A Brand-New Ending

By G. E. Shuman

          As I write this, it’s early morning on December 26. (My submission deadline at the paper is today and, well, Christmas kind of consumes a lot of time around our house, so I got up early today to say hello to you.) As you read this, it’s much closer to the new year, or maybe the ball has already dropped, the tree and decorations are down, and we have all taken that leap into a brand new year and, this time, a brand new decade too.

          I know that I say this every year, at least to myself and probably to you, but I simply can’t believe we have burned through another 365 ¼ days again already. (I included the ¼ day because of leap year, and yup, those 6 hours count somewhere too.)

          At my age, if you are anywhere near my age, the years seem to fly by at an ever-increasing pace. (The analogy of a race car speeding down a hill is okay, but race cars don’t really drive on hills. A better one might be my old VW Beetle picking up speed, driving downhill.)  I have always thought that it could be, seriously, that each passing year is a smaller percentage of the total time we have lived, and so seems shorter to us than the ones before. See how deep a thinker I am? Actually, I didn’t make that up. I read it someplace, like most other things you read in my column that seem to make sense. Another thing I once read, and this one is for myself and any of my less than cultured reader-friends, (I don’t mean you personally.) is that “Life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.” Somehow that really does seem a reasonable comparison, at least to me.

          I visited an old friend a week ago, (It was two weeks ago to you, you ‘hip’ New Year’s reader-person.)  and he made a passing comment about the year and the passing of time that I thought was observant and a bit scary. My friend is a tad older than I am and much wiser. His comment came as we were chatting about family, and our kids, grandkids, and even great-grandkids. Wow. We both agreed that all of them are all much older than they should be now; neither of us had the faintest idea of how that all happened. Then my friend, (Hi Gus, I’m writing about you.) said something to the effect of, and I paraphrase here: “They’re all pretty busy pushing us out the door.” My friend might not remember saying this, but I thought it was profound and precise. (Note to the kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids: Hey guys, we love ya all, but we ain’t goin’ through that door yet!)

          Yes, another new year is upon us, and I want to leave 2019 with a bit of other advice for us all that is also something I read, somewhere. It has to do with the entirety of life and time, that time before us and behind us, but I also think it applies as well to the year behind and the one ahead. It is, and this is another paraphrase: “You can’t go back and make a new beginning, but you can begin today and make a brand-new ending.”  How’s that for a worthwhile resolution?

          Happy New Year to all of my family, and to my World Newspaper family and friends! Let’s make it a great one!

          

Christmas, Simply

(Dear Readers, I wrote this column two Decembers ago. I hope you don't mind that I'm repeating it here. We, in our home, are attempting to continue simplifying Christmas and appreciating it more each year. Merry Christmas to you and your family!)

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 tree star, and warmed by thoughts of the true meaning and miracle of what is to come… sort of like on that very first Christmas Eve, long ago.

A Vermont December Evening

By G. E. Shuman

          There’s something a bit magical about a cold December night in the North, especially after the evening meal and conversation have come and gone. The hours to follow, to me, are special times to share, or even to be alone in.

          A winter evening is an exceedingly quiet time, often filled with the wonder of being drawn to a window during a gently falling snow. Outside that window, the earth has changed from the gray naked trees and bright white fluff of day to the inky blackness, crystal stars, and ghostly drifts of shimmering nighttime snow.

          Standing still outside on such a night, away from the warmth and sounds of the home, you can see and hear only what the snow wishes you to, and that is not a lot. This winter blanket covers the land, demanding the world’s attention as it hides every earthly detail and muffles every sound.

          I once observed that a windless rain landing on the fragile leaves of fall sounds exactly as does bacon frying; likewise, a windless snow drifting straight down to deepen that pristine blanket sounds like nothing at all.

          It is a picture of perfect silence, especially at this time of night, and somehow even more so at the edge of a forest in the bright light of a full and frozen moon.

          A solitary walk on such a night reveals much more about this Vermont December evening. Tiny lights twinkle from decorated neighborhood homes. Cars pad down newly softened streets, the red and green traffic lights themselves taking on fresh meaning in this magical month. And, along the walk, the scents of evergreen branches, evening coffee brewing, and wood fire chimney smoke is simply wonderful.

          If you’ve never been to our fine state, or if it’s been a while since you’ve visited in winter, I invite you to treat yourself to a truly heartwarming experience. Dress warmly and drive safely when you come up here. Watch out for deer on the road and moose at the tree line. They will not watch out for you.

          I wish everyone on earth the peace of this holiday season and the joy of knowing at least one Vermont December evening.

         

Dear Readers, Dear Friends,

                This week’s column will be a short one. (I know, some of you are breathing a sigh of relief already, with that news.)

                Sometimes I try to make you laugh in this space; sometimes I just want to make us all think. Today I would like us to think. I would also like us to feel. (By the way, this is a slightly edited version of an article I did a few years ago about Thanksgiving. I hope that’s okay.)

                Although our nation is already in the middle of a years-long very contentious political season, we have landed, this month, in what I would hope will be the opposite of a political season. We are in the Thanksgiving Season. In the years that I taught English, I would usually remember, in November, to ask one of the younger classes exactly what the word thanksgiving means. It seems that the first hand to go up to answer the question would usually be from some seventh-grade boy or other, who would immediately shout “TURKEY!” This is, obviously, in part due to ‘turkey’ being the other ‘T’ word most used on that day, and in response to the appetite of a seventh-grade boy. I would then explain that the word thanksgiving is a word composed of two other words and that the class should reverse the order of those two words. Giving Thanks, to me, is what Thanksgiving Day should be all about.

                Most people in our country, and I do realize that it is only most people, will celebrate Thanksgiving Day in the usual way this year. Our family, as likely yours, will get together for a massive feast and leave the table more ‘stuffed’ than that big ol’ turkey ever was. We will have gathered with those we love the most, and will have shared food and fellowship, laughter and love, and will leave that table and that shared time full indeed. My hope and my prayer is that we will be full of more than food. We should also be full of love, compassion, and, most of all, thankfulness.

                If possible, please take this special day as an opportunity to make it special for someone not in the ‘most people in our country’ group which began the paragraph above. Find someone to invite to your dinner table, someone who would have no feast without you. Or find a charitable organization that you and your family can provide some amount of support to, no matter how small that amount is. This act of thanks-giving ALWAYS brings a double blessing, one for the recipients, and another one for you.

                I told you this column would be short. (I wanted you to have time to read and consider it twice.) I absolutely wish you and yours a wonderful, THANKFUL Thanksgiving Day and I end this with an anonymous quote that I once read: “If you find that you have more than you need… get a bigger table.”

                

Beware The Hair

By G.E. Shuman

          I’m not sure how it is where you live, but in our area, you can tell a lot about a person by their hair. Still, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover; the same can be said for a head.  I’m sure you’re anxious for me to explain.

          In the past, or at least in my ever more distant youth, changing hairstyles happened more with women than men. My dad cut and combed his hair exactly the same way forever, even though there seemed to be less and less of it to comb as the years went by.  Hair was just something men didn’t think much about then. (They also didn’t think much about doing dishes, mopping the floor, or, heaven forbid, throwing in a load of laundry.) Hopefully, some of that has changed.

          With some Vermont men, you can actually tell the time of year by looking at their faces. Many Vermonters will grow a beard in the fall (mostly just the men) to keep their faces warm during hunting season and our long, cold winters. Forget the Farmer’s Almanac and wooly bear caterpillars, just glance at the guys you see on Main Street if you want to see how cold the coming winter will be.

          I’ve also noticed that you now rarely see a ‘young’ or sometimes older preacher or other male professional without what I call the chocolate milk ring around his mouth and chin. I don’t know why this is, and some of them look good that way. Some of them look like they just drank chocolate milk. I mean no harm or insult. It’s just an observation that is as obvious as the hair on your chinny-chin-chin.

          I WOULD like someone to answer another preacher question for me though. I have given this one more thought than is healthy, but I want to know the answer, so, here it is. The question is, why don’t TV preachers part their hair? Do they think that the bouffant look makes them appear godly or angelic or something? To me it makes them look like they just visited my mother’s hairstylist. Maybe the left-right thing scares them, and they don’t know on which side they should make the part. Have a little self-respect, guys. People can’t pay attention to where you tell them to send the check if they’re staring at your hair.

          To me, my brother in law Jon probably has the best idea about how to wear your hair. He just doesn’t wear it at all. When his hair began leaving on its own, he decided to shave it all off. Now he can comb his hair with a washcloth and looks really cool on his Harley. How can you beat that?

          My own hair is sort‘a longish and because of that, some people mistake me for having more left-leaning opinions than I actually do, even though my hair doesn’t lean either way. See how people perceive things? Just remember, The Donald and Bernie both have weird hair. Also, some people have told me that I look like a writer, however, a writer might look. The truth is, I’m likely just lazy and simply don’t bother with it, and it reflects that fact better than my bald spot reflects the sun.

          Mark Twain, (you know, that other famous crazy-haired writer… besides me,) once wrote that there was a time when he was out looking for a job, but that there was just one problem. In his words: “I didn’t want to work.”  I think I’m in good company.

          Maybe all or only some writers are lazy. If you want to find out which are which, beware the hair.

          In the meantime, it’s November, so Happy Thanksgiving. If you’re up here in the north, keep an eye on that wooly bear. You know, the one you live with or see in the bathroom mirror.

My Space in the Sky -Or- How to Clean Your Attic

By G. E. Shuman

          A few months ago, my wife and I decided to try to accomplish something we had been discussing doing for more years than I can remember. The idea was to completely clean out our attic, which seemed to be an almost insurmountable task. The amount of work that would be involved in the job was what had hindered us all those other years. Somehow, loading that attic up with ‘stuff’ just seemed to happen. Emptying it never seemed to.

          We live in a big one hundred plus year old Barre City home on a  hill, and a hundred years ago people must have liked attics. These days homes are usually smaller and if you want an attic you rent a storage unit. I’d be willing to wager that most of what is in those metal buildings springing up everywhere would compare well to the ‘stuff’ that has been in our attic for many years.  

          Our attic is, literally, an entire third floor of our home, with a walk-up stairway and even a landing, in case you want to stop and rest on your way up, I suppose. The attic was quite full, in some areas waist-deep with boxes and bags of everything and anything that could be accumulated over thirty-five years of living in a place while raising five kids along the way.

          So, although there have been a few attempts, the attic has never been really cleaned out since we moved in below it. It is far too cold up here to work on cleaning in the winter; Besides, what would you do with the ‘stuff’ that time of year? We have also always felt that it would be impossible to stand the heat in the attic in the summer, long enough to do much cleaning, meaning that springtime or maybe a few weeks in the fall would have to do, and the ‘to do’ part never actually happened.

          That was, until this year. (If you have a full attic, cellar or garage and you’re willing to sacrifice the ‘stuff’ to get it out of there, here’s what we did. You might want to try it. It worked surprisingly well, so pay attention.) 

          In late spring I spent about half a day in the attic, simply moving everything from one corner (less than one quarter) of the room. I didn’t remove one thing from the attic, but only moved it over to make an empty space. I excitedly swept my newly discovered space and even shop-vac’d it.  Next, my wife and I spent about three half-days in the attic together in early July, (It was hot, but not as unbearable as we had imagined it would be. Excuses, excuses.) In those three days we made a small row, in my still very clean corner, of the Christmas decorations, (always an attic staple) and another row for things Lorna wanted to keep, and one for things for the kids to go through before we tossed them out. (Not the kids… the junk.) There was still space, so we stacked all the actual trash in its own row there. You know, the trash was things like plastic and paper bags, old cardboard boxes, and anything that really had no value.

          As we went, we realized that there wasn’t a lot in the old attic that held much sentiment or value for us. (When you can look at some ‘thing’ that you own and don’t remember ever seeing it before, it’s time for it to go.) We had discussed getting rid of things so that if we decided to downsize due to our newly retired situation, we could. If not, at least the kids wouldn’t have so much to dispose of someday when we were gone and all the stuff we left behind still wasn’t. This was our mindset as we climbed the stairs each day, and we actually held to it.

          As we worked, the small aisles of things we (Lorna) wanted to keep grew slightly, and a pile of boxes and bags of ‘stuff’ we didn’t want at all grew very quickly in the center of the room. This pile ended up being big… and I mean BIG!

          Next we hired two of our athletic teenage grandsons with strong backs (Thanks so much Quinncy and Xavier!) to bring all of it down the attic stairs, then down the bedroom stairs to the main floor, and then out onto the front porch and down the steps to the front lawn, one sunny summer Saturday morning.

          My job in all of this was to drive around town with the eight large poster board signs I had made and nail them into power poles. Our signs specifically said we WERE NOT having a yard sale, but that everything was free. This way, since we didn’t care about the stuff anyway, we didn’t have to hang around the house dickering with customers. (I despise dickering, whether I’m selling or buying, ESPECIALLY cars. Lorna makes our car deals. If she didn’t, I’d walk. No, I’m serious.) Unfortunately, while we were away for a few hours, someone decided that a new folding table we had put some of the stuff on was free too and took it after removing what it held. Oh well. The world is plum full of ‘stupid’ these days.

          To make a long and dull story a bit shorter and brighter, everything was gone in only two days, and I think I heard our house breath, or creak, a sigh of relief to be free of the weight way up those stairs.

          As a bonus, coincidentally or not, a few things, including a desk, a bookcase, a small carpet, two lamps, and even a multi-plug were the last items that were to be taken to the front lawn. I decided to keep them.

          When the dust had settled, figuratively and literally, I arranged those things in front of a window at one side of the house. I’m writing this column from my new, quiet (and totally free) writing space, above the street, among the tall trees, in view of the stars, in the sky. It’s really pretty cool.

         

The Great Taper Caper

By G. E. Shuman                                       

          It’s strange how some things that used to be commonplace just aren’t around anymore. Cassette tapes, TV guides, phone books, and even CDs have all but disappeared now, to say nothing of buggy whips, ice boxes, milkmen, and mustache wax. Not that anyone needs any of those things these days. Which, I’m sure, is the reason they are gone.

          Still, one thing that seems to have slipped away into the night, at least from our area, is the simple, old, reliable, long tapered candle. An item like that is all but obscure in the first place, and the fact that all but a few basic colors of them can no longer be found in Central Vermont is not life-changing or world-shaking. Evidently, no one misses the seasonal ones. To me, it still seems strange.

          My attention was recently drawn to this change in the availability of something that has always seemed as common as dirt. My wife and I went on what ended up being a fruitless, or candle-less quest to every chain store in the area looking for simple orange seasonal tapered candles for a fall table setting she was trying to put together. (Since recently retiring we tend to find ourselves on such quests quite frequently. I have no idea why.) What we found this time was that no matter how many fall-Halloween-Thanksgiving decorations were displayed in the stores, no one had orange tapers.

          I thought this was odd, to say the least, and began wondering if there were some good reason seasonal tapered candles seem to be no longer sold in our neck of the woods. Was there some connection between candles and drug paraphernalia, or were they being used as weapons of torture or terror devices?  Are they banned from airplanes? Actually, I think they are. And, who would take a candle on an airplane in the first place? (It’s surprising what goes through your mind, or at least through my mind after checking every big box store, drug store, and local retail chain for something as simple as fall tapered candles.)

          During my early employment years, those things were everywhere. As a recovering former retail manager, I can attest to that. You could get 8”, 10”, and foot-long ones in fall shades, in black for Halloween, then in red and green for Christmas, complete with Santas and snowmen on them, and even pastel pinks and yellows for around Easter time. (I know that I know way too much about all this minutia and that none of it is important. Minutia never is… I wonder if I have a problem.) I also know that tastes change, and if an item doesn’t sell it gets snuffed out. Ha.

          Evidently, and without notice, seasonal colors of tapered candles have become less and less popular over the years, until, alas, like cassette tapes and phone books, they have all but disappeared into the night. (Still, that’s a strange thing for a candle to do, don’t you think?)

         

My New Leaf Blower

By G. E. Shuman

          Early in the summer my dear wife, who seems to enjoy filling my need for a new toy occasionally, bought me a leaf blower. Mine is not an over the top, gas-powered, blow the lawn furniture away blower; it’s a nice, fairly quiet, lightweight, rechargeable machine.

          For years I’ve seen other guys around the neighborhood using leaf blowers but have never been interested in having one. I always considered them to be just another gimmicky waste of money that probably worked about half as well as claimed. I mean, how could you go up against a Vermont wind with any device you could carry around? Boy, was I wrong!

          Truthfully, I have loved the little thing from the first time I tried it. Though electric, it is really very powerful, and I guess I need to get used to the idea that electric cars, airplanes, dump trucks, and school buses all work as well with a stream of electrons as their power source as they once did only with a stream of gasoline.  That’s all okay with me, as long as my first electric car performs as well as my new toy does.

          No joke, (Okay, maybe a little joke.) I think the claimed 130 mph wind force this tool produces could easily blow the fleas right off your dog’s back and onto the neighbor’s cat at twenty paces, if you could separate your dog from the neighbor’s cat by twenty paces.

          I haven’t yet had the opportunity to blow many actual leaves with my new leaf blower. I have, several times, blown all the dirt off our long front porch floor and stripped every grain of sand, broken twig, blade of grass, and peanut shell, (Yes, I feed peanuts to the squirrels.) from under our carport. It’s very satisfying to me, to get these things done without a broom, shovel, rake, or backache being involved.

          One time recently, (Please don’t tell my wife.) I actually opened the kitchen door and blew all the sand from the tile floor back out onto the driveway, where it belongs. (No one ever called me stupid. Okay, well, maybe a few people have.)

          So far, as said, I have blown away few leaves, but can hardly wait to do so. If the leaves don’t fall soon, I might just point the blower up at our trees and hurry them along a bit. I’ve been thinking that if all leaf blower enthusiasts in Vermont (Okay, a better word might be owners. I’m probably the only enthusiast.) did the same, perhaps we’d hurry the season along a bit too, and end up with an early spring. No, huh?

          Still, that does give me another idea. Don’t be surprised if you drive by my house some dark night this winter and see me out in the driveway, leaf blower raised high, coaxing the gently falling snow over onto the neighbor’s cat.

A Truly Lovely Day

By G. E. Shuman

          In celebration of our recent anniversary, about a week ago Lorna and I got into my old VW Beetle and putted up Route 2 toward Burlington. Our destination was Shelburne and The Shelburne Museum.

          It was a truly lovely day; the air was clear, the greens of summer bright, and there was not a cloud in the big blue sky. It was a perfect day for a ride to what has become one of our favorite Vermont attractions.

          We have loved that museum for many years and in recent ones have purchased a membership there. Having the membership lets us enter as often as we like within the year. Several times we have just stopped in for lunch and visits to a few of our favorite buildings, without feeling like we needed to ‘see it all’ that day.  We like that idea.

          On this particular visit we simply strolled around, got lunch at the Weathervane Café, and sat on a bench at the small duck pond watching a mother duck rest on the bank with her seven ducklings, only several feet from us. It was, without a doubt, one of the most relaxing afternoons we have had in a long time.

          I began to ponder as we leisurely rode home ‘the long way’, as Lorna refers to it, up and over Smuggler’s Notch and through the villages of Stowe and Waterbury, just why Shelburne Museum keeps drawing us back. I believe it is because when there you seem, at least I seem, separated from ‘today’. You are somehow briefly immersed in a simpler time. You wander through an internet free, social media free era, if only for a few hours. I sometimes wonder if we realize what freedom we have sacrificed for the supposed advancements of speed and availability of communications and even of information. To me, sometimes, simpler really is better.

          While at the museum you are in a time of carvers and craftsmen of wood, of blacksmiths and tin knockers, of quilters, and of artists of every artistic hue and medium. Most importantly, in my view, you are there involved in a slower, more careful time, when almost nothing was mass-produced, when food was grown and carefully prepared, not dumped from a mix or microwaved from a frozen box. Hand-stitched quilts were marveled at and cherished; everything from door locks and horseshoes to huge wagon wheels was made by the craftsmen of the day.

          My ninety-five-year-old Mom recently visited our home. She lives on her own in sunny Florida most of the year and visits the North in the summer. She is very fussy about some things that from her life’s experience, are important to her. She is picky about what is involved in making a ‘good’ donut or pie crust and would never waste even the smallest bit of food. Her eyes are now failing, but she can spot a well-made blouse or dress, I think, from a mile away. She would completely appreciate the craftsmanship, the intricate and painstaking artistry, the careful and unhurried care of the ghosts, the contributors from another time whose wares and pieces of art are displayed at the Shelburne Museum.

The Greatest Invention

By G. E. Shuman

          Okay, so, today I want to talk to you about what I think is mankind’s greatest invention. If asked what that invention might be, most people would probably mention penicillin or computers, medicine or manned flight, the internal combustion engine or artificial intelligence, or some other invention that is great, but in my mind still not the greatest invention of them all. Others would mention fire, which was not invented, but rather, discovered, or the wheel, that old circular standby when talking about man’s greatest inventions. In the case of the wheel, it was a good idea, but the greatest invention? I think not.

          Without keeping you in further suspense, (as if you have been in suspense,) I think that the greatest invention is something the value of which will soon become crystal clear to you. As you think about this, you will see right through every other invention’s attempt to be the best. Without this invention, most of the others would not exist at all.

          You see, I think mankind’s greatest invention is another thing, like fire, that isn’t strictly an invention at all. Lightning strikes on beaches have been producing it for thousands of years. The invention is more about finding uses for this great thing: glass, which is basically made by simply heating sand.

          Yes, friends and neighbors, I think our best inventions involve the many uses of glass. After all, without this substance we would all still be buying pickles in huge wooden barrels, right? Without glass, there would also be no mirrors and we would only see our slight reflection in still lakes and ponds. All right, so that might not be such a terrible thing for me and a few others. We would never have played with marbles as kids, and never have heard the word Pyrex. Where would we be without Pyrex? Okay, so we could live without the word Pyrex, but what if we lost our marbles?

          The first catheters were made of glass… ugh. The first medical thermometers were also. Ugh again. Without glass, soda could not have been sold until the invention of plastic bottles, but without soda, I guess there would have been less need of catheters. So, I guess I just proved that the invention of glass can be a negative too.

          On the positive side again, the chuckle when coming around the end of a supermarket aisle and seeing some young employee dutifully scooping up the remains of a glass jar of mayonnaise would never have been experienced. (Okay, so I’m a bad person.) We would also not have cameras, telescopes, microscopes, lightbulbs, or laser beams. Those gorgeous lighthouses would never have been around to guide the ships of the past to shore. See, glass and sea glass are beautiful things.

          Phones without glass would not have screens, but also would have no screens to break. There would be no microscope slides or aquarium sides. There would be no windows in your home, but also no curtain industry or Windex, I guess. (By now you must doubt my sanity even more than I do.)

          And what would modern English be without glass? Sayings like ‘as fragile as glass,’ ‘as transparent as glass,’ ‘glassy-eyed,’ or ‘We see the glass is either half full or half empty.’ Alice would never have gone through a looking glass, and in fact, many of us could not read these words without our ‘glasses.’ Again, I’m not sure if that is a positive point or a negative one in the case of this column. We would also not be able to make spectacles of ourselves if there were no spectacles. (I know, that was especially bad.)

          There are many great inventions and uses of natural resources in our world, but glass is, clearly, the best one, in my view. (See what I did there? clearly, and in my view?  Ha!)  Life would be plain and dull without it. Besides that, you would get rain in your face and bugs in your teeth every time you drove your car, and a metal or wooden goldfish bowl would be no fun at all, especially for the goldfish.

         

         

“Sunny Day, Papa!”

By G. E. Shuman

          I’m not sure why, but I believe this summer season has meant more to me than any other summer I can remember. Lorna and I often go for rides through the countryside of our gorgeous state, and it just seems more beautiful to me than it has in summers past. The tree-covered mountains are so filled with gorgeous shades of green; wildflowers seem to be everywhere this year; the scent of freshly mown lawns is almost addictive. Everything just seems more vibrant and brighter this year, and, as I said, I don’t know why.

          Perhaps the reason is simply due to the very long and cold winter that left us only a few months ago, or the fact that both my wife and I retired in June and have more time to enjoy this season together.

          I, personally, have also recently given some thought to the fact that, for me, there are certainly many more summers in my past than in my future, at least in this life, and that I truly need to look at the lush and plenteous green and other beauty of the season, and appreciate it all. I do remember times when I would arrive at work in the morning and be greeted by a colleague or two mentioning the great or not so great weather. Some days, with other things on my mind, I had not even noticed what weather I had just driven through. I have decided to at least notice things like that from now on.

          Then there is also a wonderful reminder in my life, of the great blessings of summer. Our nearly three-year-old granddaughter Nahla spends several nights a week at our home. When she does, she invariably wakes me up in the morning by jumping on the bed and excitedly yelling: “Wake up! Sunny day Papa! Sunny day!” Even though this usually happens at least an hour before Lorna and I would normally get up, it just doesn’t get any better than that.

          So, if things aren’t perfect in your life, as is true for all of us, maybe you need to get outside and really SEE the trees, smell the grass, and check out the flowers. Maybe you need to realize that even though your future is a day shorter than it was yesterday, you still have time to appreciate our beautiful surroundings. Or, maybe you need to find a nearly three-year-old to jump on your bed in the morning and share with you the wonder and excitement of a sunny day!

         

Seven Flags

By G. E. Shuman

          Last Wednesday, July 10^th, to be exact, my wife and I were traveling back from a very short visit to Central Maine. We were driving along route 2, through New Hampshire, when we happened to drive by a newly solemn and reverenced spot in Randolph. The place was nothing special, except for the hundreds of American flags and the seven large white crosses that adorned it. This place, although until very recently just another unremarkable and unremembered grassy area at the edge of this small New Hampshire town, now borders on fame. It is the spot, yes, the exact spot, where seven motorcyclists lost their lives only last month. Those everyday people, although among them were several exceptional military Americans, were simply out for a bike ride on a beautiful day when their lives were suddenly ended by a highway accident. How profoundly sad that is.

          As Lorna and I passed the makeshift memorial that I hope becomes a permanent landmark in our country, I decided to stop and pay my respects to these fellow citizens that I will never meet but will always respect. I took a few photos with my phone. Cars were noticeably slowing as they passed behind me. That sound somehow brought me closer to the terrible idea of what had happened there, and to the reality that we Americans are all one. We all feel the pain of those who suffer. We all respect our dead, and morn them.        

          Truthfully, honestly, the sight of that memorial was simply amazing to me. It struck me that the two symbols erected there were seven large white crosses, obvious and worthy references to the Christian faith, and countless, at least hundreds of variously sized American flags, the ultimate symbol of patriotism and of our country. I thought then that when it really comes down to it, despite all the political bickering and the ‘rights’ brandishing that some factions of our nation admonish us with, American flags and large crosses are what we ultimately turn to. God and country are what we, as true Americans, SHOULD turn to, in my opinion.

          Lorna and I have returned home now, but all day today I was somehow haunted by the sight of that memorial to those innocent, fun-loving and patriotic Americans on those big beautiful motorcycles, so, early this evening I went out and purchased seven flags and arranged them in a semi-circle in front of the large maple tree on our front lawn.

          I was just pushing the seventh small flag into the ground when a big, shiny, red pickup truck passed by our house. I looked up as the horn blew and as both occupants lowered their windows and gave me a wonderful thumbs-up. I was proud of them; I am very proud to be an American!

         

A Visit from Mom

By G. E. Shuman

          For the past week, my family and I have been enjoying a summer visit from my mom. Mom stays with us for a week or so each summer and then moves on to Maine to visit two of my sisters and their families who live there. This time of year, she flies to the North from her home in sunny Florida, avoiding both that state’s very hot summers and our very cold winters. She is a smart lady.

          She’s also an amazing lady. You might remember from a previous article or two my mentioning that my wife and I have both recently retired. This means that we’re not exactly newlyweds or teenagers anymore. This also means that my mom isn’t either. (I think she needed to be born several years before me to be able to give birth to me, but I’m no doctor.) In support of this idea, last February she celebrated her 95^th birthday. Her party was a blast! I was there and I actually have pictures of her at that party, playing the bongos and doing the limbo (Not at the same time, but let’s give her a break.) while her younger guests were sitting around eating cake! Last December she was also seen sitting on Santa’s lap, and just two years ago was caught on my sister in law’s Harley, helmet and all!

          Mom lives by herself in her own home, although a few male suitors have recently attempted to change that. She was driving her car until a few months ago and still makes her yearly flights north and south, by herself. (Just between you and me, I think she likes that the airports have her use a wheelchair. They take her right to her gate and she’s always the first one on and off the plane.) Like I said, she’s a smart lady.

          This amazing woman lives on coffee, donuts, hotdogs, etcetera, (She’s not exactly a health food nut.) and always has a whole drawer full of chocolate in her kitchen for those male suitors to get into when they visit. (She is often teased that her REAL boyfriend is named Russell Stover.) Mom loves a breakfast of eggs, toast, and home fries at almost any “old-fashioned diner” as she calls them. (We’ve visited The Wayside twice this week. Great food!) With all of this, she amazes her doctors with her low blood sugar, perfect blood pressure, great cholesterol levels, and general good health. Amazing!

          To me, most of all and best of all is my Mom’s great attitude and outlook on life. Those things are probably why she is still going strong. Although her body is in constant pain from arthritis, her mind is as sharp as a tack. Despite her pain, Mom will always have a smile for you. She tells perfect strangers how good God has been to her, and always finds the good in others, too. Looking on the bright side doesn’t seem to be a choice to her, it is a way of life. I wish I was more like her.

          Readers, I know this has been a personal column, and I hope you understand why I chose to write it. I mean sincerely that if we were all a bit more like my mom the world would be a much better place. Besides, it’s hard to not brag when you have just been visited by the best mother on the planet.

          I love you Mom. Please come to Vermont again soon!

         

Birds, Bees, and Dandelions

By G. E. Shuman

          So, several days ago my nearly three-year-old granddaughter Nahla and I went on a great explore up the sidewalk of a nearby street. We do this often on sunny spring and summer days. Nahla dons her bunny, which is a stuffed toy that she wears on her back. The bunny has little straps that buckle at Nahla’s front and a long one with a loop at the other end, that Papa, (that’s me) puts around his wrist.  The strap keeps the bunny safe and stops him from hopping out into the street.

          On this explore, on that particular day several days ago, the three of us, (Nahla, Papa, and bunny) discovered many wonderful things, as we always do. There were trees with big green leaves, and birds and bees to see. There were, also, all manner of tiny crawling things minding their own business on that sidewalk, completely unaware that some of them would soon be dispatched from this world by the intentional smack of a toddler’s well-placed sandal.

          One way to tell for certain that warmer weather is finally here, here in the Green Mountain state, is the arrival of a young child’s favorite flowers that have spread and blossomed all over the lawns that line the edge of our special sidewalk, and, probably, yours. The golden blossoms of all those dandelions are, truly, gold to a toddler as she gathers as many as will fit in her small hands, gifts, wilted or otherwise, that Mom and Grammy will receive when our explore is over.

          There is ‘another’ flower, or at least a completely different looking flower, a lofty, fluffy-ticklish one inhabiting those same lawns. For some reason, my granddaughter is almost innately aware, as are millions of other toddlers, that if you pick one of these white, feathery things you can blow on it and something wonderful will happen. This flower’s seedlings will loft to the air, ‘like the down of a thistle’ as one old story describes a different occurrence, on an adventure, an explore, of their own. The tiny seeds, which some believe, even with their ingenious method of propagation, are the products of mere chance, will drift away, each on its own little, organic-down parachute attached by a thin stem.  They all will land and some will find their way into the soil.

          Those things are the only hope of this flower’s species, and they seem very adept at succeeding in their task, especially at this time of the summer. All future generations of them will, someday, blossom into Nahla’s ‘other’, yellow flowers. The early greens of some may be picked and eaten. Many will live to become the fluffy ones which will be spread further into the future by another year’s breezes, or excitedly plucked by some of my grandchildren’s-grandchildren’s generation and blown on out onto the wind. Thank you, Nahla, for spreading the gold.

Things to Come!

By G. E. Shuman

          Okay! It looks like spring and summer may finally be upon us here in the lovely state of Vermont. After waiting only six or seven months, (sorry if that sounded snide) the grass is finally green, the leaves are out, bees and lawnmowers are buzzing around, and my family is actually planning a day at the beach. Wow!

          I love this time of year in our beautiful state. I even look forward to caring for the lawn and outdoor plants and generally sprucing up the outside of our home. The excitement for those things will soon wear off, but they’re fun for me, for now. Fortunately, they will soon be followed by some great family times for us.

          Spring and summer events don’t have to be exotic or expensive. In fact, cookouts, campfires, fishing trips, and fireworks are just some of the simple things that my favorite family memories are made of. Our biggest adventures are usually quick trips to the coast of Maine to stroll along the rocky shore and through village gift shops. These are the more ‘extravagant’ timeless ‘times’ that my family continues to enjoy.

          I have shared here before about the sunny strolls and quiet picnics my wife and I have grown to cherish during the short summer months here in the North.  Our wicker picnic basket, (I have told you before, every couple needs to own one of those. If you don’t have one, go get one.) is filled at least a few times each summer and placed on the back seat of my elderly VW Beetle for a slow trip through either the Green Mountains or the White Mountains in search of just the right spot for our picnic that day.

          This summer is a very special one for me and for my wife, and one in which we might need to do a little extra celebrating. I’m sure this is information you don’t need to know, but we are both retiring within the next few weeks. If this is something you have already done, you probably understand our excitement about it. If retirement is many years away for you, you can look forward to it, but don’t trade even one moment to make it come sooner. Enjoy today.

          Our plan, if we have one at all, is to do a little traveling around our great country, to spend time with the grandkids before they’re grown, and to just enjoy the time that we have together. We want to have some fun in the sun, enjoy a beautiful northern fall, and then settle in (Lorna uses the words ‘hunker down’, but to me, that sounds like something Sumo Wrestlers do, and seems a little gross.) for another Vermont winter. Mostly we want to follow the advice I gave you in the last paragraph. We want to simply enjoy today.

 

 

Becoming the Old Guy

By G. E. Shuman

          A few days ago, I and many of my family members departed Vermont and New Hampshire for a weeklong vacation in the sunny South.

          I remember taking trips like this when Lorna and I were first married. Maybe not to a place so far away, but with my parents, the ‘generation before’ us people, and some of our little kids, who have now become grownups in the ‘first generation after’ us people category. Confused yet?

          The ‘second generation after us’ people are also represented in our group this week, with nine of our twelve grandkids being with us, and even the ‘third generation after us,’ with our almost two-year-old granddaughter and her yet unborn little sister here. Wow! Confused now?

          I remember traveling or visiting with my parents or my wife’s parents and chuckling a bit about their big bag of prescription medicines and their habit of falling asleep for a while in the afternoon. That always seemed funny to me.

          Last weekend, as we were packing for our trip, Lorna said to me: “Did you pack your pills?” (Like I need those stupid pills.)

          “Yes, Dear”, I replied, although I don’t know if I said the word Dear. Probably not.

          “And your nighttime pills and eye drops?”

          “Yes, I did.” (My dad probably used to say the same to my mom.)

          We began the trip on Saturday morning, planning to drive about ten hours and do the remaining few hours on Sunday. I, of course, wanted to drive, (After all, I’m the husband and the man.) even though my wife and daughter were perfectly willing and able to help.

          Let me tell you. By the time we arrived at our hotel at 9pm I was certain I was going to die. My eyes hurt, my face was red, my heart was racing, my hands were shaking, and my gut felt like it had been run over by a cement truck. I think I also had a fever. I just had to get to that bed asap and hoped it wasn’t my death bed. As I lay there, all I could figure out is that something must have changed about driving on the highway since my last long trip several years ago. Somehow it got a lot harder. Maybe the roads are different now. I don’t know.  What I DO know is that the following morning when we went to the car I just got in the back seat with my coffee and my granddaughter and didn’t care at all about who else did the driving.

          We’ve been at a beautiful Outer Banks beach house for three days at this writing, and I am now completely recovered and relaxed, finally. My very well-meaning adult kids and my grandkids all seem sensitive this week, maybe a bit too much, about my wellbeing. (I think they’ve been talking.)  “Can I get that for you Grampy?” “Hi Dad, how ya feeling today?” “Watch your step when you’re walking up the sand dune. Stop and take a break if you need to.”  (As if I would need to or do that even if I DID need to.)  Those last two comments were from my very observant second child who happens to be a nurse. So, what would she know? 

          It’s afternoon now. I just got up from resting on a lounge chair on the front deck and feel like it’s time for a nap. There’s something about being at the ocean that makes me tired, especially these past few years. Maybe they have changed things about the ocean too.

          On the bright side, I once read a comment somewhere that said: “The good thing about growing older is that no one expects you to do anything.” That sounded pretty good to me. I’m beginning to ‘resemble’ that remark, as they say, so I might as well embrace it, at least a little.

          Perhaps becoming the old guy isn’t such a bad spot to find yourself in, after all.

         

I Don’t Hate People, Really

By G. E. Shuman

          Have you ever simply felt really frustrated with people? (Unnecessary question, I know.) I mean, have you ever wondered why so many of them say and do all the stupid things that they do? Have you ever just wanted to take a long walk down the road, alone, and not stop walking? Have you ever felt like some people are so self-centered and rude that you’d like to slap them silly just to wake them up before you strangled them? Ugh! Well, if you have ever experienced any of these feelings, welcome to my club.

          You know, I consider myself to be a friendly guy, a guy who can tolerate and has tolerated a lot in life. I love my wife and family more than I could ever say, and, best of all (or worst of all for my attitude right now) I’m a Christian and know that we are commanded by God to love everybody. That’s right, everybody. Ugh, again!

          That last point has always been a tough one for me, and one I have a lot of work to do to accomplish. Strange as it may seem after what you have read here so far, I really am trying to love people and not get so frustrated by some of them, to the point that I have all but stopped watching the news. That’s right. And don’t tell me that the news isn’t frustrating.  It’s all bad news all the time anyway, about all the bad and all the stupid things that all the people do, especially the people in Washington D.C. This country would be a lot better off without politicians; that’s something I think most of us can agree on. I think that the least we should do is to delete them all and reboot.  How refreshing would that be, huh?

          Still, I really am trying to behave myself and love others more. I have bitten my tongue so many times when I’ve felt like committing verbal assault that I can hardly taste food anymore, and I’ve walked away from boastful blabbering bozos so many times that I don’t need my treadmill anymore. (Okay, so, I do still need the treadmill. That’s not really the point.) 

          Still, half of the conversations that I overhear in public places, especially in local restaurants, are simply the products of one person telling their captive lunch mates how much they know about something. (Those conversations aren’t overheard on purpose. They’re overheard because of the decibel level of that person’s voice, and the fact that I can’t leave because I’ve already ordered my food.)

          Be honest, you’ve been there too. And, to that lady in the next booth the other day who ruined my nice conversation with my wife by relating to her very tolerant lunch companion just how much she knows about something, (I have no idea what, and that’s not important.) all I can say is, please try not to speak, especially that loudly, ever again. There was and will be no one in that restaurant, ever, who wants to make you famous for your genius take on the world of that subject, whatever it was, so you don’t need to broadcast it and rattle the windows.) There, see how understanding I can be?

          Truthfully, honestly, I don’t actually hate people. (I will keep telling myself that for the rest of my life.) I just don’t understand a lot of them. That selfish person who cut me off in the intersection the other day, (I wonder what he did with his extra three seconds.) that verbally filter-less lady who just can’t seem to help saying every single thing that pops into her brain and a few things that don’t, that selfish young man who pushed his cart in front of my wife’s cart in that busy checkout line, are not so different from me. (It really hurts to admit that.) They have their problems, and so do I. It’s the old, supposedly Native American adage of not judging another person until you have walked a mile in his moccasins. (That way, if you have made him angry, he’s a mile away and barefoot.)  Sorry, I couldn’t resist adding that.

          The other day a good friend of ours was chatting with us about some of the foibles that people seem to have and offered a bit of wisdom on the subject that lowered my blood pressure a little, I think. I hope I will always remember it. She said: “Everybody has their own little bag of rocks, and they’re all different.” (Thank you Sandra.)