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.”