Mary’s Christmas

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

         Today I have been thinking about Mary, the mother of Jesus.  As a protestant Christian, I think about her son a lot, but not so much about her.  Today I have been thinking about what she went through for her son, and what she might have been experiencing in those days surrounding the first Christmas. 

The Bible does not say a lot about Mary, and so the world knows little about her.  But she was a real, live, feeling, caring person.  She was young. She was also without the benefit of history; to even be able to know the whole story of the very history she was helping to create.  Here's my idea of what she may have been thinking on part of that first, very real, and rough Christmas day.

          I imagine that Mary might have awoken after a short evening's nap, to suddenly realize once again that she had just given birth.  Before rising she may have looked up into the rough rafters of the shoddy stable in which she lay and pondered exactly what was happening to her.  Barely more than a child herself, here she was, with an infant son asleep in the stable’s manager, only inches from where she slept on the hay-strewn floor.  And this was not just a child, but one miraculously born from her own young womb, from her own virgin body.  He was a son for which she had been visited by the angel Gabriel months before, who had proclaimed to her that the child within her would save His people from their sins. 

Mary may then have been stirred from her thoughts as she heard the baby move a bit, and whimper where he lay.  Still unrested and uneasy, she was somehow comforted by her tired young husband's loud breathing as he slept in the hay, just to her other side. 

Mary thought again of the angel's visit, and of their hard recent trip by donkey to get to this town of Bethlehem, so that Joseph could pay his taxes.  She may have then recalled the bumpy ride, the cold nights along the way, and her husband's smiling glances back at her as he led the beast upon which she rode.  She likely remembered the innkeeper's gruff voice and awful smell, as he told them to stay in the barn if they had to, and then slammed the door in their faces.

The Bible says that Mary later thought about what the shepherds had reported.   Their talk included the angel which had spoken to them, and she might have wondered if it had been the same angel, Gabriel, as had come to her on that seemingly long-ago night.  She may have well imagined the heavenly host those shepherds described, and pondered their quick trip to this very place, to see her sacred son.  She may have remembered, only briefly, that agonizing thought of whether Joseph really, genuinely believed what she had said about the angel’s words, and of the bigger fact, that she had never known a man.

          Mary would have arisen to pick up her tiny, sweet son from the manger hay, and then hold this most precious one to her breast.  How, as she did so, would she not have also wondered and worried for the future of this nursing infant child, this most Holy One, born in such a noisy, dirty place.

          None of us can know what Mary actually thought during that wondrous time… but think she surely did.  The stable, the chilly air, the smell of manure, the hard ground and the soft and dusty hay were real.  So also, was her own body; real and still sore and tired from childbirth.  Mary certainly considered that the greatest reality of all was that the child which she now held and felt in her arms was none other than the very Savior of the world.

 

"And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart."  Luke 2:18-19.

 

It’s About Time

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

This is the time of year when I usually write a column or two about the passing of time, about how fast the year has gone, and about what we may have in store in the next year. It may touch on things recently experienced and be a bit about how quickly we get old… things like that.

This year I thought I’d do something a little different. It is true that the year has gone by quickly, as usual, for me, seeing that we are already halfway through December. Twenty twenty-five will be here seemingly any minute, for sure.

The ‘different’ thing for me this year is that I recently experienced something in my life that sort of grabbed me by the collar, shook me around a bit, and made me re-think exactly what the times of our lives are, and even more, what time itself is. If you don’t mind, and at the risk of you thinking me even more strange than you might already, I'd like to share some of that with you.

I love books, and believe it or not, stating that now should make sense to you in a few minutes. It’s not that I’m a voracious reader, as is my wife. In fact, I probably write a lot more than I read. Writing sort of invigorates my mind; reading a lot seems to put me to sleep. Go figure.

The books I do love best are the really old ones. The Bible is the one that is understood as my favorite, but also other old and brittle, well-worn tomes full of even more worn pages are wonderful too. Those books bring the past, the ‘then-present’ thoughts of long-ago people to our own present, to the ‘now’ of our own existence. In this way I think of old books as time capsules. Those people who wrote them share their ideas with us; their ‘present’ moments are presented to us in our own present moment, if you see what I mean. The author had the same thoughts at the moment of writing as I do at the moment of reading, regardless of the number of years or even centuries between my time and his or hers. (That makes my brain hurt, just a little.)

I’d like to do a short object lesson regarding ‘time’ and maybe the fact that we really don’t need to worry about things in the past or the future. To do an object lesson you need an object. Our object will be a book. It doesn’t need to be an old book, just a book. So, go get a book. I’ll wait.

Now if you could just hold the book in your hands and let it open, maybe somewhere in the middle, although about eleven twelfths of the way toward the back of the book would be perfect. It is December, which will be in the back, but it’s just an object lesson, after all. Find a page in the book and hold that page between your thumb and forefinger. That’s right. Just like that. Now imagine that the pages to the left of your fingers are the pages you have already read, or the days of this year that you have already lived. The days, the pages to the right of your hand, although just in your mind, would be blank, as those have not been experienced yet. That part of the book has not even been written yet; you have not ‘lived’ those days yet.

If you think about it, maybe not completely clearly, but somewhat objectively, the page in your fingers is all we really have. We live ‘on the edge’ of that page, a fleeting moment at a time. The pages of life, of the year, of the months and weeks and days of it, are all either in the past or the future. Sure, you can re-read those old words of the past, written to the left of where your page is, but you are reading them in the precise ‘now’ of your time. You can attempt to write on the pages of the future, but only in vagaries and hopes of what will happen during them.

To me, all that means, if it means anything at all, that we don’t need to worry about the past, as it no longer even exists other than as old words. We don’t need to relive it all the time. It has been said that “Forgiveness is giving up on having a better past.” Interesting.

And looking at the blank pages of the future may help us sort out and manage tomorrow’s time a bit, but that also does not YET exist. All we can do is try to pin those pages down with what we think, or wish will happen.

So, my good friend, time as we know it may not exist at all, other than as an invention to keep things mentally ordered.  We have no promise of tomorrow but exist on that thin edge of the page called ‘now.’  As the next year approaches, let’s remember to live in the present, where we belong.

 

 

On Being Thankful

 

 By G. E. Shuman       

 

This year November was a month of recuperation, of settling in, of staying put, and of thinking thoughts of the soon-coming winter, for me. Any spare time in October was spent doing the chores which make November’s ‘settling in’ possible, like getting air conditioners put away, leaky doors fixed, and windows locked up tight in this hundred-plus year-old home of ours.

Leaves from our two huge maples are faithful to cover the lawn each autumn, and are blown or raked away, followed by the rakes, themselves, being put away and replaced by snow shovels under the carport. Each year I spend some time making sure the snow blower still starts, and is greased up, fueled up, and ready for the weather to come. I don’t mind doing these chores that make our home as efficient and comfortable as possible when the harsh weather really hits.

 I get a bit contemplative at this tucked-in holiday season, especially, it seems, in the past few years. This old house is not as full of family and their belongings as it once was. Sometimes that is a difficult thing for me to think about.

I tend to be something of a poor sleeper and am thankful for the chance to fill some late evening hours writing to you, dear readers. So, thank you for easing those hours, and for the chance to express a few thoughts that many of us ‘northerners,’ even though we may be strangers, likely share.

Even now, as I sit here in silence, it is cold outside the windows of this house on the hill, and it is very dark out there. The winds of one more late fall evening beat against the aging glass panes, but fortunately, those winds have always stayed on the outside of this place. For this I am thankful. Indeed, it is quite warm in here, and cozy, tonight. The furnace works well, and there is enough fuel.

 All this contemplation is not a sad thing to me, but is, sometimes, a chance for reflection on the things my wife and I have done this year, and, reaching back further, the things we have done throughout all the years that we have lived in this place. (Obviously, without her, there would be no ‘we,’ and likely, by now, not even a ‘me.’) We were so blessed to raise five tremendously talented children in this old place, for which I am, truly, thankful. Those five amazing people are as diverse as any five children could ever be, and I would do anything at all to help any one of them.

I have been, truly and unquestionably, very blessed. Having a beautiful, faithful, Christian wife, wonderful children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, and a warm home to occasionally share with them all makes for quite a life. What more could a man ask for?

 I am not at all sure why the words that have assembled on my computer screen this evening have done so as they have. When I write, that is often the case. I think, tonight, it is just because I cannot help but tell you that I am very thankful for my life, and for the people in it; for what I have, and for what I have had. I hope you feel the same way about your life, too.

Unless you are a member of my family, or of my small group of friends, I do not know anything about your beliefs. In any case, I will let you know mine. I believe very much in God, in His Son Jesus, in our nation, and in family. I also believe it is important to recognize and to be grateful for all that we have in the overflowing cornucopia of a country that we share, especially in this contemplative, settled-in time of year.

 I hope you will take a few minutes, as the holidays approach, not to stop and smell the roses, as there are few roses outside right now, but to stop and sense the fullness of what your life is, and of what you have experienced, so far. And, in a word, to be thankful.  If you express your thankfulness in a prayer, He really will listen.

 Have a blessed and happy Thanksgiving!

 

A Most Unusual Day

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

This most unusual day, of which I am about to tell you, happened not long ago. In fact, I’ll tell you exactly when. It’s no secret, and, although it won’t mean a great deal, or add much to the story, I think you should know when it was. That way, if someone asks you when George’s most unusual day was, (they won’t,) you can tell them.

The exact day was October 18th of this year. It was a Friday, as I recall, but ‘recalling’ is something I’m not known for doing well; at least not lately. October 18^th of this year was a day like many others; at least it started out that way and was proceeding that way… right up to the point that it wasn’t. Our daughter, Emily, had been visiting with our new grandson, and had left less than an hour before that point when it was no longer a day like many others.

The afternoon was progressing along just swimmingly, as they used to say. Lorna was watching her fav ‘chick’ type, or more like ‘grandma-chick’ type TV show, (something about birthing babies, midwives, and such,) and “I don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ no babies,” as someone else once said.

I mentioned to Lorna that I was going to go take Babi out for a ride. Babi is my antique VW, (It’s the blue and white one you may have seen around town.) I’m quite sure she replied with an ‘okay’. (Lorna, not Babi.) Anyway, within minutes I had walked down our driveway and onto the sidewalk in front of our old house. I do remember bending over to straighten up a wind-blown political sign on the lawn, (Thanks Michael B.) and then straightened myself back up, probably too quickly, and became dizzy in the process.

Now comes the unusual-day part. You see, I was suddenly seeing double as I continued down the two sidewalks that were usually one. I crossed the street to the garage where my VW sleeps and, even though there were now four garage doors instead of two, as there used to be, I pressed the remote that was in my hand and opened at least one of those doors. I then actually walked to the car door, unlocked it, opened it, and stood there looking at the ‘two’ Volkswagens I now seemed to own. (Yes, I would love to have two, but not that way, I somehow reasoned.) 

You know, I really wanted to get in the car and take it for a ride, but somehow came to my double-visioned senses enough to realize I probably shouldn’t do that. With this decision I shut the car door, then the garage door, and headed back across the street toward the house.

Lorna has mentioned that God must have been there with me in those moments, as, by this time, I was, for some reason, dragging my right leg and foot through the fallen leaves on the walk. “Now that’s strange,” I thought, as I watched my foot plow through the leaves. I really had no thoughts of fear or trepidation as I walked, (At that point I probably couldn’t have even spelled trepidation if I had wanted to,) and, in fact, dropped the remote in the leaves, looked around for it, and found it, before I headed up the steep driveway to the back door of the house.

As Lorna sometimes relates all of this to a friend or relative, she always mentions that God Himself must have held my hand as I went up that driveway. Indeed, He might have, as I have little memory of it. If I had passed out, out there I would have been there for some time. After all, I had told Lorna that I would be going out with Babi. She wouldn’t have expected me back for a while. I also didn’t have my phone, even though I wasn’t thinking about that either at the time.

I did get to the back door, opened it, and evidently, told my dear wife that I thought I was having a stroke, which was exactly what was happening. Then, with lots of love, clear thinking, and a 911 call, Lorna saved my life. She really did. Before the ambulance even arrived, I had lost consciousness several times and was unable to speak or walk. I am still sorry for scaring her so.

Soon I was in the hospital and awoke with most of my family encircling my bed. My first thought at that time was something like ‘Oh crap, they’re all here… this must be it.’  Still, honestly, I wasn’t the least bit afraid. In fact, I remember feeling a genuinely great peace. It was strange to me that all these wonderful, supportive people seemed so worried.

To make this story a bit shorter, let me just say that, at this writing I simply have everything back, which, to me and my family, is a miracle, or the result of many miracles. I had received a powerful ‘clot-busting’ medication in time and was soon back to whatever level of normalcy I had once had. (Sorry, this is all there ever was.)

God has been incredibly good to me, and I learned at least three things that most unusual day. I hope I never forget them.

Firstly, if we are saved; if our hearts are right with God, there is no need to fear the future, or even death. You have heard that before, but it really is true.

Secondly, we have no promise of tomorrow, so today must be lived, and appreciated, passionately.

Thirdly, you may have the second-best spouse and family in the world, but I have the best.

Subtle Hauntings? Installments 1, 2, and 3

 

Dear Readers,

There are many things I would like to share with you in this short season of scary thoughts and imaginings, and I don’t want to leave out vital details. For those reasons I am dividing this long piece into three parts. Each one relates one or more true and sometimes creepy experiences of my family at our one hundred twenty-year-old home at the top of a Barre City hill. I invite you to read this first installment now and pick up the October 23rd and 30th editions of The World to continue reading.  These true tales may be best enjoyed in a candle-lit room on a cold and windy midnight.

 

Subtle Hauntings?

-installment one-

By G. E. Shuman

 

Many full moons, fallen leaves, and Halloween seasons ago my family bought our old house on the hill from an elderly Barre couple who, at the time, had lived in the house for over forty years. Their kids had grown, and the house was too much work and just too much house for the couple. Those are the reasons they gave for wanting to leave the place. I remember, while discussing our deal on the house, the old man of the couple looking directly at me and relating that they were tired, that the house had been on the market for a year, (at a very good price I will add,) and that only four people had even stopped to look at it, before our inquiry. There was some look of puzzled disbelief if not desperation in those eyes.

Time is a strange thing, and it is funny, or not so funny, how it passes, how changes all around you can occur with barely a notice or warning. This is especially, I think, if you are surrounded by a place that barely changes at all. We are now the’ elderly’ couple living in the house and have just finished our own fortieth year here. As with the previous owners, our children have grown, along with even most of our grandchildren. We have no plans to leave the house, but plans can change; things can happen to convince you to go. Given enough time they ultimately must do so, and then you will go.

A suitable time of year to talk about our spooky old house on the hill seems to be when others are in the mood to hear such things. It is October and night comes a bit earlier each day now, blanketing the fallen leaves with ever-lengthening blackness. The winds are colder and stronger than they were, especially during the night; gnarled ‘witch finger’ bare boned branches of our large maple tree rub and creak and complain to the world. Jack-o-lanterns and ghosts adorn the neighborhood, even up here on the hill.

So, in honor the old house and everyone who has grown up here, or at least spent a night here, I will now relate some things that have happened within these walls, over the many years of our occupancy.

Disclaimer: I personally do not believe in ghosts, ghouls, or goblins.  I do believe my own eyes and ears and promise you that every single thing I will tell you here is absolutely true.

 

 

-The Attic-

Our grown and oldest child, Chrissy, is, to this day, fairly convinced that something besides humans and the occasional mouse lives in our old house on the hill. I have never asked her directly, but I’m sure something must have scared her horribly here when she was a young child. She recently confided to me: “I really have heard and seen things there, Dad.”

For years Chrissy had one of the upstairs bedrooms as her own and would tell you today that she had often heard footfalls, in the night, as of something walking across the attic floor above her bed. Ours is a full walk-up attic, with the usual dust, cobwebs, and creaking floors of such places. The dampness and darkness of the attic is not inviting; tapping sounds have been heard, and things have tended to fall to the floor unexpectedly up there. Not from fear or dread, but rather just of no necessity, we rarely open the old door and go up there, especially in the night.

Chrissy is a rational, reasonable, intelligent adult. Still, I doubt that she would ever spend a night all alone in our old house. I know that if she did, walking up those attic stairs would be out of the question for her. This, perhaps, because of experiences that only she understands. Sometimes there are just more reasons to stay away than to venture up into something of the unknown.

 

There is, truly, nothing creepier than experiencing something thought to be impossible or only of your imagination, and then having that impossible thing firmly verified by another person. Imagining as a child that someone was lurking under your bed could only be more terrifying upon learning that someone actually was. Such is the case of our experience of ‘The Little Girl on the Landing,’ which is part of the next installment of Subtle Hauntings, to be shared in the October 23rd edition. See you there.

 

 

Subtle Hauntings?

By G. E. Shuman

Here is the second installment of my three-part, ‘spooky’ stuff series for October. These tales are true ones from our old Barre house on the hill. You may not believe in ghosts, goblins, or other such things, (I don’t either,) but I do believe my eyes and ears, and so should you. Note: Reach back to the October 16th edition of the paper for part number one and step patiently into the near future for the final installment on October 30th.

-Installment Two-

The Little Girl on the Landing

Many years ago, and for many years, the furniture in our living room, in the old house on the hill, had an arrangement that didn’t change. A new couch or chair might have been added to the room if an old one was removed, but the general placement of things remained the same for a long, long time. By habit, I assume, I would usually sit in a recliner while watching TV in the evening; Lorna would usually sit on the couch against another wall. This was not always the case, but usually. In those days we watched many more evening shows than we do now, and the spooky part is, I don’t remember one of them. What a colossal waste of time.

That past TV era of ours was when our older three girls were very young. As with many families, we would get the kids tucked into bed, listen to prayers, and wander back down to turn on ‘the tube.’ I would climb into that old recliner, and Lorna would go to the couch.

One evening, an hour or so after the kids were in bed and, we assumed, asleep, I saw something eerily disturbing that I remember clearly to this day. The recliner sat under the archway to the next room, which was the front entryway to the house. (Things like entryways are as big as rooms in old houses such as ours.)

You see, sitting there, while facing the TV, my right peripheral vision was toward the twelve stairs which led up the stairway to a small landing and then around a corner and three more stairs, up to the bedrooms. Rooms in homes like ours take on a large and cubical appearance due to their extremely lofty ceilings. The landing before the three additional stairs allows you to catch your breath on the way up. The more years pass by, the more I appreciate that landing.

On that dark evening, I was sure, and still am sure, I caught a glimpse of the outline of a long-haired little girl standing in the dim light, on the edge of that high stairway landing, momentarily looking directly down at me.  The child then either went around the corner and up the three stairs or disappeared. I could not tell which. I was not at first surprised at these things, as the little girl could have been any of our three, perhaps unable to sleep or wanting a glass of water. I did want the girls to get to sleep.

 I immediately went up the stairs to see which one of our girls had not yet gotten off to sleep that night. Strangely, I found all three very soundly sleeping in their beds, breathing deeply or snoring. I could tell if they were ‘faking,’ pretending to be asleep, and they were not. Pillow drool always seemed to confirm such things. I went back down to the living room without saying anything about it to my wife.

This same increasingly disturbing occurrence happened at least three more times over a few more weeks.

Eventually, after repeatedly going to check on the girls, I chalked it all up to either my glasses failing me or some after image from the TV blurring my sight and didn’t give it much more thought. That was until one evening when Lorna got to the recliner before I did. I sat on the couch across the room. After some time of our mutual and mindless show-watching Lorna suddenly turned her head and looked directly up those stairs. We had never discussed the little girl on the landing, but at that moment I just said: “You saw her, didn’t you?” ”Yes,” Was Lorna’s whispered reply. We have not seen the little girl since that night, but Lorna’s visual confirmation was enough to make me realize that just because reason tells you someone or something isn’t on the landing, or in the closet, or under the bed… doesn’t mean they are not.

Come back next week for some shared memories of a perhaps ‘haunted’ but more likely ‘God-sent’ toy firetruck, blood-red words of warning in the cellar, and rattling bedroom doorknobs at midnight. In the meantime, pleasant dreams.

 

Subtle Hauntings?

By G. E. Shuman

Here is the third installment of my three-part, ‘spooky’ stuff series for October. These tales are true ones from our old Barre house on the hill. You may not believe in ghosts, goblins, or other such things, (Neither do I) but I do believe my eyes and ears, and so should you. Note: Reach back to the October 16th and 23rd editions of the paper for parts one and two or read them all on the paper’s website: vt-world.com. Thank you.

-Installment Three-

The Firetruck

This part of the story of our old home on the hill goes back over twenty-five years, and is an occurrence that I cannot explain, but rather give God the credit for, not some phantom or spirit as some here would imagine. This happening probably, literally saved lives in our home one night, including that of our oldest grandchild, Devon.  Devon was just an infant then and was sound asleep in his crib in the same upstairs bedroom that Chrissy used to have, and that we sleep in now. I heard a siren sound, unbelievably, coming from that second floor and went upstairs to see what was happening. The sound was coming from where Devon slept, so I slowly approached the crib. Just as I did so, a small battery powered toy firetruck raced out from under the crib, directly toward my feet, lights blazing and siren blasting. I stopped the toy and turned it off. Then I looked under the crib to see and smell a small pile of clothes that was within moments of bursting into flames, right below where my grandson slept. Pulling out the clothes I discovered one of our girls’ hair curling irons, on and extremely hot, beneath that little ‘haystack’ of hot discarded clothes.

I believe that that night possibly our home, and certainly our grandson had been saved by a warning from the perfect thing to do it… a small toy firetruck which had somehow turned on and had pointed out the danger at the precise place, at exactly the right moment.

The Shaking Doorknob

The story of the shaking doorknob shook my wife to the extreme when I first told her about it. I thought I had solved the situation, had figured out what was happening by the time I told Lorna about it, so I was not disturbed at the time. Lately I have wondered if I figured wrong.

You see, and as I have said, our house is old. Much of the house is original, including the doors to the rooms, with their hinges and latches. Things were made very well a hundred and twenty years ago, when our house was constructed, and those well-made things are still fulfilling their intended purposes here, including the metal doorknobs. 

One night, months ago, I had just gone to bed, my wife had done so earlier and had fallen sound asleep. I lay there thinking of the day behind and the one ahead, as I usually do, when suddenly our closet doorknob rattled. It didn’t rattle a tiny bit as something might have from some vibration or other. It rattled only momentarily, but quite hard. I was, of course, startled, and eventually got out of bed and very slowly opened the closet door. No goblin or alien was seen, thankfully. Believe me if you wish to, or not, but over the course of a week or so, this rattling happened several more nights as I lay in the bed before falling asleep.

In explanation, there is a small clothing hook on the inside of the closet door, and I always use it to hang my towel on after my daily shower. These hooks were all over our home when we first bought it. They are the ones that appear to be made from coat hanger wire that has been twisted into a hook shape. Evidently, many years ago, such hooks were thought to be the perfect way to hang something in a home, at least, someone in our home’s distant past must have thought so. I eventually woke up to the fact that my bath towel was often on the floor of the closet when I opened it to check for ghosts. Silly me, I thought. All that happened was my towel falling off the hook and hitting the inner doorknob on its way to a soft landing on the floor. Okay, so there were no ghoulish fingers rattling that knob.

Lately though, I have wondered more about all of this. You see, it now occurs to me that the towel always fell late at night, sometime after I had gone to bed, if that is what rattled the knob. This is very strange, as I always shower in the morning and hang up the towel immediately after. Also, after a week or so the rattling stopped, and the towel has not fallen from the hook again.  Still, I’m waiting.

The Falling Pictures

I know that people who believe in the ghosts and ‘spirits’ of the Halloween season are probably just innocent thrill and attention seekers who want a story to tell to their own families. If you know me at all, you know that is not ‘me.’  I am the opposite of one who seeks attention. It is my goal to leave this world as silently as I entered it. (My mother says I was not a fussy baby. Good for me. I hate whiners.)

Still, there is another, maybe minor story from our home, that I would like to tell. About three years ago now Lorna and I decided to move from the bedroom we had nightly occupied for thirty odd years. So, we got our stuff together, and moved into Chrissy’s old room, which had become Emily’s old room. In the process we bought a new bed, did the minimalist thing of putting shelving in the closet, (you know that closet,) and forgoing dressers. FYI, this has worked extremely well for us. We (meaning I) painted the ceiling and walls.  We, (meaning Lorna and I) picked out two big, beautiful, and scenic prints to hang on the walls.

Evidently, or not so, I’m not sure which, someone or something soon got tired of those prints. Last spring, which was a few years after we (I) first hung those pictures with the strongest frame hanging adhesive strips I could find, one of them, one night, very loudly fell to the floor. Within a day or two I got strips that were even stronger, wider, and just infinitely superior to the others, (according to the words on the package) and rehung the painting. A few days later, during the night, it was on the floor again.

All this was not enough to make me suspicious of apparent ghosts in our bedroom, but what happened next was. You see, one morning, only a week or so later, as Lorna was still sleeping, the other painting, which hung at the head of the bed, left the wall, and came crashing down onto the pillows, only inches from her head.

I have finally learned my lesson. Those pictures are now screwed to the wall. I know of no ghosts with the ability to use a screwdriver.

 

The Mantle Statue and Other Minor Bone Chillers

To end this account of all the strange things our old home contains, and to save time and words, I will just briefly mention the small Roman statue which sits on the fireplace mantle and often had been seen turned around, facing the wall, until I glued it in place. There is also a small root cellar down in the basement with the words “No Girls Allowed” sloppily done in red and formerly-dripping, dried paint from the distant past on its door. Across from that room, in the patched concrete floor of the cellar are the simple, scrawled numbers proclaiming the year 1937, for some untold reason. The house had been built in 1905.

I leave you now with an anonymous quote from my youth; one which I have never known the origin of or my reason for remembering it. Perhaps it was given to me to foreshadow this place in which I would live so long.

“From ghoulies, and ghosties, and long-leggidy beasties, and other things that go BUMP in the night; Good Lord deliver us.”

 

 

The Counsel of the Years

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

For some reason, my columns seem to be getting a little more philosophical lately. I’m not sure why that is, other than as people get older, they probably consider the spiritual and emotional areas of life more. The awesome paper you’re reading right now has always given me free reign in my subject matter here, and for that I will always be grateful.

So, I sit at the computer every other week and write about whatever comes to mind. Sometimes the subject might be on the humorous side; sometimes it is quite serious. I am not a trained literary or writing expert, for which I am very thankful. I do what I do because I just love expressing my thoughts through writing.

 I am just like you, and I believe that is the key to this column’s success. People often come up to me on the street and thank me for some little thing I wrote that touched their heart or made them laugh. They always say how they identify with my thoughts here, which is a great honor to me. My secret is that we really are much alike, all of us, and have similar experiences in life.

So, this week, here is what I’d like to share with you. A friend once told me that the older we get the closer our emotions get to the surface. Boy, what a statement of truth that is. He said that to me many years ago, and even then, a heartfelt piece of music or emotional story would affect me greatly. These days a few words of God’s truth spoken in a Sunday morning sermon or a hug from one of my grandkids can turn this old curmudgeon into Jim Carrie’s Grinch as he sobbingly states: “And I’m leaking.”

We lost a lifelong friend last week. He was eighty-seven and terribly ill, but such realities didn’t strike me until, as I watched, one moment he was with us… and the next instant he no longer was. The tide of emotion for me at that moment was almost more than I could stand. I have since thought some of those emotions through and believe that my reactions were in the incredulity of what had happened. My life seems so steady, so ongoing that I know I don’t realize how much ‘ongoing’ there has been. Other than for a few aches and pains and lack of ambition, I don’t feel much different from when I was in my forties. (Actually, I lacked ambition back then too, I think.) We have lived in our home for so many years it seems like nothing will ever change… then I look in the mirror and realize just how much they already have. Oh well.

I hesitate to use this quote here, but I have always liked the honesty of it. In the movie Space Cowboys, an aging ex-astronaut, after being asked to do one more mission, casually states, “Everybody seems to be dead lately.” Well, the older I get, the more things do seem that way. My generation is quickly becoming the ‘old folks’ of the world. Those middle age ‘40s I referred to are getting pretty distant in the rear-view mirror these days.

But that’s all okay. In fact, that’s the way things are supposed to be. One of my favorite poems is the long and instructional “Desiderata,” meaning ‘desired things’ by Max Ehrmann ©1927. One of its best admonitions reads as follows: “Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.”  It’s not easy, but I’m trying my best to do just that.

 

 

 

 

 

The Journey

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

My brother-in-law, Art, is a great man. A retired, successful physician, Art has always been a very caring person who did well by his patients and still studies and seeks out treatments for people he knows are in medical need. His caring nature has helped our family in many ways over the years.

Art and my sister Barb moved to Florida years ago and have enjoyed their life together there.

In recent years Barb has become Art’s main medical concern, even over his own health issues. As I write this my dear sister is in a very real battle with a well-known, debilitating, and sinister disease. Art is doing absolutely everything humanly possible to help her enjoy her life.

Earlier in the summer Lorna and I had the opportunity to briefly visit Art and Barb in Florida. It was a difficult visit in some ways, but an important one for us to make. Through it we witnessed just how hard my sister’s husband is working to make her life everything it can be, for as long as he is able. I believe that his efforts are nothing short of heroic, and I have expressed that to him.

As we were saying our goodbyes that day, Art, Lorna, and I stood beside our cars with tears building and words hard to find. My heroic brother then said something I have yet to forget, and hope I never do. He simply said, “I’m on a journey.”

It was unusual that we had driven down to Florida this time, for this visit with them and the wedding of our grandson, Noah. Florida is not around the corner from Vermont, as you know, and I had many hours to think on our way home. I thought a lot about Art’s words, which I consider to be profound in meaning.

The thought occurred to me, and has never left me, that I am also on such a journey, as are you. A journey is a series of events, of experiences, of people and places, and none of this journey, including its length,  is a certainty. Indeed, we have not been promised even tomorrow. We are given only today to live ‘today,’ and that is enough.

Our trip up to Vermont from Florida that week was not done all at once; obstacles were avoided, thankfully, but there were slowdowns and difficult traveling at times. These things were all taken one at a time, as they came.

Such also is our mutual journey through life. Today is the only part of this journey that we have, for sure, and we can never see what might be around the next corner. For this reason, I believe that we should travel cautiously. I also believe that we should make every effort to help others along the way, and also to enjoy the ride.

Thank you, Brother Art, for your wisdom and all you do.  

 

An Unanswered Question

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

 

While sitting together in our living room the other evening, my barely-eight-year-old granddaughter Nahla asked me a somewhat telling question. She was playing with her iPhone at the time, (Yes, she has a phone but with limited screen time, is not allowed on social media, and uses the phone mostly to play games on.)

Whenever Nahla asks me a question, she always prefaces it with “Papa, I have a question.” That’s how I know a question is coming, I suppose.

So, “Papa, I have a question.”

“What is it?” I responded, as usual.

“Do you have any smart devices?”

“Um, well…” I stumbled over my words. “I guess so.” In all honesty, I wasn’t sure, and before that moment I didn’t know that Nahla even knew the word ‘devices.’ I do know our home is littered with electronics of every shape and size; I wasn’t and still am not sure what constitutes ‘smart’ when it comes to all the undead thinking things surrounding us these days.

“Do we have a smart TV?” I asked her, knowing that we get more channels of mind-numbing programs than you can shake a stick (or a remote) at. I asked her that because I didn’t know if our TV was smart. I know it is big, flat, and black. Does that count?

She responded, “Maybe,” never looking up from the phone.

At this point, while already knowing my granddaughter is smarter than me, I was beginning to wonder if some of the doorknobs were too.

“How about my laptops, or Alexa?” I offered. “Are they smart?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I asked you.”

It’s like someone my age is really supposed to know the answers to such questions. Turning seventy and retiring, (both for the last time,) and realizing how much time you may or may not have left on this planet is no incentive to learn how to control or be controlled by any more devices, smart or stupid. I do still want to learn, but please don’t try to get me to understand or operate many more new ‘things’ with screens and buttons and apps and pages of tiny-fonted instructions. (I hate those instructions.)

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m happy that my grandkids are all intelligent, capable young people who can run rings round me in the electronic-literacy realms of life. That knowledge will serve them well in our ever-advancing world. And it may or may not be too late for me to absorb much more of that stuff, but I do hope it is. I’d rather read a book and take a nap, preferably at the same time.

I never adequately answered Nahla’s question about smart devices. I only recently figured out my Keurig and the garage door opener. Still, at this point in my life, maybe some ignorance really is bliss.

 

 

My New Flag

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

I bought a new ‘outdoor’ America Flag today.  Our old one had gotten a bit faded over the last several years, and had acquired a slightly dingy look, as has our entire front porch, due to sun damage and the blowing dust from the passing traffic in front of our home.  

We have replaced our flag more times than I can remember in the forty plus years we’ve been in this oId house, and I decided to get a somewhat ‘better” one than usual, this time. Our new flag will be a bit bigger than the others, with bold, stitched stripes and actual embroidered stars. Even better, from my point of view, it will be clean, bright, and new.

We always retire our flag from where it flies from the pole and bracket on one column of our front porch as correctly as we know how, by folding it in the traditional ceremonial triangle, and by later respectfully burning it. (I learned how to do this folding ritual in Cub Scouts, more than a few years ago. It was actually about sixty-three years ago, and I’d like to offer a very belated ‘thank you’ to my den mother, Mrs. Cole.)

I consider myself to be a patriotic person, but I am nothing compared to my wife Lorna in this regard. Lorna loves to wear American flag tee shirts, earrings, and other red, white, and blue garb, and not only around the patriotic national holidays. If Lorna had a tattoo, (She doesn’t.  At least I’ve never seen one and I probably would have by now.) There is no question in my mind that it would be our country’s flag. In the area of love of country, Rosie the Riveter has nothing on my wife.

Actually, one year, several years ago, Lorna walked into a group of our family members at some gathering, wearing one of her stars and stripes tees, only to be welcomed by a comment by our son in law Adam: “Here comes old glory.”  What a hoot! Adam has a wonderful way with a joke, and that one will always make me laugh.

These days there are celebrations around nearly every date on the calendar, and for many of those there are accompanying flags. Ours is a free country, and you and I are welcome to celebrate and promote any cause we think is important. That’s a big part of what makes America great. Your cause may differ totally from one I may have, but here, unlike in many other countries, it is not illegal for either of us to (peacefully)** proclaim ours.

“As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” Joshua 24:15 states, and so does George Shuman. Also, as for me and my house, the flag we will fly is that of the United States of America; it’s the one flag that makes all the rest of them possible.   

Adam had it right: “Here comes old glory!”  I sure hope she will always be around.

 

 

A Fairly Personal One

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

 Last February I and many of my family members gathered for a large party in Florida to celebrate my mom’s 100th birthday.  That’s right… it was number one hundred.  The party was awesome. We, and especially Mom, had a wonderful time.

Mom has always been an amazing woman, raising six children and helping care for nearly countless grandkids and great grandkids. For Mom, her family is her life, and that life has not been an easy one, bringing up kids in small-town America in the 60’s and forward, and surviving the losses of both my dad and my brother Paul, and also of all of her own siblings. Somehow, Mom has been an incredibly positive encouragement to us all… all those years and right up to today. Her tremendous faith in God is where she gets her strength to continue, even after her first hundred birthdays.

I have noticed something about Mom since that February birthday. It used to be that I would call her, or she would call me a few times a month so we could catch each other up on the happenings of life. Lately Mom has made it a point to talk with all her children, basically every day. This is probably not consciously because of the passing of time and the limited number of days that she, and all of us have, but I’m not certain of that. For me it is simply good to hear her voice those evenings, just before she has her nighttime tea and goes to bed.

A week or two ago our seven-year-old granddaughter, Nahla, had facetimed me from her home, as she also likes to do after school or before bed. I love getting those calls from her. We talked for a few minutes and then I happened to mention that I had also just talked with her great-grammy in Florida. I mentioned to Nahla that my mom calls me almost every evening lately, to just chat a while, and that I look forward to those calls, just as I do Nahla’s.

Nahla immediately got a caring grin on her face and simply, profoundly replied: “Papa, she’s tucking you in.”

How could I be any more blessed than this?

All Good Things

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

This spring has been a bittersweet time for me. Some things are changing in my life; most are for the better, but they are still changing, and what’s so great about change? My grandkids seem to be doing strange and foreign things lately; things like graduating from high school and even college, way too soon. In fact, I just watched our granddaughter Sofi get her diploma from her school in Florida only a few minutes ago.  She was a baby only days ago, it seems. Talk about bittersweet.

One of our grandkids got married last year, another will in just a few weeks from now. Those things are all great blessings to our family, I know. Kids do grow up, and doing so successfully is a wonderful thing. Still, most of the grandkids don’t come to Grampy and Grammy’s for holidays anymore. Feeling sorry for me yet?

My career is about over too. In June I will retire, for the second time, from teaching high school English at Websterville Christian Academy; (a school I personally recommend highly). Every teacher everywhere must admit to looking forward to summer as much as the students do. Still, when it is your last year to do so, well, there’s that old bittersweet again.

Last week I gave my students one of their final English assignments for the year. Monday was an especially gorgeous day, so we went outside with notebooks and pens. I told them to separate, to go someplace alone to think, and to write. The assignment was to author a five-stanza poem about some aspects of the natural beauty around them. Easy, right? This is Vermont in springtime, after all. They were instructed to not just ‘be’ outside, but to observe at first the macro world. They could write about anything in that part of 0*creation, the blue sky, the green trees, images in the fluffy white clouds. But I also asked them to look down, to see the micro world, to observe the blades of grass at their feet as the mighty sequoias that they are to the tiny creatures that make their homes in the little shards of shade they provide.

I asked these teenagers, whose generation is widely thought of as an uncaring, media-obsessed, self-centered lot, to give me their written thoughts about all this. What I later received was a stack of well-written, thoughtful, and observant poetry that showed true appreciation of the immense complexities and beauty of the world we live in. I believe that this exercise was good for them; I know it was good for my faith in them.

So, all good things… the saying goes, ‘must come to an end.’ There’s that bittersweet feeling again.  I believe now more than ever that all truly good things are right here before us, if we just take the time to see them. It’s something I learned recently, from a bunch of teenagers.

Number 780

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

It was mid-May. The year was 1994, and yours truly, somehow, a few weeks prior to that time, had screwed up his courage enough to ask his friend Gary Hass, the co-publisher of The World, for permission to write a column for the paper. Gary was, and is, a brave man, and didn’t hesitate to say ‘yes’ to my request. (I hope it was not a decision he has regretted.)

That day, all those years ago, I remember telling Gary that I wanted to write about the ‘times’ of life; you know, the simple events of living that we all share and cherish here in our great state of Vermont.

So, my humble column space, right here, every other week (and a page or two after the obits,) has been about family experiences, friends, foibles, and feelings that you and I have in common, even if we have never met. I hope you have enjoyed my take on experiencing the many passing seasons and years during my time with The World. It has been good for my soul to remind myself and others of the many blessings of life, to bring to people’s minds the scents and sights of candle-lit pumpkins at Halloween, of evergreens and frosty scenes at Christmastime, of the sights and sounds of the seashore and sandcastle building with my kids and grandkids those many summers.

Gary’s unhesitating word of permission that first day launched my undeserved entrance into the world of writing for newspapers and magazines, of publishing novels, and eventually of teaching a generation of high school students to love English and the written word. I hope Gary knows how much that all has meant to me, and how much a simple ‘yes’ can have the power to change someone’s life.

So, here I am, here we are, at what I believe is attempt number seven hundred and eighty in my quest to entertain and inform Vermonters and others about the fun and fantastic things that life brings, sometimes through the very minutia of it. That means this edition represents my 30^th anniversary occupying this space.

Writing for The World has always been my therapy. I have learned to appreciate life and love here and have benefited from the experience far more than my readers have. This paper has been a true home for my many meandering thoughts and words, and I thank you for reading them.

I want to thank Gary Hass, my friend and publisher, for this amazing opportunity. I do wonder a bit what the next thirty years will bring.

 

 

Melancholia (What a word.)

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

I hate to admit it, but I’ve been in a somewhat melancholy mood the past few days, even though I have no good reason for this and actually HATE the sound of that word. It ranks right up there with opaque, obtuse, and mediocre on my list of disgusting sounding words. (Mediocre is the absolute worst.) I know, most people probably don’t have a list of words they don’t like, but I do, and you have just read it.

Anyway, I really have been feeling a bit ‘blah’ about life recently. I think that has to do with the past few rainy days here in central Vermont; those always drag me down a bit. Also, I watch the news entirely too much and, lately, that is enough to turn anyone into a sourpuss. I am pretty certain my melancholia also has to do with this ‘aging’ thing that seems to be happening to me lately. (My wife would say it’s been happening much more than just lately.) I am acutely aware that this summer will mark the end of my sixth decade on earth and that’s just peachy. My happy birthday may not seem all that genuinely happy to me this time around. I’m practicing sitting in a rocking chair and shouting “Get off the lawn!”

Also, probably partially because of that aforementioned ‘aging’ thing, the seasons are just blowing by like a March wind. March itself has already blown by and, at this writing, has taken most of April with it. On the day you read this it will have finished the job. I’ve always contended that part of the blur of the quickly passing seasons is the fact that they really just aren’t all that long. A whole year is only 365 days. (You knew that.) And a season is only a fourth of that… (and most of you knew that, too.) I do tend to ramble sometimes, and I’m sorry for the sarcasm, sort of.

Each morning, I have my coffee in a front room of our old house as I listen to the clocks tick off more seconds of my life while I groggily gaze out the window. How’s that for melancholy? On the other side of that pane is one of the big lilac bushes and, this time of year, every single morning that bush is greener than the day before. Every day the buds are a bit bigger and more have burst into leaves. This is a really awesome thing to me and helps my mood as I briefly watch the new life springing forth. Hey, maybe that’s why we call this season ‘spring.’ No, that would be too sensible. Sarcasm, again.

You know, it was only a month ago that I was outside and snow blowing about sixteen inches of newly fallen heavy white stuff. Yuck! Yesterday my granddaughter was playing outside and brought me in a bouquet of tiny yellow flowers. Thinking about that I can feel my mood improving already.

I’m finishing writing this column on the next new morning. Yes, the clocks are still ticking, their pendulums still swinging another day away. But the birds are singing, the sun is shining, and the beautiful buds on the lilac bush have burst out even more.

In case you missed the eclipse.

A Blatant Book Blurb (Say that three times, fast.)

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

Dear Readers,

Once a year or so I work up my courage to ask you all to consider purchasing one (or more) of my books. (More is better.) It’s been a while since I last did this, so I thought I’d do just a tad bit of self-promotion this week. This act is something I’m terrible at, but it’s unavoidable in any effort to keep the publishing ball rolling, and I do want it to keep it rolling.

So… here’s the blurb. Please head on over to the Amazon website and check out the novels and the childhood autobiography by that awesome author, George E. Shuman. You will be amazed at the metaphysical, mesmerizing writing in “The Smoke and Mirrors Effect” and captivated by the kind and mysterious Mr. Little as he gently changes hearts in the wonderful “A Corner Café.”  Be amazed at the time altered states of lives past, the struggles of a young couple caught in the terror of The Civil War, and even experience the magically preserved voice of Abraham Lincoln, himself, in the captivating “Cemetery Bridge.”  Then journey to a rural 1960s Central Maine town in the autobiographical “Up on Heath Street.”  “George’s World -It’s a Little Strange Here-” is also available and is a super collection of hundreds of these awesome columns, written over the years by the author for his very favorite Vermont newspaper, “The World”.

Okay, so, there’s the Blatant Book Blurb I promised you. Please know that without such joking around it’s painfully hard for me to talk about my work. Truthfully, I’d love to have you read my books because I think you’d really enjoy them and also because I’d really like to sell them.  :-)

Sincerely,

George E. Shuman

Please search my full name on Amazon, including the middle ‘E.,’ as, unbelievably, there is another author named George Shuman on there and I don’t want to take credit, (or blame) for his books.

The Imminent Solar Eclipse

 

By G. E. Shuman

As you probably know, on Monday, April 8^th, Vermont, and other states up and down our great nation will be treated to a total solar eclipse. The eclipse will occur in Vermont at about 3:20 in the afternoon that day and should prove to be quite a show. Be prepared for the streetlights to come on, if only briefly. Pretty cool!

There seems to be much excitement brewing already about this eclipse, including many schools being closed all day or closing early to be sure the kids get a chance to see it. (Even though most schools are already closed by 3:30. Hum :-)  Anyway, I don’t blame them. Teachers want to get home to see it too; I know I do.

Yes, it should be an exciting afternoon. Stores and online sources are offering viewing glasses and other fun things to buy to help celebrate the event, and kids, no matter how old we are, are going to be ready for the show. Please, if you intend to watch the eclipse, be sure to have those approved eclipse glasses. Watching it without them is extremely dangerous to your eyes. Remind others!

If you are not familiar with solar eclipses, don’t feel too bad. Unless you’re a “space geek” like me, you probably don’t think about them much. They don’t happen very often either, and when they do, they are only visible to a limited area. Often, any specific area might experience a partial eclipse, which means that only ‘part’ of the shadow affects where you are, only partially darkening the sky. Hence, (I love the word hence.) the name partial eclipse.

This time, Vermont is right in line for the moon’s shadow to treat us to a total solar eclipse. And, if you’re not familiar with the differences, there are two types of eclipses experienced on earth. The eclipse on the 8^th will be a solar one, which means the moon’s orbit around earth will cause it to come between the sun and the earth, creating the shadow that we will experience. A lunar eclipse is when the earth comes between the sun and the moon. When this happens what we see is the actual shadow of the entire earth as it briefly covers the moon. All of this is absolutely amazing to me.

I remember viewing a solar eclipse when I was a kid. My class, probably third or fourth grade, and I viewed it from the school playground. I don’t remember the year of that eclipse, but I could probably look it up. I won’t, because a depiction of that eclipse would probably include dinosaurs watching it right along with the humans. Our teacher had shown us a way to view the eclipse, using large cardboard boxes. There were no fancy eclipse glasses for us back then, or for the dinosaurs.

To make an eclipse viewing box you just needed to get a large cardboard box, (One big enough to put your head in, and that depended, I suppose, on the size of your head.)  You would cut the bottom out of the box, (for your head), and make about a ¼ inch hole in the middle of one end of the box. Then you had to tape a piece of white paper on the inside of the other end. Unbelievably, if you aimed the end of the box with the small hole at the sun during the eclipse the image of the sun, and the moon as it covered it, would be projected onto the white paper on the other end. Then, if you put the whole thing over your head and could get your head out of the way enough, you would be treated to a live and very safe way of viewing the eclipse. It did work, but passers-by of the playground could easily point out who we little geeks were. We were the ones running around with cardboard boxes on our heads.

If you get a chance to safely view the eclipse on the 8^th, please make an effort to get out there and do so. When you do, remember these few facts that make such an eclipse so amazing. Firstly, science has wondered for years how the earth could possibly have a moon as large as ours. It has been said that our planet should not be able to support one so large, and still, it does. Also, you may not know that our sun is almost exactly four hundred times bigger than our moon. The only reason the moon can perfectly cover the immense disk of the sun is that the sun is almost exactly four hundred times farther from the earth than the moon is. These things, to me, are miraculous examples of the precision and perfect plan for creation of the creator of it all. Psalm 19:1 “The heavens declare the glory of God,” When watching an eclipse, I can’t argue with that.

Books, Banters, and Banana Bread

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

I have the distinct honor of being the high school English teacher at a wonderful private school here in Central Vermont. Websterville Christian Academy, (WCA for those who like abbreviations,) has taught all my kids, some of my grandkids, and hundreds of other youthful beings for more than forty years now. I recommend it highly.

The past few years, especially, of my teaching saga have been wonderful, at least for me. My students may disagree. I have genuinely enjoyed doing my best to at least keep the English language alive with the kids in my classes. (Everything can’t be emojis and lol.)  I can’t say that I have convinced those adolescents to fall in love with the classics, but they have well tolerated some snippets of Shakespeare, the tales of Twain, and poems of Poe with nary a complaint. (They also tolerate my attempts at alliteration, as did you just now.)

I do emphasize the teaching of English, but one thing that has been fun for me is when a discussion goes down the rabbit trail of differences between them, and me. The banter is just so fun for this old man. They can’t fathom how old I am, I presume. I think they are astounded at actually knowing someone who well remembers the day President Kennedy died. I do remember that day, but not the day President Lincoln died, even though some of those wide-eyed kids would probably believe that I do. Fun fact: My grandfather, whom I knew well, once had a friend who had been a friend of Lincoln, so maybe it’s not so far-fetched. Time flies, after all.

And then there’s the old chat about the moon landings. I love that one. Yes, they occurred, I must reassure the doubters, and, yes, I watched all six of those landings, live. (There really were six landings, and, yes, my family had TV back then. As a bonus I let them know that there is no ‘dark’ side of the moon. What we can’t see is the ‘far’ side. Look it up.)

Sometimes it baffles me a bit to know just how young these smart kids are, as I realize that none of my present students were even alive on 9-11 2001, and that some of their parents were still teenagers on that date. Amazing.

And then we sometimes banter briefly about music. I don’t know any of the groups that my students listen to. I hate rap because, (tell me I’m wrong,) I think it’s just talking, not singing. (Okay, get my room ready at the home.)  About the only musical group my students have heard of from my day is The Beatles, so the chats about music are short. We get back to literature quickly on those days, dang it.

You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar, they used to say, so, even though I’m not comparing high schoolers to flies, (at least not most of them,) I usually try to sweeten classes up a bit for them with supermarket donuts or mini-muffins or something. I do want to be their fav teacher, even if I must buy it. (Kidding… sorta.)

All told, I believe the kids learn from me. I know I learn things from them. One of those things is simply that, no matter what generation you’re from, we’re all here for about the same stretch of years, we all have similar wants and needs, and most of us have a sweet tooth. Tonight, I’m baking banana bread to help a big quiz go down a little easier tomorrow morning. I love those kids!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Judge Not

 

By G. E. Shuman

 

Several days ago, I happened to notice that out behind our neighbor’s home someone had discarded a last-year’s Christmas tree. It was real, and was still green, but, come on. It was almost March. What kind of person waits to get rid of their Christmas tree until March? I couldn’t believe it. Later that same day I happened to notice that in front of our home, on our porch, someone (I) had discarded a last-year’s Christmas tree. It was also real and was still green, but, come on. It was almost March. (I had also not yet removed the wreath from the front door.)

My wife used to be a ‘saver’ but has lately decided that less may often be more, which is a sentiment I have always claimed as my own. So, a few years ago she and I went through our home and discarded many things that were serving no purpose and only collecting dust. I loved the way the old house looked after that and vowed to never let it get cluttered again. As I said, that was a few years ago, and some new clutter has somehow crept back into the rooms. This fact is bothering me, especially since realizing that much if not most of those new things are mine.

There is a familiar old Native American saying, (or, at least, old white people like me ‘think’ that it was said by a Native American because we’ve heard it that way so many times,) admonishing us to not judge someone “until you have walked a mile in his moccasins.” Of course, the idea was that we should not judge someone until we have ‘been in his shoes’ (a version of the saying that doesn’t blame it on Native Americans.) Another man’s moccasins or shoes might be extremely uncomfortable and hard to walk a mile in; another person’s life and burdens may be harder on them than we know.  I remember years ago, hearing some TV comedian reciting the ‘moccasin’ version of the saying, and then making a joke of it by adding: “That way, if he’s mad at you, he’ll be a mile away and barefoot.”

It has taken me a lifetime to come to one realization about that idea of withholding judgement until after you have walked that mile. The realization is that the well-meant saying is simply wrong. The old Native American (or whomever it was) that first thought of it assumed that judgement should ever be done by us. The Bible is one place that is very clear on this, with admonitions to ”Judge not that ye be not judged,” and telling us to take the log from our own eye before we try to remove a spec from someone else’s eye.  That hits hard with me… because I know me.

I believe we would all do well to simply stop judging others. In the intense political year that we are beginning, it would also be wise to truly respect a person’s opinion, as being as valuable to them as our own is to us. What ‘side of the aisle’ some family member or friend may be on should not estrange and divide us. Life is much more than politics.

Wherever that old ‘moccasin’ saying originated, I think we can do better. We should hate sin, but not the sinner. We should despise crime and insist on punishment, but then work on forgiveness.

Forget the footwear and the situation. The old saying should say, simply, “Judge Not.”