“The Moment You Start Acting like Life is a Blessing; It Starts to Feel Like One.”

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

So, dear readers, here we are again. Christmas came and went as suddenly as it always does, and we’re on the brink of another brand-new year.

For many of us, every new year seems to be a reason to begin again in some areas of life. We pack up the Christmas decorations, throw out the remaining candies and cakes of the season, and get our homes ‘back to normal.’ People make the inevitable resolutions, to live better or more simply; to break some bad habit; to lose weight. (I for one, have done all three of these, several times over the years. And I would wager that Amazon ships more treadmills and elliptical bikes in January than it does in any other three months of the year combined.)

Lately, Lorna and I have been watching some brief YouTube videos that are simply titled ‘The History Guy.’ If you haven’t seen this guy’s (in his words) “short snippets of history that deserve to be remembered,” I think you should check them out.

What I have realized, in watching the videos and listening to The History Guy explain one bit of history or another, is that we, as humans, share much, especially in the basic experience of life, but also in things like temperaments and desires. It doesn’t seem to matter if you were born twenty years ago or two hundred, the good, the bad, and the ugly things about people never seem to change.

The people in the videos were obviously born, as we all once were. They then moved inexorably into the next second of their lives, and then the next minute, hour, day, week, month, year, and even decade, as we all do. Each of us seems to march down his or her own particular path in life at the same pace, guided by those days, months, and years. Sadly, some paths are much shorter than others. Some are bumpier, some are steeper and harder to walk than others. And then, at some point, each of us reaches a last second here; that time, I believe, being known by God from our very beginning.

I hope you don’t take this take on life to be something negative.  I don’t mean it to be, at all. In fact, my idea of how to face the brand-new year just ahead is to live it in contentment, with what blessings we have been given, being satisfied with our lot here. “Godliness with contentment is great gain.” 1 Timothy, 6:6. Holy Bible.

I have read that the true definition of the Hawaiian word aloha is this: “To consciously manifest life joyously in the present.”  To me, that deserves to be remembered.

Happy New Year!  Try to receive the blessings of every hour, minute, and second that it holds for you! Remember, the moment you start acting like life is a blessing, it starts to feel like one.

 

 

 

 

 

You Will Not Hear It Fall

 

          Something is coming to New England, in a very short time. We receive it every year, and if it has not arrived by the time this issue of the World is published, don’t worry. It will be here soon enough. You probably are already aware that the ‘something’ I’m referring to here, is snow.

          Snow first appears in the North, each late fall or early winter, almost in secret. Weather experts tell us, and are sometimes right, when the first or the next snowfall will happen, but it can still often take us by surprise. I still remember, as a child in Maine, being so excited to wake up some crisp late-fall morning to discover that the first snowfall of the year had come, softly, silently, as I peacefully slept. I always think, that when that clean white snow first comes, it arrives, as the fog in Carl Sandburg’s poem “Fog,” “on little cat feet.”  It does not make a sound.

My faith makes me believe that a big snowfall is a sign of God’s power, in effortlessly blessing, or hindering us, depending on your feelings about snow, with many tons of frozen water, without making a sound. Our world meters all of this out to us, one flake at a time, because the land needs the moisture. It is a medicine which we need, and take, willingly or not so willingly, each winter. It comes, and it will always come, but you will not hear it fall.

Rain arrives in the other seasons, and often beats the ground, splashing into itself, in the very puddles that it forms. It is a sometimes-comforting sound on the roof, and then it immediately rushes to streams, rivers, and lakes. It is not the same with snow. Yes, sleet and hail can noisily pound on your frozen windshield in winter, but not snow. Wind whips around our homes, vibrating old windowpanes, seeking to enter at any spot that it might, but it’s not that way with snow. Snow comes, but you will not hear it fall. It then waits patiently, to fill the waterways when warmer weather arrives.

This winter, go outside during a fall of snow, and just stop. Don’t talk, don’t look at your cellphone, and for a moment, don’t even breathe. Be still and listen. You may hear cars, or someone’s cranky old snow blower in the distance. If you do, even those sounds will seem quieter, more distant, and muffled, all because of the blanket of white on the ground. Unless there is wind, the new snow will drop softly, silently, in peaceful stillness, straight down to the earth. You will see it, and you might feel it on your face, but love it or hate it, you will not hear it fall.

“Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.”

(Robert Frost)

 

 

On Being Last

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          I had breakfast with my old friend Jim this morning. He’s a great friend and actually my spiritual mentor, but, darn him, moved away from the Vermont climate several years ago. I now see him only a few times a year, and we always spend several hours over eggs or sandwiches at The Wayside or other local restaurant when he comes north for a visit. (The servers must hate us.)

This visit, we both noticed, it seemed that we have changed a bit; we both have mellowed over the years and, somehow, things that once seemed important to us have lost their edge. We agreed that older people view the world differently than do the young. Some things that once mattered, just don’t anymore.

          To change the subject, but not a lot, Lorna and I regularly take care of our young granddaughter, Nahla. She’s an incredibly special little girl, and, as with all young children, is overflowing with laughter, love, and especially, energy. It’s difficult to hold that child down, and when she leaves our home we are often tired, but it is a particularly good tired. Nahla has a reputation for being headstrong, but there is one way that it’s easy to get Nahla to do a few things you want her to do. That way is to somehow make doing the thing into a race. If it’s time for bed it often works to see if she can beat Grammy up the stairs. Nahla always wins, (I wonder why.) but in the end, she is upstairs at bedtime. Also, any opportunity to ‘beat the clock’ is helpful. If you want Nahla to go upstairs to get her socks before school, or to put some toy away in her room, challenging her to do it and then get back downstairs before you count to ten (slowly) is a great way to get it done. (In this race, too, she always wins. Wink.) Young people love to be the winners, to succeed, to be FIRST. If you’re a young parent or an old grandparent like me, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

          My point here is to say that as we get older, that drive to be first may fade. In fact, I have begun thinking about the possible benefits of not winning every race, of not being the first over the finish line, or to make the best time. If you see an older person who just doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, it could be that they can’t hurry anymore, but could also be that they don’t want to hurry anymore. You could ask my mom about that one. At nearly 99 years of age, and still living on her own, Mom is in no hurry, and that is often as much by choice as ability.

          At times there are good reasons to want to be first, to be fast. Several days ago, Nahla and I were out on the front porch, she, running back and forth, anxiously grabbing flying dry leaves out of thin air like they were hundred-dollar bills, while I rocked back and forth on the glider. (I don’t care as much as I used to about hundred-dollar bills.)

          As I sat on the glider, watching Nahla, and listening to her stomping footsteps on the porch floor, I happened to notice this one leaf still clinging to the bare branches of one of our front lawn maples. It seemed to me that this small leaf, once among the thousands like it crowding the branches, was now the very last one. I had to wonder if that leaf ever ‘wondered’ about not being first, but about the chance that it might be last. I then realized that my dear mom has outlasted all her siblings, and, very sadly, a few younger people in our family, too. The leaf, as well, outlasted all the rest, which, I thought, might in some way be more important than being first.

          There is merit to winning a race, to being first, but also in being the last leaf to leave. I think my mom would agree with that.

Sometimes I Talk to Myself

 

Sometimes I Talk to Myself

By G. E. Shuman

 

Do you ever find yourself talking to yourself? I do. Well, I don’t actually talk to myself out loud, but do occasionally have bits of conversations between the ‘me,’ and the some other ‘me’ that both seem to rattle around in my brain, fighting for prominence. It isn’t really a good versus evil thing; it’s more that my mind sort of weighs things in the balance that way… as I said… occasionally. When that happens, it often goes something, but not exactly, like this:

Me #1: “My memory isn’t what it used to be. I guess I really might be getting older.”

Me #2: “You ‘MIGHT’ be getting older? You’re already ‘older’! You haven’t seen a mirror for the past twenty years or something?”

Me #1: “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just feeling my age lately. Like that time one of my fellow teachers heard my age. He came to me later and told me he didn’t realize I was such a ‘pup.’”

Me #2: “That means you looked older, George. Besides, that was YEARS ago.”

Me #1: “That’s my point, Dummy!”

Me #2: “So, who exactly are you calling Dummy?”

Me #1:  “Some of the recent comments from my granddaughter Nahla have me thinking that way, too.”

Me# 2: “Like what comments? She’s only six, you know. And you are pretty old lately.”

Me #1: “Like what? You’re right here in my head, and I have to remind you what? Wow. Like when I told her I was going to start teaching a few English classes again. Remember that?” She laughed and said: “Papa, you can’t do that! You’re WAY too old!”

Me #2: “Oh yah… I remember that. That was SO funny! I laughed so hard I almost fell out your left ear.”

Me #1” “And remember the time we were sitting on the front porch, and I asked her if she would still come to visit her Grammy and me when she was all grown up?”

Me #2: “How could I forget? That one stung a bit. But it was hilarious when she said: “Well Papa, I guess I’ll come visit Grammy, ‘cause you’ll be dead.”

Me #1: “Hilarious? Remember, when I’m dead, you’re dead.”

Me #2: “Oh yeah.”

Me #1: “Now I’ve got those two stupid doctor’s appointments next week to think about too.”

Me #2: “I know. But you’ll be fine. If you’re worried about seeing doctors, maybe you should try to get in better shape.”

Me #1: “I probably should. Maybe I should get a fit bit to keep track of my exercise.”

Me #2: “Don’t do that. Then you’ll start getting junk emails from the local funeral parlors. Ha! Ha!”

Me #1: “Oh, funny, very funny! Anyway, I like my doctor. She’s smart, and young, and pretty, and easy to talk to.”

Me #2: “Yes, she’s all the things you aren’t.”

Me #1: “I just hate the things they make you do, and all the questions. First, they put you on that awful scale which always shows your weight ten pounds over what it is at home. Like I need to see that. Then they take your pulse.”

Me #2: “That’s to see if you have a pulse, George.”

Me #1: “And then they always start going down the list of meds I take, as if I have any idea if I still take them or not. Lorna isn’t usually with me, and I usually realize that, and usually don’t care and just smile and say yup. They’re working fine.”

Then they ask the really embarrassing questions:

Are you exercising? No, but I plan to. How's your diet? I just started a new one this morning. It's going great. (I wonder how many times she’s heard that one.)  Do you ever smoke? Naw. Do you use alcohol? What do you mean by ‘use’? How about illicit drugs? Nope. Just a lot of caffeine.

Me #2: “Wow. No wonder you don’t like hearing all that stuff about you… I mean us.”

Me #1: “I’d rather get back to thinking about the stuff Nahla says, if you don’t mind.”

Me #2: “Yes. Me too. Like the time she told you she saw hair in your nose, and in your ears. You should have seen the look on your face!”

Me #1: “Or like last week when it was my turn to put her to bed and I sat on the floor beside her while she said her prayers?”

Me #2: “I remember.

Me #1: “Then she said: ‘Papa! What are you doing? What if I fall asleep and you can’t get up?!”

Me #2: “Out of the mouths of babes.”

 

 

 

 

 

A Crisp-Apple, Apple Crisp Fall

by G. E. Shuman

 

Fall is definitely my favorite time of year here in New England. I love the sight and scent of all those crunchy maple leaves on the trees and even on my lawn.

Well, about half a year from now, when winter finally gives way to flowers bursting forth in spring, spring might be my favorite time of year.

Actually, summer is pretty nice too, as my family loves visits to places like lakes and streams, and of course, the ocean.

Winter is not my favorite season, in any way. "Not nobody, not no how," as an Emerald City

door guard on The Wizard of Oz once said. Yes, people think that snow-laden trees and country lanes filled with fresh-fallen freezing fluff are just beautiful. Maybe, but spending a few hours of quality time behind my snowblower might make you wish for those spring flowers in a hurry.

For now, I like fall, the season we’re in. I have written before that even in a rainstorm, fall is fantastic. If you happen to be on a fall walk and it begins to sprinkle, take a minute to just stop and listen. Above or in between the sweet sounds of motorcycles and chainsaws, you may hear the rain hitting those fresh-fallen crispy leaves. If you do, you will find that it sounds EXACTLY like the sound of bacon frying. And, who doesn’t like bacon frying?

One thing about fall that makes it special to me is that my family still follows many traditions that we or our parents established long ago. Just a week ago, Lorna and I, with our granddaughter Nahla, visited our daughter Cathy and her growing family in Manchester, New Hampshire. Now that was a fantastic day! The air was brisk, the sun was out, fall colors were just everywhere, and we all loved it all. We, at Cathy’s leading, visited some very special local fall places, the kinds of which have popped up all over New England, just in time for the season.

We went apple picking at a huge and bountiful orchard, and got several bags of the crispy-est, juici-est most delicious-est apples I have tasted in years. And then we moved on and continued this great fall adventure!

In all we visited three different farms with farm stands, and bought cider, donuts and other fall-ish things. (I got some great squash. I love cooking fresh squash.) We took a hayride out into one of the huge fields of one of the farms and the excited kids picked their own pumpkins there. After all of that we went back to Cathy’s house where she made and served us a huge dish of DELICIOUS apple crisp from those great, crispy apples, while Nahla and our two great granddaughters carved their pumpkins at the table. Truthfully, that was a perfect day.

Time really is flying by, and, although it doesn’t seem possible, fall will soon turn to that season I’m not so fond of. For now, New England is simply gorgeous.

On the ride home, I noticed that many of the leaves out the car window seemed to be just the brown-red color of Lorna’s hair in the sunset. (Can anyone say “L’oreal, because I’m worth it.”?)  Sorry Hon. (Hey, Lorna- L’oreal, pretty close.)

Soon the trees will turn to gray, and then to the color of MY hair. Yes, snowstorm white.

Such is life. My suggestion for you is to get out there among the sights, sounds, and scents of this beautiful crisp-apple fall, before it’s over. 

 

Forgiving and Forgetting?

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

I don’t know how you are in the area of memory function, of recalling specific memories from the past. Well, okay, every memory is from the past. Duhh. For me, although I probably couldn’t tell you what I had for lunch yesterday, I can easily remember things that were done or said to me sixty years ago. I can even remember the circumstances and could describe some events from those moments in great detail to you.

Fortunately for you, you probably don’t have any interest in or reason to hear detailed descriptions of things from my past, and I’m not here to share those with you. You get enough of that if you have ever read one of my books. One way or another, those things always seem to come through in my writing, whether it is fiction or non.

Unfortunately, for me, and perhaps for you, the things remembered most vividly are nearly always the most negative things. The hurtful words or actions of others, whether relatives, employers, or ‘friends’ always seem to stick in the mind the most. (Being pierced is more permanent than being only bumped, I suppose.) It just seems much easier to forget some good time experienced than some cruel or thoughtless statement or action of another.  Likewise, our own negative actions are usually remembered more vividly by us than some good thing we might have done.

Recently, though, and several times now, I have been reminded that living in the past, or spending too much time dwelling on thoughts from the past is not at all a healthy way to be. One recent evening I just could not get some old hateful memories of things said by old, hateful people, out of my thoughts, and it made that evening a miserable one for me, and for my wife. For that, I am truly sorry.

I need to get my ‘forgetter’ into gear when it comes to those things. I’m not exactly sure how you do that, but I need to try. One suggestion, by a dear nephew of mine, would be to, in his words, “Unc, you need to adjust your give-a-‘blank’ button.” I do get that point. It’s just not an easy thing to do. Besides, it’s hard to not care.

At our church last Sunday we were reminded of the idea of forgetting the past, as verse 13 of the book of Philippians, chapter 3,was read: “Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.”  There the Apostle Paul was reminding us how important it is to look to the future, not the past. (And he did have quite a past.)

Another time this week I was reminded to forget, if I can, the hateful words of others from the past. This is done through true forgiveness, which is something else I need to work on. What happened is that somewhere online I read a short but profound quote from some unknown (to me) but very wise person.  The quote was simply this: “Forgiveness is giving up on the idea of having a better past.”  Think about that.

So, let us forgive, to have a better future.

 

Hello friends!

 This is just a reminder that my novels and early-life autobiography are available on Amazon. One book in particular, Cemetery Bridge, would make great fall, 'spooky' reading. Enjoy!

George's One Inch Beef Stew

 

Dear Readers:

The days are beginning to get cooler here in the north, and it won’t be long before I get out the ‘ol stew pot again. I wrote this silly column last winter, and, although that season isn’t back yet, winter will soon be right outside my kitchen door, and yours. I have adjusted the wording a bit, but not the recipe. So, read on, and then get ready to make yourself a warm pot of stew!

 

George's One-Inch Beef Stew

By G. E. Shuman

            In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s been pretty cold lately, and I think we all need something to warm us up a bit. So, I decided to share my quick recipe for beef stew. It’s something I’ve refined over the years, (If you believe that, you shouldn’t.) and it’s super easy to make. My family and neighbors love it, and I hope you will too. Please note: Measurements, quantities, and even ingredients can be varied. (They always are when I make it.) If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s following the rules too closely, even in following a recipe.

The very loosely defined and less adhered to list of ingredients:

You will need 1-2 lbs. of beef, (whatever you can afford right now, without selling your house) cut into approximately one-inch cubes. (This is one of the reasons I call it one-inch beef stew.)

You will also need a bunch of carrots, peeled, and also cut into one-inch lengths. (Another reason it’s one inch beef stew.) I like chunky stew, so I use a lot of carrots and I try to get those big fat over-grown looking ones and cut them a bit diagonally. My six-year-old granddaughter taught me that that shape is a rhombus. She really did. You could also use a bag of those pre-peeled finger carrots, but I don’t like fingers in my soup, so I don’t. I’d rather have a rhombus any day.

Now you will need five or six average-sized raw potatoes, cut, you guessed it, into (approximately) one-inch cubes. You can peel the taters first, if comp’ny’s comin.’ 

Here’s a list of the other things you will need:

1 small can diced tomatoes. What more can I say about that?

2 32 oz. cartons of beef broth. Ditto with the ‘what more can I say’ comment.

1 or 2 largish onions, peeled, chopped. (No, you can’t really ‘cube’ onions, but don’t worry about that.)

A 1-inch length of a quarter-pound butter stick. (Here we go again.)

A little bit of instant potato. (Don’t panic. It’s important.)

A smidgen of Garlic salt (I got the word smidgen from my mom.)

A dite of salt. (I also got the word dite from my mom.)

A pinch or two of pepper. (I usually go for three pinches, at least.)

A few glugs of olive oil to brown the meat.

A bottle of cider vinegar… but you won’t need much of it.

A big ol’ pot with a cover to do it all in.

 

Now for the precision cooking instructions:

Glug the few glugs of olive oil into the big ol’ pot, on the stove. (Important, turn on the stove’s burner too.)

Brown the meat in the pot, stirring occasionally if you feel like it. Or just sip on your coffee. That’s what I do. Add at least one gulg of the cider vinegar while the meat is cooking. Someone told me that vinegar tenderizes the meat. I’m not sure. I do know the whole house will soon smell like vinegar, and I like that, for some reason. If you want to get really fancy, throw the onions in now to brown them too. Also, shake in some garlic salt. Then, and this is important. Do nothing more to the meat! DO NOT DRAIN IT! Do not add anything to it. Just leave it in the pot and keep your fingers out of it. Although that beef will taste pretty yummy if you give in to temptation. (Personally, I can resist anything but temptation.)

Add both cartons of the beef broth and bring it all to a boil.

Now for the precise recipe part: Throw everything else in the list in, except for the instant potato. We’ll get to that in a minute.

Return the pot to a hard boil, then simmer until veggies are done. Sample a big carrot rhombus. If the rhombus is soft, it’s all soft.

Now, about the instant potatoes. People always ask me why I use some instant potatoes. The answer is that I use it for thickening. I just shake a box of those flakes over the pot, (For best results, remember to open the box.) while stirring the stew. Let them fall like potato snowflakes if that makes any sense. It should. It will be snowing soon enough. Add whatever quantity you want. I just use enough to thicken the broth up a bit.

Now let the pot simmer just enough to fill your home with the wonderful aroma of George’s One Inch Beef Stew.

Guess what? You’re done, and so is this column. Enjoy, and stay warm!

 

What Happens in Life

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          If you know me, or if you’ve been following this column for long, you probably know about my home. My wife and I own a very large, almost 125-year-old Barre City house where we have lived for nearly 40 of those years. All five of our children grew up here; all twelve of our grandkids and even two great grandkids have spent much time here.

          Our house is in decent shape (for the shape it’s in, as they say,) but does bear the scrapes and scars of those years of use, and probably of some misuse. A few places in the hard old woodwork are marked with minor digs; some inner doorways still show the holes from hinges removed and doors discarded long before our time here. There is a small cold cellar, a closed room in the corner of our basement with crudely painted letters on its door which read: “Keep Out! No Girls Allowed!”  Those words are ‘child height writings’ probably painted there by a few small boys in the process of forming a fleeting ‘boys only’ club down there. Those boys, if still with us at all, are incredibly old men by now. Also in the basement, right in front of the furnace, is a spot where the concrete floor was patched, long ago. A date the patching was done is marked forever in the cement with the year 1934. To me that is amazing.

          Our house definitely has some charm, and a bit of personality caused by these and many other records of our family’s time here, along with the times of the families that came before us.

When I think of all of that it makes me wonder about those other people involved and the fact that those years also had their effect, took their toll on them, too.

What happens in life writes a long and telling story on our minds, and even on our bodies. We too have the scars of age and experience, both physically and mentally; we too bear those marks in our appearance, and in our own personalities.

In a smallish front room of the house, that we have always called the family room, there is a big corner fireplace, and various chairs and antiques. In one front corner is my grandfather’s old Victrola, complete with its 78rpm records from the era when our old house was a new one. The Victrola still works, and I sometimes play one of those old recordings, just to hear the voices of singers who had passed long before I was even born. The amazing thing, to me, is that those voices are still there, contained in the grooves, the ‘wrinkles’ of those old records.

That always reminds me of the fact that we are each, in a way, records of the time we have spent in this life. At my age there are many records of experience in the wrinkles, white hair, and memories that are ‘me.’

Let’s be thankful for both the great times and the physical and mental scars earned by bumping our way through the rooms and hallways of this old house we call life. We should wear the record proudly.

         

 

The Sounds of Silence

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          Do you ever have trouble sleeping? I have trouble sleeping, and I think it’s a common thing. My problem is both that I often can’t go to sleep, and that I don’t really want to. Also, I usually wake very early in the morning, sometimes due to a call from nature, other times just because I wake up and can’t fall back to sleep. Thus, and therefore, I rarely feel completely rested.

          I’m beginning to think it may be a ‘which came first’ situation, like the chicken and the egg. Do I stay up late to avoid sleeping, get up early because I can’t get back to sleep, and then feel tired all day? Or do I feel tired all day, take an afternoon nap, and avoid going to sleep at a ‘normal’ bedtime on purpose?

          For me, the tradeoff is worth it, in a way. I love the late evening, when others in my home have headed to bed, the TV has been turned off, and even the parakeet has stopped chirping. I also love the early morning, often between three and four am, when others in my home are still sound asleep, the TV is still off, that bird still has its head tucked under its wing, and even the sun hasn’t gotten up yet. Cars rarely pass by our home at that time of morning, and the world just seems to be at peace. That last part is, at least, until I see the morning news.

          My cravings for these late evening and early morning times, even at the expense of rest, stems from my absolute love of the ‘sounds of silence’ those hours bring. Those hours give me both time to think, and to ‘not think.’ They are when I come up with my best column topics and novel plots. They are times for prayer and for thoughts of appreciation for all that I have. Sometimes they are times for planning the coming day, but not usually. That can wait until I am actually ‘awake’ and in full command (sure) of my thoughts.

          Those sounds of silence times are helpful, maybe even more so, when no planning and little thinking is done at all. In those times my tired mind gets rest, even if my body does not, as it puts down the heavy work of weighing the value and use of incoming information. Then, when the new dawn arrives, I can often think more clearly, more kindly. (Even if I might need that afternoon nap.)

          There is a little poem which states:

Your mind is a garden.

Your thoughts are the seeds.

You can grow flowers.

Or you can grow weeds.”

(Author unknown.)

Here’s to listening to the sounds of silence. And here’s to growing flowers.

A Secret Worth Sharing

 

Hello Friends,

          I feel like we’re close, after all these years, meeting every other week in this column in the paper as we do. We’ve probably shared many coffee breaks together, and by now you likely know me pretty well. So, I’ve decided to share a little secret with you. Okay, so here goes. You see, in just another week it will be Lorna’s and my fiftieth wedding anniversary. Yes, you read that right. It’s not our fifth, or our fifteenth, it’s our fiftieth. Whew!

          I know that sounds like a really long time to most of you, and it does to us too. It’s probably hard for you to believe that an energetic young couple like us could have been married so long ago, (ya, sure,) and it is for us too. In my case that’s because I use a twenty-year-old picture in my newspaper articles. I must change that soon. In Lorna’s case it’s because she is the prettiest and youngest looking woman our age I have ever known. (So, what’s wrong with having a pretty, young looking wife?)

Sometimes it seems impossible that fifty years have passed, and other times that the day when we ran off and got married must have happened in some other couple’s lifetime, long, long ago, in a galaxy far away.

          That’s right, we eloped on that long ago day in August 1972. It was August 17^th, to be exact. What happened was that Lorna had been after me throughout high school, and finally wore me down. (You shouldn’t believe me when I say stuff like that. You should just know not to, after all these years.) I pursued her, and prayed, literally every day for a year, that she would come to love me. Yes, we really did elope. The reason we can still be so young and energetic (ya, sure, again) after all these years is that we were both barely eighteen when we did so.

          It did later come to light that a few of the older church ladies were counting the months until our first child was born. Shame on them. I think they must have stopped counting by month twenty-four, when Chrissy was born. And a few other people thought our marriage wouldn’t last longer than six months. Next week, we will have made it to one hundred times those six months, which, to me, is a REALLY spooky thought.

          For all the young men out there, eager to ‘pop the question to your special young lady,’ I do have some advice. For a long and happy marriage, make sure the young lady you’re going to marry is absolutely perfect in every way. (I don’t personally know anything about that, but maybe you can find one?) 

          In all seriousness, and that’s a mode I have trouble staying in for very long, my wife Lorna was, on that day, and still is, the perfect girl for me. We’ve shared a wonderful life together, and I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ll love you forever, Norn.

          My cousin Donald, who was also our minister at the time and did a public service for us (actually for our families) the very day after our elopement, did give us a bit of advice that has helped us from the day he said it. He told us to always communicate with each other. He said that when one person or the other in a couple won’t talk it’s not good. When neither will talk it spells real trouble. So, talk to your spouse. (Thank you, Don.)

          I have also heard that for a happy marriage, a husband should always treat his wife just as he did when they were first dating. Still, lately it’s getting hard to take her to dinner and a movie and then drop her off at her parent’s house after.

Aging, - My Personal Experience

 

By G.E. Shuman

 

          So, I had a birthday a few weeks ago. I don’t like having birthdays, but there was little I could do about it. It wasn’t so bad; my wife and kids are always good to me on my birthdays, and the day was fun.

          The only negative thing about my birthday, or about celebrating it at all was that it was just one more reminder that I am aging. I guess that’s inevitable, and better than the alternative, but still, ‘aging’? That seems like such a negative thing unless you’re wine or cheese, and I am neither. For life forms aging is not usually a positive progression, other than if you’re five years old and can’t wait to be six, as is the case with my youngest grandchild, Nahla.

          For people my age getting older is a pain, or, rather, a series of several and various pains. My joints are beginning to ache, my ankles swell, my back hurts a lot, and I have other pains I could list if you’re interested. Okay, so forget that.

Well, maybe just a few more. My knees always pop when I get up, so sneaking to the bathroom (or anywhere else) in the middle of the night is an impossibility. I also never used to get out of breath tying my shoes and didn’t have to lean against a wall to get my foot through the leg hole in my underwear without falling down. (Don’t laugh. That hurts, and you end up looking ridiculous.) I don’t stand up quickly anymore or take the stairs two or three at a time. I also don’t run… but then… I never ran. I tried it once and spilled my coffee. That won’t happen again. I do get winded easily these days, but that’s only if I move. I’m usually fine as long as I hold still.

          Then there are the other reminders that I have fewer earthly days in front of me than behind me. (What an understatement.) For example, I was at a friend’s house the other day, (Yes, I have a friend.) and a total stranger to me who was also visiting there reached out and picked a hair off my shoulder. He asked: “Do you have pets?” I answered that we only have a parakeet, and that they don’t have hair. “What color is the hair?” I asked. “White.” He responded. What more could I say?

          And that same five-year-old granddaughter, mentioned earlier, asked me the other day if she could still come visit when she was grown up. I replied that she certainly can and needs to. She then just calmly responded: “Well, I’ll visit Grammy, ‘cause you’ll be dead.” (Out of the mouths of babes.)  Little does she know that my younger looking wife is actually three weeks older than me. That’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with having a younger looking wife. Still, women live longer than men, so, I guess I WILL be dead. Oh well.

          Then there was the call, on my birthday, from my NINETY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD mother, who is more alert and spryer than I have been for years. She sang a few bars of the Happy Birthday song to me, yes, she really did, and then said, “So George, you’re starting to get some years on you, huh?”  “Yes Mom, I replied, I guess I am.”  Geezzzz.

          Anyway, yes, I’m a year older, and I’m telling you that just like it was something that you were concerned about. Aging seems to happen to the best of us, and to me, too. I do take comfort in the fact that science has proven that having birthdays is good for you. It seems that the more of them you have, the longer you live.

 

Hey Readers:  Don’t forget to check out George’s newest book, “Up on Heath Street” at Amazon.com. As with his novels, it is available in both Kindle and paperback versions. Enjoy!

         

One Great Day!

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          Monday, July 4^th my extended family did something that many thousands of other families across our nation did this year. We gathered on that Independence Day to celebrate Faith, Family, and Freedom in a country, though divided in many ways, happens to still be the best one on the planet.

          We met at our daughter Cathy’s home in New Hampshire, and our great assembly on that beautiful day included all five of Lorna’s and my children, all twelve grandchildren, our two great granddaughters, and the spouses and ‘intendeds’ of our clan. Two of my sisters, Jan, and Paula, were also there, as was someone who turned out to be the impromptu guest of honor, my bright and sassy ninety-eight-year-old mom, Lillian Shuman.

          The weather was gorgeous, and the food was wonderful; the day was not only complete, but totally relaxed and enjoyable, thanks to about two days preparation by Cathy. (Thank you Hon.) Everyone loved the chance to be together there, just to bask in the sun and enjoy each other’s company.

          I mentioned, as the day drew to a close, that it would be a long time before we would all be able to be together in one place again, if we ever could be. I was then reminded by my son in law Adam that, although that observation may have been true, at least we got to do it this once, which is more than many families have been able to do.

          On the drive back up here to our home in Central Vermont I thought a lot about Adam’s words of help. (My kids are smarter and wiser than I am, and that is a good thing. Many times, they have guided this old guy away from such negative observations as that one Adam helped me sort out.)

          And I thought about my mom’s tee shirt. Those words, Faith, Family, and Freedom were there, and in that order, which is exactly the order Mom and Dad always emphasized as they raised their own family. I will forever owe them so much for that.

          Times are a bit strange right now, and many see the future as something to fear. But the ‘good fight’ is far from over. Have Faith in Almighty God, cherish the blessings of your own Family, and appreciate your Freedoms here in our great United States.

 

         

I Hate Painting!

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

So, last time you allowed me to ramble on about how I’m not good at home repairs, plumbing, electrical fixes, etcetera. For some reason, a lot of people told me they liked that column, and I’m starting to think that nobody likes doing those repairs.

This time I’d like to delve a little deeper into that theme, homing in on what is my least favorite thing in the world when it comes to fixing up our house. That thing is painting. There is no doubt about it. Julie Andrews once melodiously sang: “These are a few of my favorite things.” Well, sorry Julie. Home repairs are not among my favorite things. Neither are raindrops on roses, or raindrops on the porch I’ve been trying to paint this week. (It’s been raining all day, today.) Painting is just the worst, least enjoyable thing I have ever done, (if you exclude my one root canal and those four or five colonoscopies.) That’s probably why the porch gets a regular coat of paint every fifteen years or so if it needs it or not. (I’m going to have my 68^th birthday soon, so I’m heading into the home stretch. Hopefully, this paint job will outlast me.)

I’m just not a painter. The day that I paint a room, a set of steps, or a porch without buying extra paint to make up for the paint I get on my clothes and body while doing the job, I may consider myself to be a painter, but I’m not holding my breath for that day. (I have been trying to paint that front porch this week and got paint on my skin in places I didn’t even know I HAD skin, much less that I had that skin exposed to my paint roller and brushes.) THAT will teach me to wear shorts when I paint.

What is the deal with painting, anyway? Who in the world even invented that stuff that we, for some reason, call paint? And more importantly, why did they do that? I only imagine that to have happened in a cave somewhere, sometime in the very distant past.

Wilma: “Fred, I’m sick of the color of these rooms. They all look like rocks.”

Fred: “What? Color? What’s color? They ARE rocks. They’re SUPPOSED to look that way.”

Wilma: “Well fix it, Fred, or I’m inviting my mother to come live with us in this rock-colored cave. Go out there and find something to change these rooms. I mean it Fred!”

And Fred went out and found something to splatter on the rocks to change their color, just as I splatter colored stuff on our walls and outdoor wooden things, and everywhere on my body except my eyeballs... so far.

One of these days that porch floor will dry up enough to paint, but I don’t care if that takes a while. The good part is that I’ve already done the porch railing and our four big round columns leading up to the second floor. Those columns are a pain. Round columns, round roller… you get the idea.

Chrissy, my oldest daughter, loves painting. She can paint anything, from walls to beautiful creations on canvas. Chrissy is a wonderful artist, but she didn’t get that talent from me. She’s the family Rembrandt. I’m the family Fred.

House Cleaning, From the Outside

 

By G.E. Shuman

 

          I am not a ‘physical’ person. No, I don’t mean that I am imaginary, or a ghost or something. I’m just not good at applying a plan to get something physical done, made, or fixed. MAKING a plan is easy for me; doing the work is not.

          I believe that every person is blessed with certain talents. Some people think I am a writer and of that I am still uncertain. (The day one of my books hits the New York Times best seller list some of that uncertainty may disappear for me. But, even of that, I am uncertain.)

          My point here is that not everyone is a plumber, a builder, or an electrician. My proof is mostly in our basement, where my attempts at plumbing, building, and electrifying are on sad display. (We recently had some ‘professional’ plumbing done down there. That day convinced me that part of a plumber’s training is in learning how to not laugh out loud.)  My repair work is proof that necessity really is the mother of invention, even if that invention includes hundred-year-old drainpipes patched with duct tape, electrical tape, and gallon sized plastic bottles. (I know about being up to code, and that ain’t it.) Hence, the recent professional plumbing job.

          My brother Steve is the exact opposite of me. He can build anything out of nothing, and it will work and look great. If you tell Steve that your home needs a deck or a ramp, he will ask you a few questions and finish the job by sundown. Well, at least by the second sundown. Years ago, I had a habit of writing poetry in my spare time. The next time Steve and his wife Dot visited us he presented me with a beautiful mantle clock that he had made for me out of pieces of hardwood from an old building in his area. That was many years ago and that clock was, and still is, beautiful. When Steve gave it to me, he simply said: “This is MY poetry.”  I could not agree more.

          So, getting back to my problem with applying ideas to achieve physical results, a while ago I decided to pressure wash the house. We live on a busy Barre street, and road dust just covers our vinyl siding. I had put the job off for a little while. Actually, Lorna had gotten me a really nice pressure washer three summers ago and last week it was still in the box. I guess that’s not a little while unless you’re God or a planet. I am neither.

          Monday was the day I would finally assault the outside of our house with soapy, powerful jets of water. That was, at least, if it didn’t look like rain and if my hangnails were not acting up, or if I couldn’t think of some other reason to leave the machine in the cellar.

          After getting the directions out of the box and realizing that this gift from my wife was more complicated than I had thought, I forged ahead and eventually figured out what I needed to do. Did you know that pressure washers, even smaller electric ones like mine, come with about a dozen parts and pieces, nozzles, and hoses that you have to figure out before you can even begin?  That thing was like a puzzle to me, and I HATE puzzles and putting things together! (Where’s Steve when you need him? Oh ya, Florida.) If Lorna had bought me one of those BIG pressure washers with a large motor, or worse, a gas engine, that would have spelled disaster for my nerves and probably for my house.

          Eventually I was on the side lawn with my new toy and had the garden hose hooked to it, the electrical cord plugged into the extension cord, and the wand hose and attachments… attached. I also actually got the little detergent sucker-upper hose in my detergent jug and was ready to begin.

          So, here we go! (Or, here I went.)  I found the on/off switch and turned it to ON. You guessed it. Nothing happened. I just stood there sweating in a slinky-like tangle of hoses and electrical cords, and nothing had happened. Freeing myself from the water-world snare I was in, I searched the attachments out and realized that the extension cord was not plugged into the outlet behind the house. Duhhh.

          Well, that was last Monday. By Tuesday afternoon I had succeeded in pressure washing all four sides of the house, the front porch, the lawn mower, the snow blower, my bucket hat, and several tee shirts and pairs of socks. The house now looks great, at least until the summer sun and traffic arrive. The pressure washer is back on a shelf in the cellar. I will soon forget it is there… if I’m lucky.

 

 

Hello Family and Friends,

Please consider checking out my books at Amazon.com.  Just search George E. Shuman.

The books are available in Kindle and paperback formats.

I hope you will buy them... 

(as I would like to sell them.)

My best to all,

George, Dad, Unc. 

 I wanted to let everyone know that my new book, "Up On Heath Street" has been published and is available at Amazon.com, in Kindle and paperback versions. 

The best way to locate my books is to input George E. Shuman in the search area.

Thank you all,

George, Dad, Unc.

 Good morning all,

My latest article, titled Making Do with One Car, was just published on the Now With Purpose online magazine website. 

If you'd like to see it, just go to nowwithpurpose.com

Any positive comments you would be willing to leave there would be greatly appreciated.

My Best, 

George, Dad, Unc.

Hi Friends,

Remember to check out George's World, A Corner Cafe, The Smoke and Mirrors Effect, and Cemetery Bridge at Amazon.com. 

BIG NEWS!

Please look for my latest book, "Up on Heath Street" to be published within the next few months. The book will be a collection of stories about small town life in the '60s, and was written by some aged and possibly delusional child. (Me.)