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.