This is just a reminder to check out my novels and other works on Amazon.com. To see them all, go to my name, George E. Shuman. (Don't forget the E. as there is another George Shuman on Amazon).
Happy New Year to All!
A Corner Cafe
Cemetery Bridge
The Smoke and Mirrors Effect
George's World
By G. E. Shuman
Usually, at
least a few times a week, my wife will come to me and say: “Here’s something
for your squirrely friends.” Then she’ll hand me a bag of stale bread, old corn
chips, or something else she thinks my ‘squirrely’ friends might like. In most
cases I agree and happily present these gifts to them.
You see, my
wife is not calling my friends squirrely, exactly. This is because they are,
exactly that… squirrels. For many years I have been feeding the squirrels that
live in the trees around our house. I’ve tried to be fairly consistent in at least
doing this during the fall and winter months. They seem to appreciate it. I’ll
tell you something strange about that in a minute.
It is funny,
the reactions I sometimes get when I mention to someone that I feed the
squirrels. You see, most people, (not all but most) are polite and try to say
something positive about this little thing that I do. Still, I can usually see
it in their faces if they are just being kind and actually think there is
something wrong with me. I do not tell them that there IS something wrong with
me; I just let them squirm a little while they’re trying to be polite.
I get it. I
understand that for many folks’ squirrels are just pests that invade their bird
feeders and try to gnaw their way into other things, like basements and attics.
In those little gray guys’ defense, it gets cold outside this time of year, and
there isn’t much food. If I was in their shoes, (Yes, I know they don’t
actually wear shoes.) I might try to get inside too. Also, admit it. Your kids
get into your house and eat all your food all the time, and you don’t think of
them as pests. Well, maybe you do, but that’s a different issue. Anyway, how much gratitude have you sensed
from all those birds that you feed, (or all those kids?) Truthfully, my
squirrels do seem to show some. Like I said, I’ll tell you something strange
about that in a minute.
Yes, I have
heard my little squirrely friends referred to as tree rats, vermin, nasty
rodents, and even future roadkill. (That last one, even when joking, seems
cruel.) I also ‘get it’ that some people
hunt squirrels for food. To me, hunting for food is no worse than buying meat
at a store. So there is that. Plus, isn’t food hunting what those squirrels are
doing too?
I believe
that everyone has a right to their own opinion about squirrels, and most other
things. (Notice, I used a plural pronoun there, against my better judgement.) I
guess it’s all in ‘their’ point of view. Just to confuse the issue a bit more, let
me relate that I have purchased mouse traps many times in an effort to get mice
out of our house. I have also helped my wife attempt to nurse a baby mouse that
she found in a parking lot, back to health, and have seen children oohing and
aahing over gerbils, hamsters, mice, and other things behind glass at the local
pet store. So, are they cute little furry things or vermin?
I used to
buy big bags of peanuts in the shell to feed the squirrels. I liked watching
them turn the things over in their little hands, (Yes, they are hands.)
deciding if they will eat the nut there or take it home for dinner. That is
actually what they’re doing if you see them rolling a peanut over and over. I
read that someplace. (How anyone knows what a squirrel is thinking is way
beyond me.)
It’s fun to
watch ‘my’ squirrels (getting possessive here,) stuff a peanut shell into one
side of their mouth, and another in the other side to make easy traveling up
the tree to home. It’s also funny to hear my little friends scold each other
and chatter with their mouths full like that. Everyone knows at least a few
people who do that too… I know one who sounds like she’s storing up nuts every
time you talk to her on the phone. When she does it, it’s not so funny.
Feeding the
squirrels is actually a lot of fun, if you’d like to try it. It is easy to be
creative in how you feed them, too. I once did a column about how I made a
squirrel feeder out of the dish antenna I had ripped from the roof of my house.
For once I got something worthwhile out of that thing. Also, one time my sister
Jan sent me a tiny ceramic coffee mug for the squirrels to use. She knew how
much squirrels appreciate being fed. I don’t know if they like coffee or not. Yes,
I’ll tell you something strange about that in a minute.
Okay, so the
minute’s up. The strange thing is that my squirrely friends, at least some of
them, seem to want to thank me for the food. Now you REALLY think something’s
wrong with me, and you’re right, but that’s another different issue. For years
now, believe it or not, after feeding the squirrels, I have often found a nut,
cracker, or piece of bread on the top step at our back door. Several times it
will have been placed on the railing near the doorknob. The very last time was
only last Sunday after a snowstorm. The only footprints on the steps were those
of my friends, and a cracker was right there with them. No, I’m not kidding,
and I would never lie to you.
Whether the
squirrel involved was thanking me, asking for more, or left the bit of food
there for some other reason I can never know. I do feel that we humans tend to
underestimate the level of consciousness, and even of caring that animals may
possess. Look your dog in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.
So, try
feeding the squirrels this winter. Doing it is rewarding. You may even get a
‘thank you.’
By G. E.
Shuman
There’s something 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 here 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 often changed from the gray naked trees and bright white fluff of day to the inky blackness, crystalline 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; interestingly,
a windless snow drifting straight down to deepen a pristine blanket formed
earlier in the day 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 or 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, passing homes that stand along the walk, the scents of evergreen branches,
evening coffee brewing, and wood fire chimney smoke are simply wonderful.
If you don’t happen to live in 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 that we Vermonters
experience every year, and often take for granted. 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 the peace of this
holiday season, the joy of knowing God’s Son, and the experience of at least
one Vermont December evening.
______________________________________________________________
(Hello Family and Friends,)
Wanted to let you all know that my newest novel, 'Cemetery Bridge' is available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback versions. Check it out?
George
Hello Family
and Friends,
This is just
an announcement that my newest novel, “Cemetery Bridge” has been
published. It is available in both Kindle and paperback versions on Amazon.
If you’re
interested in seeing my books, the best way is to go to Amazon and input my
name: George E. Shuman
(Believe it
or not, there is another George Shuman with books on Amazon, so using my full name
will get you to just my ‘stuff’.)
Thanks,
George, Dad,
Unc.
By G. E.
Shuman
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about
the times of my youth. You know, back
when rocks were soft and dinosaurs roamed the earth. It has often been said
that life is a learning process, although lately mine seems to be more of a
‘forgetting’ process than anything else. I do believe that much of what I know now
I learned by the time I was ten.
Looking back, I don’t think I was the good little boy my
mother remembers me being. I was also probably not too bright, based on some things
I remember doing. Why do I remember them? I haven’t a clue. Why do I feel that I should share them with
you today? I haven’t a clue about that, either.
Anyway, here goes.
Twenty
things I had learned by the time I was ten:
Number one:
Never be the
first one on the playground slide if it rained last night. (That, as with many
other things, I learned the hard way. In this case the wet way. I got a lot of
attention in school the rest of the day.)
Number two:
Do NOT fight
with your older brother on your parent’s brand-new couch. You might end up waiting in the
cellar for your dad to get home from work. (He was a softie, but we wouldn’t
learn that for several more years.)
Number
three:
Sticking a
butter knife into a wall socket is not the smartest thing you could do to
entertain yourself. (Somewhat self-explanatory.)
Number four:
If you put a
fever thermometer on the bathroom heater, your mother will still make you go to
school.
Number five:
Never try to
give your cat a bath. (Also, self-explanatory.)
Number six:
Don’t call
your friend a sissy if he’s bigger than you. (Tried it. Didn’t like what
happened next.)
Number
seven:
Molasses and
grasshopper poop look EXACTLY the same, and that is where the similarity ends.
Number
eight:
Never play
marbles for ‘keepsies’ with my friend Alan. After all, that is where the term
‘losing your marbles’ came from.
Number nine:
You should
never shove a raw potato onto the pastor’s car’s tail pipe before church.
(After church is better because by the time he tries to start his car you will
have already gone home.)
Number ten:
It’s okay to
help your friends fill your teacher’s convertible with dry leaves after school;
just don’t get caught. (It did look pretty cool that way, though.)
Number
eleven:
If you and
your friends mistakenly trick-or-treat at the Elk’s Club Halloween party you
probably shouldn’t drink the punch!
Number
twelve:
An old pot
filled with lawnmower gas and put under that pile of dry leaves you’re going to
burn doesn’t qualify as autumn fireworks, but almost.
Number
thirteen:
If you spill
a gallon of milk on the back seat of your family’s new car, not telling your
parents about it will catch up with you, in about two days.
Number
fourteen:
Girls don’t
really have cooties. At least the pretty ones don’t.
Number
fifteen:
Never (even
by mistake) step on a potato somehow left on the top cellar stair. Your butt
will end up sorer than that time you fought with your brother on the new couch.
Number
sixteen:
Taking a nap
when you’re 7 or 8, across the chairs pushed under the dining room table is fun
and can provide your family and neighbors an afternoon of healthy exercise
looking for you in the woods.
Number seventeen:
Don’t drink children’s
nose drops, (They used to make those.) unless you want to terrify your mother
and sleep for two days.
Number eighteen:
UFOs are
real. (Ask me how I know this, later.)
Number nineteen:
If you wear
a snow suit you can take a very comfortable nap in a snowbank. This I learned WAYYY before I was ten.
Number
twenty:
If the pigs (somehow)
get out of the pen your mom will let you skip school to catch them. (A good thing to know on test day.)
Number
twenty-one: (I thought there were only twenty. Oh well.)
A ten-year-old
really can drive a car, providing it’s an old column-shift Rambler and you take
it up into the family field when Dad’s at work.
Number
twenty-two: (My Favorite)
Nothing
tastes better than a stolen watermelon.
So, as a
child, maybe especially as a child, but I’m not sure about that, we all want to
be good. We’re just not very good AT it.
Have fun and
behave yourself. (At least try.)
By G. E. Shuman
November is a month, here in the north, of settling in, of
staying put, and of thinking thoughts of the soon-coming winter. For me, any
spare time in October was spent doing the chores which make November’s settling
in possible, like getting air conditioners put away, leaky doors fixed, and
windows locked up tight in this hundred-plus year-old home of ours.
Leaves from our two huge maples are faithful to cover the
lawn each autumn, and always get raked away, just before the rakes, themselves,
get put away and replaced by snow shovels under the carport. Each year I spend
some time making sure the snow blower still starts, and is greased up, fueled
up, and ready for the weather to come. I don’t mind doing these chores that
make my home as efficient and comfortable as possible when the harsh weather
really hits.
I always get a bit contemplative at
this tucked-in holiday season, especially, it seems, in the past few years.
This old house is not full of family and their belongings as it once was.
Sometimes that is a difficult thing for me to think about.
I tend to be something of a night owl and am thankful for the
chance to fill some late evening hours with writing to you, dear readers. So,
thank you for easing those hours, and for the chance to express a few thoughts
that many of us ‘northerners,’ even though we may be strangers, likely still
share.
Even now, as I sit here in silence, it is cold outside the
windows of this house on the hill, and it is very dark out there. The winds of
one more late fall evening beat against the aging glass panes, but fortunately,
those winds have always stayed on the outside of this place. For this I am
thankful. Indeed, it is quite warm in here, and cozy, tonight. The furnace
works well, and there is enough fuel, although, sometimes, I still light the
fireplace as I did when the kids were young, just because.
All this contemplation is not a sad
thing to me, but is, sometimes, a chance for reflection on the things my wife
and I have done this year, and, reaching back further, the things we have done
throughout all the years that we have lived in this place. (Obviously, without
her, there would be no ‘we,’ and likely, by now, not even a ‘me.’) We were so
blessed to raise five tremendously talented children in this old place, for
which I am, truly, thankful. Those five amazing people are as diverse as any
five children could ever be, and I would still do anything at all for any one
of them.
I have been, truly and unquestionably, very blessed. Having a
beautiful, faithful, Christian wife, wonderful children and grandchildren, and
a warm home to share with them all makes for quite a life. What more could a
man ask for?
I am not at all sure why the words
that have assembled on my computer screen this evening have done so as they
have. When I write, that is often the case. I think, tonight, it is just
because I cannot help but tell you that I am very thankful for my life, and for
the people in it; for what I have, and for what I have had. I hope you feel the
same way about your life, too.
Unless you are a member of my family, or of my small group of
friends, I do not know anything about your beliefs. In any case, I will let you
know mine. I believe very much in God, in His Son Jesus, in our nation, and in
family. I also believe it is important to recognize and to be grateful for, all
that we have in the cornucopia of a country that we share, especially in this
contemplative, settled-in time of year.
I hope you will take a few minutes, as the
holidays approach, not to stop and smell the roses, as there are few roses
outside right now, but to stop and sense the fullness of what your life is, and
of what you have experienced, so far. And, in a word, to be thankful.
Happy Thanksgiving!
(Note: The author invites you to view his novels, “A Corner
Café” and the second edition of “The Smoke and Mirrors Effect” at Amazon.com.
Both books are available on Kindle, in paperback, and soon will be in hard
cover. “George’s World” is also now in paperback.)
By G. E. Shuman
Dear Readers,
This column is one of the few that I repeat from year to year.
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
Halloween, 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 front steps;
knocks and bone-chilling knob-rattling had already begun at the 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 passing by 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 old 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 walks… alone… Every… witch… awaits… the
child… who walks… 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 of 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, 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 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 once
again getting past the street-side ghouls that certainly stared at him from behind
those huge old maples.
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 as 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.
(Note: The author invites you to view his novels, “A Corner Café”
and the second edition of “The Smoke and Mirrors Effect” at Amazon.com. Both
books are available on Kindle and in paperback.)
Hi all,
Here's a link to the new Amazon Kindle and paperback editions of The Smoke and Mirrors Effect.
https://www.amazon.com/Smoke-Mirrors-Effect-Scales-Probability-ebook/dp/B09JXWCDDS/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=The+Smoke+and+Mirrors+Effect&qid=1634864763&qsid=137-2112995-1052612&sr=8-2&sres=1629337684%2CB09JXWCDDS%2CB00AVHPOPS%2CB000OSL778%2C1784290289%2C1977943349%2CB00MLN1TT0%2C1979599416%2CB00HDJF7HC%2C0060652381%2CB07Z45F19D%2CB004W5MFFC%2C1651656193%2CB01MXF2F8L%2CB004W5MFES%2CB08QXK5N79&srpt=ABIS_BOOK
Enjoy!
George
By G. E. Shuman
I am
not sure what is going on, but all-over Central Vermont, something strange
seems to be happening. If you live in our region, and if you drive a car, you
may already know what I am hinting at here.
It
seems that about every Central Vermont city, town, village, hamlet, and farm
cow path is undergoing some type of local road construction this fall… in
unison. All I can think is that there must be a big sale on asphalt going on,
somewhere. On some streets they are laying new water and/or drainage pipes, and
on others they’re repaving. In many places they are doing both.
I’m not
really complaining, because I’m glad our streets are being redone. I just get the
impression that some of these towns are trying to eat the whole elephant in one
bite. Maybe doing a few streets at a time would be better? I know that they understand what they’re
doing, and I know that I don’t. Like I said, it’s just an impression.
Recently
my wife and I took a trip across ol’ Route 2, from Barre, through New
Hampshire, and into Central Maine. If you haven’t taken that road in a while, I
can tell you that those other states are doing exactly what our state is. There
seems to be orange and black construction signs about everywhere. On that trip
across to Maine I told my wife that I wished I owned whatever company makes
those signs, or at least be the guy who supplies all that orange paint. I know
those signs are very important. I just wonder if someone, somewhere, is
building a huge warehouse to keep them in (if and when) the construction ends. If
not, I know that orange roofs are popular in some areas of Canada. (Although
they don’t usually have the words SLOW or YIELD on them. At least I don’t think
they do.) Still, New England towns could sell those things off for shingles or trade
them with the country to the north for maple syrup. (I forgot; we already have
that.) Anyway, I am sure that about six of those bad boys would cover a whole
side of a roof in no time! Isn’t it worth a try?
I
remember hearing someone joking, years ago, about construction cones. You know,
those orange rubber cones that are used everywhere there is any road
construction going on? That guy said that they are not what they appear to be,
but are orange witches, buried up to their hats. I cannot see even one of those
cones without remembering that. Now you are going to have the same problem.
Sorry, (a little.)
Please
don’t get me wrong. No one wants our roads to be smooth and free of potholes
and frost heaves more than I do. I’m glad we have the hard-working crews and
the equipment to make that happen. I do
hope most of the work is competed soon, because I can see another road project
on the horizon, (or right around the corner?). Halloween is coming, and someone
is going to have to dig up all those orange witches.
By G. E.
Shuman
I stopped by my daughter Emily’s
family home last night, or at least last night from the time I wrote this
column. As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed that a piece of exercise
equipment was on the front lawn, with a big FREE sign on it. (Note: If you have
never seen a house with a piece of exercise equipment on the front lawn, you’re
not paying attention.) The kids, Emily, her husband Nick, and daughter Nahla
were outside and asked me if I would like to have the thing. My first thought
and reply were to ask how much laundry could be successfully hung on it. I then
politely declined the machine, and we went about talking of other things.
On my way home from their house, I
began thinking of the day before, when Em and I had spent some time together,
having breakfast out, and then shopping. Firstly, I am not a shopper. I spent
far too many years working within the confines of retail stores to want to do
more of that now. (Mailmen probably don’t take long walks after they retire,
either.)
Emily certainly IS a shopper, so whenever I agree to go
shopping with her, I always ask how many stores she ‘needs’ to go to. If the
answer is more than two, I ask her to drop me at home between visiting some of the
stores.
In Emily’s defense, when she shops,
she always buys things for other people. She is very generous that way. Em also
just LOVES seasonal decorations, and will go to great lengths, often travelling
many miles, to get a good deal on all that stuff. She especially loves getting seasonal
dec’s AFTER some, (translation: ‘any’) particular holiday has passed and seems
to like the clearance prices she pays at least as much as she likes the
decorations themselves. Please do not be offended if you are like Emily in this
way, because if you are you’re in incredibly good company. Still, I could never
bring myself to buy a bunch of giftwrap the week after Christmas. My stomach
just would not take that.
So, back to the exercise equipment.
You see, on that ride home from Em’s family’s house last night I realized that
she often seems to want things she doesn’t ‘need,’ and I (exercise equipment in
mind) probably need things I don’t want. She loves shopping, shopping, and more
shopping, and buying things that are just too good a deal not to get. I love
avoiding ANYTHING post-season, and would, frankly, rather pay full price next
year. (I know, I know, I’m a sucker. But people like me keep Disney selling
full-price Mickey Mouse ears forever.)
To end all this babbling, might I just say, once more, that
my very generous daughter definitely loves shopping. My opinion is that she
should enjoy the seasons, and that at least she goes after good deals on the
‘stuff’ that makes the seasons magical. I do think she could ‘need’ what she
wants… a bit less. In reference to the exercise equipment, maybe I could want
what I need… a bit more.
By G. E. Shuman
I put a new
app on my phone a while ago. It’s one of those that is supposed to help you,
more precisely, help me, keep track of weight, calorie intake and exercise
regimens. (Exercise regimens… Ya, sure.)
I don’t exactly know why I would want to do all of that, but evidently it might
help me lose the 20 extra pounds I accumulated while hibernating last year, so
I downloaded the app.
Anyway, I grabbed
the app and was soon very impressed by one part of it; that was the weight
tracker, which, at first, seemed pretty cool. The tracker makes a graph of your
(I mean my) progress as I drop those terrible, guilty pounds. What I envisioned
was the displaying of something resembling a downward-sloping Vermont hill as
my disgusting-fat weight-loss progress continued over the weeks and months. Unfortunately,
that is not the envisioning I seem to be producing. My graph looks like a
fairly smooth road, maybe somewhere in ultra-flat Florida, with a few potholes
and speed bumps here and there, although, actually, there are no potholes in
Florida, so there’s that. So far, as far as that app is concerned, I’m a little
disappointed.
The other
‘helpful’ area on the app is where you put into it everything you put into your
mouth, and it then counts the calories for you.
Gee… how
much simpler could it get than that? This all works well in theory, but I’m
here to tell you that some days, you, I mean I, just cannot count calories. The
app doesn’t tell you how to input the ingredients in a Chinese restaurant
buffet, to say nothing of calculating the calories in that extra cheese you always
order on your pizza. Those things are just parts of the great unknown. Also, nowhere
at all does it mention how many slabs of homemade lasagna there actually are in
a serving. That lack of information is just ridiculous. Then there is the
problem of remembering to input the results every single time you innocently
walk through the kitchen and end up at the refrigerator door. Geez!
Some things
are just not as easy to accomplish as they are advertised to be. For instance, with mine or any other diet app,
there’s always the problem of correctly counting the calories in something like
a handful of potato chips. Wouldn’t that all depend on just how big the hand
is? Duhhh? When dieting, are we just supposed to stop EATING potato chips? And
isn’t it better to grab all the chips you can with that hand, so you don’t have
to take two handfuls? Seems pretty elementary to me. When you think about it, all
this counting and recording can become just impossible, and believe me, all my
counting so far hasn’t done much to change that weight graph.
On the
different, but somehow related subject of self-care, let me share that I’m not
much for the idea of that at all. Seriously, I think most of that self-care
stuff is just an excuse for being self-ISH. My parents walked a mile to school
in foot-deep snowstorms, uphill both ways, without complaining. My wife and I
raised our kids before the term self-care was even a thing, or deemed ‘needed’,
but that’s all stuff for another column.
Yes, dietary-wise,
I may seem to you to be a bit self-careless, but let’s just say that I do try
to control myself somewhat, and, at least as far as food is concerned, I can
pretty much resist anything except temptation.
I guess
diets, like exercise bikes, only work if you stay on them, which is a bit
disappointing for someone like me. Bad habits, as in the over-eating of things
like chips and french-fries, are what I need to quit. But now I’m confused. Think
about it. Isn’t quitting for losers?
By G. E.
Shuman
Over the past several years I have
haphazardly collected little sayings, mottos, and bits of humor or wisdom on
the notes app on my phone. Often, when thinking of what to write a column about
I refer to that collection for inspiration. Today I went there and came across
the three little words that are the title of this writing, live life lightly.
When I see some phrase like that one
either on a plaque or maybe a bumper sticker, and think it’s worth remembering,
I take out the phone and just add it to my list. I often don’t even remember
where I originally saw the words but have found that saving them in this way ensures
that the sieve that my memory seems to have become doesn’t sift them away
forever.
I like that little admonition to live
life lightly. To me it means to perhaps live more simply and honestly. It means
to not take myself too seriously or think too highly of the person that is
‘me’. It does not mean that I should live indifferently to the needs of others.
It does mean that I should live without judging others. To me to live life
lightly also means to show tolerance, but without surrender. It also means to
not fear the future.
It has taken me many years to realize
this, but I do feel that I can experience true joy, (when I seek it) in the
acts of sharing, loving, and giving more than anywhere else. I believe that
kindness is the best gift to give, and that gratitude, (as I once saw on a car
bumper sticker) is the best therapy.
To live life lightly, to me, is also
to realize that nothing is, and no people are permanent or perfect. We will be
more at peace if we enjoy things and people when they are and how they are. (Believe
me, I’m still working on this one.)
It has often been said that we should
try to enjoy the simple things. Lorna and I have recently redone several areas
of our home and have ‘hoed out’ many pounds of possessions that had become just
‘stuff’ to us. We have found that a part of living life lightly is to live it
more simply. I believe we have also discovered that the mind of God Himself can
be better understood, His Glory more appreciated in studying His creation, not
in acquiring more creations of man.
I recently read, (and copied to my collection of thoughts)
what was said to be the true definition of the word aloha. The writer said that
aloha did not originally mean hello or goodbye. It meant: “to consciously
manifest life joyously in the present.
To me, that is the best way to live
life lightly.
By G. E. Shuman
So, while I was in the shower this
morning, (Yes, this is how I’m starting this column,) a song came to mind. It’s
a song that you have heard a million times; one that has, since that shower,
been ceaselessly swirling around in my mind.
You already guessed what that song is,
(If not, check the title above.) and now it is probably ceaselessly swirling
around in your mind, too. Sorry. There is just nothing like spending a day
thinking of good old Kermit the frog singing away at the top of his little
froggy lungs. Again, sorry.
As I write this, the summer sun is struggling
to shine outside. The spring and summer of 2021 have been the rainiest, darkest,
coolest that I can remember. I know that some years, what are supposed to be
the warmer seasons here in the North come along and feel more like fall. This
year is one of those years.
Still, looking on the bright side, (If
not of the sun, at least of the situation,) everywhere I have been here in
northern New England this summer is simply bursting with green plant life. The
tree leaves are huge and of a thousand different greens; the corn is as high as
an elephant’s eye. (I heard that someplace before.) Lawns are lush, flower and veggie gardens are
gorgeous, and the hills are alive! (I heard that someplace before, too.)
If there is a point to what you have
just read, and I think there is, it is that into each life a little rain must
fall. (Okay, so next time I’ll use more of my own words.) If, when you look out
the window tomorrow morning, it is a dark and rainy day, remember that it’s
worth it. It’s not easy being green.
By G. E.
Shuman
If you are like me, there are places and
adventures in the world that you would like to see or experience, but that for
some reason or other you haven’t been able to. Little things like holding down
a job, paying the bills, and raising kids seem to get in the way of most of us
being able to do those ‘extra’ things that we would love to do. I’ve never been
hang gliding, scuba diving, or motorcycle racing, but I still intend to. (Please
don’t tell my wife that I said that.)
Words have been my thing for a long as
I can remember, but I learned from something Lorna and I experienced a few
weeks ago that there are some things that simply defy an accurate description. Words
just don’t always cut it, at least the words that I know don’t. It dawned on me
during that experience, that this is likely the reason people who do or see
some super thing cannot always seem to relate that experience to the rest of
us, at least not to the point that we truly understand what it was that they
experienced.
For family reasons unrelated to the
point of this column, Lorna and I had the great pleasure of spending a few days
with her late dad’s wonderful wife Olivia, at Olivia’s home in Arizona. While
there, we took a two-day trip. We had never been to the Grand Canyon and Olivia
thought that we should see that enormous natural wonder. Boy, was she ever
right!
A few days into our visit we started
on our little excursion north and did visit the canyon. When we first
approached the site and viewed that massive, beautiful part of God’s creation,
I was pretty much dumbfounded. I hope my mouth didn’t actually hang open, but
it might have. If it did, I hope no one took a picture of that.
I do know that I stood there on that
precipice, (behind a sturdy guardrail, of course. I’m not stupid.) and could not
find words fit to describe what my eyes were seeing. I really could not. I
simply repeated AMAZING! AMAZING!
AMAZING! over and over, with a few exclamations of AWESOME! mixed in.
Yes, the experience was truly amazing,
but, as I said, the words of man, in English or likely in any other language,
have no ability to truly describe that Grand Canyon, or probably many other
things that God has created on our earth to proclaim His great majesty and
power.
You know, life is short, and riddled
with labor, trials, and many other things that consume the short time we are
allotted here. I hope you will love your family every day that you have, do
good to others whenever you can, and, if you have the time, visit some of the
wonders people have not been able to accurately describe to you. That is not
their fault. They may have only stood their gawking and repeating the words
amazing! amazing! amazing! just as I did.
The Grand Canyon is, truly, one of the
most indescribable and amazing places I have ever visited. They named it ‘Grand’
for a reason. Please see it if you can.
Thank you Olivia, for taking us there.
By G. E.
Shuman
I am, without a doubt, married to the most patriotic person I
have ever met. Lorna has always been that way, and I have to say I am immensely
proud of her for her stand for our country. I do mean stand, as she has great
pride in our nation and would never hear our national anthem sung or played
without standing; she would never let the American Flag pass by in a parade
without standing also.
In this age of difficult changes in our country, including
coming to grips with racial discrimination and violence from all sides of that
issue to pressure to tolerate just about anything that can be said or otherwise
expressed as freedom of speech, my wife, and hopefully I, am standing rock
solid on our Christian and traditional national values.
Lorna loves all things American. Remember the old Chevy ad
that repeated the words: “Baseball, Hotdogs, Apple Pie and Chevrolet?” My wife
could have written that ad from her heart. One recent summer, (although this
could have happened in any season, at our house,) our son in law Adam saw Lorna
enter a room wearing one of her many flag-emblazoned tee shirts and sets of
earrings, and he simply said: “Here comes old glory.” What a hoot that was! Also, what a blessing,
as Lorna wore that joking remark as a badge of honor for a long time.
The red, white, and blue, patriotic songs, and fireworks seem
to top the ‘pride’ list for Lorna. She
especially loves those fireworks. I do not know how many lines of cars we have
waited in to find a good space to park to watch fireworks over the years, or
how many stifling, buggy, windy, rainy, or chilly late evenings in how many
past Julys we have spent watching what I have never genuinely appreciated as
much as does my wife. (I am not exactly bored with all the
flash-flash-boom-boom shows but will admit that a lot of those fireworks seem
pretty much like the ones we saw last year, to me.)
You know, maybe that is the very point of fireworks, and of
Lorna’s everlasting love of them. Maybe the unchanging, memory-jogging
fireworks and the emotions of love and respect for the spirit of our country
are exactly what Lorna needs to be reminded of around Independence Day each
year. This thought makes me feel that many more of us should start paying
closer attention to fireworks.
A while back Lorna told me that she had read about a company
that would put a portion of a person’s cremated ashes in a firework so that they
could be launched toward the sky. That may sound a bit crazy to you, but, if
you’re around many years from now at Lorna’s passing, please make it happen. It’s perfect for her, the most God-fearing,
patriotic, traditional, family-centered person I have ever known. I’m very
proud of her!
By G. E.
Shuman
So, a few months ago my wife and I got a new bedroom. No, we didn’t move, but all of our children
seemed to have. Our house, a century-plus old, four-bedroom Dutch cape in Barre
City, suddenly had three empty bedrooms.
After many years of sharing a double bed, Lorna decided that
she wanted a king sized one. I guess I should have realized then that the
honeymoon was over. Anyway, I had convinced her to simplify and purge a lot of
things she once considered ‘collectibles’, so getting a new bed seemed like a
small price to pay. We mutually decided to only move things that we really
cared about or needed into the new bedroom and found that most of the
accumulated collections in the old room were things we had been given, but when
and by whom was anybody’s guess. (Sometimes having a less than perfect memory
may be a blessing.)
We succeeded in repairing walls, painting, and getting the
new bed in only a few weeks, the house probably groaned a sigh of relief at
shedding those hundreds of pounds of ‘stuff’.
The first few nights in our new bed, had strange thoughts. I
don’t sleep well anyway, and suddenly found myself out of reach, literally out
of ‘touch’ with Lorna. One night, while lying on that bed, missing my wife who
was only five or ten or twenty feet away, I literally thought of an
evolutionary tale I once read about giraffes growing long necks so they could
reach the highest leaves on the trees, (That seems more like a tall tale to
me. Get it? A ‘tall’ tale?) I wondered
if my arms would get longer sleeping in this bed, so I could at least touch my
wife’s hand. I mean, we weren’t going to have more kids, but this was
ridiculous.
The bed is one of those platform ones that is about the size
of a tennis court, and just changing the sheets seems akin to putting new sails
on a three masted schooner or something.
That bed is totally comfortable. That much I will concede. The
mattress is fourteen inches thick and made of some foam stuff that I am
convinced is a combination of rubber, playdoh, silly putty, and morphine.
Believe me, you feel NOTHING when lying on that mattress. You can even get up
and leave the room without jiggling or disturbing your partner. What fun is that?
There is an adage that says absence makes the heart grow
fonder. There is another one that proclaims: “out of sight, out of mind.” I was
not exactly out of sight in that bed, but if you had poor vision, I might have
been.
I was beginning to think I was getting paranoid about this
whole thing. The bed is very nice, and Lorna seems happy with the new,
uncluttered room. I guessed our new nighttime long distance relationship would
be okay.
Do you remember, as a kid, making a telephone using two tin
cans and a piece of string? I’m thinking of surprising Lorna with one of those
some night. “Hello. Can you hear me way over there?”
Every morning, looking in the bathroom
mirror, I realize that my wife looks younger than I do, and I’m thankful for
that. (If she didn’t, I might not care that she sleeps on the other side of
that new bedroom.) She’s still very pretty,
very smart, and even still fits in the earrings I bought her in high school.
At night Lorna keeps her phone way over yonder on her
nightstand, and mine is on my nightstand. I may just call her some night soon
to see if she’s busy.
By G. E.
Shuman
This time of year, my four-year-old
granddaughter and I often go for walks, visit playgrounds, or just hang around
outside our Barre home. She loves the outdoors any time of year, come
snowflakes or sunshine. I have two favorite seasons, springtime, and fall.
We will discuss fall in the fall, but
right now spring is upon us, and it is just beautiful here in the green
mountain state. Life is simply exploding across our land, right now, and people
my granddaughter’s age may actually appreciate it most. She is always bending
down to examine an ant hurrying down the sidewalk, or to pick the biggest,
yellowest dandelion she can find. (Bending down to see an ant, for her, is
easier than it is for me.) Yesterday she chased robins across the playground,
giggling at them as she ran.
I was recently reminded of the Louis
Armstrong rendition of “What a Wonderful World,” somewhat because those same
words came to mind as I worked on my small, raised garden patch the other day, but
mostly because that song is on my Spotify recordings. Are they called recordings
anymore? No, I don’t think so. In any case, it is on my playlist.
The following is possibly because the
advancing years seem to now be advancing my way, but this world, in all its
natural beauty, seems, to me, more and more infinitely intricate, vivid, and
brilliantly designed lately. (Yes, I said designed.) The earth, the skies, the
seas, all teem with life; it is life that is sustained, life that eats, that
reproduces, and life that is profoundly complex, from the largest tree and
animal down to the smallest amoeba and bacteria.
People who know me best also know I am
an avid follower of NASA, SpaceX, and of every other avenue of space
exploration effort available for me to read about and observe. I have always
been this way, watching everything the media had to offer, from even before
Apollo 11 landed on the moon fifty-two years ago. I have corresponded with one
NASA administrator, several apollo astronauts, and Neil Armstrong’s biographer
over the years. That biographer sent me a signed copy of his book, titled
“First Man”, to give to my grandson Jackson, and even sent a column I had
written about Mr. Armstrong to the astronaut, the first man on the moon, to
read. Pretty cool.
I understand the
reasoning behind searching for life on other planets and agree that the search
is important. Still, we have, so far, found no such life, not even one single,
single celled form of life. It amuses me a bit that if a little robin like the
one Nahla chased across the playground yesterday, or if even one of those ants she
bends down to touch on the sidewalk ever wandered in front of the Perseverance
mars rover’s cameras, it would rock the scientific, political, and religious
worlds to their cores.
As we, as humans, experience our world and all its beauty,
here is a quote that should rock us.: “For since the creation of the world
God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly
seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without
excuse.” Romans 1:20, The Holy Bible,
NIV version.
Neil Armstrong saw the earth from the moon and thought it was
beautiful. Louis Armstrong saw the earth from here, and thought it was
wonderful. I agree with both.
By G. E.
Shuman
Early this morning, and I mean EARLY
this morning, I was lying in bed, trying to get back to a few more hours of
sleep, but could not. This happens to me more often than I wish it did.
Part of what often keeps me awake is
not being able to get thoughts of things I need to do, projects around the
house I need to finish, and other nagging stuff like that out of my mind. Does
this ever happen to you? I would bet that it does.
This morning, though, I woke up to thoughts
about a thing that we owned, that was in our cellar. It was a thing I once knew
I needed to fix before summer. Suddenly, I realized that the ‘thing’ I was
concerned about getting parts for, taking apart, and fixing was no longer down
there in that cellar. In an effort to do some ‘hoeing out’ this spring we had
gotten rid of it. I would not be able to use it, but I would also not have to
work on it.
Wow! What a sudden relief it was to
realize that I WOULD never, COULD never take that old thing apart and fix it...
EVER! It was gone, and I was glad of that.
I then began thinking, (still not sleeping) of other things
we had gotten rid of recently and the time that would be saved not having to
fix, clean, store or even use some of those things. I remembered reading a few
old adages and ideas long ago. One was: “The more things you own, the more
things own you.” Another: “The happiest man in the world is the one who just
bought a boat. The second happiest man in the world is the one who just sold a
boat.” And, yes: “Sometimes less is more.” I remembered my dad once telling me
that the more ‘things’ (equipment) on a car that you’re buying, the more things
there are to break. That sounds a bit negative, but also a bit true.
Years ago, I wrote a column about the excess of things that people
own, of storage units full of ‘stuff’ that will no longer fit in our homes, and
about collections. In that column I also
talked about those wonderful big black trash bags, and the fact that whatever
you put into that black hole, after you tied the top, you never, ever would see
again. Your life and your space would be freed up just in not owning the things
in those bags. You may not agree, but to me there is great relief in such
simplifying of life. By the way, about collections of ‘collectables.’ I think we need to understand that ANYTHING
is collectable. You can collect dust bunnies from under the bed if you want to.
That does not make them valuable, (unless you happen to love dust bunnies.) Then
I guess they’re valuable to you.
Here at our house, we’re still hoeing
out and simplifying. We will have fewer things to dust, fix, and find time to
use. For us that is a good thing.
By the way, I never did go back to
sleep this early morning. I came downstairs and wrote this column.
