Happy New Year! (From my point in time, to yours.)

By G. E. Shuman

                As I write this, I’m still in the old year of 2017; as strange as it seems to me that the year 2017 could be considered ‘old’. Such are the ways of deadlines and calendars. Strangely, to you, where, and more importantly ‘when’ you are right now, that’s exactly what it is.  The year I am in is a thing of the past to you; a vapor, and only a memory.

                Yes, you are in the brand-new year of 2018. In fact, by the time you read these words you will have already experienced at least a tiny portion of that new year. Some things in the new year, no matter how minute they are, have certainly already happened for you. From where I am, and from ‘when’ I am as I write, I can have no clue about what those things will be, or what they have been. (This is beginning to give me a headache already. How about you?) I can only say that I hope the new year is treating you well, so far. Time is a very funny thing.

                I also hope, and pray, that this new year that you are already experiencing will bring good things to our nation, and to the world. I am reminded that on September 10^th. 2001, the day, and the terrible events we simply universally refer to as 9-11, had not yet occurred. Only a handful of very evil people knew that they would.  My own father passed away just two weeks prior to that fateful date, and never knew that those buildings came down.  Somehow, that seems strange to me.

                There is one little-noticed fact that my daughter mentioned to me the other day.  It is that on December 31, 2017, and on that day only, every person who is an adult would have been born in the 20^th century, and every minor would have been born in the 21^st.  For you, that day has already passed. For me it hasn’t, and I hope I remember to contemplate that a bit on December 31, this coming Sunday.  Calendars are also funny things.

                This column is short. It’s late Thursday night, (actually, early Friday morning,) and I need to meet my last deadline of the year. I also need to go to bed. As the new year approaches for me, I am praying that you are experiencing good things in it already.  I’m asking for God’s blessing on this fragile, troubled world of ours. He alone sees our tomorrows, or even our next minutes. In many ways, I believe that is a very good thing.  

                Now, please forgive me. I’m wishing you this somewhat early from my point of view, and a bit late from yours. In either case: “Happy New Year!”

                

Christmas, Simply

By G. E. Shuman

                I think that the only time I enjoy the dark and cold of this time of the year is in the evening, as Christmas approaches.  I enjoy the ‘feel’ of our old home, as it battles the cold and shields us from everything outside. I like the warmth of an occasional fire in the fireplace, the glow of candles, and the lights of the Christmas tree. 

                Lorna and I decided, months ago, to do what we could to simplify this best holiday of all, in our home this year.  Presents have been intentionally trimmed back, therefore so has the stress of shopping.  Our decorating has been lessened, as has the time and trouble of all of that. Likewise, the ‘undecorating of the week after the holiday should also be less painful than usual. Even our tree is much smaller than those of “Christmas’s past” in the Shuman household.  (Who knows, maybe a small tree would make the fewer, smaller gifts look bigger, if that had been the goal, which it was not.)

                I mentioned in my last column our attempts at returning to a Christmas celebration of simpler times.  Our past few Christmas trees have been adorned with simple ornaments and strings of popcorn, as were those of many years ago.  This year we have even attempted, with mixed success, to find ‘old fashioned’ gift wrap, and did find an antique-looking smaller treetop star for our little tree.  (As someone slowly recovering from many years in the overdone Christmas’s of the retail world, these steps toward the simplification of our Christmas celebration just seem right to me.)

                The weekend after Christmas our extended family, with our kids and their families, will gather together for a huge holiday meal, and that is always a wonderful time for us. Because of this, I would like to keep our actual Christmas Day dinner on the simpler side, as with the rest of the day. My vote is for a ham in the oven and a crockpot full of veggies, on that day.  To me, in the case of possessions, celebrations, and even in the planning of meals, less is often more.

                Yes, this year our family’s Christmas Day will probably be simpler and less exciting than some in years past. To me, that’s okay, and even comforting, somehow.  Christmas Eve, especially, will be peaceful at our house, lit by candles and a twinkling star, and warmed by thoughts of the true meaning and miracle of what is to come… sort of like on that very first Christmas, long ago.

    

           

Stringing Popcorn

By G. E. Shuman

Dear Readers,

This column is not new. I first published it two Decembers ago. I hope you enjoyed it and that you will again.

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

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

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

There is no longer anyone in our home who believes in Santa, or who is interested in many of the traditions of that jolly old elf, or of our family. This year, Lorna and I decided to embrace that fact, as fighting it would be stupid and futile.  We still went out and bought a tree, but a much smaller one than at any Christmas past, in an effort to simplify things, this year. We, without the fanfare now relegated to seasonal memories, set up the smaller tree in that familiar corner of the living room. 

My wife, the wise one in the family, suggested that we use some of our older ornaments, sort of making this tree a symbol of memories. She then went to the attic and located those things, and also the angel treetop that her family had used on their trees when she was growing up; indeed since she was an infant. She brought that aging angel to me, and I tried plugging it into an outlet. To her and my astonishment, the 1950s era bulb within it glowed as if it were brand new. We immediately put that beautiful angel on the tree.

After that, Lorna seemed to be fretting a bit over what would be the perfect garland on our new, ‘old fashioned’ Christmas tree. It had to be ‘just right’. I didn’t know what she wanted to do, and we actually went to several stores, trying to find a beaded type of garland she had remembered from the past, but we never located it.  We then checked the totes of ‘Christmas past’ in the attic, and found nothing suitable there, either. Then, in probably the only good Christmas idea I have ever had, I asked Lorna if she had ever strung popcorn as a child, to put on a Christmas tree. To my amazement, and partial delight, she said that she had not. The fact that I wasn’t aware of this, in the life of my wife of 44 years, was astounding. The idea that she agreed to string some popcorn with me that evening was even more so.

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

           As you look forward to the coming holidays, you might want to consider the idea of simplifying them and of using just a few ideas from the past. Some of those things really are worth doing again.  I recently got to spend a cozy December evening watching TV and stringing popcorn with my best friend. 

The Best of Fall!

By G. E. Shuman

                Someone told me recently that the warm weather we’ve had here in the North this fall confused the trees so that they didn’t give us a very pretty foliage season.  I agree that it’s been unusually warm here; I just don’t know about the second half of his statement. I’m not really comfortable with the idea that trees can get confused. If so, I hope they can’t get mad. They’re all bigger than us.  Besides, I thought this foliage season has been quite pretty enough.

                I do love this beautiful time of year, for several reasons. One is that the cool dry air is perfect for me. My sweat glands have been working overtime for six months and deserve a break.  The gorgeous leaves, crisp apples and big orange pumpkins of New England always convince me that it’s time to let summertime go.

                Although I’m not a big fan of winter, the changing seasons are still great. I’ve written in the past about getting our old house ‘tucked in’ for the winter-wonderland months. I don’t like the cold, but do like the idea of being snug, and safe and sound in our big old home. I don’t even mind the early darkness that fall brings. By the time evening comes, this time of year, I’m ready for it. As I make my way to the recliner I might say something like: “Oh gee, I can’t do that yard work I promised to do this evening Hon, it’s already dark. Maybe tomorrow will be better.” (Like tomorrow evening it’s not going to get dark.)

                What I like best about this sweatshirt-and-sneaker season really is my favorite fall holiday; Thanksgiving. I’ve loved Halloween since I was a child, whether or not that day is actually a holiday, but there’s something about Thanksgiving that is just the best.  Firstly, it has never been quite as over-commercialized as nearly all of the other holidays. (Think Christmas.) True, the food stores promote turkeys, pumpkin pie, and other things, but Thanksgiving has never become one of what I call the ‘sugar and plastic’ holidays. (Think Halloween and Easter.) And Thanksgiving has a lot of meaning for my family, (not that Easter doesn’t.)

                Thanksgiving, for some great reason, has stayed pretty much the same for our family, for all the years that I can remember.  It’s a time of our family gathering together, as many of us as possible, around a huge and very traditional feast. I can almost feel the warmth of the kitchen and smell that incomparable roasting-turkey aroma right now. It is also a time when our family truly takes stock of what we have, in our own way. We, for years, went around the table before the feast and each family member, including the little ones, would remind all the rest of us of something they were thankful for.

                Not everyone reading this column would agree with the ‘who’ that our family is thankful to, as we give thanks to God for all that He has provided for us.  If that’s not your position, thank the people you are with on Thanksgiving Day, for all that they have done for you.

                I’m a collector of bumper sticker sayings. My favorite is one I spotted on a car years ago, and I have made a point to remember it. The sticker simply stated: ‘GRATITUDE IS THE BEST THERAPY.’ I love that, and I believe it. Be grateful for this beautiful season, and be thankful for Thanksgiving. 

Powerless

By G. E. Shuman

                Most of us unsuspecting citizens in Central Vermont, Vermont in general, and in other New England states struggled through last week’s huge winds and power outages to some degree or other.  It’s true that we do experience bad weather here in the North, but that doesn’t normally include 80 mile-per-hour winds.  (I don’t remember seeing any weather forecasts foretelling that storm, not that I could have done much about it if they had warned us. I would have watched the storm with some apprehension, if I had known it was coming. I watched it with some apprehension, not knowing it was coming.) Evidently many trees and power lines were no more ready for the big blow that we were. I don’t know about you, but I felt powerless in the midst of it, and before morning I was powerless, literally. So were my family members throughout Vermont and New Hampshire.

                We lost our electricity for nearly two days, which was longer than in some areas, and much shorter than in others. It was an unusually long time for the lights to be out in a Barre City neighborhood, but our inconveniences were not all that terrible. We had no lights, obviously, and could not use the furnace, do laundry, run the dishwasher, or, heaven forbid, watch tv or use the cell phones. The wifi was off for those two days, and the cell towers were down for most of that time.  

                Our Barre house is on city water, so that was good, and our water heater runs on gas, so that was better. For those two days my family, at least, got to take hot showers in the morning, although I took mine by the tiny little light on my cell phone, which, with my old body, is not such a bad thing. (Sometimes less is more.) I had to dress in no-iron shirts for work, even though there really is no such thing as a no-iron shirt. I ate my coffee-less breakfast by that same cellphone light that lit my way in the bathroom. The burners on our gas kitchen stove, in just a few minutes, provided enough heat to take the chill off the house for the day.

                We are such creatures of habit.  Even though the power was off, each time I entered a room, and even though I had my cell phone in hand, with the little light on, I still reached for the wall light switch, without fail, even though the action did fail.  I also went to the cellar at least twice to switch a load of laundry over from the washer to the dryer, stopping half way down the dimly-lit stairs, in disbelief that I could be so in the dark about the situation, in more ways than one.

                I mentioned earlier that my family was somewhat, but not terribly inconvenienced by the power outage last week, and I hope you and yours made it through the darkness without many incidents. To me, some of it was actually okay. We had no lights but did enjoy an evening by candlelight. The furnace wouldn’t run, but it wasn’t very cold outside, and, in fact, the breezes after the big blow were unusually warm. I saved two days-worth of furnace oil in that time, come to think of it. We couldn’t do laundry for a few days, but who likes doing laundry? The dishwasher was dead, but I hate loading and unloading that thing, anyway. And, yes, the wifi and cell towers were out of commission, so we had no evening TV, (We talked to each other instead.) or cell phone service. (We talked to each other some more, instead.)

               

All Those Orange Witches

By G. E. Shuman

                I am not quite sure what’s going on, but all over Central Vermont, something strange seems to be happening.  If you live in our region, and if you drive a car, you may already know what I am hinting at here.

                It seems that, for some unknown reason, or at least it’s an unknown reason to me, just about every Central Vermont city, town, village, hamlet, and farm cow path is undergoing some type of major road construction… and all at once. All I can think is that there must be a big sale on asphalt going on, somewhere, but I’m sure city budget planners would disagree with that idea. On some streets they might be laying new water and/or drainage pipes, and on others they are repaving.  In many places, like on our street, they are doing both. The pavement on our street was taken up over a month ago, and it seems like the construction crew just forgot to come back one day.  They even left their equipment behind. Oh well, I guess a dirt road is better than no road at all.

                I’m not really complaining because I’m glad our streets are being redone. It just gives me the impression that all these towns are trying to eat the whole elephant in one bite.  Maybe doing a few streets at a time would be better?  I know that they know what they’re doing, and I don’t. like I said, it’s just an impression.

                A friend of mine mentioned to me that none of us will remember how to drive in a straight line, after dodging raised drainage covers for so long. Although that may be true, I’m not really worried about it. My family thinks I don’t try very hard to dodge them, anyway.

                Recently my wife and I took a trip across ol’ Route 2, from Barre, through New Hampshire, and into Central Maine.  If you haven’t taken that road in a while, I can tell you that those other states are no better, (Or no worse, depending on how you look at it.) than our state is. There seem to be orange and black construction signs just about everywhere. On that trip across to Maine I told my wife that I wished I owned whatever company makes those signs or at least be the guy who supplies all that orange paint.  I know those signs are very important. I just

wonder if someone, somewhere, is building a huge warehouse to keep them in (if and when) the construction ends.  If not, I know that orange roofs are pretty popular in some areas of Canada. (Although they don’t usually have the words SLOW or YIELD on them. At least I don’t think they do.) Still, New England towns could sell those things off for shingles, or maybe trade them with the country to the north for maple syrup.  (I forgot, we already have that.) Anyway, I’m sure that about six of those bad boys would cover a whole side of a roof in no time!  Isn’t it worth a try?

                  I remember hearing someone joking, years ago, about construction cones. You know, those orange rubber cones that are used everywhere there is any road construction going on?  That guy said that they are not what they appear to be, but, are, in reality, orange witches buried up to their hats. I can’t even see one of those cones without remembering that. Now you’re going to have the same problem. Sorry, (a little.)

                Please don’t get me wrong. No one wants our roads to be smooth and free of potholes and frost heaves more than I do.  I’m glad we have the hard-working crews and the equipment to make that happen.  I do hope most of the work is completed soon because I can see another road project right on the horizon. Halloween is coming, and someone is going to have to dig up all those orange witches.

“To Every Thing There is a Season”

by G. E. Shuman

           

            You are probably already aware of this, but the title above is the first six words of the Bible verse, Ecclesiastes 3:1-“To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven.”        It is also the first seven words of the song Turn! Turn! Turn! by the group The Byrds, written somewhat later than The Bible was, and released in 1965.

            As a teacher, it is almost impossible to not be keenly aware of the seasons; of the year, and of life.  Only moments ago, I was chatting with a high school student of mine as he manned the register of a local supermarket. He and I both were somewhat lamenting the fact that another school year was about to begin… again. “The summer went by so fast!” he said as he checked my groceries. (And I used to think that feeling was something only old guys like me had.) 

            Indeed, the summer has passed quickly, and here we are in September, already.  I do have great memories of some of the miracles of just being alive this summer, simply from the wonderful times I have had with my family. Since the beginning of summer, I have, several times, held my first great grandchild in my arms, and have talked to her about how beautiful she is and what a great family she has. (We will have many more such chats in the future.)  I have also spent time with all of my twelve grandchildren, including our barely one-year old granddaughter, and have watched them celebrate so much, from birthdays to junior high and high school graduations; from first steps, to their first days of college life.  Indeed, I have been truly blessed in this life.  Turn, turn, turn.

            Last week, at this writing, my 93-year-old mom visited us, and she also got to hold our new great granddaughter and have five, count ‘em, FIVE generation pictures taken. Wow!  She, and most of our family, also spent a day at Hampton Beach with us, and I watched her, barefooted, walking among the waves on the shore, with our kids and grandkids, and enjoying the feeling of the surf and sand, every bit as much as they.  “a time for every purpose under the heaven.”

            Very recently, also, my wife and I celebrated our anniversary. We have now marked 45 years of that wonderful woman putting up with me.  (Talk about miracles.)  Today, just before I went to the store and chatted with that student of mine, Lorna and I returned from a day trip to the White Mountains of New Hampshire in my 1970 VW Beetle, where we had a celebratory picnic at the base of Cannon Mountain.  Truthfully, there’s something about a slow ride, in an antique car, to a beautiful place with your best friend of many years that is just absolutely sublime. (Don’t forget George’s golden rule. For a happy life, every couple MUST own a wicker picnic basket, and use it at least once a summer.)

            I think that a lesson this old teacher has learned this summer is something my mom taught me a few years ago. During one of our visits she mentioned that she felt that age wasn’t a big deal, and that she has never been upset about whatever age she is. She told me that she knows life here doesn’t go on forever, and then she said: “and that’s okay.” Mom, I totally agree, and wish you a happy fall.  “To every thing there is a season,”  Turn, Turn, Turn.

           

            

The Lawnmower

By G. E. Shuman

                I know I’ve mentioned in the past that I don’t particularly like mowing my lawn.  I don’t particularly like snow blowing more, but mowing is not something I ever look forward to.  You may love mowing grass, and if so I’m happy for you. I do it, but I would just rather not.

                About a week ago I bought a new mower, on sale, at ‘Stuffmart’. I decided that I had tortured my dozen year old little mower enough, on our hill and tall grass, and decided to put it out to pasture, if you get the pun. Ha.                                              

                My wife has a dachshund, and it’s a miniature dachshund, at that. I usually determine when it is time to cut the grass when I put her out for her morning pee. (I mean the dachshund, not my wife.)  My theory is that If I can still see the dog in the grass on the side lawn then I can safely let it grow for a few more days. (The grass, not the dachshund. That dog never grows.)

                Anyway, I bought my new cut-rate grass cutter from my favorite big box store, and brought it home in a big box that just fit in the back of the car.  Truthfully, I had a bit of trouble getting the thing out of the box. First of all, it’s hard to unbox something when you can’t find your trusty box cutter. I couldn’t find my trusty box cutter. ‘Ho Hum. Oh dear… what did I do with that thing?’ I thought, as I decided to open the mower box tomorrow, or maybe the next day.

                Finally, a few days later, I did open the box and was pleasantly surprised at the relatively few pieces in the box. There was just a small bag of nuts and bolts, four wheels, (I guessed, one for each corner,) the handle, and even the mower itself.

                I succeeded in getting the mower together in a relatively short period of time, especially since I’m a real man, and real men don’t read directions. The problem was that the lawn really needed mowing by that day. (I hadn’t seen the dachshund in quite a while.) At this point my only real hope was that my new mower wouldn’t start, but I was sorely disappointed. I put oil in the brand new little motor, and then filled up the gas tank. It started on the very first pull of the rope. Dang! They just don’t make things the way they used to.

                I can’t really be complaining about mowing our little lawn, although I guess I just have been. In truth, which is something I try to avoid in these columns, your living room carpet is probably bigger than our lawn, but I’d wager that your carpet doesn’t have a hillside on one end of it. If it does, you should really have your house looked at.

                I was surprised when I began mowing that the mower was very easy to use and cut through that tall grass like, well, like a new lawnmower through grass. I don’t think I’ll dread the awful task of mowing the lawn quite so much now. I might even have to find something with shorter legs than a dachshund to measure the grass with next time, if there is such an animal. 

 

This Old House

By G. E. Shuman

          My family and I live in a big old, (emphasis on old) Dutch Cape house.  When we bought it, it was not supposed to be a ‘fixer-upper’. Regardless of that, I feel like I have been ‘fixing-er-up’ since the day we moved in, thirty-three wonderful years ago.

          The house is a sturdy old place, with its thick hardwood woodwork, hand carved stair railing, high ceilings, and higher heating costs. It really was a great place to raise our kids. The rooms are big, and the price when we bought it was not. The kids loved playing in the huge attic, which was a good thing, as we live in Barre City and have almost no lawn around the house. What lawn we do have is very steep, as this is Vermont, which I think is French for the word vertical, and a hundred years ago people used to build big houses like this one practically dangling off from cliffs, like this one does.

          Yes, you heard me right, or read me right, to be more precise. Our house is more than a hundred years old; it’s a hundred and twelve, to be exact. Built in 1905, it is even older than me, or even my mother.  I, myself, was not built until 1954. (Mom is 93, and is doing very well, thank you. She lives on her own in Florida, still drives her TWO cars, and just yesterday flew to Maine to visit her kids, grandkids, great grandkids, and great GREAT grandkids. She does almost everything better than I do, while having more aches and pains that I do, and complaining much less than I do about them.

          For the past six months or so we, (meaning I, mostly,) have been working on the house a bit, painting some rooms, re-doing the bathrooms, etcetera. We’re also getting some new carpeting done and finally buying some long-needed new furniture. (I can just about make out the outline of my body in my old recliner, and it’s not a pretty picture, and a little scary, believe me.) We’re doing these things just in case we end up staying here for another thirty-three wonderful years. Many more years than that would be a real strain on the human genome, I’m afraid.

          As I’ve been working on the house, I have been noticing something strange about it. Truthfully, (maybe), I’m beginning to think that this old place has a personality, and it’s the personality of a 112-year-old house, which, I guess, makes sense.  I now think that as a house gets older it begins to not accept change very well, sort of like some older people. I know for sure that it didn’t used to be so difficult as it is now to paint a room or install a toilet in this place. 

          When we moved here in 1983, (Yikes, that’s a long time ago.) I could do these things easily, without even breaking a sweat. Now, this stubborn old house doesn’t want me to change anything, and everything I do in here seems to take TWICE as long as it used to. Breaking a sweat is the very first thing I do, and that’s just while I’m writing the list of things I will need to get for the project. I’m very certain that when the house was younger these things were easier for me to do.

          This all can also be said for the exterior of our little piece of heaven, here in Barre.  We did have the house sided and a new roof put on at one point, so, thankfully, I don’t have to do much to the outside of the building.  I do still have to care for the lawn.  As I said, our lawn is small, so I really shouldn’t complain, but lately, my mower is acting old too, which it really is.  I once mentioned to my wife that I didn’t use to have to fill the mower with gas half way through mowing the lawn, but that I do now, so there must be something wrong with it. She replied that it also takes me twice as long to mow the lawn as it used to. I don’t know why she mentioned that. If she’s right, and she usually is, I will be forced to believe that even the grass is getting stubborn on me.

          Honestly, I am thankful for this old house.  Many years ago, when we were trying to buy it, I used to pray that God

would let us have it. Now I pray that He will let me survive it. (Kidding, sort of.) In the words of the poet Edgar Albert Guest: “It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home”.  Well, the Shuman family has done a “heap o’ livin’” here, that’s for sure, and it is definitely home.

          I really am comfortable in our old home, even if it’s getting stubborn, resists change, and is beginning to show its age.  I’m just glad those things aren’t happening to me.

On Being Blessed

By. G. E. Shuman

                I’d like to know what you feel the real meaning of being ‘blessed’ is.  I know what it means to me, but I have no idea what it might mean to you.  You know, we use that word ‘blessed’, very casually sometimes. At least I know I’m guilty of doing that.  In that regard, the word is like the word love.  I love my wife and all my family members very much.  I might also say that I love big fat mushroom bacon cheeseburgers.  I’m sure you see my point.

                So, what about this word, ‘blessed’?  So many people have told me that I am, truly, blessed with a great family.  I could not agree more.  All I need to do is walk around a store with our new granddaughter Nahla sitting in the seat of my shopping cart, and people literally approach us and comment about her beautiful face; her striking eyes, her great smile, every single trip. (She does look a bit like her grandad.) And I’m so proud of my kids, the other eleven of our twelve grandkids, and our brand new great granddaughter, Londyn.  Wrap that all together with having the world’s best and most dedicated wife, a great upbringing with my five siblings by loving parents, and it just couldn’t get much better.  I am, and always have been, very blessed.  I have not always appreciated that fact.

                One of my doctors, very recently as I was expounding, (perhaps a bit too much,) about some great accomplishment or other of one of my kids, told me that I was very lucky.  He then actually paused, looked momentarily at the ceiling of his office, and said that as soon as he said the word ‘lucky’, he knew it was the wrong word to use.  I then told him that my wife and I consider ourselves to be blessed.  His immediate reply was that we really are blessed. Then he said: “It’s good to be blessed, but it’s even better to realize that you are.” I consider that to be a very profound statement, by a very wise man.

                So, please allow me to ask once more what the word ‘blessed’ means to you.  It may mean nothing, very little, or very much to you. For some, the words ‘bless you’ are nothing more than something to say when someone sneezes.  I don’t think that quite covers what it truly means to have someone ‘bless’ you.

                Two short dictionary definitions of the word ‘bless’, when used as a verb, are as follows:

“To bestow good of any kind upon,” and “To protect or guard from evil.”  Those definitions are the right ones to describe how I feel about this idea of being blessed.  That is because for me to have good bestowed upon me, there simply must be a ‘bestow-er’.  To be protected or guarded from evil also absolutely implies the presence of a ‘protector’ or a ‘guardian.’

                Yes, I have been greatly blessed with family and friends, and with many other things, as have you.  For just one example, you and I live in the freest, richest, most wonderful country on planet earth.  I have never felt that I am at all deserving of that. This is, I know, because I really am not deserving of it.  Yet, I am here, as are you. We are blessed.

                Coincidentally, or not, you are likely reading this column either on Independence Day, or at least during the week following it.  Please take some time to honor in your heart the men and women who fought to bring that independence and freedom to our great land, and for those who have since sacrificed to keep us free.  Love your family, appreciate your country, fly your flag, and count your many other blessings this week. 

                I am well assured and convinced of who my bestower of blessings, protector, and guardian is, and I thank Him for His blessings, every day. I hope you do also.

Got the Time?

By G. E. Shuman

          I want to tell you about a small thing, a coincidence, if you will. It is something that happened to me, a few weeks ago. I’m not sure if it’s worth telling you about or not, but it looks like I’m going to anyway. Truthfully, in this small coincidence, I think someone was ‘trying to tell me something,’ as they say.  That someone must have been God, as the only other one I know who frequently tries to tell me something is my wife, and I don’t think she had anything to do with this.

          The thing is, as many of you may know, I am a teacher by profession, and a writer only by hobby. Some others of you may know that I am also a recovering retail manager, and am still often haunted by those long-ago days.  (That last point had nothing to do with the subject here, but, like I said, ‘haunted’.)

          I mention that I’m a teacher because everyone knows that we educators get the summers off. (Why didn’t I follow this career path many years ago?)  And, yes, some people think it’s unfair that we have so much time. I happen to agree with the ‘unfair’ part, so if you would like to start teaching, and join me for summers off, I would encourage you to do so. Just don’t think it’s all about heading home at three o’clock and long Christmas breaks… it’s not. (Although, those things are pretty cool.) My honest opinion is that, although I love the kids, by the time summer gets here time off from school is necessary so that someone doesn’t get hurt. After all, that someone would probably be me, and I don’t want ‘me’ to get hurt.

          The small thing that I began telling you about, I will finish telling you about now.  You see, for the past two years, sometime in June, my watch has failed me.  (You all know what a watch, or a wrist watch is, right?) People my age know, but young people today just look at their phone to find out the time, as they look at it to find out everything else. 

          Anyway, yes, for two Junes in a row now, whatever watch I had at the time has no longer been able to put the time on my wrist, and I’m a guy who ALWAYS wears one of those old-fashioned things. Last year the hands on my watch just stopped going around. Replacing the battery didn’t work. Its ticker had simply stopped and just would not restart. That’s not a good thing, if you’re a watch, or a person.  Last month my new watch lost one of those little pin things off the strap and the watch literally fell into the trash. I noticed the poor watch lying there in the coffee grounds and vegetable scraps, and rescued it. 

          I am very aware that for a dollar or so I can get a new pin for my watch. I have almost done that, several times now. For some reason, I have not, yet. It’s a strange feeling to think that someone is trying to tell you something, especially two Junes in a row. If that is what’s happening, I really don’t want to miss the message.

          The watch has been off my wrist for about two weeks now, and during some parts of the day I have no idea of the exact time. It’s true that I could pull my phone from my pocket and find the time, but it’s getting easier and easier to not find the time to do that. There is great freedom in not being controlled by what is read on the face of a clock or watch.

          So, if you have some free time this summer, for a vacation, a long weekend, or even just a totally unscheduled day, try taking your watch off and leaving it on your dresser. It will take a little weight off your wrist, and a lot off your mind.  You may soon feel that someone is trying to tell you something.     

It’s June… Already?

  

By G. E. Shuman

            I know I just asked the question, in the title, but I’ll repeat it.  It’s June… already?  It must be, because my calendar and my computer and my phone say it is, and those things can’t be wrong, right? Still, it just doesn’t seem possible.  Wasn’t it only a few weeks ago that the last flakes of winter snow were landing on my windshield?  Oh yeah. That WAS only a few weeks ago. I must remember, this is Vermont.

            In any case, the recent seasons and years have buzzed by faster than I can believe.  That may have something to do with my age, or, perhaps I’m just not paying enough attention.  I think it’s probably a little of both of those, mixed with the fact that life seems to get ‘hectic-er’ and ‘hectic-er’ almost every day for poor poor me.  I thought that when you got to be of a more mature age, (I will never use the word ‘old’, except that I just did.) you were supposed to get to slow down a little.  Personally, I’d love to slow down, but I don’t seem to

be able to fit that into my schedule.

            I really am not complaining, much, as I wouldn’t be happy with nothing to do, at least I wouldn’t after a year or two of doing nothing, but my wife and I really are busy.  We both work, and babysit our newest granddaughter. (That we love doing.) Plus, this week I’m remodeling one of our bathrooms, writing this column, (Lucky you, right?), giving high school final exams, speaking at an eighth-grade graduation tomorrow night, and then we are attending our grandson Noah’s high school graduation the next night, our granddaughter Jaidyn’s high school graduation, (in another state) the following night, and going to Noah’s graduation party back here in Vermont the day after that. Whew! In our spare time, we might try to sleep a little.

            Is your schedule anything like ours? If so, you might also wonder where the year has gone, so far, and may too be a little amazed that June 2017 is already here. 

            If this column seems a little short, that’s only because it is.  Like I said, my schedule is a bit full, and I need to keep moving. Time marches on, and I think it’s about to run me over.                                 

-Congratulations Noah and Jaidyn!  You two are FANTASTIC, and I’m very proud of you both!- 

                                                                   

            

The Great Race!

By G. E. Shuman

                On May 11th, I participated in the great, annual, Corporate Cup foot race in Montpelier. This is the second year in a row that I have run in that race with my daughter, Emily.  Okay, so I didn’t exactly run in the race. In fact, I didn’t run at all. I tried running once when I was a kid, and I didn’t like it. 

                Truthfully, Emily and I did walk the entire course, and she made very good time. I thought that I also was doing quite well, until the truth of just how far three miles is, set in. It is a long way for a desk jockey, computer ‘composer’, or sedentary high school teacher to walk.  If you happen to be all three of those, I think you’re sunk before you begin that race. I am all three.  (Thank the Lord for vehicles.)

                One difference with Emily and I walking the race this year is that she also had the delightful burden of my nine-month-old granddaughter Nahla in a pack on her back.  I had offered to wear the back pack and that beautiful child, and I soon became very happy that she didn’t take me up on that offer.

                In the first mile or so of the race everything was fine.  I wasn’t even breathing hard, and had fun playing with the baby. People walking with us marveled at Emily’s pace and endurance while carrying her child. Someone jokingly said that she should get ten seconds off her time. I said that strollers should be allowed in the race.  Very soon after this we met up with the first of the runners, as they were on their way BACK, toward the finish line.  I couldn’t believe that, and was tempted to turn around and run back with them. Who would have known? I would be a hero, I thought.  Okay, well, maybe not.

                Before long, at the 1.5-mile mark or so, things got a little harder for me. Although Montpelier seems to be fairly flat territory, it is still in Vermont, and therefore there are ups and downs. I soon began to think that the upward inclines outnumbered the downward ones. Since the race ended at nearly the same spot on State Street as it began, I knew in my head that this was impossible. I knew in my legs and feet that the laws of physics must be wrong.

                Then things seemed to get a lot harder.  Twice, at least, Emily and Nahla waited on the sidewalk for “Grampy” to catch up with them. After that they sort of just left me in the dust, not that I could blame them. 

                To make the recollection of a long, step by step, story shorter, I’ll cut to the chase.  (Pun intended.)  Actually, I was chased, and was more than embarrassed when people started passing me on that last long hill.  You see, people who were much bigger than me passed me. (Yes, there are some of those.) Then some people who were definitely older than me passed me. (Yes, there are some of those, too.) Then, and I’m not joking, some people who were bigger AND older than me passed me.  Wow. 

                At this point I began looking behind me, and down that hill, to make sure that at least some people were still left back there.  I thought that if they were still behind me, they were probably anxious to get on the bus back to their elder care facility after the race.  In any case, it would not do for me to be the last person across that finish line, and I did not intend to let that happen, even if it meant changing shirts and ducking into the crowd. (I’m not above doing such a thing.)

                I proceeded up the hill, around the last bend in the road, and down toward State Street and the finish line, but not before being passed, (I’m not kidding.) by at least one pregnant lady and an older woman with a cane, which I felt like taking away from her.  I did eventually make it across the finish line, (without cheating) and was not even the last to do so.

                It’s been a week, at this writing, since the race, and my feet are just beginning to forgive me for torturing them so.  By this time next year, I will probably have forgotten the pain, and will sign up for the great event of the Corporate Cup once more. Hopefully the rules will change, so that we can bring two strollers; one for Nahla, and one for Grampy.

In The Garden

By G. E. Shuman              

                Every spring, regardless of my many memories of past personal failure in trying to raise vegetables, I always try again. Something about that fact reminds me of the definition of insanity. Oh well. Over the years I have tried growing tomatoes in pots and plots, beans in rows and hills, and other vegetables every which way you can think of. I have also attempted to grow hanging baskets of strawberries, and even those upside-down things that make it simple to produce ‘hundreds of berries’. Okay, sure they do.  I am always able to produce some produce at our home, but not enough to really be worth doing so, at least not by my methods, so far.

                This year, I’m tempted to not go through the effort and expense of raising anything at all, and just visit our local farm stands for fresh veggies.  I have not totally decided to do that, as I am also tempted to try once more. (Like I said, the definition of insanity.)

                Yesterday that temptation did draw me to the small rectangular spot beside our house, where most of my yearly gardening attempts have been made.  As I stood there looking at the space, I was reminded, somewhat, of why I probably keep trying to be a successful gardener. It is that, although I definitely have no green thumb, I do like to participate in the idea of life. 

                To me, the green of spring and summer simply define that idea of life. Spring means a new beginning for all things living, after one more hard Vermont winter.  It is a new chance to experience growth, and to begin what is hoped will be a bountiful harvest in the fall.

                As I stood there, I recalled some of those other springs when I have attempted to grow things; I remembered that year that I mixed up the seeds, which was embarrassing, and the other when my little sticks with paper reminders of what was in each row blew away. (I felt exceptionally stupid that time.) I certainly have a penchant for mixing things up, in my little garden, and perhaps in life in general, I thought.

                This brought me to remember my feeble attempts at being the best husband, dad, and granddad in the world, and my many failures in those things, also. Seeds and wives and children and grandchildren don’t always become what you think they will be, no matter how hard you try to provide the best setting and circumstances possible for them to grow. Not that I am at all disappointed in my family members, and not that they are supposed to be what I think they will be. They are all beautifully thriving, and my family continues growing, despite my best efforts at what just might be unintentional misdirection.

                One year I very exuberantly planted string beans in my garden, and way too many in each hill. They grew into big plants, but produced few beans. In that experience, I learned that I do not always know the best way to do something, and that, often, less is more. Over the years I have probably also pushed my kids too much, I thought, expecting great results, and have been taught by them and by God that I didn’t know what areas their potential was in at all, or what things would be best for them to learn.

                Also, things do accidentally grow in my garden, that I never planted, like weeds, but also wild roses. Weeds don’t seem to need encouragement to thrive. Children do. In life, occasionally, careless words of mine may have produced unintended resentment or disappointment, while some things my offspring, and their offspring have seen in their parents, hopefully, have encouraged them to be the fine, caring people that they have all become. Wild roses are beautiful, and bloom on their own, without my help, I then thought.

                Soon after, in my visit to my little plot, it came to me that some of the fun of a garden is just in the pleasure of watching and helping it grow. New life, when it is first seen, excites and gives satisfaction. Nurturing that young growth to maturity is very rewarding. So it is, only much more so, with a family.

                My small garden, and my big family, always provide adventures for me.  After all these years, I still feel like a novice planter, and father, and am never exactly sure what I’m going to get in my little earthen pots and plots, or in what direction my family will grow.

                There is an old Spanish proverb: “More grows in the garden than the gardener knows he has planted.” 

Spring Has Sprung!

By G. E. Shuman

                You know how, at times, there is a rhyme, or a song that you love: “How Sweet It Is”- James Taylor, or hate: “It’s A Small World”- Disney and Company, and it just gets stuck in your head, sometimes for an entire day? Well, I must tell you that at this time of year, EVERY year, since I was a child, the following tiny poem worms its way out of the deepest, dumbest area of my brain: “Spring has sprung, the grass is riz, I wonder where the flowers is.”  I think my father said that silly poem to me once, and evidently, once was enough.  Now I have passed it along to you, and you can thank me, or hurt me, later.

                Last Saturday I was outside puttering and sputtering around, and decided, since spring had sprung, that I would do some much-needed yard work. The work I had put off was raking ANY of the leaves from our huge maple tree, last fall. (The only thing that I like about winter here in Vermont is that it very effectively puts off yard work until spring.) Being somewhat allergic to lawn rakes and shovels, putting off until spring what you can’t do in winter anyway suits me fine.

To do this much overdue chore I got out my trusty lawnmower. That poor old mower was a birthday gift from my wife, about twelve years ago. (Remind me to buy her a new iron or vacuum cleaner for her next birthday.)  Anyway, the sorry old thing has seen her better days, (I mean the mower, not my wife,) and I had intended to buy a new one this spring. The only thing is, as usual, she immediately came back to life for me last Saturday, and I just hate to ‘put her down’ quite yet. (I’m still talking about the mower, not my wife.) Truthfully it has become somewhat of a challenge for me, to see how many years this little, $99 (on sale at Stuff-Mart) machine will last. (There’s nothing too good for me on my birthday, I guess.)

                The mower was running a bit rough several years ago, and one of my neighbors told me that for only $129 I could have it tuned up. (My thought, as he said that, was: Or I could give this one away, and spend another $99 (on sale at Stuff-Mart) for another brand new one.  What I actually did was visit my favorite hardware store and purchase a $3 spark plug for the mower. It has been running great ever since. So much for the tune up.

                The amazing thing is that I do torture the little mower, and it just keeps coming back for more. The very first thing I did after we got it home from the store was to drill two holes in the front of its frame, for S-hooks, which I attach to ropes, which I use to dangle the mower down the steep bank in front of our house, to mow that hill.

When mowing the lawn the first few times each spring I also tend to hit a lot of twigs from the trees and rocks that have been thrown up onto the lawn by my least favorite but most appreciated piece of yard equipment, my snow blower. (I think the snow blower is ready for its twentieth birthday, at least, and that thing just keeps on going, too.)

                Yes, I have not been kind to my little lawn mower. I have run over the dog run a few times, and even ‘mow’ my carport several times each summer with it. I try to do that at night, so no one sees. It works great to blow a winters worth of gravel, salt, and sand off that asphalt and into the neighbor’s trees. (I’m sorry, little mower, but I never promised you a rose garden. I did let you grind up the wild roses out back last year, though. Remember?)  Wait, was I talking to a lawn mower just then?

                Anyway, last Saturday, as I said, and because of that lawn rake allergy that I suffer from, I got the mower out, pulled the cord, the poor old thing started, and I proceeded to run it all over the lawn, ‘mowing’ all those leaves from last fall into cornflake-looking little crunchy pieces. I was told that they would make good, natural, organic fertilizer for the grass. That sounded good to me. What actually happened is that Saturday was a very blustery day, as Winnie the Pooh might say. My leaf-cornflakes took to the sky, and I haven’t seen or heard from them since. “Away they all flew, like the down of a thistle.” (Oh, that’s from another season.)      

                So, “spring has sprung” and my newly-bare lawn won’t have the benefit of mulched up leaves to help it grow, but that’s okay. It might also be a bit longer before “the grass is riz.”  Until then, I might have to find something else for the mower to chew on.  “I wonder where the flowers is.”

Things That I Would Buy

By G. E. Shuman

            

           It has been said, or at least I read somewhere, so someone must have said it, that a man will spend two dollars for a one dollar item that he needs, and a woman will spend one dollar for a two-dollar item that she doesn’t need, but it’s on sale. I’m not sure if that isn’t too much of a generalization concerning the sexes, but in my family it seems to hold true. 

After about twenty-five years of retail store management, I was done with the idea of shopping for much of ANYTHING a long time ago. Having said that, here are twenty things that I definitely WOULD buy, if I could, but I would not necessarily shop for them in this order:

1.     A cell phone that I didn’t have to immediately purchase a sixty-dollar rubber case for, just so that it wouldn’t break if dropped from the couch cushion onto the living room carpet. (Couldn’t they just include a sixty-dollar rubber case in the box with the phone? They look like they probably cost about fifty cents to make.)

2.     A car that wouldn’t cost me a thousand dollars to repair if someone bumps it slightly in the shopping center parking lot. (Not that I go to such places often.)

3.     Dress shirts that really are no-iron. (Those no-iron tags in the collar always make me laugh, sort of, as I iron them.)

4.     A toaster that won’t burn my bagels, ever. (That really burns my buns.)

5.     A teeth whitener that actually works.

6.     A toilet bowl that cleans itself. (Maybe the teeth whitener people could help make that. Yuck. But porcelain is like tooth enamel, right?) Yuck, again. (I could be overthinking things.)

7.     A day with Samuel Clemens. (For obvious reasons.)

8.     A moon rock. (Who wouldn’t buy that?)

9.     One more day of life. (Okay, so how about two, while we’re at it?)

10. Cheap printer ink. (Number nine would probably be easier to buy.)

11. Batteries that don’t die, or at least not at the most inconvenient time.

12. A meeting with an alien, (and I don’t mean your uncle from Montreal.)

13. A bathroom scale that says what it should say, even if it’s inaccurate.

14. Success for all my kids and grandkids.

15. Car brakes that never wear out, or at least not on the day you’re leaving on vacation. (Include car tires in this, please.)

16. Zero calorie lasagna. (For obvious reasons.)

17. A few moments with God. (Scratch that. I already have those.)

18. Fat free bacon. (You’re not even questioning this one, right?)

19. Round bread or square bologna. (I know, I’m overthinking again.)

20. Last but not least, I really wish someone would invent a car air freshener that smells exactly like freshly ground coffee when you first open the bag. Would this really be that hard to do? (Hey, maybe I’ll put a bag of coffee in the car. Scratch this one, too.)

So, please, someone out there, get to work, make these things, (except for numbers 17 and 20,) and get rich.