sneaker’ weather.  Any of you who have spent some brisk Saturday mornings at a child’s or grandchild’s soccer games know just what I mean.  Nothing beats a big lawn chair and a travel mug of hot coffee at those games.  It’s also a great time of year for bike riding and maybe even a bundled-up fall picnic or two.  The air is fresh, the sun is bright, and you don’t need suntan lotion or mosquito repellant anymore.

                And then there is Halloween. Wow!  I have always loved Halloween!  That holiday, if Halloween is a holiday, has been special to me ever since I was one of the trick-or-treaters.  Rustling leaves blown by a cool fall breeze, creaking branches, spooky decorations, and big jack-o-lanterns under a bigger harvest moon still excite this old guy.  Of course, when I was young, fake blood and gory rubber blades had nothing to do with that spooky night.  Our frightening fun was found in stories of witches, goblins, ghosts, and ghouls. (I know, too many g’s.) We didn’t go in for the blood and guts of today’s costumes, but loved to dress up as werewolves, Count Dracula, or the Frankenstein monster.  As recently as last weekend my wife had to drag me out of the Halloween aisles of a big box store.  That will probably

happen at least a few more times before the end of the month arrives.  If you were wondering, no, I don’t actually dress up for Halloween anymore. (That would be silly, and we wouldn’t want that.)  I do dress up the house, though, and have amassed a good collection of decorations for the season, which, each November, I box up and bag up and keep in our dusty and dark, cobweb-laden cellar until the next Halloween. (They like it down there.)

                When my kids were younger I loved to sit on the front porch swing on Halloween evening, with the lights off, and surrounded only by the flickering light of their jack-o-lanterns.  I think the kids liked doing that too, but not as much as old Dad did. This year I’m the one with no tricks, but with a special treat.  This time I get to share Halloween with my brand new granddaughter, Nahla.  At less than three months old she probably won’t do much pumpkin carving this season, although I did buy her one that’s just her size.  Maybe she’ll at least sit on the porch with me a few evenings, and let me tell her about Halloween. There’s just nothing like the sooty-sweet aroma of a candle-lit carved pumpkin, on a spooky, late October night. Nahla needs to know about that.

                Yes, indeed. I do love this wonderful sweatshirt and sneaker weather!  I hope you do, too. 

The Value of a Peanut

By G. E. Shuman

                Some of you probably already know that I like to watch, and feed, the gray squirrels in our neighborhood.  I know that many people think these little creatures are pests, in fact, I once heard a very famous person refer to them as ‘tree rats’.  I don’t happen to agree with that person. I think they’re cute, and why should they not be given food? Anyway, it’s a free country, at least so far, and I like feeding the squirrels, so will probably continue to do so.

                I feed the squirrels peanuts, mostly. Those little guys in the gray fur coats are also good at using up stale bread, cookies, and about anything else made of carbs, that we would normally throw away. Lately a few of our neighbors have also contributed to my squirrel feeder, and that’s fine with me.  The peanuts I buy are pretty inexpensive. They are the in-the-shell ones, and I limit my purchase to one five-pound bag a week, for $5.99, at my favorite grocery store. 

                As I said, I feed the squirrels, and I also watch them.  They remind me of the old Chip and Dale cartoons I watched as a child, as they scamper all over the back yard trees, attempting to chase each other away from the feeder, I presume.  Those cartoonists of my day must have watched the real things even more closely than I do, to mimic them so precisely.  I don’t think my squirrels can talk, but, after all, they’re squirrels, and although Chip and Dale talked, they were chipmunks. Maybe that’s the difference.

                My little gray friends eat many of the peanuts right in the feeder. I enjoy watching them do so.  Also, as you know, squirrels store food away for the winter. Because of this I have found peanuts buried in my small vegetable patch, in my potted tomatoes, on the floor of our front porch, and even underneath the barbecue grill.  That’s all okay with me.

                When I first began buying the peanuts it seemed like the squirrels would just grab one in their little hands, spin it around and around for a few seconds, then dive into the job of getting the shell off from their prize, and eating it.  They did all of this very quickly, just as our old dog gobbles down her food so fast she must not even taste it.  After the squirrels had eaten their fill, they would grab a peanut, and, one at a time, carry them off to their nests, high in the neighborhood trees.  After only a few days from when I began feeding them those nuts, I noticed that something seemed to change, at least with some of the squirrels. 

                What changed was that, after dining at my feeder, the squirrels seemed to become pickier about the nuts, and the quantity of them that they would carry home to the kids, or for winter.  I noticed that they seemed to go for the double nut shells, which were common, but also the big shells with three peanuts in them.  I thought this was smart. Then I noticed that many of the squirrels could put one of the shells in the back of their mouth, and squeeze another in, in front of it.  This made a lot of sense, and allowed them to get twice as much food back to the nest, for the same amount of work.  They sort of doubled their gas mileage on those trips, if you know what I mean.  That probably sounds strange, but they really did get the most energy stored up in their nests, for the least amount of energy expended in making the round trip.  (Am I the only one who thinks of strange things like this?)

                To me, watching these ambitious little creatures is just fun.  To them, storing those nuts that I give them is very serious business, and may mean the difference between their family surviving the winter, or not.  I think that we can learn from almost anything we encounter in life. Now don’t laugh, but feeding those squirrels has made me reconsider the value of a peanut.  You see, to some people, your income or mine might be just that, only peanuts.  To us it is what we have been given, and we should be grateful for it. We gather it in, as efficiently as possible, to provide for ourselves and for our families.  When it comes to peanuts, as with many other things, I guess it just depends on your point of view.

                

My Mind Wanders

By G. E. Shuman

                Sometimes my mind tends to wander. Does yours ever do that?  Did it just do it now, as you began reading this column?  In my case, I usually don’t realize that my mind has wandered until at some later time, when I find that I am not aware of something that other people think I SHOULD be aware of.  A typical situation, for me, is that I will sometimes ask my wife a question about something I think we must discuss, and she will reply that we had already made a decision on that issue, ‘yesterday’, or at some other time that I don’t quite remember.  I do usually have at least some warning that I’m entering the mine field of ‘already decided issues’, if I happen to see Lorna roll her eyes near the end of my inquiry to her.  As you can guess, by that time it’s already too late to start over, and the best I can usually do is to sneak out of that mine field as quickly and as stealthily as possible, which just means that I do my best to immediately change the subject. This, I believe, often works, but, after 44 years of marriage, it may only be that she lets me escape, to save time and effort on her part.  She’s crafty like that.

                One setting in which I think my mind wanders a bit is when I’m driving on the highway. I don’t think this is particularly dangerous; my mind doesn’t really wander from the task of driving, at least not yet.  I don’t like listening to music when I drive, and so my car is usually pretty quiet. If other people are in the car, my wife, again, for instance, there is at least some possibility that I will miss part of a conversation we will have, and fall into the many traps and potholes a wandering mind can cause. If I’m alone in the car, the setting is more than pretty quiet. It is very quiet. I don’t sing to myself in the car, or anywhere else for that matter, because it irritates my ears. I also don’t talk to myself, as my family members are not the only ones who don’t usually want to hear what I have to say. So, my mind might wander a bit.

                I know that another situation in which my mind wanders is when I’m reading, and this is not good, and makes such reading a complete waste of time. At least if your mind wanders while driving you will probably still get to where you’re going, unless your car wanders, too. If you’re reading and your mind wanders, you get nowhere at all. The worst possible combination would be to be reading while you’re driving, and then have your mind wander.  Never, ever read while you are driving, or drive while you’re reading. But, back to reading. Have you ever suddenly realized that you have just read a paragraph in a book for the third or fourth time? When that happens to me it is always because my mind has wandered. If it happens while I’m reading in bed at night I am alerted that my mind has wandered into sleep, by the book falling on my face.  For this reason, I only do ‘light’ (ha ha) reading in bed, like a thin paperback or something on my phone. 

                Now, here’s a big, bad one, at least for me. I do have to admit that my mind sometimes wanders in church.  I know that this is a no-no, and I really try to not let it happen, but it still sometimes does.  “Where did Pastor say to turn in my Bible?”  This is when I glance over and try to see what the person beside me is reading from theirs.  Still, I’ll bet preachers’ minds sometimes wander too. They’re human too.  It must happen.  I’m sure they are often looking down at the congregation on Sunday morning and thinking about what’s for lunch, just like I might be. Plus, they are facing all those mind-wandering people, and must especially notice the ones who are doing it with their eyes closed.

                This might seem a bit strange, but the only time I can say, with some certainty, that my mind does not wander is when I’m writing.  I don’t know why this is so.  I can’t write if there is much noise around, and that noise includes both voices and music. Music WITH voices is even worse. In any case, I write best, or at least most, when I am alone, thinking. Wait a minute. Speaking of thinking, I just thought of something.  What I thought of is that when I write, that could actually BE my mind wandering. If that’s the case, when you read my writing, you’re only reading the ramblings of an unrestrained brain. Hum… Maybe those wandering thoughts simply flow down into my fingers, onto my computer, and then onto one of the pages of The World. 

In some ways, I do feel a bit better, having thought all this through. I don’t think I’m losing my memory, from age, or for any other reason, and that’s a relief.  Also, if my writing is really just my way of daydreaming, my wandering mind isn’t my fault at all.  You’re the reader, so, I think the fault must be yours. That, at least, is what I’m going to tell Lorna the next time I see her roll her eyes. 

August 25th.

By G. E. Shuman

                I’m writing this column on Thursday, August 25^th.  You are reading it at some later date, but today is important to the story, so that’s why I mentioned it. It’s also why the title is what it is.  In any case, where and when I am right now, it is August 25^th.  This morning my wife came to me and said, “Hey, it’s four months ‘til Christmas!”  Lorna loves Christmas, whereas I mostly just tolerate it, and she is always excited as Christmas gets closer.  She also happens to work in management at a big shipping company, who’s delivery drivers dread the Christmas rush even more than Santa’s reindeer do.  I shouldn’t tell you the name of the company, but there is a U, a P, and an S in that name.  Anyway, Lorna always delights in telling those driver-guys each month when Christmas is exactly five, four, three, two, or one month away. Today she had to remind me that only four months, exactly, from today, the presents will be unwrapped for another year.  I thanked her for bringing me such joy.

                “No”, I said. ‘It CAN’T be that close! Summer just started!” 

I mean, I know the mornings have been a bit cooler lately, but it really is still August, if just barely.  And, yes, there are a few dry maple leaves on the lawn, but there are still many thousands of green ones up in those big branches. I understand… yes, the kids (and we teachers) are back in school, and a few Halloween displays are beginning to appear in the stores, but really. Summer CAN’T be over already. No, tell me it isn’t so! 

Wait, oh ye of little faith, I have proof that summer shouldn’t be more than maybe a quarter or a third over.  I mean, didn’t I just assemble that new barbecue grill that Emily bought me? I know I did.  It seems like we have only used it a few times.  And, yes, we went on a couple of picnics, and spent a few days at the coast, but we planned time to do so much more this summer.  There must be at least several more weeks left. I just know there must be.

No, No. Wait a minute. I know!  Wasn’t it only recently that I was so excited to see the seed displays in the stores? I could just smell those tiny plants pushing their way up through the potting soil that I would so carefully sow them in, in my little city-house garden. That can’t be over for another year, can it? And, didn’t I just get the parts to do a little tune up on the old lawn mower?  I know that must have been just a few days ago. Wasn’t it? And now my wife is telling me that Christmas, of all things, is only FOUR months away, from TODAY? Unbelievable!             

Fellow summer and sun worshipers, we must unite to fight this calendar thing, because it just isn’t fair at all!  Here’s how we all need to do it. We must get on the phone to our family members, and get them out at least a few more times for swimming, and burgers, hotdogs, chicken, and steaks on the grill.  Have a few more campfires, and tell the kids some ghost stories under the trees, while you roast some more S’mores. Do this stuff, before the leaves have fallen, and the first snow flurries fly in your face, chilling all hopes of grilling.

Today, as I have said, (somehow, thanks to my wife,) Christmas is exactly four months away. When you read this column, it will be exactly somewhat closer than that.  I think that’s why God gave us weekends, even after school starts. Those

are so we can fire up the grill a few more times, and have family over for some last roasted corn and spareribs, before we need to wear mittens to eat them.  (Not a pretty thought.) These weekends are so that we summer lovers don’t have to go ‘cold turkey’ from summer fun and just wait for cold turkey the day after Thanksgiving.

                The frost isn’t on the pun’kins quite yet, but that comes next, and we KNOW what comes after that.  Making a law to abolish the 25^th of every month might not do any good, but it’s worth considering.

The Apple

By G. E. Shuman

                This is probably a strange way to begin this particular column, and a stranger title to give it, but, hopefully, it will all make sense by the end.  Recently our daughter, Cathy, and her youngest child, Ayvah, were out for a walk.  Their walk happened to take them under and past an old crab apple tree along the roadside.  Ayvah, an eight year old who is very famous in our family for her insightful thoughts, saturated, as always, in the natural profundity found only in childhood, asked her mom a question, which was this: “If the tree is the mother of the apple, why doesn’t the apple look like the tree?” (I just love it when one of my grandkids comes up with a brilliant, thoughtful question like that.)  I don’t know exactly how her mom answered the question. My answer to Ayvah would be something to do with the suggestion that an apple does look like the tree, but it looks like how the tree used to be.  (Cathy, if you read this, suggest that answer to that very brainy child of yours.)

                Our family, our home, and our own old family tree, have very recently been blessed by a wonderful addition. Nahla was born, in the timeline in which you could be reading this column, just about two weeks ago. She is, just as all of my grandkids have been, the most beautiful baby in the world. She is so, and takes her place in line and number, as our twelfth grandchild.  Her place in the family is just as big and bold and permanent as the places of those grandkids who are already grown or nearly grown.  She is, simply, wonderful. I cannot always be believed in statements like that, but her grandmother can. So just ask her.

                Here’s something I’ve been thinking about. I know I’m not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but I do believe I understand the basics of how life is carried on in our world. Still, it seems a bit strange to me that Nahla is not only here now, but has been here, living right under our roof, for many months, already. She has been with us for a while, growing and changing, as she is now, but before we ever saw her beautiful face. And, although we could feel her kicking feet within her mom from time to time, and even hear her heart beat occasionally, we did not actually meet her until just those two weeks ago.  But, and thankfully, now we have, and, although I hesitate to even use the ‘a’ word in a column relating to my grandchildren, I will tell you this. I fail to see how the proponents of the abominable act called abortion don’t understand that principle, and I also fail to care how mad they get at me for saying so.

                Anyway, Nahla is safely here, and now we can see her, and truly know her. I held her this morning, and she smiled slightly as she and I looked into each other’s eyes.  I don’t know what she was thinking, other than perhaps wondering who that big old face belonged to, but I do know she was smiling. I saw that smile, and I know, exactly, the unspeakable blessing she is to me, and to us.

                Our new granddaughter is already showing signs that she follows very closely to her mom, in strength, beauty, and determination, and that is saying a lot.  Believe me, her mom is a very beautiful and tough act to follow.  This apple looks a lot like the tree, and I really believe they share some very deep roots of determination and success. There are two thoughts displayed on the walls of Nahla’s nursery. On one side of the room is a wooden plaque, given to Emily by her sister, Cathy. The words on that plaque explain perfectly how we feel about how Nahla fits in our family. The plaque says: “All of God’s grace, in one tiny face.”  Across the room, right above her crib, is the inscription: “Let her sleep, for when she wakes, she will move mountains.”  That, I believe.         

Turn, Turn, Turn

By G. E. Shuman

            Way back in 1962 a newly formed pop band, called The Byrds, put the words of the third chapter of the book of Ecclesiastes to music. They called the tune, Turn, Turn, Turn, and even if you were not around at that time, I’m pretty sure the melody of that song has just sprung into your head.  If it didn’t, I think you should find it, out in the ‘cloud’ somewhere, and listen to it. I always liked that song, for its soft notes, but more for those borrowed words.  Lately, as I get older, and very recently, as I see things changing around me, those words, as follows, have taken on even greater meaning for me.

            “For every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven”, the song and the passage goes. “A time to be born, and a time to die, a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted.”  “A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing”, it continues further on.

            I very recently lost my younger brother. Last month he had his final battle with cancer, and now he is gone.  That is an extremely sad thing for me; I do miss him very much. I wish I had more time with him now, and regret times that I could have spent with him, but didn’t. I have thought a lot about the fact that I hope to live for many more years, and that his life is already over. The very idea that he is gone is an almost surreal one to me. It just doesn’t seem possible.  Turn, Turn, Turn.

            On a much better note, of the song, and of my experience, by the time this edition of The Sturbridge Times is in your hands, my family will have been  amazingly blessed by the birth of our newest granddaughter; she will be number twelve, in our continuing line of beautiful grandchildren.  (Our children were not perfect, but their kids are. Trust me, I’m a granddad.) “A time to weep, and a time to laugh.”

            I’m writing this column as I sit on the front porch of our old Vermont home. From here I can see my wife’s potted hanging flowers, and her big potted strawberry plant. Yes, it’s a potted strawberry plant. (We live in the ‘city’.) At the far end of our porch, beside the house, are my feeble attempts at growing tomatoes, beans and squashes.  Don’t laugh. They may be feeble, but they’re mine, and they really are growing.  Once it was a time to plant those seeds. Soon it will be time to reap what we have sewn in our country, in gardens, in farm fields, and in our lives. I hope we have sown good seeds in all. Turn, Turn, Turn.

            “A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.” I’m not sure what the time to refrain from embracing would be.  Maybe it means that there is a time for expressing love, and a time for being more serious and working for those we love.  Scholars probably understand those words better than I.  I only understand that we are to love one another.

            Life, at best, is very short. That fact has been on my mind a lot lately. As I think of the past 62 years of my experience on this big beautiful world, I cannot believe how swiftly those years have passed. I really want to make my life last as long as I can. Don’t we all?  I know that, even in my brother’s case, he fought his last bout with cancer for the purpose of having a bit more time with his kids, and with his own brand new granddaughter. Turn, Turn, Turn.

            I certainly wish you and yours a long and sunny summer, and a long and happy life. Fall can be beautiful, but both as a season of the year, and a season of life, it comes far too quickly. Still, there really is “a time for every purpose under heaven.” if we will just use our time wisely. “A time to embrace” might be the time our world needs most right now. 

A “Zoe-sized” Car

By G. E. Shuman

            I want to use this column to just express my thanks to all the readers who encouraged me in my recent, great personal adventure of driving my 1970 Volkswagen Beetle, “Babi” all the way up here to Vermont from her previous home in Florida.  That trip was exciting, nerve-wracking, and anything but a sure thing for me, as I made my way north, over the course of three long days.  I have shared most of that with you in previous columns, so I won’t go over it all again now.

            What I would like to do is just tell you all how wonderful it has been when meeting readers on the street, in restaurants, and especially at Babi’s first car show recently, and having them talk to me about the car.  It seems that nearly everyone has a Volkswagen Beetle story from somewhere in their past.  They either have owned one, or have known several people who have.  The stories are usually about the love-hate relationship people had with those cars.  They loved the price and dependability of the car, and hated the limited room. They loved the great winter traction the car provided, and hated the very poor excuse for a heater that they had.  In any case, whatever your VW past is, I’m pretty sure you had one, in one form or another. I thank you for sharing your stories with me, and I hope you will continue to do so.

            Babi’s biggest fan, I believe, is likely also her smallest fan.  This person is one of my very favorite people in the entire world, and one I just love sharing the car with.  She is my amazing five year old granddaughter, Zoe. From the very first time Zoe saw the car, this child has just beamed with smiles every time she gets into it.  Last Saturday’s car show was no exception.  She and her family came to the show, and she spent much of her time there, in the car, playing with the old-fashioned knobs and switches, and smiling some of her biggest smiles.  The first time Zoe sat in the car, shortly after I arrived in Vermont with it, she said, through one of those fantastic smiles: “This is a ‘MY’ sized car.”  That simple statement seemed pretty profound to me. I wondered how many five year olds are really aware of how large something like a car is.  Let me tell you, THIS five year old is aware of everything!

            Readers, you know that, over the years, I have shared a lot of things with you, including my feelings, my opinions, and my faith. I feel the need for you to hear, now, what I am about to say. My life, especially my adult life, has brought me many fantastic, God-given blessings, including a wonderful wife, five amazing children, three great sons-in-law, (so far), and twelve perfect grandchildren, (also, so far) and I just need to share that fact with you.              

            Here’s where I believe those gifts came from. “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.” (James, 1:17. Holy Bible.)  To me, that really says it all. By that definition of a gift, even Babi is one. Wow!

            If you’d like to meet Babi, she is a member of the Vermont Kustom Klassics Car Club, and their next show that she will be in will be at Bond Auto in South Barre, Saturday, July 9^th, from 5-8 pm.   The show is in support of the Make A Wish Foundation, and I’d love to see you there.  You know, Babi can’t sign autographs, but her biggest fan can.  If you’re very lucky, maybe you can meet her.  She’ll be the adorable five year old girl, smiling from ear to ear, sitting in the “Zoe-sized” car.

            

The Picnic Basket

By G. E. Shuman

            Today, (the day of this writing), is my wife’s birthday.  I’m not going to tell you how old, or how young she is today, as I value my life far too much to do that.  I will say that there is a 2, and a 6 in the number representing her age. I’ll let you decide which numeral comes first. Anyway, let it also be known that I did marry an older woman.  Truthfully, she really is older than me… three weeks older, to be exact.  Hey, three weeks is a significant amount of time, especially the three weeks when she has already had her birthday, and I have not. Don’t think it matters? Try holding your breath for three weeks. Okay, I have belabored that point quite enough.

            Birthdays are difficult things to celebrate, it seems, when you are our age. At least, for me, every year brings the challenge of finding the right gift for my dear wife, on her day.  You can only do flowers, candy, and more flowers and more candy just so many times, I have learned.  And, since Lorna buys her own jewelry, clothes, and has her nails done every two weeks, ( a gift that keeps on taking, and one that I started  years ago), I have a lot of trouble figuring out, on her birthday and on Christmas, exactly what to do to impress my bride, once more.

            A few days ago it was suggested that I take my wife on a romantic, private picnic on her special day, and, being the truly romantic guy that I am, I thought that was a good idea. (Actually, I probably can’t accurately define the word ‘romantic’, but I do love my wife.)  So, last evening I went to the supermarket and bought all kinds of things that I thought would make our picnic together a memorable time.  I purchased special wheat loaves, and cheese, and meat for the sandwiches, and potato salad, and fruit, and crackers, and more cheese, and wine, and other things, all to put into our picnic basket for the occasion.  Hey, maybe I really AM a romantic guy. Who would’a thunk it?

            Now, here’s where I want to tell you the best part. That is, yes, we do actually have a picnic basket; a REAL picnic basket.  We also have an insulated, soft sided, picnic/beachy thing, but that isn’t what I’m talking about.  The real picnic basket we have is something we purchased years ago, but have probably only used on one occasion before today.  (Think of the basket on the rear of the bicycle Miss Gulch rode, in The Wizard of Oz, and you will know what our picnic basket looks like.)

            I didn’t remember what a unique and quaint thing the basket was, until I went to the camping equipment area of our cellar shelves this morning, found it, brought it to the kitchen, and opened it to put in the ingredients for our picnic.  I want you to know, the thing is an actual wicker basket, with leather straps and hinges, wicker handles, and is lined on the inside with a patchwork, I guess, gingham fabric. The ‘picnic making’ contents of

the basket have been waiting, literally, for years, for the use that they got today. The old basket contained a knit table cloth, a gingham table setting, linen napkins, flatware, stemware, and soon, all the food and drink that I had bought for the occasion.  

            So, as I said, today, on either my wife’s sixty second, or twenty sixth birthday, we went to a beautiful picnic spot up in the Smuggler’s Notch area of Stowe. (I will readily admit to living in a gorgeous part of the Northeast, and do suggest that you visit here, often.)  We opened the basket, and made arrangements to eat our quaint lunch on the picnic table that we chose. 

            No one else was in the picnic area today, which was perfect.  I couldn’t have planned it better.  The sun was shining through the vibrant green trees, chipmunks were scampering past our table, (I’m not kidding, they really were.) birds were singing, and the little brook only yards away was beautifully babbling. Best of all, I got to share a leisurely, simple meal with the person I love more than anyone else in the world; the one who has stood by me in marriage for nearly 44 years.  (Now I guess you know how old we are.) The surroundings were good, the food was good, but our marriage, which began with two eighteen year old kids eloping, is more than good. It is amazing     

            So, after a long wait, summer seems to really be here.  Everything is green, and alive.  I hope you will go out into this beautiful world, soak up the sun, and share a simple picnic or two with the people you love.  It doesn’t have to be fancy.  Find a park bench, a recreation area, or just do it in your back yard.  Firstly, I hope you will go out and find a real picnic basket, just like ours.  Until today I didn’t realize how important that old thing was.

            Happy Birthday Lorna.  I love you. George

              

Be Careful Out There

By G. E. Shuman

                This isn’t going to be some sort of diatribe about how and when and where I think cell phones should be used.  Maybe it should be one, but it isn’t going to be.  Motor vehicle laws have been put into place to try to enforce the fact that it just might be dangerous to text your kids or write your college entrance exam essay on your phone, while driving down the highway at 70 miles per hour.  For some reason, it seems to me that people should already be aware of such things. To me, those laws are like the seatbelt ones. I don’t feel that we should need a law to tell us to wear a belt so that if we were to hit a tree our brains wouldn’t leave our heads, and become a permanent part of that tree.  It seems to me that we would already want to avoid such occurrences, without being forced by law to.

                No, I’m not here to talk about those things, exactly.  I do want to share a very short incident that I was involved in just a few days ago.  What happened was, I was driving toward Main Street in Barre, on an intersecting side street, and was in the process of stopping where that street met Main.  I was not going fast at all, but did have to stop somewhat more abruptly than normal, as, just as I got close to Main, a tall young man simply stepped off the sidewalk curb, directly in front of my car.

                Now, before anyone (although I’m sure none of my readers would do this) starts flying off the handle, proclaiming that a pedestrian always has the right of way, please know, I already know that.  If I had ever hit that young man, it would have been my fault.  That point, is not my point at all.  You see, as this young man stepped off the curb, his ears were filled with ear buds, which were plugged into his phone, and he was very intently staring into that phone, and thumbing the screen as he stepped.  I stopped, and raised my hands in a gesture that was meant to say: “What the heck are you doing? Do you have a death wish?”  In return, the man raised just one of his hands, and gave me one of those lovely ‘half-a-peace-sign’ gestures that everyone loves to receive. He also raised his voice in words that his father probably taught him from his time in the navy.  He was mad that I could have hit him. I was scared that I could have hit him.

                My point really is, that this is a free country, and I just think we have, in our personal freedoms, lost some of the idea of personal responsibility.  Everyone owes us everything, and no one can make us do anything, even if doing so would make a lot of sense. That young man, as a pedestrian, had every right to step out in front of my car, as he concentrated on his music.  If I had hit him with my car, it would have been my fault. The thing he might have wanted to consider is that my car would probably not have been damaged at all, with his body on the road underneath it.  He might have been damaged in the extreme.  Why don’t people get that?

                Please, drivers and walkers, summer is here, and everyone is out enjoying it. So, Happy Summer! Let’s just be careful out there. 

No Green Thumbs Here

By G. E. Shuman

                Most years, by the time the month of May comes around, I have figured out what strange attempt I will make that year, in my annual, nearly futile effort at growing a few vegetables at our home.  This year, it’s already June, and I haven’t given the ‘garden’ much thought, yet.  It would be easier if I just didn’t try, but I probably still will.

                We live in Central Vermont, and garden space for most people here is not a problem.  Unfortunately, at least in some ways, we have a very large home, on a very small lot in our town.  In other ways the size of our lawn is fine with me, as mowing has never been something I look forward to.  (I think that I should have carpeted our yard, years ago.  Vacuuming is easier than mowing.) 

                Anyway, I always try to grow at least a few tomato plants, usually in big pots out beside the front porch.  I have had limited success with this.  I’ve never tried to figure out how much each of those poor past tomatoes actually cost me to grow.  You do have to buy the tomato plants themselves, plus the pots, potting soil, and I always take the ever-optimistic action of getting tomato cages, just in case the plants get really big, ‘this year’.   I’m pretty sure I would have to harvest a lot of tomatoes to make this make any financial sense, so I try to just not think about that.

                Last year, in addition to my potted tomatoes, I did something my daughter, Faith, suggested, as I have little space to grow things, as I have said.  She told me that if you buy a few very large bags of potting soil, and just lay them along the edge of your house, they can become nearly effortless and weed less mini-gardens.  The words effortless and weed less sounded good to me, and the plan actually worked quite well, or at least as well as any other garden idea has for me. What you do is just use a razor knife and cut circles on the potting soil bags, about six inches apart.  I used a large mug as a template, and it was extremely easy to cut very uniform circles in the soil bags. You also poke a few holes in the back side of the bags, for drainage.  (You do this first, or you’re going to dump all your potting soil out. I would be terrible at writing directions for anything.) Then you simply plant your seeds in the circles, and they thrive in the weed less, rich environment you have provided for them.  How cool is that?  The thing I did wrong last year was to get too excited about it, and try to plant too many types of vegetables in the small space. I did get string beans, squash, and some cucumbers from my little ‘family plot.’ Again, I would never try to figure out how much each of those cukes cost me.

                It’s strange, but my wife is at least as bad as I am when it comes to keeping things alive.  We do have a small dog who, seemingly, will live forever, but that’s about it.  Every spring we get hanging baskets of flowers for the front porch, and every year we kill them off within a month or two. I sometimes think we don’t water them enough, then we try watering them more, and within several weeks we don’t need to water them at all.  It’s very sad. We used to get really big, expensive baskets to hang up, but have realized that it makes more sense to kill a few twelve dollar pots of flowers than it does thirty dollar ones. 

                I was thinking of how I would address this issue, in this column, as I put the dogs out early this morning.  I stood there with them, looking at the big leaves that have already burst forth from the maple trees on the front lawn, and the huge lilacs on the bushes beside the house.  Then I realized that those things have been growing for many years, without my help at all.  How dare they? I have never, ever watered those lilac bushes, and would look pretty stupid watering a huge maple.  I guess God’s a better gardener than I am, and I’m okay with that.

               I hope you have much success with your garden this summer.  Some people have green thumbs, and then there are the people who live at my house.  If I was smart, I would spend more money at the farm stands, and less in the garden department this year.  But, I never said I was smart.

A Quick Plumbing Lesson

By G. E. Shuman

            When I write on certain subjects, I always want to make clear that this is an opinion column. The opinions expressed here, in this space, are not necessarily those of the publishers of the paper, or of anyone else, for that matter.  They are my opinions.  Hey, it’s my column, after all.  So, please, if you are in disagreement with this column, or any other one of mine, don’t take it out on the paper, or anyone else.  Feel free to blast me if you want.  I’m a big boy, and, as a matter of fact, that point might be a good segue into the subject at hand.

            Yes, I am a big boy. In fact, I am probably bigger than I should be, and, at my advancing age, am actually more of an ‘old’ boy, than just a big one.  Whichever is the case, one thing is for sure, and that is that I am, and always have been, of the male gender; a ‘boy’, if you will.  Frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I do realize that there are others of my sex that actually would have it another way, or ‘the’ other way, and that is certainly their business, not mine.  I know how I feel about such things, but I am far from being anyone’s judge. 

            Having said all of that, and meandering precariously and awkwardly into this subject, I must say that I cannot agree with our President, and others, who seem to be forcing their opinion onto all of us, concerning recent ‘gender’ issues.  In a way, they are taking the role of our judges, if they say that it must be accepted to allow a man, simply on the basis of which gender he ‘identifies with’, to enter and use a ladies public bathroom.  To me, and to many others, allowing this, and demanding it be so, will soon bring about some very terrible crimes in those rooms.  Little girls use those bathrooms, as do elderly, helpless women, and, although some males may actually feel more comfortable using that facility, there will be no test of intentions given to men before they go there.  If our President has not considered the probability of an increase in child molestation, rape, robbery, and abuse in demanding that our country accept this new ‘rule’, then I would suggest he has not thought it through.  Either that, or he doesn’t care about the safety of women and children.

            For several years, in one of my ‘past lives’, I assisted a friend of mine in his plumbing business.  While not being an expert in the trade, I can tell you that there is one thing that bathrooms all have in common.  I learned this the first time I had to help him unclog someone’s old toilet.  Whether you are fixing a sink, toilet, shower, or tub, those things are all alike.  They, and bathrooms themselves, are all about plumbing.  And, as you may have already guessed, so are we.  I remember, way back when I was not just a ‘boy’, but a very young boy, my dad and I were in the plumbing department of our local hardware store.  As we left, Dad was at a loss for words when I asked him what the store clerk meant when he asked my dad if he needed the ‘male’ or ‘female’ fitting,  for whatever project he was working on at the time. 

            While trying to not be indelicate here, I would suggest that, if you are confused about which public restroom to use, a quick look down the next time you are in your own bathroom should be reminder enough.  If you see male plumbing, use the boys’ room, if female plumbing, then use the girls’. 

Making It Home

By G. E. Shuman

            I told you all, a few weeks ago, that I would report back on my great adventure to bring my aging Volkswagen Beetle home from Florida.  Well, this column is to do that.  The trip was exciting, and we did get here in ‘one’ piece, with my old body feeling almost permanently tucked into the old body of my new little car.

            My trip began very well, as I left my mom’s home in the northern part of the sunshine state, at eight in morning, last Friday.  I loved the car at the start of the trip, and still do.  It, probably, doesn’t love me for what I put it through.  Interestingly, the very idea of such an elderly vehicle, or any vehicle having the capacity to love, or to think at all, is a strange one, to say the least.  Still, there was The Love Bug. For some reason, an old VW is a thing that many people either have fond memories of owning, long ago, or very un-fond ones.   They either, once upon a time, formed a great attachment to some old Beetle, or they hope they never have to see one again. The car I bought, although cute and tiny, is obviously just a collection of sheet metal and a motor.  Still, somehow, I am already attached to it, because of our recent journey together.

            The first leg of the trip was the hardest. Before I had gotten out of Florida the generator indicator light had come on, and I was forced to deal with that before it was really even lunch time.  A ‘good ol’ boy’ mechanic, in some small southern town off the highway, told me that the generator was fried, as was the voltage regulator, and, almost in the same breath, said that his son was getting married the following day. He didn’t even invite me to the wedding, but confirmed that he couldn’t help me over the weekend. I understood, of course, sort of. After all, I was about 1300 miles from home, in a 46 year old car, and somewhat desperate, although all of that situation was of my own making. The truly nice man said he would be happy to take the motor out of my car and fix it the following Monday. Take the motor out? My heart nearly stopped as I considered the idea of him ripping the heart out of my buggy, and, hopefully, putting it back in successfully, after I had waited in the little town for three days.  Dollar signs flashed before my eyes as he spoke, as did the fleeting vision that I would never make it back to my family in Vermont.

            God is good, and proved that to me many times on the way home last weekend.  In his examination of my car, that good ol’ mechanic had taken the cover off the car’s voltage regulator and had shoved a big screwdriver into it, several times. Sparks flew everywhere, which I thought was probably not a healthy electrical thing to have happen.  I soon drove off, with the man’s blessings, looking for the local U-Haul place in search of something to tow the car with, before my battery, and therefore my motor, died completely. That business was closed for the day, which was strangely fortunate for me. When I restarted the car in their parking lot, I noticed that it spun over very quickly. To this day he has no way of knowing this, but that mechanic, who is now a proud father in law, somehow fixed my car’s problem for me. 

            To make a long story and a long trip shorter, Saturday and Sunday the car performed very well, and Sunday afternoon I drove it into my driveway, here in Barre.  I think I will always remember what I put that old car through, as we battled the wind of dozens of

eighteen-wheelers passing us on the highway, and as she successfully brought me over the Pennsylvania mountains in the fog and cold rain. 

            Ah… home sweet home. We had made it, even though my wife and two of my kids laughed at ‘Babi’ and me, as soon as they saw us arrive.  Both of us are antiques, you know, and not as spry as we used to be. I wonder if the little car felt as fatigued as I did that day. 

My Great Adventure, Part Two

By G. E. Shuman

                If you happen to be a faithful follower of my column, then you will understand what the title of this installment means. If you are a more normal person, and never read my stuff, you may not.  If you do remember, and provided you care to, I have been looking forward to a trip south, to visit my mom in Florida, and to drive back my ‘brand new’ 46 year old car from her home, to Vermont.  By the time this article is published, I will be right about in the middle of that week; a week which is my great adventure.

                If you’re reading this any time between the publish date of the paper, and May the first, I am either still in sunny Florida, or somewhere between there and here, on my way back to Vermont.  My mood, at this very moment in your point of reference, is either ecstatic, and that would be if the car is running well and I’m merrily on my way, or totally frustrated. That would be if I’m standing on the black pavement, beside the car, in the southern sun, waiting for a tow. Or, if I’m waiting for an unknown (and untrusted) mechanic to try to fix some aged mechanical car part that has left me stranded in a small southern town, somewhere. (Right now I might actually be eating lunch across the street from a peeling-paint old garage, choking down a greasy burger, looking out the window to across that street, and chatting with a waitress named Vera.) A few people seem to think that I ‘don’t have a prayer’ of getting all the way back up here in my elderly vehicle. Well, I really believe in the power of prayer, I think I DO have a prayer, and hope you will remember me, in yours, this week.  I’m serious, and I’m pretty sure that, because of you, I will make it.

                Although I would love to get my little buggy home without incident, I understand that the car was manufactured within months of Neil Armstrong’s first steps on the moon in 1969.  Although his words immortalized ‘one small step for mankind’, this trip, I’m sure, will be ‘one giant leap’ for me, and for my car. 

                One of the many charming things about old VWs, and similar cars, if there are similar cars, lies in their simplicity.  Frankly, and, hopefully conveniently for me, if a car doesn’t have power steering, power brakes, a radiator, hoses, air conditioning, or even a good heater, then none of those things can break down on you.  Admittedly, cars without air bags or an engine in the front may seem to be a bit unnecessarily dangerous to the frail hearted people of today. That’s only because, well… they are.  But I would be very willing to make such a long trip on a nice, big, smooth, fat, motorcycle someday, before I get to old, if I’m not already. Those don’t have those things either, or even a roof over your head and four wheels.

                I’m counting on my pre-conceived plan of driving so slow that everyone, and their great grandmother with her walker, passes me on the highway, and of making frequent stops along the way to let my car (and me) cool down and rest and also quell my nagging sciatica problem.  Lately it seems that I can’t drive for even a few hours without moving my right leg around some, unless I want to be in pain.  Gas pedals can, therefore, be more than a bit of an annoyance to me. Cars without cruise control are a problem, and in 1970 few cars had that.  No Volkswagen Beetles did. I had given some thought to the idea of finding a brick to put on the pedal, but then thought better of that thought.

                My aging memory had, recently, also been somehow jogged into recalling that cars of that long ago time didn’t have cup holders, and I realized that I would likely have a problem holding my coffee between my knees for thirteen hundred miles, especially while using a clutch pedal.  I found a company that actually sells custom-made a cup holder for my model and year of car, which I thought was a pretty ingenious way of ‘finding a need’ and filling it.  The cool thing is that they make a really nice one. What you do with the cup holder is pull out the car’s dash-mounted ash tray, (something I don’t need anyway,) and ‘find that need, or hole’ and fill it, with the cup holder.  Pretty cool.

                So, again, in your timeframe, I have already made my flight to Florida, with my cup holder, license plate, car registration, and laptop in my carry on, plus a few t shirts, socks and underwear, just in case I need them. 

                I can imagine the conversation I must have had with TSA at the Burlington airport.

                “What’s that thing, Mr. Shuman?” 

                “Oh, that’s a cup holder for my car, and that metal thing is a license plate, as you can see.”

                “Okay”. (Think of the strange look on the agent’s face.) 

                “Yes, I’m taking these pieces of my car on vacation with me. I’m going to come back up and get the rest later.”

                So, dear readers, please think of me, and pray for me. However and whenever I make it home from my great adventure, I’ll let you know how it all went.

Beep! Beep!