Entering a New Year; Trying to Leave a Vice or two Behind

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

In my last column I divulged one of my weaknesses, (And you didn’t think I had any.) That weakness was an occasional craving for peanut brittle. Silly, right? Peanut brittle; just an old fashioned sweet for an aging and not so sweet guy.

Truthfully, sweet foods are not normally on my ‘cravings’ list anyway. Other things are, and I am about to do another ‘divulge’ here. Some of you must be like me, at least I hope you are, in the fact that anything called ‘savory’ (and the very sound of that word,) can make you think of salty snacks. At least it works well for me.

When my young granddaughter had yet to learn to read, she used colors to name her favorite stores for ‘Papa’ to take her to. There was the Green Store, (Dollar Tree) and the Yellow Store, (Dollar General.) Everyone should also realize that the good ol’ golden arches in the land where every word starts with the prefix ‘Mac’ are golden for a reason. They look exactly like big French fries to the young eyes of every whining child in every car seat in America, and beyond. Now THAT’S effective marketing. (Even toddlers have vices, whether they know it or not.)

Anyway, back to my own addictions. You see, any store that sells salty snacks is difficult for me to pass by, if the craving happens to have been awakened by my rumbling stomach. I have applied my car’s brakes countless times just to satisfy that urge. Lately it is difficult for me to pass the ‘Yellow Stores,’ since I discovered that they display a veritable smorgasbord of Pringles chips! Seriously, many stores sell Pringles, and Pringles are the saltiest, savory-est self-indulgent-est snack on the planet! The Yellow Stores have displays of Pringles that are about four feet wide and three shelves deep, with EVERY possible Pringles flavor, from salt and vinegar to dill pickle, from cheddar cheese to scorchin’… yes, SCORCHIN’ sour cream and onion, (which I bought one recent day.) It just isn’t fair, when all I was doing was driving past the store on my way home! I know, it could be worse, but it’s bad enough.

I’ve never been much for New Year’s resolutions, because, as you can probably tell, and as I’ve said before, I can usually resist anything but temptation, (Please pray for me,) and resolutions don’t ever work out very well.

Still, I know that if I would like to lose weight in the coming year and not end up four feet wide like those Pringles displays, I’d better smarten up.

The other day I came across a familiar verse in The Bible that has always helped me whenever I have paid attention to it. Seriously, I am convinced that The Bible in total holds the solutions to all human problems, but this short verse will at least cover you if you’ve got a Pringles (or other) such vice.

The verse is Philippians 3:13 and it was written by the Apostle Paul. He was a guy with a decidedly ‘un-savory’ past and was determined to not return to his own old vices.

The verse: “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.”

So, although I’m not a New Year’s resolution sort of guy, I’m trying to look straight ahead down the road until I get past the temptation of The Yellow Store, and just keep on heading home, forgetting those things which are behind.

Happy New Year!

 

While In the Check Yourself Line

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

I’m sure you’ve found yourself in line at the self-checkout at your local stuff-mart more times than you would like to admit, by now. I know I have. At first, after running stores and checking other people out for years, (no not that way) I hated the idea of checking my own ‘stuff’ out at a store. But now I’m used to it, and actually prefer it.

I’m also sure that, while you’ve been in those lines, you have noticed that you were still surrounded by things to buy. In my previous life as a retail manager, we called those things, ‘impulse items,’ and no other thing was ever as perfectly named as those. The entire purpose of placing those items right in front of your face as you are checking out is to grab a few more of your dollars as you wait for your turn to pay. “I might as well get that candy bar while I’m standing here,” goes through everyone’s mind at one time or another.

I’ve always been able to resist anything except temptation. For me, the temptation is not toward an actual candy bar, but a different little snack. My downfall would be a small bag of chips, (There’s no such thing as too much salt.) or, better yet, a nice bag of peanut brittle! I love that stuff, but infrequently buy it. I never look for it, rarely think about it, and never in my life have gone to a store to get it. Still, if it’s right in front of me, I might buy it. Just the other day I saw a hook full of bags of yummy peanut brittle hanging right there, tempting me, and mocking me for being in that stupid check- yourself line.

Retailers have known for decades that waiting in a line is the perfect time for impulse purchases, because, when it comes to peanut brittle and things like it, you can only resist for just so long. You will probably still be standing there, contemplating whether to grab one of those bags, when it’s your turn to go to the machine. (We used to call those machines cash registers, but most people don’t even use cash anymore, and they’re really only a bunch of (bleeping,) beeping barcode readers these days.)  No ‘cha-ching’ anymore.

Anyway, as I stood in line, my mind went, as it usually does, to irrational, unreal thoughts, like what if I really can’t wait to get some of that peanut brittle and eat it? And even, what if the brittle can’t wait for me? So strange.

I think it’s at times like these when strange people like me really need to contemplate how much the wait is worth, perhaps even weighing how much the peanut brittle is worth. After all, what truly IS peanut brittle anyway, when compared to other things in life? I thought as I waited, ‘peanut brittle is an enigma in many ways. It’s both crunchy and chewy; ‘brittle’ is sweet, but also salty, and PEANUTY!’ (I really need to stop going shopping when I’m hungry. Or maybe I need to get a life.)

But it IS valuable, in some way, or people wouldn’t buy it. Right? So, what would we be willing to trade for it? I also thought as I stood there. We would trade money, of course, or the brittle would never have been placed at that checkout in the first place. What more than money would we trade, considering our love for it, our hungry tummies, and the fact that we have already waited so long in that line? It is a thought worth thinking, at least if you’re me, and at least at that moment. We certainly wouldn’t trade a child or a spouse, but perhaps just an in-law or two? Who really knows. Let’s see… how many bags or boxes for one in-law?

I guess I did overthink peanut brittle, at least a little, while I stood there with my wife and our shopping cart. How do they make that stuff; why do they make it? How did they decide what to make it out of; how would they know how it would taste, and other such important thoughts that absolutely no one else in that check-yourself line was thinking.

Suddenly a register opened up and it was my turn to check out. Believe it or not I didn’t actually grab one of those little bags of brittle on that particular stuff-mart visit. I have no idea why not, just as you have no idea why I wrote this column, or, more importantly, why you just read it.

Still, the more a thing is mentioned, the more you read words like ‘peanut-brittle,’ and talk about ‘peanut-brittle,’ and imagine ‘peanut-brittle,’ the deeper it is planted in your consciousness, and, if you like the stuff at all, the more you will want it. Our brains are weirdly wired that way, and mine is, obviously, wired weirder than most. But if I’m right, the peg hooks and shelves of peanut brittle at Vermont stuff-marts and supermarkets may be getting empty soon. If so, they can thank me later.

 

 

It Won’t Happen to Me

 

By G. E. Shuman                     

 

The month of January 2020 was a tough one for Lorna and me. It was about one month before that dreaded covid 19 bug became the worldwide disaster that it ended up being. That month Lorna was pretty sick… I was pretty sick, with something that we took for a winter flu, which it may have been.

Since then, though, we have wondered if what we had might have been covid. If so, we were the first kids on our block, or maybe in our town, to get that dang disease. Maybe not, but at that point no one knew what it was, anyway. Still, just because you don’t know what to call a thing, doesn’t mean you don’t have it. Right?

How things have changed over the past four years since we were sick at that time. Masks have come, and nearly gone. So has Dr. Fauci. Ventilators and vaccines were ramped up, (Remember Project Warp Speed?) and boosters have come, and more boosters have come, and all those things are, pretty much, gone from national and private thought. No one really talks about those things anymore.

Families fought about it all, companies fired people, and schools closed, all in the name of protecting the population from a little understood and deadly-dangerous disease. Kindergarteners who once knew their teachers and classmates only with masks on have passed through that fire and now enjoy more ‘normal’ school experiences, thankfully.

Throughout all of that, Lorna and I were here, bopping along day by day, in our big old house in our small Vermont town, ‘kind of’ social-distancing (Remember that term?) kind of not social distancing, and sort of like me when I go fishing, never catching anything. We knew that covid was real; in fact, during those few years, we lost two family members to it.

Still, we did some traveling, vacationing, not stay-cationing, shopping when we needed to, and generally enjoying life, safe, we thought, in the fact that we lived in a state where there just weren’t that many folks to pass the thing around. There was a saying then that Vermonters have always social distanced… which has some truth to it. At the time there may have been some strange advantage to the standoff-ish nature of New Englanders. ‘We just ain’t quite as kissy and huggy as people from more southern places, bless their hearts.’ The bumper sticker I once saw that said simply: “Welcome to Vermont… Now Go Home” was a bit rude, but a bit funny, and may have expressed a lifesaving attitude, at least for those years, if you think about it.

So, we, here at my house, avoided the dreaded ‘cove’ as I have called it. We never got ‘the cove.’ That creeping crud of a disease just passed us by, thankfully, for one reason or another.

I hated today to even write a column about covid, as it’s a sore subject and one whose time had seemed to pass. Our home has not dodged every bullet in life, but we seemed to have dodged that one. Still, lately I’ve noticed more masked faces at the grocery store and have wondered if the disease was reemerging.

Well, I need wonder no more! Last week I, and a few days later, Lorna, tested positive for covid. Drat! It finally got us! (As you read this, we are both fine and recuperating, but have sadly passed covid on to our daughter and her family in the process.) 

I know people who have lived for years as though they were immune to the dangers of life; things that happen to other folks will just never happen to them. Unhealthy habits and lifestyles often prove such people wrong. I guess I was living as if covid had never bothered me, so it never would… until it did.

Let’s be careful out there.

 

A Midnight Moon

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

A few nights ago, I was awakened at midnight and somewhat jolted to the edge of the bed. Waking up often occurs (for a different reason) a few times a night for me. My advice about that ‘different’ reason is to not get old. At my age bladders aren’t what they used to be.

Anyway, on this particular late-night awakening, I was amazed at how brightly lit our bedroom seemed to be. If I had looked at my clock and it had read that it was seven am I would not have been surprised. But the clock clearly showed that it was only midnight, and numbers don’t seem to lie.  If they did lie maybe this aging thing wouldn’t be such a bother to me.

In the next moment or two I went to the window and was just amazed at the light shining through the mostly closed slats of the window blind.  The light lit the floor almost as if the sun had risen and I had missed it. I tried to silently move the slats a bit so that I could peer up at the sky through them, without waking my wife. (She’s not one who would have appreciated her husband noisily bumbling around by the window.)

I did succeed in craning my neck enough to look through that blind and up at the moon almost directly overhead. It appeared small, as it always does when high in the sky, and it was full and simply beautiful! I don’t remember ever seeing it so crisp, and sharp, and bright before.

The night was a cold one and the sky was mostly clear, especially around the moon.  I took a moment to move the blinds a bit more, to look down at our lawn two floors below and at the bright images and stark shadows cast by that beautiful moon. An exact negative of our neighbor’s white picket fence shown on the lawn; along with shadows from our maple tree and lilac bushes there.

Many times, I don’t seem to think like other people might when seeing something like a brilliant midnight moon, but I do appreciate such a sight. That night my sleepy mind seemed to immediately go to the thought that the light in my eyes had just taken only eight minutes and twenty seconds to travel the ninety-three million miles from the sun to the moon, and another second or so to bounce off that moon and leap its final two hundred and forty thousand miles just for the purpose of slipping between the slats at my window and then brightly splashing on the bedroom floor. How great is that!?

 

Spooky!

 

Dear Readers,

This is a repeated Halloween column... but my favorite. I hope you enjoy it. 

By G. E. Shuman

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

I Guess That’s How it Goes

 

By G. E. Shuman

A few evenings ago, somewhere around bedtime, I looked away from the tv and down the recliner, at my feet, for some unknown reason.

“Hey, I immediately said to Lorna. What the heck is wrong with my ankle?”

Lorna came over and just said: “It’s swollen…” like I wasn’t aware of that. Yes, my right ankle was very swollen, but just on one side, and that looked pretty freaky to me. I’ve had swollen ankles before, but this was different. I didn’t think my body was morphing into an alien or something, but I wasn’t sure it wasn’t either. Actually, the swelling was just one more nagging sign that my body ain’t what it used to be. And what it used to be wasn’t that great in the first place.

Last spring, I had a visit with my cardiologist, (Yes, I have a cardiologist) and he asked me how I was feeling. I said I seemed to have a lot of aches and pains. Without the tiniest bit of sympathy in his voice he replied: You’re getting older. We all have aches and pains. Evidently, he wasn’t much interested in hearing my detailed and growing list of nagging ailments, and I’m sure you aren’t either.

I had to admit that my doctor was right. Over the years, and especially in recent ones, things do change and have changed. The fact that my dear wife called me elderly several months ago didn’t do much to help. I took a little comfort in the fact that she’s three weeks older than I am. Ha Ha on her.

It seems that my warranty is gone. That is my most recent conclusion about the matter. Just as with an aging car, things eventually begin to wear out on a person and just don’t work well anymore. I like tee shirt sayings and saw one recently that said: “MADE IN THE 1950s. ALL ORIGINAL. SOME PARTS STILL IN WORKING ORDER.”

“Well, I guess that’s me, I mumbled to myself. Some of my parts are still in working order. People aren’t made of wine or cheese, you know, I mumbled on, even though some of them might smell like they are. Humans don’t get better with age.”

The things people say to me, like Lorna calling me elderly, seem to really stick in my memory. (At least, so far, I have a memory.) One thing was an admonition from Lorna’s grandfather, many years ago. He told me: “Georgie old boy, when you’re almost 93 ya ain’t 16 no more.”  At least he was talking about himself when he said that. These many years later, I can say that when you’re almost 70 ya ain’t 16 no more, either.

Another comment came months ago from the other end of the ‘age’ spectrum. It was from my now seven-year-old granddaughter, and I guess I asked for it.

I had simply inquired, as she and I were rocking on the front porch glider: “Will you still come visit Grammy and me when you’re all grown up?” 

Her thoughtful reply, after looking to the sky a few seconds, was: “I’ll probably visit Grammy, ‘cause you’ll be dead.”  Yes, I asked for that one.

I don’t want to get old. I don’t want to BE old. I think that realizing what’s happening to my body is what makes grumpy old men, grumpy old men, and it’s probably making one out of me right now.  I’ll likely start yelling: “Get off the lawn!” any day now.

One thing that is of some consolation to me is that this thing called aging happens to all of us at the same rate. We all get to become ‘old’, or ‘elderly’, whatever the definitions of those words are, in the same number of circles around the sun.

I have a few favorite poems. One is called “Desiderata.” If you’ve never read it, look it up. It’s awesome, (as my grandkids would say.) One line of the poem states: “Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.”  I have always liked that but do so even more lately.

On a less lovely note, with a less lovely quote, I also remember the words of some comedian I heard years ago. He said: “Life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.”

And I guess that’s how it goes.

 

The Blessings of Fall

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

Fall is always my favorite season and fall in Vermont is always the reason. (Hey, that rhymed, if only in a ‘Seussical’ way.)

Truthfully and truly, I love fall here in our state. Most years, but maybe not this one, part of that love comes from getting outside in the beautiful, cooler days and away from the heat of a sizzling summer. Most families, in those ‘most’ years, had recently put away the camper, stowed the beach toys and the lawnmower, and welcomed the cooler, crisper weather.

All of that, of course, doesn’t much apply to this particular year. This past summer it has only seemed to stop raining long enough to dry your hair before the next storm approached. The flooding that occurred on July 10^th. (That’s my birthday, but don’t blame me.) was brutal; the recovery, for many, has been a nearly superhuman feat. All in all, it was not a summer to worry much about getting a sunburn.

Still, even at the end of a depressingly wet and nerve-wracking summer season, we have this wonderful fall experience to look forward to in our state. The apples are as cool, crisp, and juicy as ever; bright orange pumpkins adorn the farm stands and grocery stores, just as they do every year. Corn mazes will thrill children and adults once again, and those beautiful, loved and cursed, crisp dry leaves will soon cover our lawns. This I’ve said before: If it does choose to rain on those coming brittle leaves go outside, be quiet, and listen to what sounds exactly like bacon frying. Who doesn’t like that?

I think that, especially in this very trying year, it is good to notice the ‘good’ things around us. There will be harvest moons and Halloween, just as always with ghosts and witches adorning porches and store windows, and before you know it, even those things will pass as Vermonters gear up for another bountiful Thanksgiving and sparkling Christmas season.

We have much to be thankful for here in the Green Mountain State. Not the least of which is the wonderful fall season we are just now entering. Enjoy!

Rain, Rain, Go Away… I Think.

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

Last spring, I bought a new, lightweight, electric lawn mower. Didn’t everyone? I did this, not entirely or even partially because I preferred electric ‘things,’ but because my older gas powered one was getting a bit hard to push up the hill in front of our home. It was just showing its age a bit and wasn’t fully helping me when I wanted to mow, I thought. I reasoned that my mower was, after all, a bit older, and that the wheels, the ‘moving parts’ of the thing, were probably starting to fail in the realm of cooperation with the person doing the mowing. So… okay.

Axels of inexpensive and even not so inexpensive wheel assemblies just get rusty; I have always suspected. What I knew for sure was that for the past few years it was definitely taking me longer to get the lawn mowed than it used to. I was spending more time mowing and also more money on gas for the mower, and so I put the blame squarely on the gas motor and the present administration. Unfortunately, after discussing this with my wife, it was ultimately reasoned, here at the Shuman home, that perhaps it was more the lawn mower than the lawnmower that was getting rusty.

When this awfully rainy summer began, I was totally okay with it. “Oh no,” I would say on a rainy day when I had planned to mow the lawn. Yes, I do have that new lightweight mower, but it rained all day yesterday, so, even though the sun is out today, I have to let the lawn dry a bit before I try to mow it. Remember, I would subconsciously say to me and Lorna, the mower is electric, and I don’t want to take the risk of electrocuting myself.

And so, our unusual weather has continued throughout the summer, throughout Vermont. I have mowed the lawn a few times, but really don’t care at all if that new lightweight lawnmower rests the rest of this year. I do intend to do the same.

By the way, I have not experienced many recent summers when some person or other has not come up to me and extolled the fact that, even if we have just been drenched from heaven, “We need the rain, we really do.” This summer I haven’t heard that admonition once.

Have a wonderful and (hopefully dry) end of summer. The rain should stop soon. It will definitely prevent me from raking the soon-falling leaves… At least I think it will.

 

 

 

Do Something ‘Normal’

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          In the old 1977 movie ‘Oh God’ the main character, the late comedian George Burns, played the part of God. This, to me, was always a stretch. Although I remember enjoying that movie way back then, I also remember hearing a bit about that person’s personal life, and placing him in the role of God seemed odd, to say the least.

          I mention Mr. Burns only because of one line in that movie that I have always remembered. At one point in the film ‘God’ met another character who was shaken tremendously by the encounter. (Who wouldn’t be?)  The Burns line was that the man should shave. “When you don’t feel normal, sometimes doing something normal helps you feel normal.”  It was a simple thought but seemed somehow true.

          Lorna and I just spent a weekend in Maine. Our reason for going was not to get away from Vermont, in the situation it’s in; our short visit there was to attend a memorial service for my very favorite aunt, Jean. We then spent a gorgeous day in the Camden/Rockland area of that state’s beautiful coast.

          Upon our arrival back in Central Vermont I began to feel a bit depressed. I probably had little good reason for this. Our family is all safe and well and none of us suffered loss due to the flood, (which happened to occur on my birthday, July 10th.) For this I am truly thankful. Regardless, I felt somewhat down as we traveled into East Barre and Barre, over still unrepaired roads, and past piles of destroyed belongings. The mud slides were still there. Why wouldn’t they be? All of this made me feel guilty at enjoying our very scenic time on the New England coast.

          I realized on that arrival back here that the efforts at normalizing, at getting our area back to some semblance of how it was ‘before’, will be continuing for some time into the future. I, admittedly, shamefully wished that I could just turn around and go back to the sailboats and safe harbors of the place we had just visited. Still, although in some turmoil, the great state of Vermont is our home, and has been for most of our married life together.

          I began this column with the quote from that old, outdated movie for a reason. The idea of getting things back to the way they were just wouldn’t leave me, and I felt stressed by it all. So, the next day I did something ‘normal’, to help myself feel more normal. I love making soups and stews, so I made some soup. In fact, I made a huge pot of a beef barley type of soup from a recipe I have had for years. I think that doing so helped me a lot.

          So, if you’re feeling a bit down or depressed because of the present state of our state and your place in it, my suggestion would be to just try doing something ‘normal’. It won’t change your situation, which I pray is improving, but it may change your attitude. Your thing might be to work in your garden, or paint your fence, or read a book, or bake a cake. Mine was to make soup, and the soup was delicious.

Good Samaritan Neighbors

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

The story of the good Samaritan is from the Bible. It is what is known as a parable, which is a story told for the purpose of making a point; of getting people to consider someone’s motivation for their actions. The parable of the good Samaritan was told by Jesus himself, to his followers.

The good Samaritan was simply a man from Samaria, who, in the story, saw another man in dire need, and just decided to help. The other man was literally dying in a ditch on the side of the road. He had no possessions, and seemingly no hope. The man desperately needed help; help which was not offered by others who passed his way. Some passers-by actually crossed the road to avoid him. The point of the parable was answered in a question. Jesus asked the people which person was neighbor to the man. The answer to this seemingly obvious question was that the neighbor was the one who helped.

I’ve been reminded of this parable over and over as I’ve traveled through downtown Barre and Montpelier these days following the flood. What I have seen in those cities are people, homes, and businesses in dire need, but also many people, many neighbors, many good Samaritans, who simply want to help and are doing just that.

 I have seen everything from school groups, church groups, FEMA workers, and a Billy Graham Evangelistic Association spiritual counseling vehicle offering help. Tents have been put up in parks and on library lawns to offer food and water to anyone in need. Al’s Fries was serving free food today to the downtown Montpelier relief workers. In short, the response to the needs of our area has been heartwarming and overwhelming.

In addition, many individuals have been seen shoveling mud from ditches, taking food to those in need and just helping in countless other ways. One of my wife’s friends recently baked 32 loaves of bread for people being sheltered at the Barre Auditorium. How great is that? Farms have provided vegetables; supermarkets have donated hundreds of packs of water and many other things.

One early act of kindness was experienced by my daughter Emily, who needed to take a detour from a battered Rte. 2 a few days after the flood. Tired from a long day at work and facing a long ride home, Em passed Hill House Farm and stopped to see a small sign put up beside a little table holding bunches of beautiful flowers. The sign read: ‘FREE FLOWER BOUQUETS, TO BRIGHTEN HARD DAYS.’ Wow! What a perfect example of good Samaritan thinking. Thank you, Hill House Farm, for brightening my daughter’s day!

These and many other neighborly acts are already improving the flood-affected areas of Vermont. Little by little, we will get our state back, physically, to where it was before the storm. In the areas of emboldened faith, realized blessings, and bolstered community spirit, we may already be better off than ever before.

My wife read a quote to me the other day which said: “There are decades when nothing happens, and weeks when decades happen.”  How profound and pertinent that thought seems right now.  

The parables of Jesus never get old, even in weeks when decades happen. I’m thankful that the spirit of the good Samaritan is alive and well in Vermont!

I would like to express heart-felt thanks to everyone involved in the recovery of our great state. Your efforts are not unnoticed. To those who HAVE noticed, please write to me at vtwordsmith@gmail.com with words of special ‘good Samaritan’ efforts you have witnessed. I’d like to share them here in future columns.

God Bless Vermont and her MANY Good Samaritans!

After The 4th.

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

Monday evening, July 3^rd, Lorna and I made our way over to the State House lawn in Montpelier for something that used to be a never-miss family tradition. We went there for the music, the sights, the fireworks, and the general celebration of Independence Day, as we had done seemingly countless times before. In recent years, mostly due to the pandemic and factors surrounding that, we had not attended the celebration. In fact, I think it has been five years or more since we had been in our capital city to celebrate the 4^th, (on the 3^rd as it is always done there.)

I must tell you; I was so impressed this year. We almost passed on going over as the weather was ‘iffy’, but went anyway; our daughter Emily and her family were going to attend for sure. (George, make a mental note: If you’re ever caught with such a decision again, do the ‘go anyway’ thing again.) The music, the vendors, the excitement of the evening was all there, just as it used to be. In fact, I didn’t remember it being so much fun before. Little children danced to the great, upbeat tunes of a wonderful live band. So did teens, young adults, and older folks. I saw one man, likely in his eighties, wearing an old Star Trek shirt, palm-tree-embellished pants, and a wild hat, almost dancing with the cane he was using to get around.

One thing that truly struck me was just how many different types, ages, ethnicities, purposes, and other things I can’t put my finger on, were represented in the vast crowd there. There were what I would describe as old ‘hippies’, (I kind of identify with them, but not completely. I’ve never known why. Maybe it's the music.) There were tattoo-covered bodies, families with young children, babies, conservatives, liberals, (I am assuming,) and even a group of white-clad Navy sailors manning a booth and mingling with the crowd. Not to mention there was a great assortment of pets, mostly dogs, that were brought to the show. Everyone seemed to be having a blast! It was simply fantastic!

I will admit that there was a time in my life when I might not have appreciated some of the people I saw there on Monday night. That is to my discredit. Certainly, I would still not agree with every opinion embodied on that great lawn that night. But that’s okay. I have learned slowly over the years, sometimes the hard way, that I am nobody’s judge. Not even a little bit.

I came away from that Monday night with a strong realization that differences really are what make us that breed known as Americans, as they always have. What I had witnessed once again was a great coming together of every type and stripe of person imaginable, in the city’s yearly celebration of what makes our country so special. Namely, it’s independence; granting each of us the freedom to be, to dress, to express, and to live as we please.

My own position is that God, in His great mercy, kept the rain away Monday night, and provided a cool breeze, a big crowd, and even a rainbow before the sun set. Then the city of Montpelier treated us to an awesome and awe-inspiring fireworks show.  

I must remember next year, if the weather is ‘iffy’, to go anyway! 

A very happy “after the 4^th” to you and yours.

Do What You Love

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

I’ve done a lot of writing in my time. I’m not bragging about that; it’s just what I love to do, and as with most people, what I love to do is what I’ve done a lot of.

It all started when I was a teen. I distinctly remember the secret guilty pleasure I felt when one of my high school teachers would assign a written report to my class. The moans that went around the classroom were strange to me. I just loved the chance to do research and write a report and had no idea why the moans were occurring. What was I missing? Then there was the school newspaper, to which I was a regular fiction contributor. I’m not sure why I was, but I was. Those were the days.

I was still in high school when my hometown newspaper did a story about the sixteen-year-old boy who received personal replies from letters written to President Nixon and Thomas Paine, the then NASA administrator, in response to letters he had written to those men. Like I said, I do love to write.

Although my daily work life did not center around writing, I always thought that it should have. I mistakenly felt that I needed to have some advanced degree to be an ‘author’ and knew that was not likely to be in my future. Sometimes opportunities are simply missed in life. Stories of ‘starving writers’ occupied my mind as I did other things to provide for my family, instead of seriously tackling the job of writing. Oh well.

I did succeed in securing a lasting outlet for my many tangled thoughts. That outlet is this wonderful little newspaper, The World. Many years ago, while still in that ‘other’ work life that I lead because I felt that I had no choice, I screwed up the courage to ask my good friend, Gary Hass, The World’s co-publisher, if I could try doing a column for it. Gary immediately said ‘yes’. My hope is that he has never regretted that answer. I certainly have never regretted asking the question. The Lord willing, if I make it until next mid-May, I will have occupied this space in the paper with my terribly tortured thoughts, every other week, for thirty full, continuous years. I have never known where my thoughts and stories come from; I just know where they go, which is right here.

Over the years I have also managed to churn out three novels and an autobiography of my childhood growing up in Central Maine. (A wise person would hurry now to their computer or phone and check out the works of George E. Shuman on Amazon. And I know you’re a wise person.) If you do so, remember to search my full name, as, believe it or not, there is another George Shuman on that site, and his stuff is not my stuff. Nuff said.

The old comedian, George Burns, once said that if you find something that you love to do, and then find someone willing to pay you to do it, you will never have to work a day in your life.

So, don’t neglect your obligations, but follow your dreams too. Find something that you love to do… and do it.

 

 

Thank You Barre City for the Red, White, and Blue!

 

By G.E. Shuman

 

          I decided to dedicate my column space this week to publicly thank Barre City officials for the wonderful flag display downtown this year. I know the flags are put up every year, but this year they seem brighter and better, somehow. It is impossible, (at least it is to me,) to drive up or down Main Street and not be inspired by those beautiful American flags displayed on nearly every available lamp post and pole the entire way from City Hall to Maple Street.

          There was a time in our country when every community, small or large, proudly displayed the flag on homes and businesses at this time of year. From Memorial Day to at least Independence Day “the red, white and blue” was just everywhere.

Sadly, lately, that doesn’t seem to be the case. Some local towns have chosen, this year, to highlight other causes on their poles and lamp posts.  That is their absolute right but let them be aware it is a right procured from the many battles for freedom fought in allegiance to that flag Barre City proudly shows to the world today.

Patriotism seems to ride the eternal pendulum that also controls the political world. That pendulum swings back and forth, left to right over the years. To me this may be a healthy thing as it affords time for all voices in our country to be heard. I will admit that I am happiest and feel that our country is ‘healthiest’ and most secure when it swings to the side of patriotism.

Then there are horrible, terrible, hopefully infrequent times such as September 11^th. 2001, when the flag simply jumps from the pendulum altogether, and is displayed everywhere, as our entire country unites behind it. That is when we are truly The United States.

Thank you to those who have lost family members and friends in defense of our great nation. We can never repay them, or you. Thank you, Barre City, for proudly displaying the flag under which they fought.

On This Rainy Afternoon

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          I needed to meet an early deadline with the paper today, so had been looking through some past articles to see if there was one suitable to use. Then, and on finding none, (admittedly) I decided that you deserved better than that anyway. You didn’t need a warmed-over blast from somewhere in this column’s past. So, here’s something new. I’m not sure it’s going to be something better… just newer.

          Today is sort of a dismal day in Vermont, or at least some people may feel that way about it. (Remember, I’m a few days into your past, so think of Wednesday, May 24^th. Hey, it’s exactly seven months ‘til Christmas eve! Wow, depressed yet?) The sky is dark this afternoon, the wind is up, and you just know that an intense storm is nearly here. Frankly, I just love knowing things like that.

As we speak, as I write, whatever, I’m sitting on our front porch, looking out over Barre, and feeling a cool and brisk wind blowing across downtown and up to our house on the hill. I’m sure the rain will come before I’m even finished sitting here with you and I’m not dismayed at all. I’m looking forward to those first big drops of the stuff God sends to keep us all alive. It’s kind of a good thing, right? In fact, it’s a REALLY good thing.

To me, a big ol’ thunderstorm would be just perfect this afternoon. We have had a gorgeous, warm, and sunny spring so far this year, and there’s nothing wrong with some good old fashioned stormy weather.

Also, we need the rain. We must, because several people have told me that. In the past weeks at least four of my curmudgeonly friends have emphasized that to me. You know… “We NEED the rain. We really do.” (Those words work wonders, but only when said in an old- man-ish low tone while giving a serious stare over your bifocals.) “Yes. We need it. We really do.”

I must now report, in case you’re not sitting here with me on the front porch swing today, that I just went inside to get a drink, and when I came back out this afternoon’s shower had already begun. Yea! Spring is sprung, the grass is riz, and God never fails to impress!

         

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My TSA Trauma Experience

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

            So, a few weeks ago Lorna and I booked a trip to Florida during school break. We wanted to get down there to see our daughter, her husband, their kids and also my very independent and spunky 99-year-old mom.  Long story short, the trip was great. We had a wonderful time the entire time we were gone. Well, almost the entire time.

            There was one little glitch that really didn’t amount to much other than to embarrass and traumatize me a bit, although I probably deserved it. I didn’t cause a ruckus; I only felt like doing that.  Hindsight is always 20-20, as they say, (You’ll understand why I used the word ‘hind’ sight better in a moment or two.) and there were a few comments I could have made that I wish I had thought of at the time.

            Anyway, we were at the airport. If anything embarrassing is ever going to happen to me it’s usually at an airport. Well, those are at least the embarrassing things that a lot of people might see. If either of us is going to get wanded or questioned, it is always me. We had just presented our ids to the agent and Lorna went before me into the big, scanning, whatever that thing is, to see if she was hiding guns, drugs, or knitting needles somewhere on her body. (I didn’t think she was. She doesn’t even knit.) There is no choice in entering the machine, and you can’t run away because they already have your shoes.

            Lorna entered the big plexiglass can first and held her arms up, as you must do. Then it was my turn. I could barely hold my pants up as they also had demanded my belt, but I dutifully pointed to the sky as everyone else was doing. Then it happened. The agent was checking his little screen on the side of the machine where you were normally granted permission to fly away (after you retrieved your belt, wallet, phone, shoes, and everything else of yours that they had just visually perused) and put his hand on my chest to stop me from taking one more step into that promised land of freedom and privacy once again.

            “I have to do a groin check on you.” He sternly stated.

            “A what?” I replied, thinking that somehow Lorna had put him up to it.

            “A groin check.” He repeated. “See that red square on the screen, right in front of your groin?”

            “Yes, I see it,” I hesitantly responded.

            “I have to check that.”

            “Neat. You’re kidding, right?”  He was not kidding.

            “You have to turn around and spread your legs.” Now I KNEW Lorna had planned this little surprise. I was very wrong. “Would you like to go to a private room?” he asked me.

            I said, “No, just get it over with.” What I was thinking was, “No way! Not with you, Buster!”

            I turned around to face away from him, and, somehow, with about eleven million strangers stopping to see what all the fun was about, spread my legs… a little.  (I had already had my colonoscopy and figured this couldn’t be as bad as that was.) The TSA agent, who had already donned arm-length blue rubber gloves, (With his job, I didn’t blame him.) got on his knees and ran his hands up the inside of my pantlegs, and I mean ALL the way up. (I was going to write here ‘into the wild blue yonder’ but thought better of it. Now I guess I wrote it anyway. I can’t keep anything from you.)

            He then stood up and directed me to turn around and face him. When I did this, there were at least five wide-eyed women peering my way with looks of humor, astonishment, or nausea. I was not sure which. The agent explained to me (and apparently to everyone else in the growing crowd) that he had to run the backs of his hands across my frontal area, right where the big red square was on his screen, and then did just that. He did it as quickly as he probably could, and the little humiliating side show was over.

I must have passed the exam with ‘flying’ colors, as he had found no bombs, bullets, grenades, or guns in my groin. All I had to do then was gather up my belongings and skulk out of there.

            I do appreciate the TSA workers and do want to fly on very safe planes. My only question is, still, “What in the world did that machine see? What did it think I was hiding behind that big red square?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

         

“Don’t Blink”

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          My granddaughter Nahla has followed me countless times down into our old cellar over the years, always interested in whatever ‘Papa’ is working on down there. She often, for some reason, also plays with ‘last year’s’ summer toys in winter down there, and vice versa.

For all of last winter and into spring Nahla has persistently pestered me about one thing in particular in the cellar, and about her getting to use it. The thing is a small child’s bike, which, at this time, is almost too small for her. The thing that interested Nahla in the bike so much is that it was her mom’s first bicycle.  That bike, with its deflated tires and covering of dust had hung in the corner, from a cellar ceiling beam, for nearly twenty years, although it doesn’t seem nearly that long to me. It seems like only a few years ago that Emily became too tall for it, and I had hung it up there, for ‘someone else, someday’. One day about two weeks ago I finally realized that the ‘someone else’ and the ‘someday’ were already here.

On that day, at Nahla’s sincerest urging, I brought the bike up the cellar stairs, out the back door, and got out the hose, a jug of car wash liquid, and the tire pump. Nahla spent much of that visit at Papa and Grammy’s house helping me inflate those tired twenty-plus year-old tires and washing the bike. Then it was time for her first ride on the very special little vehicle that had once belonged to her mom. And then came the second ride, and then the third.

Nahla has a better bike at her own house, but only better because it’s newer. It will probably never be as special to this granddaughter as the old, ragged, and rusted one that waited in our cellar for her, for almost too long. 

I think it was the very same day, those few weeks ago, that Emily sent us a sort of ‘double’ picture of Nahla in a car seat when she was a year or so old. Beside her, the other pic was of her now, at six years, sitting like a teenager in their car, with her legs crossed and busily working on the iPad on her lap.  

All of us have heard the expressions that ‘time flies’, and that ‘kids sprout up like weeds,’ and other similar things. Evidently my daughter has already learned an important lesson along those lines that I should have learned long ago. The caption that Em included with the picture said it all: “Don’t Blink.”

 

No Parking

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

          I am not a shopper. After many years in the retail industry, there are about a million other things I would rather do than ever enter a store. Still, I occasionally, (more often than I want to admit) have to do just that. Big box stores, especially, bother me. I think it’s because they’re big boxes. There is something about walking through an entryway, into a store, and then about another quarter mile to a back corner of that great room to pick up the one thing I need to buy from them.

That, in addition to first trekking across a massive parking lot just to get to the building. I used to think the walk across the pavement, dodging behind the cars while watching for backup lights was good for me and I would not try to get a spot close to the store. That all sort of changed for me when a friend of mine was accosted and robbed in the back of a lot, trying to stay healthy.  The good part is that she’s okay… but her purse was not seen again.

Now I do try to park as close to my destination as possible, and while this usually works out after a few spins around the lot, if the weather is bad I am always the last one seated in the game of ‘musical chairs parking,’ and seem to end up being the wettest shopper in the store. Hence, the theme of this column.

Have you noticed, as have I, that there are a lot of different no parking signs these days? They’re actually specialized parking signs, ‘reserved’ space signs, but for me most of them end up meaning No Parking. I absolutely agree with having disability parking, and would never take one of those spaces. Still, it perturbs me a bit to find an open space only to get close and find that it is reserved for, let’s see, Online Shoppers,  Pick Up Orders, (I don’t have a pick up.) New Moms, (How about Old Moms?) Compact Cars, Motorcycles, Police Parking, (I guess I understand that last one.) There is also Veteran parking, which may be a good idea. Veterans? How ‘bout Veterinarians, Vegetarians, and Vegans?  I’m waiting to see my first Trump Haters parking space, or MAGA space. 

What I’d really love to see is a sign that just states: ‘This Space is for Some Ordinary Person who has no Special Reason for Parking Here, other than They Just Decided to Visit our Store Today.’ That would probably be a big sign, but you get my point.  I’d settle for one that said, ‘Parking for Left-Handed Old Guys.’ I could park there.