In Cautious Optimism

By G. E. Shuman

 

          All of us are keenly and sadly aware of the horrific impact of the COVID-19 virus on our own state, our nation, and the world. At times it seems as if this old planet will not be able to take much more illness and death. For many of us, imposed rules have caused something akin to cabin fever, bringing out the worst in some people, as that always does. All of us are tired of it all.

          Very recently, members of my own extended family have actually felt the terrible sting of the death of a family member due to that dreaded plague. The whole thing is just awful.

          I sat here earlier this evening, knowing I was up against a publication deadline and wondering what, with the recent news of the death in our family, I would be able to write about. Truthfully, I wasn’t in the mood to compose a monologue for you or anyone else. I had no idea what to do. To paraphrase Dr. Suess, I puzzled, and puzzed, ‘til my puzzler was sore.

          This year has been long and strange, to say the least. The COVID-19 problem has been terrible; the racial strife and a much-contested national election have been the icing on the very awful cake that is the year 2020. By mid-November I was in great need of a positive break from it all.

          I decided tonight that the best thing I could do would be to share the fact that I got to take that positive break. It was an experience that began Thanksgiving week and won’t end for several more days. Wow!

          I will not say if it has been by car or computer, by airplane or by phone, but I have had the wonderful privilege of spending some much needed time with many of my dear family members and a few friends.

          I had many quality conversations with family members that I hadn’t been with very much this year; some of whom I hadn’t seen since last winter. I WILL say that Facetime is wonderful and real time together is even better.

          Christmas is right around the corner. For most of us that coming holiday, and then New Year’s Day a week later, will be different this year. Here’s the bright side. We may not have the crowds at our homes that are usually there, but we should be consoled, at least a bit, by the fact that putting off those big gatherings for a few more months will be worth it.

          I encourage you to celebrate Christmas carefully this year, perhaps in masks and all, but also in cautious optimism that by summertime you’ll be able to host a huge family barbeque, and that there will be people in attendance who might not even be with us then if we are careless now. Rest a bit in the fact that we live in the most wonderful, powerful nation on earth and that this virus will soon be conquered because of that very fact. Santa will soon be here; so will the vaccines.

         

A Thanksgiving Dinner Emergency Plan

 

By G. E. Shuman

          I was just at our local supermarket, or one of them… okay, the one my family most often frequents. I’ll tell you; the place was mobbed. Well, it wasn’t actually mobbed, and this year I can feel especially good about that. It WAS packed with people shopping. And I mean packed.

          Most of the time I was in the store I felt like stopping one of the many shoppers with an overflowing shopping cart and asking her, (Most of them seemed to be ‘hers’.) if she was shopping for Thanksgiving dinner or because of the next COVID-19 apocalypse. Eventually I stopped wondering about that and learned that I could somewhat figure it out if I was just a bit nosey and peeked into her cart as I passed by in the aisle. (After, of course, checking that I was heading in the correct direction.) If I could see a big fat family-sized frozen turkey in the cart, I had my answer. If I could see several big fat family-sized packs of toilet paper in there, again I had my answer. If I could see both the turkey and the TP, I knew this was a very astute and prepared shopper. (I should have been a private detective.)

          For most U.S. families, this Thanksgiving Day will probably resemble a ‘normal’ Thanksgiving in some ways, but maybe not in other ways. If your family is like most others this year, you may have fewer relatives visiting your home, or you may not be visiting theirs. The COVID-19 rules seem to be changing almost daily and do vary by state.

          If you plan on visiting family out of state, you just might want to have a Thanksgiving backup plan in case those original plans fall apart. In years past some families sort of loosely figured out such a plan, (ours included) if bad weather was predicted, and those plans came in handy more than once. To me, having such a plan in place could be a holiday-saver this year. (No one wants a PBJ sandwich on Thanksgiving.)

          Your Thanksgiving dinner rescue plan could be as simple as this: Get a small frozen turkey, which will cost you about five bucks if bought before Thanksgiving. (If you don’t eat it now, they’re great anytime in the winter, or on your gas grill next summer. Yum!) Buy some canned veggies, (which you should probably be stockpiling right now anyway,) Stovetop Stuffing, (not to be a brand dropper,) some turkey gravy, and a bag of potatoes. Ta Da! Instant Thanksgiving dinner, just in case you must stay at home yourself or have fewer family members visiting this year.

          We Americans have always been great innovators. As of this writing, my own family is unsure if our dinner plans for Thanksgiving will actually materialize. We’re all praying that they will, but God only knows, and I do not mean that sarcastically. Truly, only He really does know, and only He can be our guide through these tough times. Still, it doesn’t hurt to do a little extra planning, (At this moment there are two smallish turkeys taking a long cold nap in our freezer.)

          In some ways this year is not different from others. Thanksgiving Day is still a day in which we are reminded to be thankful for all that we have. Regardless of anything and everything else this year may change for us; it cannot stop us from being thankful. Have a wonderful and thankful Thanksgiving!

Our New Little Friend

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          In a year when things, seemingly, couldn’t get much more different from other years, they recently did, at least at our house. This new ‘difference’ isn’t a big one, in fact, it’s quite a little one, literally.

          You see, a small creature that my wife named Angel has recently taken up residence in our front hallway. No, we have not domesticated a wild mouse or squirrel, nor have we started a home for wayward hamsters and gerbils. 

          What we HAVE done is this, in this very strange year.  We bought a parakeet. Yes, we did. And I’m about to tell you about how that happened. Yes, I am.

          Several months ago, one of our wonderful grandkids, Ayvah, gave us a beautiful birdcage. She had once owned birds, no longer had them and thought that we might like to have the cage. Normally I don’t like to collect things just because we might want to use them, someday, so I knew that if we took ownership of the cage, a bird to live in it would have to follow. There is little use for an empty birdcage, although I have seen people put plants in them and have always wondered why, as most plants can’t fly away, even without a cage. Also, you can only convince the most gullible among us that you have an invisible bird. I know this because I have tried.

          So, Nahla, who is another of our wonderful grandkids, and her grandmother and I went pet-shop shopping one day and came home with what we believe is one of the most beautiful little birds we have ever seen. Lorna named him Angel because he has white wings. Our family, I assume, is assuming that angels have white wings. We are at least taking Lorna’s word for that.

          Having Angel live in his cage on a shelf in our front hallway has worked out quite nicely. The little guy actually fits very well into our family and lifestyle and is quite entertaining. He will sit on your finger if that’s something you feel strongly about. He will also let you watch him play with the several bird toys that hang throughout his cage. This he can do for hours.

          Angel is also about the most low-maintenance pet that you, (or I) could have. There are no morning and evening walks around the neighborhood and no big bags of food, litter pans, leashes, or other things to own if you own a parakeet. Nope. Just give him fresh water and food each day and he will gleefully sing, swing, and survive quite well in his home within your home. He will still sit on your finger if you still feel strongly about that.

          One more thing to mention is that, if you own a parakeet, there should be no large vet bills. Not to seem cruel, but I once heard that taking a small animal to the vet is like taking your disposable lighter in for repairs. (Please don’t tell Angel that I said that.)

          So, that pretty much sums up the news of the new resident in our front hallway.

          It really has been a very strange year. The fact that I just wrote a column about a little bird named Angel, and that you just READ a column about a little bird named Angel, seems to prove that out. The strange year isn’t over, and Heaven only knows what may come next. (Angel-heaven… see how I worked that in there?)

 

 

Spooky!

This is a Halloween repeat that has been requested.

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

            It is a distant memory, cold and old, dusted off now as a long-neglected, rediscovered book might be.  It matters, somehow, that this nearly forgotten evening happened within a mid-nineteen-sixties year.  Perhaps it could be that the late autumn wind cooled and creaked the leafless, lifeless-looking trees even more then than now; again, somehow.  Or perhaps it is only because those October thirty-firsts were spookier then, at least to the one whose memory of the night it is. Those Halloweens contained no costumes of bleeding skulls or vividly maimed souls. They were, simply, or perhaps, not so simply, ghostly, hauntingly spooky nights. 

            On this one night, dusk, as dust, had settled slowly upon the small New England town of the boy’s youth.  Supper had been a hurried affair, gobbled by giggling goblins anxious to get out into the night. Low voices and footsteps of other spooks were already upon the steps; knocks and bone-chilling knob-rattling had already begun at the front door. 

            The boy of ten or so was more than ready to go out.  By accident or plan, his siblings had already slipped into the night without him.  He was very alone; at least he hoped that he was alone, as he ventured into the much too chilly night air.  The cold breeze stung his eyes as he peered through the rubbery-odored mask of his costume.  He began the long walk through the frozen-dead, musty-smelling leaves covering the sidewalk. The youth hurried past the frightful row of thick and dark, moonlit maples that lined the way.  He was very afraid that the dry crunch of death in those old leaves would alert of his presence whatever ghoul or ghost might be lurking behind one of those trees.  As he walked on in the increasingly inky black, he dared not peek even slightly around any of them.  It was a sure thing that not EVERY roadside tree hid some witch or ghastly ghoul, but the boy knew that he was certain to pick the one which did, if he were to dare to look.

            By sheer will, or by chance, the youth succeeded in surpassing the haunted trees, and successfully trick-or-treated at many houses on the street.  Every inch of the way he thought about the one house he dreaded visiting most: the house of the witchy-looking old lady.  Sure, she seemed kind in the daytime, but you didn’t see her humped old back or the wrinkly look in her eyes in the daytime.  Her house was cold as a tomb, at least, such was her porch, at night, in late October.  The boy knew this well from the year before, but that year he had been with his brothers and sisters. As he walked, the scuffing, leaf scraping sound of every step seemed to taunt him with the words: Every… witch… awaits… the child… who comes… alone…

            The boy’s small hands were nearly freezing by the time he reached the old lady’s small dark house far down the street.  He managed to climb to the top of the worn and creaky steps.  He stood there a moment, and then worked up enough courage to open the narrow door which entered onto the witch’s small, windowed porch.  The rusty door spring, worn to its own insanity by countless other small boys who were fools enough to enter here, he thought, screeched a hateful, taunting announcement of the boy’s arrival.  This it repeated, mocking its original scream, as the door slammed tightly shut between the lad and the world outside.

            The long, enclosed tomb of a porch offered no relief from the cold, but some little relief from the night wind.  The only light therein was that of a maddening, perfectly placed jack-o-lantern which hideously smiled up at the boy from the floor, at the farthest corner of the room. The porch exuded the sooty-sweet smell of that candle-lit carved pumpkin.  This strange aroma mingled with that of crisp, cold Macintosh apples which filled a wooden crate at one wall.  “What could possibly be the use of cold apples to a witch?”  The boy briefly pondered.

            The one who disguised herself as a regular, kind old lady during the daytime was very cunning indeed.  Her trap for little boys was a porch table full of the biggest and best treats in the town.  Those very famous treats were the single reason the boy was even on this terrifying porch.  There was a tray which held beautiful, candied apples and another laden with huge, wax-paper-wrapped popcorn balls.  A bowl between them overflowed with candy corn, the boy’s favorite.  Thoughts of poison apples and boiling cauldrons momentarily filled the child.  He then nervously picked his treat and got it safely into the candy-stuffed pillowcase he carried.  Hearing the nighttime witch walking across her kitchen floor toward the door to the porch, he headed out, past the screeching door, down the creaking steps, and toward home.  If she had ever invited any little boy into her home, that boy certainly had never come back out, he thought, as he briskly walked.  This boy, that night, had, somehow, survived another visit to that house.  He had even gotten away with the biggest, most delicious popcorn ball of all!  His only fear then was in getting past the street-side ghouls that certainly stared at him from behind some of those huge old maples. But the horror still was, behind which ones?

            It is a fact that Halloween was different in the nineteen sixties, before the age of sugar and plastic holidays. There was just something hauntingly powerful about the cheap paper cutouts, cheesy cardboard skeletons and black and orange streamers of those years.  Fold-out paper pumpkins and eerie (and probably dangerous) cardboard candleholders lit the yards. Homemade, totally safe treats filled pillowcases and paper bags of those who dared to face the night. Those were night-prowling, costumed, youthful vagabonds, young souls whose parents had no fear at all that they would not return home safely. 

            Halloween nights were ones of simple, frightful fun, in those years. Cartoon ghosts and goblins, fake witches and funny Frankenstein monsters were all that stalked the streets or the innocent imaginations of children then.  True evil had nothing to do with those nights at all.

            The ghouls of Halloweens long-past may live on only in aging, dusty memories, but the dark and distant nineteen-sixties Halloween you just read about really did happen.  At least, that’s how this old trick-or-treater remembers it.

 

To the Heart of the Matter

By G. E. Shuman

 

          This column may come across as a bit personal. If so, that’s only because it IS a bit personal. It involves a nitty-gritty, down and dirty, serious as a heart attack situation (literally), that I recently had the privilege of experiencing.

          I’m far from the first person to undergo what I recently have undergone, or what I underwent, or went under, or whatever, but it’s a bit closer to home when, although you know you’re not the first, you’re the next to do it. Some things are like skydiving… There’s nothing like firsthand experience.

          Anyway, what happened to me was that I had needed to have a heart valve replacement for several years and had made the decision to get it done sooner rather than later. It seems, and I’ll explain with what minuscule knowledge of the subject I have, that when you have a bad valve in your heart, the heart has to work harder to pump blood and so enlarges. It’s a muscle, after all, and mine was getting bigger because of overuse, over the years. (The only muscle in my body that should not be getting bigger was the only one that was.  Figures.)  Anyway, that whole situation seems to be frowned upon by cardiologists and I was advised to get the valve job over with, basically, before my heart was over with.

          Of course, there were many tests before surgery. Hospitals seem to enjoy using as much of their testing machinery as possible. “Yes, you have a splinter… let’s get some x-rays.” I think I heard that said while I was there.  Maybe not.

          I was told that I needed a heart catheterization to be sure there were no blockages. This didn’t work for me; they found out there WERE blockages, which presented a more dangerous situation than my ever-more-muscular heart did. I already owned two cardiac stents that were both old enough to vote this year. Now my heart’s arteries had accumulated twenty more year’s worth of cheeseburger and French fry residue that would have to be taken care of. My surgeon called me and said, “It’s fine. I’ll just do two bypasses and then the valve.” “Oooo Kaaay” I responded, probably sounding much less confident than he did.

          Now securely on the agenda was that pesky bypass surgery as well as my originally scheduled valve job. Might as well go all in if you’re going in, I always say. Actually, I have never said that until now, but you get the idea.

          The surgery went very smoothly. People kept telling me afterward that I did very well. I would always thank them, even though all I did was go to sleep and wake back up later. (The waking back up later was the part I thought was the most important.) The most ‘uncomfortable’ part came later. Never (at least if you’re a guy,) let a nurse tell you that removing a urinary catheter is painless. If they say that, get off the bed and run as far as you can as fast as you can.

          Oh well. They said I did well, and I’m still doing well. As a matter of fact, I plan to be back to some of my old mischief within the next few weeks. I have received the best care in the world from my wonderful wife and have been surrounded by the prayers and well wishes of my large and amazing family, and friends. Why wouldn’t I be doing well?

          One reason I decided to write about this little repair event in my life is because of something I realized while I was beginning recuperation in the hospital. What happened was that the hospital staff gets heart patients ‘up’ very soon after surgery, and within a day or so encourages them to start walking around the common areas of the cardiac floor. To me that was amazing, and I was glad I was able to do it. They also give you a big, soft, red, heart-shaped pillow to hold against your chest if you need to cough, sneeze, or make any other bodily noises or sudden movements. The pillow soon becomes your best friend, and you learn to keep it close by, especially if you are a frequent sneezer or other bodily noise maker. Sneezing is the worst.

          Here's the thing. On one stroll around the roughly circular center area connecting the rooms, my nurse and I happened to pass the entrance to another patient room hallway. Just as we did so, two other guys about my age walked out of the doorways to their rooms. Each carried his own heart-shaped pillow in front of him and each looked about as excited to be there as I was. I asked the guy closest to me if he was having fun. His reply to my stupid, rhetorical question? “No.”

          Getting to the heart of the matter, those guys were also there for cardiac surgery and likely for the same reason I was… either a valve job or, more likely, because of too many cheeseburgers and fries. I think we all might want to think about that.

The Pumpkins Still Grew

 

By G. E. Shuman

          It seems, at times, that within a six-month period, everything changed this year. I don’t know how many times my wife and I have discussed how many things were affected by this “covid thing,” as I have begun to call it. I have no idea how much is true about the virus, how much we need to do, if masks work or not, if social distancing works or, if having restaurants that close their doors but allow you to dine at picnic tables, in tents, right outside their doors, works… or not. (I’ve really wondered about that one.) There is one thing I do know, at least as far as how things were affected or not here in Vermont. The pumpkins still grew.

          Every year I look forward to my very favorite season, which is fall. By this time of year I am actually slightly tired of the great weather, (I know, that’s strange,) and I start looking forward, just a bit, to an evening chill and the brisk breezes that blow and swirl our maple leaves around, (and hopefully off our lawn.) I also always look forward to the appearance of those enormous orange balls… pumpkins. This year is very different from every other one I can remember, with struggles, and hardships, and protests, and sickness. But the pumpkins still grew.

          Yes, I love those pumpkins of fall! To me, there is just nothing like a pile of golden, red, and orange leaves surrounding a display of big, ripe, beautiful pumpkins on someone’s lawn. Okay. I know. They are just simple squash. Still, they are healthy and robust, and are living reminders that all has not changed throughout our land. Not every life form is prone to some strange sickness.

          We are still experiencing a terrible virus; we have protests and even riots in our land. We are facing a very divided election season. Still, in it all, those big orange pumpkins grew. We deserve, or at least they deserve, some credit for that. Not everything has changed.

          If you think about it, the very round word October, the time of the pumpkin, “The Great Pumpkin”, jack-o-lanterns, and everything else ‘pumpkin,’ from pie to flavored coffee,  is somewhat like a pumpkin, itself. In fact, in some fancy typing fonts the letters ‘Oct’ appear almost as an elegant, robust circle followed by slight vines and leaves. (Try AR DECODE, for instance.) The five round letters in the name of that month also remind me of a full moon, spooky sounds, and other things about one of my favorite enjoyments, the recollections of my own, juvenile, ‘ancient’ past, the late OCtOber night called Halloween.

          So, yes, and without a doubt, this is a very different year. Things have changed a lot. Trick-or-treaters may not knock on our doors this year. (Hey, maybe I’m wrong. Those guys have ALWAYS worn masks!) Holiday parties may be few; candy apples may not be made for late October celebrations.

          Still, we are who we are. Our kids and grandkids still need to be taught the fine art of pumpkin carving. Lawn decorations and porch luminaries are still very important. I’ve said this before, and for many years: There is nothing like the smell of a sooty-sweet, candle-lit carved pumpkin.

          Say what you want about crime, protests, elections, viruses, and the whole rest of what seems to define the year 2020. I’m very glad the pumpkins still grew.

I’m Not Looking Forward to It.

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          A lot of years ago I needed to undergo an unusually frightening medical procedure. Well, to me it was unusually frightening, because at that time ANY medical procedure was off the charts, frightening-wise, to me, and this one was off the chart that was way above all the other charts. I didn’t want to do it. Nope, I didn’t. But I needed to.

          I met with the doctor. He explained to me what would happen and what part of that happening I would actually experience. I didn’t like any of what he said. Nope, I really didn’t, again. Anyway, I do still remember bits of that long-ago conversation and a few things that the doctor said to me. What I said to him was one incomprehensible babble after another, I’m sure. After going over the procedure with me, he asked me how I felt about it. My answer, offered through what I remember as trembling and stumbling words, was, “Well, I’m not exactly looking forward to it,” to which the wise doctor offered a wise and direct reply.

          He simply said: “Of course you’re not looking forward to it. There would have to be something wrong with you if you were looking forward to it.”

          As I look back on that long-ago conversation with a doctor that I will probably never meet again, I wish I could tell him just how profound his words were to me. No, I wasn’t looking forward to the procedure, but that was because there was not that ‘something’ that he mentioned, wrong with me. No one looks forward to some certain and uncomfortable things that they must endure if there is not something wrong with them. See? 

 

          Now, in the present time, which is a long time past the time of my conversation with that doctor, and actually within the next week or so, I will have to confront a surgery that I am in some dread of. Did I say ‘some’ dread? Can you see my knees shaking from where you are?

          My upcoming operation is a common thing that people undergo all the time, and yes, I’m going to be okay, and I will survive to write more columns, (if you happen to like that idea or not). Still, deep down, something about it is trying its best to scare the begeebers out of me.

          My unbelievably wonderful wife is totally on my side, my entire family is united in prayer for me, and I know I will be right back here, in a week or two, rambling on again and boring you to tears.

          No, I’m not looking forward to what I need to go through, and that’s okay. God is right here with me. Besides that, there would have to be something wrong with me if I were looking forward to it.

 

Seasonal Redirection

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          Here in Vermont, this time of year, you can already start to feel it. Midday hours may still be warm, but the early mornings and evenings are beginning to take a cooler turn. I truly enjoy that seasonal reminder that summer weather will not last forever; beach days will soon be over, as pumpkins, potatoes, and bundled cornstalks appear at roadside farm stands.

          These things are subtle changes, indeed. They appear slowly at first and may be barely noticeable. Still, soon enough you realize that the wonderful sweatshirt and sneaker weather of fall is approaching for real.

          People and our habits change with the seasons up here, perhaps a bit more slowly than the seasons themselves change, but the change is just as real, and it is for the good. I notice that with the coming of fall, casual comments turn from how hot it has been lately to how cool it was last evening. Old folks talk about getting the vegetables in from the garden; younger ones dress a bit warmer and have a slightly brisker walk. It’s all part of a seasonal redirection if we realize it or not.

          It is true that in a state where the seasons are five, not four, (if you include the much-dreaded mud season just before spring,) and where those seasons are strong and vibrant, most animals, including we humans, do adjust and prepare for whatever one is about to come. Attitudes and attention divert from the present to what’s just around the corner. We nearly forget things we have only recently done and concentrate on that anticipated change that we might already feel.

          All of nature abides by those changes and some of nature nurtures us along into the coming weather and routines. In late August and into September in Vermont the lawn needs mowing much less frequently. In many families, beach toys and camping equipment are all, if by piecemeal, tucked away until next year, soon to be replaced by leaf rakes and wheelbarrows, while orange pumpkins and potted chrysanthemums begin to be seen decorating the front steps of neighborhood homes.

          What I am hoping, against all hope, and actually praying for this year is that this next seasonal change to the cooler temps, beautiful gold and red trees, and rustling, wind-blown leaves has an even greater effect on our spirits than in any usual fall. 

          We have had a wonderful summer in this part of the country, a summer which began very early and has had many more sunny than rainy days. In fact, with no basis at all in anything but coincidence, our summer has seemed to have been improved and extended by the same length of time we have so far had to endure and cope with the coronavirus. How strange. Perhaps we have been provided these wonderful outdoor days to reduce the cabin fever feeling of quarantining.

          It has been reassuring to me that the past few mornings and evenings have been a bit brisk up here. I somehow get the feeling that nothing is forever, not even a virus, and that the season is about to change, too. Perhaps with the weather, some attitudes, perspectives, and emotional directions will improve. Although we may not be completely through the threat of covid19, we can change our thoughts and conversation a bit, as we at least change the seasonal subject in our minds.

          No one has ever thought of me as some eternal optimist, but just as circumstances far beyond our control took our country and our world to where they are now in just a few short months, perhaps new circumstances can bring them back to where they were, in, maybe, just a few more.

          A bright new seasonal redirection of body, mind, and spirit may be exactly what the doctor ordered.

 

The Storms of Life

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

                “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.” Remember that old saying? We all can see that in that title rain is depicted as a negative thing. (There’s nothing like a rain storm to ruin a day at the beach.) A seemingly opposite thought is expressed in the Bible, in the verse which says: “He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.” Matthew 5:45. In that case, the rain is seen as a good thing, as a blessing. Life requires water, and a rain storm provides that.  (There’s nothing like a drought to ruin a crop.) The thought of receiving “showers of blessings” strengthens that idea more.

                To be sure, every person experiences both showers of blessings, and the storms of life.  No family is immune to problems, some of which can be pretty big and destructive storms. Likewise, no family is totally bereft of blessings. In fact, in our land, and in our time, (even in a covid consumed environment,) blessings really are all around us. To me, counting them is as easy as counting my family members, friends, and sunny summer days.  

                Truthfully, I sat down at the ol’ laptop a few moments ago with no idea of what to write about this time. I used to teach my writing students about the ‘terror of the empty page’ problem that writers sometimes have when they just can’t start the process. That doesn’t often happen with me, but when it does personal stuff usually sort of spills out from whatever that aging gray matter thing is that is between my ears. I am never sure if I should try to avoid that happening, or embrace it. I have often told people that writing this column is my ‘therapy’; and that you folks are my ‘therapists’.  It is good to talk things out with you, sometimes. I hope you don’t mind.

                Without ‘spilling’ much more, I will admit that I and my family are facing a few brewing ‘storms’ of our own, as, like I said, all of us do.  No person, no family is perfect; likewise, no one gets through this life without a medical bump in the road or two.  You may be in the same boat as we are. In fact if you are human you must be to some extent. So, take heart. No storm, not even a big one, lasts forever. God is still good, and there are still many blessings to count and sunny days ahead. Thanks for listening.

Cogitations on Life’s Changes and Rules That No Longer Apply to Me

By G. E. Shuman

          My very dear 96-year-old mother who took off a decade or so ago for the sunny South and now resides (on her own and in her own home) in an adult Florida community, recently said this to me: “I’ve never minded whatever age I am. I just enjoy it all.” Aging has never been something I looked forward to, but I’ve found that talking with an older person, (if you can still FIND an older person,) makes the process much less scary.

          My wife and retired just a year ago, and, so far, have not regretted the decision to do so. We haven’t yet experienced the ‘downside’ of it, and I don’t think we ever will. Retirement actually made dealing with covid-19 a bit easier for us because for the last half of 2019 we weren’t really doing much anyway. Ho Hum. My personal perspective: “Oh, we can’t get near a lot of other people? Dang!” (I didn’t want to do that anyway.)

          We live in what Vermont refers to as a city, but if it were where you live might be passed by as a bump in the road, and that’s fine with retired old me. Just today I heard of a town up here by the name of Lewis, (don’t fact check me) that is home to exactly one resident. Yup. Only one. Even here that’s a small town.

          Anyway, up here it’s easy to sort of blend into the scenery, the green trees, corn fields, the wooded paths, especially if you’re retired, I think. I saw a scene on a TV show recently where an older character’s line was that “If you’re over 65 nobody even sees you.” I think that’s the way it is here. Nobody’s looking for you; nobody suspects you of anything, mostly because they probably think you’re not capable of anything.

          That reminds me of the title of this column and the things I wanted to include in it, which I will now get back to, or into.

          I wanted to discuss with you the rules that no longer apply to me, or, at least, the rules I no longer follow. So, here we go.

          I have heard that the best thing about growing older is that no one expects you to do anything. This is a good one. They may ask to borrow a tool, a vehicle, or some money, but they don’t want your actual help.  They’re probably afraid you’ll die on them. Pretty cool if you think about it.

          Another thing is that no one says you must get out of bed and get ready for work anymore. In fact, if you have gray hair and just stop showing up for work, some people won’t notice; other people will be glad. This is not a bad thing. From my viewpoint, it’s all good.

          I have also recently realized that it’s perfectly legal to drive the speed limit, and sometimes even less, especially if you’re older. If you try this, you will certainly hear a horn or two, and receive more than one wave that resembles half a peace sign, but who cares?  Young people drive it like they stole it. I drive it like it’s paid for and I want it to last forever, which I do.

          Another rule that has changed for me is that, even as a married man, I can openly talk with beautiful young women without being suspected of naughty behavior. (Heaven knows I have no energy for naughty behavior.) My wife knows I’m not going anywhere, and also that no beautiful young woman would want to go anywhere with me. This rule change is still very nice.

          In fact, as inferred above, I have no reason to try to impress the opposite sex or anyone else. I knew this was the case and that life was over when I began getting senior discounts at restaurants without even asking for them. I hated that at first. Now I just take the money and run. No, I don’t run. I tried that once as a kid and didn’t enjoy it. I also no longer have to shave every day and have nearly forgotten how to tie a tie. I can exercise if I want to, and not if I don’t want to. No one notices either way.

          Near the end of his life, my wife’s maternal grandfather said to me: “Georgie ol’ boy, when you’re almost 93 you ain’t 16 no more.” I could hardly argue with that. I also once heard a quote from old comedian George Burns. (If you know who George Burns was, you ain’t 16 no more either.) Mr. Burns once bragged: “I can do anything in my nineties that I could do when I was 18.”  He then continued: “That just shows how pathetic I was at 18.”

          As I sit here in our old Vermont home, surrounded by the silence of a sunny Saturday afternoon and thinking of some of the perks of being “not 16 no more,” I’m reminded again of my mom’s advice, to not mind whatever age I am, and to just enjoy it all! She’s always been a very wise woman.

         

Full Moons, Fireflies, and Fireworks

By G. E. Shuman

          As is likely with your family, mine was unable to observe July Fourth in quite the same manner this year as in others. My wife and I usually plan on which fireworks display we will try to attend and invite others to go with us. Last year Lorna’s brother and his wife joined us for the big celebration on the State House lawn in Montpelier. It was a great evening.

          This year we were simply staying home for the night. Lorna is the world’s biggest fireworks fan and the most patriotic person I know, so that saddened me a bit.

          I decided to go downtown and at least get her a tub of her favorite ice cream to celebrate with. I thought that might help.  The store that carries it, on South Main Street in Barre, was out of her brand and flavor, so I tried one on North Main Street. They had the cold treat that I knew would brighten my wife’s evening a bit, so I grabbed a tub and headed home.

          Looking up as I drove toward our house, I couldn’t help but notice the biggest, brightest full moon I could remember ever seeing. Immediately getting on my (hands free) phone, I called Lorna and told her to meet me on the back steps of our house. She was waiting for me when I arrived, and we headed back out into the night, chasing that beautiful moon up the streets through East Barre, where we thought it would not be blocked by trees.

          We were right, and pulled off the road near the East Barre Dam, in awe of the star-studded sky and that immense lunar world just hanging there silently, on the horizon right in front of us. The moon lit the sky and all across the field below tiny fireflies danced in the evening breeze. I could not help but realize that God Himself, the creator of all, is also the author of all true beauty, and that He had provided both the mightiest and the tiniest fireworks possible for Lorna’s and my evening’s pleasure. It was just amazing!

          After arriving home, I decided to head out to the front lawn to water some new grass seed that I had recently planted. I enjoy doing this, as it is very peaceful out there in the near dark, and it is a good time and place to think. When I had finished the watering, I looked up and noticed that Lorna had come out onto the front porch swing, her own place of silent solitude. I soon joined her on the porch, and we sat there looking across the valley that holds downtown Barre.

          Soon, and seemingly building up into a loud and literally sparkling chorus, the whistles and bangs of home-launched fireworks began to echo across the hills near our home. At first there were just a few, and then there were more, and then there were many more.  

          I, of course, have no idea of the true intent of anyone’s heart. Still, I could not help but think, in spite of any virus threat, health-safety or otherwise motivated regulations, or any protest or other hinderance, that these local people wanted to celebrate the Fourth of July, our Independence Day, and that they would, simply, not be stopped from doing so. Partying Patriots of all beginnings and backgrounds, with their families and their friends, had purchased their own fireworks displays and were sharing their celebrations with anyone who wanted to look up into the future, as it was written in the sky over our small city. I could not have been more proud!

Just Some Thoughts

By G. E. Shuman

          Up here in the Green Mountain State, every other state in the Union, and across the world, 2020 has been one for the books. In fact, it’s been the ONLY one like itself IN the books. The ‘perfect storm’ of a worldwide pandemic, terrible racial unrest in our country, and a very contentious upcoming presidential election has knocked this entire year into a hurricane category of its own.

          Do you remember the movie “Back to the Future”? Of course, you do. I recently heard of an editorial cartoon showing Doc Brown as he emphatically admonished: “Marty, whatever you do, DON’T stop in 2020!”  I thought that was brilliant, and quite good advice.

          To get breaks from what I have come to call ‘Covid Cabin Fever,’ my wife and I, several times a week, get out of the house and just travel the back roads of our beautiful state. We have done this in previous years, but have recently had more incentive to since, this year, there has been little else to occupy our time. I know things are opening up a bit now, thankfully, but for several months we really couldn’t even stop for lunch during these trips. How many take out burgers can you eat in your car without feeling cabin-feverish in there too? (Gaining ten pounds in two months has been a cinch for me.)

          Something I have come to notice during our travels is that nature doesn’t seem all that affected by this corona mess, the presidential race, or even racial tension. The beautiful rivers here still flow as well as last year. The deer and cattle grazing in the fields are still doing just that. Squirrels scamper up the big trees as our car approaches, and countless wild turkeys still hang around the tilled and planted farmland all across the state.

          In general, what I have noticed in all these things is that nature, the natural world, doesn’t seem to need us a lot. We do need it, as do all living things, but it doesn’t really need us. I believe there is a place for us, (and the wild turkeys) here, and that we are free to use the resources of our large, global home. I don’t believe for a moment that we are free to Abuse them, or each other.     

          In so many ways, this strange, almost surreal year of 2020 has taught me some lessons. I have had much more time than usual to think about my family, our state, our country, and our world. Pausing from the usual can be a time to refresh, rethink, and regroup. At least that is what it has meant to me.

          The recent racial tension, stemming from the terrible murder of George Floyd, has added to that rethinking, also, at least for me. I agree with active but peaceful protests of injustice. I have never agreed with violence to prove a point, but I do understand the anger. I have a wonderful, 26-year-old black son and a beautiful 23-year-old black daughter. If either of them had been murdered by someone with his knee on their neck, (regardless of that person’s race,) it might be me destroying the place.  There’s so very much to think about.

          You probably have your own theories as to why, if you think there IS a why, this year has taken place as it has. As a Christian, my thought is that just perhaps God decided that 2020 would be the year to give some of us something closer to 20-20 ‘vision’ about some of these things.

          As always, I invite you to take what you will from my humble column here in this great local paper. This year has been terrible in many ways, but also a jolt that has opened many eyes, including mine. Appreciate the things you have, the beautiful world we live in, and ALL the people around you. You may need them more than they need you, as do I.

         

America, It’s Time to Wake Up!

By G. E. Shuman

          What we Americans and the world have witnessed in our country over the past few weeks is totally appalling, heart-wrenching, and unbelievably wrong. We have seen, in over a dozen US cities, private property being destroyed, people being hurt and even killed, and lootings of things that belong to others. Police departments have been burned and so have apartment buildings occupied by who knows who and of who knows what race. Truthfully, I think all this violence is terrible.

          But… wait a minute. What I wrote above is not the wrong I’m referring to, at least not yet. From what perspective am I, as an old white American guy, viewing all of this? From what perspective are you?  Am I seeing it through the eyes of a race that has been put down in our country for at least the past two centuries? Am I walking in the shoes of people who are at least as smart as I am, but find it difficult to find work and equality in the country that I have always proclaimed as the land of the free and the home of the brave?

          Mr. George Floyd died a few weeks ago. He died an untimely, terrible death because he was, simply, brutally, torturously murdered by a white police officer, while three other officers looked on and did nothing! Others were in the background telling this ‘officer’ to stop. Someone, somehow, was taking a ten-minute video of it all on their phone! How supremely disgusting! How appalling!

          I know little of Mr. Floyd, other than that his skin color was dark, and that he worked at the same nightclub as did his murderer. Why Mr. Floyd was killed might have been because of his color, or because of money, or some hidden crime, or a woman the men were fighting over, or because of something else. This murderer’s accusers assume it was because of Mr. Floyd’s race, but I have no idea if that is true.

          Of the three other officers who stood by and watched a man on the ground, with another man’s knee on his neck while he begged for breath, for ten minutes, two of the names seemed to be of Asian and Hispanic heritage, at least to me.

          Here’s the rub, to my mind, because of my personal family situation. I am the very proud, white father of two fantastic African American children. I’m also the father in law of a wonderful law-abiding and law-enforcing African American man. I’m the grandfather of six mixed-race children, the great-grandfather of two beautiful mixed-race toddler girls, and the proud grandfather of two gorgeous granddaughters of Chinese descent. I have also had two nieces and two nephews of Asian heritage. 

          I’ve heard all about the terrible uprising in our land because of Mr. Floyd’s murder. Some people say, yes, it’s bad, but it’s just one man. Others tout the idea that we need to stop senseless burnings of private property and stop the violence. In some ways I agree with that last statement, but not because I’m an old white guy.

          George Floyd’s brother said recently that it is time for the violence to stop, that his brother would have agreed with peaceful protest, but not with the destruction of private property. To me, that is a noble statement above and beyond the call of duty from this man’s brother. I DO understand why people of Mr. Floyd’s race are doing what they are doing right now. I wonder how I would feel and what I would do if George had been my bother. With my racially varied family he could easily have been my son. My son can NEVER die because of the color of his skin. How disgusting a thought! If he did, it could be me who would begin burning cities. Still, somehow, for the sake of the future, for the sake of all our kids and grandkids, the violence must stop.

          I want to end this column with just one quote of many available on this subject from one of my true heroes, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.: “As you press on for justice, be sure to move with dignity and discipline, using only the weapon of love. Let no man pull you so low as to hate him. Always avoid violence. If you succumb to the temptation of using violence in your struggle, unborn generations will be the recipients of a long and desolate night of bitterness, and your chief legacy to the future will be an endless reign of meaningless chaos. (1956)”

        I have no control over my own age or race. I’m not in charge of either one. I am an old white guy. That’s all there is to it. But as such, I still have no reason to follow the actions of many old white guys of the past, and I choose not to. I have an obligation to my children and our family’s future generations to be better than that. For the sake of all our children, grandchildren, and our country itself, for Pete’s sake, America, WAKE UP!

Making Rainbows

By G. E. Shuman

          Here in Vermont, by this time every year, people are so sick of the insides of their homes that they can’t wait to get outside to spruce up, rake up, and clean up their yards. The winters are so long and dark here that just being able to plant a small garden or watch tulips pop up through the earth is exciting to some of us. This year, as we all can understand, such yearnings are even stronger than ever.

          I probably already reported to you that my three-year-old granddaughter Nahla and I planned to make a small raised garden patch along the sunny side of our house. (Okay, so I did most of the planning, so if it fails it’s my fault.) It is true that we eventually planted it together. (It’s surprising how much longer a project can take when you have help.) I’ve never attempted one of these gardens before and have no idea if I (we) will reap crops worth more than what I paid for wood and bolts and twelve big bags of soil, but that’s sort of beside the point for Nahla and me.

          A day recently arrived when we seemed to be past the last frost and snow in our area, (very hopefully.) The two of us ventured out with a small tray of seedlings we had grown on the sunny windowsill for the past month or so. I had loved watching this child’s excitement as those tiny plants sprung through the soil. It thrilled me that every morning she would run to that window to see how much more her ‘babies’ had grown. She often would even kiss them good morning. I’m sure they appreciated that. Now we were going to give those babies a new home, right beside our home.

          I soon discovered that I needed a new hose nozzle. Old man winter had evidently snuck into our Northern state before I had put the hoses away in the fall and had cracked my nifty, multiple-setting, super duper plastic nozzle. I went off to the hardware store, found the hoses, and there it was on a peg hook, just waiting for me. It was an old-fashioned, simple, twist-to-turn-on, solid brass nozzle, exactly like the one my father had when I was a child. It was also the cheapest nozzle on the display, which didn’t hurt.

          Some things simply can’t be improved on. That brass hose end is one of those things. It works perfectly and sprays everything from a very fine mist to a full force stream of water. Nahla soon discovered this, firstly soaking my shirt and pants with the hose, then excitedly wanting to share another discovery she had made, with me.

          “Look, Papa, LOOK”, she yelled, jumping up and down as she did. “A rainbow!” I went to her and shared the sight of her beautiful little rainbow in the glistening mist made by the fine spray of my new brass hose nozzle.  It was actually quite beautiful.

          In times of trial, and this year seems full of trials, it’s easy to forget to appreciate what we have. Less is often more if seen in the right light. Small simple things are often more enjoyable than big fancy ones if the time is taken to experience them. My granddaughter’s amazement at the tiny rainbow she had made was a very happy addition to my list of simple but important things in life.

          Many of my days lately have begun with walks, and swinging, and raking, and pampering little plants on the side lawn, all in the company of a beautiful, wide-eyed, excited child. When our morning ritual is finished, Nahla runs over to the hose, points the nozzle to the sky, and begins making rainbows in the sun.

Spring Happens Here

(Dear Readers, 

This is a reprint from a year ago. I hope you don't mind. )

By G. E. Shuman

            Spring has finally sprung here in the Green Mountain state. For many of you living in a milder climate, that occurrence took place a month or more ago. In Central Vermont, it took place just weeks ago, after what we hope was the last gasp of winter. At our house, it snowed enough to cover the ground on the 12^th of May.

            Here the change to spring is immediate and not violent, (but almost,) as grass, leaves, and tree buds burst forth in a matter of a dozen days or less when the season finally arrives. Within a few more days every lawn has someone with a rake and mower, finally getting rid of twigs and leaves and ‘stuff’ in general, left in the wake of winter. On our lawn that someone is me. This year I have also employed my three-year-old granddaughter Nahla, in the job of raking. She, with her small rake and pink work gloves, helps ‘disperse’ the piles of leaves Papa has just made. (It’s good to have help.)

            Ours is a big country. To me, the saying of ‘It’s a small world’ has less meaning than to some. I’ve seen a lot of it. (Not to stray too far from the subject of spring, but my wife and I have now retired and plan to see much more of it very soon.) Anyone who has driven to Orlando from here knows that it would be a very long walk, no matter what the season. In fact, from my house to downtown Barre seems like a long walk, and I can see downtown from here.

            Yes, our country is big, and our world is immense. It’s no wonder the weather and temperature vary to such a ‘degree’. (See what I did there?)  We had a friend, years ago, who had lived her entire life in Florida. She once wondered aloud to me on the phone what it must be like to see snow “just falling out of the sky.” For someone from Vermont, (me,) it was strange that she thought that would be so amazing. Another person I once met in Florida, and who had spent his life there, had a serious answer that also amazed me, when I asked him if he and his wife had ever been north. He replied: “Yes, we have. We’ve been to North Carolina.” That made me feel like bringing the suntan lotion the next time I go to South Barre.

            I do love the season of spring in my little corner of this great big world. It is good to spring clean the inside of your home. To me, it is even better to get the outside spruced up. I feel happy when I get the trash from winter and the gas grill cover removed for the summer. I also love the smell of freshly mown grass. For you, these things might not be a big deal. For me, they are like seeing snow falling out of the sky if you’ve always lived in Florida.

            Just yesterday I read a bumper sticker on a car that was momentarily in front of me at an intersection. (Isn’t that where everyone reads bumper stickers?) This sticker said: “What happens in Vermont stays in Vermont. But not much ever happens.”  That saying may hold some truth, but some things do happen here. Spring happens here, right after the last snowfall of May.