By G. E. Shuman
Thanksgiving, in a word, and as a word, is a mouthful. The long, feasting-table-length wish of “Happy Thanksgiving!” fills the air with syllables and the mind with fond memories of food and family. The very thought of Thanksgiving Day, to many of us, brings an anticipation of aromas emanating from warm, turkey-scented kitchens. Gravy-drenched garlic potatoes, steamy stuffing, pickles and pies all come to mind when we ponder this casual and cozy, butter-basted, late November holiday. It’s the day of pilgrims, Indians, and cornucopias that we learned of as young children; the one with the name which even begins with the ‘turkey’ letter. Yum, yum!
This Thursday will be the thirty-seventh Thanksgiving Day Lorna and I have celebrated together as husband and wife. Some recent Thanksgivings have been spent at the home of one or another of our adult children, and those times are wonderful. Still, over the years, most of these family celebrations have taken place right here in our old Barre, Vermont home.
To Lorna and to me there has always been something special about such times in this solid, well-aged place. Home is a house where your memories reside, and that is likely what makes this one so special to us. The sturdy, tall, thick-walled, elderly rooms of this house nearly echo with sounds of holidays past; of hours spent here, sheltered from the cold world by those big walls, and by love. Here we have cooked twenty-five or so family-size Thanksgiving turkeys together, and have stuffed them all with stuffing of only slightly varying stuff. We have also stuffed celery and pumpkins here, have opened dozens of cans of cranberry sauce and peeled hundreds of potatoes, all for fleeting, passing Thanksgiving Day dinners. I enjoy the notion that even earlier families who occupied this old home had holidays filled with scampering children and sumptuous kitchen scents. Their Thanksgivings were certainly graced with laughter and love, smiles and silliness, and grandkids and gratitude as are ours. At least, I hope they were.
Over these years our own Thanksgiving menus and recipes have changed little, but, with the passing of time, the company around the table has necessarily changed greatly. Years ago grandparents came to help us celebrate our first years together. Years later, our parents and cousins occasionally shared our feast, with us and our then-small children. In more recent Novembers, people who look somewhat like those small children we used to have come and bring children of their own to sit around that table. How wonderful, and yet how strange that we have now become the grandparents; the elders at the feast. Such positions hold great joy, but also at least a bit of trepidation for me. I know in my heart that as our family grows ever-greater in number, such future family times must be growing ever-fewer for the two of us. Maybe that is okay. Lorna and I are here together, this year. We do our best to live by faith, and will anxiously await and always enjoy as many family Thanksgivings as God allows us to share.
Years ago we, somehow, found a recipe that I wish you would try this year. It has filled us to overflowing, time and again, and has made many nearly perfect Thanksgivings for us. To follow the recipe, you simply turn the word around a bit, and remember to make Thanks-giving Day a day of consciously, gratefully giving thanks.
Showing posts with label living in vermont. Show all posts
Showing posts with label living in vermont. Show all posts
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Aren’t You Glad I’m Not Your Dad?
(A Satirical, Seemingly, Socially Unacceptable Column)
By G. E. Shuman
I was in line at a department store the other day, and heard, and then saw a very distraught young mother behind me demonstrating to her toddler son that she knew how to count. “One… Two… Three…,” the mom spoke, slowly and sternly. I was very proud that the lady could count, and nearly clapped for her when she finished at the number three. Unfortunately for the mom, the child seemed less impressed than I by his mother’s performance. By his reaction, or lack of one, I was fairly certain he had heard his mom count to three many times before. I was also pretty sure his mom meant no warning of possible retribution for some misdeed the child had recently committed. If she had, the effort had exactly the same effect on him as it did on her. Both seemed to dismiss the counting completely, and move on to other things, immediately after she had finished. Personally, I felt that the counting would have been more effective if mom had learned to count backward from three to zero. Everyone who has ever seen a time bomb counting down to zero on TV knows that ‘zero’ is when something actually happens. At zero you run out of luck, and chances, and numbers.
It seems that things have lately become very twisted up in our world. I wonder, and I mean this sincerely, why we have put so much stock and confidence in the judgment of the little angels God has blessed our families with. Why do we even consult small children in matters of their own behavior? That responsibility is quite a load to burden them with. Don’t you agree? Besides this, in my opinion, reasoning with some toddler about why he bit a hunk out of the daycare worker’s leg is like asking a bank robber to tell you why he ‘did it’. In either case you are likely to get nothing more than scowls and shrugging shoulders in response. In my opinion, again, rewarding that toddler with praise for acting like a human being for the following few minutes is like telling the bank robber that, if he tells you he is sorry, he can keep the loot. In either case, it just seems like little in the way of a deterrent for the future. In the situation of the poor counting mother mentioned earlier, I have considered that counting to three may work a little, but not on the child. It does help the mom cool down and divert any thoughts of strangulation or suicide, and that result alone is of great worth. For the child, parental counting seems to do no more than provide him with a few valuable seconds to escape.
I have observed that many elementary schools seem to operate the same way as do the counting moms of the world. I realize that actual punishment, or even the mention thereof, is quite taboo in the public arena, but now even the word discipline is looked down upon. Please remind me? We are getting soft on all of this for what reason? Oh yes, to protect the child’s self esteem. Okay… as long as it’s for a good reason. When I was a child, a teacher would tell you, in no kind voice, to: “Sit in that corner ‘til you straighten up!” You could almost hear the unspoken words: “You little Brat!” emanating from her beet-red face. That was so cool! These days, sitting in the corner at school, or sitting still anywhere is often referred to as a ‘time out’ for the child. My question is a simple one: “Time out for WHAT?” Furthermore, “Sit still and behave yourself!” (A phrase that worked pretty well in my day) is now: “Remember Sweetie, we need to make good choices.” Good choices? WHAT good choices? “Let’s see…” thinks the child. “Next time… will I throw another rock at the girl on the playground, or use a baseball bat? I need to make a good choice.”
I also seem to remember that, back in the day, and this was way before anyone actually used the phrase “back in the day”, little terrorists, I mean sweet little children with discipline ‘issues’, would, (I hate that word ‘issues’. I think that word alone is causing me some issues.) be sent to the principal’s office. When I was young the only thing worse than going to the principal’s office was what would happen after I got home from school that day. No, my parents didn’t hate me. In fact, they loved me enough to discipline me. How strange. I think those mean folks might have even used the word punish from time to time. For some reason, they didn’t have to use the word or the punishment often.
I do like the fact that going to the principal’s office, in most public schools, has gone the way of the dinosaur. Those principals are much too busy working on social models to worry about the behavioral training of the next generation to lead our country. Kids are now sent to opportunity rooms, and planning rooms. I once actually asked a grammar school teacher what happened in those rooms. I asked what kind of torture was inflicted on those kids, in those rooms, to make them hate going there so much. Her response was, seriously, that the kids hate those rooms because they are made to do their work in there. My goodness… talk about cruel and unusual punishment! My unspoken reply was that I would think those rooms would be unnecessary if the little darlings were made to do their work in the classroom. But that’s just me, and I could be wrong. Every person bent on destruction certainly requires an opportunity to plan.
I realize that I, like the trips to the principal’s office, will soon go the way of the dinosaur. To some who have just read this column that may seem like a wonderful thing. Before I go that way, I would like to offer just one more, tiny, seemingly, socially unacceptable observation. It is this. I know that when I was young, moms didn’t count to three in public. They didn’t need to, as everyone assumed they could probably count even higher than that if they wanted to. Also, back then, there seemed to be fewer unruly children in the schools. This could be some cosmic coincidence, and probably is. We were just so lucky back then. Or, it could be because teachers, as a rule, as rulers of the class, even used rulers to stop unruliness-prone children from actually repeating unruly acts. How medieval! Kids were simply expected to behave well at home and at school, and were not coddled and cuddled every time they made a good choice, and refrained from maiming anybody that entire day. Good choices were the rule, not the exception.
I leave you with the wise words of the well-known Christian family psychologist, Dr. James Dobson: “If your child is looking for a fight, don’t disappoint him.” Now, aren’t you glad I’m not your dad?
By G. E. Shuman
I was in line at a department store the other day, and heard, and then saw a very distraught young mother behind me demonstrating to her toddler son that she knew how to count. “One… Two… Three…,” the mom spoke, slowly and sternly. I was very proud that the lady could count, and nearly clapped for her when she finished at the number three. Unfortunately for the mom, the child seemed less impressed than I by his mother’s performance. By his reaction, or lack of one, I was fairly certain he had heard his mom count to three many times before. I was also pretty sure his mom meant no warning of possible retribution for some misdeed the child had recently committed. If she had, the effort had exactly the same effect on him as it did on her. Both seemed to dismiss the counting completely, and move on to other things, immediately after she had finished. Personally, I felt that the counting would have been more effective if mom had learned to count backward from three to zero. Everyone who has ever seen a time bomb counting down to zero on TV knows that ‘zero’ is when something actually happens. At zero you run out of luck, and chances, and numbers.
It seems that things have lately become very twisted up in our world. I wonder, and I mean this sincerely, why we have put so much stock and confidence in the judgment of the little angels God has blessed our families with. Why do we even consult small children in matters of their own behavior? That responsibility is quite a load to burden them with. Don’t you agree? Besides this, in my opinion, reasoning with some toddler about why he bit a hunk out of the daycare worker’s leg is like asking a bank robber to tell you why he ‘did it’. In either case you are likely to get nothing more than scowls and shrugging shoulders in response. In my opinion, again, rewarding that toddler with praise for acting like a human being for the following few minutes is like telling the bank robber that, if he tells you he is sorry, he can keep the loot. In either case, it just seems like little in the way of a deterrent for the future. In the situation of the poor counting mother mentioned earlier, I have considered that counting to three may work a little, but not on the child. It does help the mom cool down and divert any thoughts of strangulation or suicide, and that result alone is of great worth. For the child, parental counting seems to do no more than provide him with a few valuable seconds to escape.
I have observed that many elementary schools seem to operate the same way as do the counting moms of the world. I realize that actual punishment, or even the mention thereof, is quite taboo in the public arena, but now even the word discipline is looked down upon. Please remind me? We are getting soft on all of this for what reason? Oh yes, to protect the child’s self esteem. Okay… as long as it’s for a good reason. When I was a child, a teacher would tell you, in no kind voice, to: “Sit in that corner ‘til you straighten up!” You could almost hear the unspoken words: “You little Brat!” emanating from her beet-red face. That was so cool! These days, sitting in the corner at school, or sitting still anywhere is often referred to as a ‘time out’ for the child. My question is a simple one: “Time out for WHAT?” Furthermore, “Sit still and behave yourself!” (A phrase that worked pretty well in my day) is now: “Remember Sweetie, we need to make good choices.” Good choices? WHAT good choices? “Let’s see…” thinks the child. “Next time… will I throw another rock at the girl on the playground, or use a baseball bat? I need to make a good choice.”
I also seem to remember that, back in the day, and this was way before anyone actually used the phrase “back in the day”, little terrorists, I mean sweet little children with discipline ‘issues’, would, (I hate that word ‘issues’. I think that word alone is causing me some issues.) be sent to the principal’s office. When I was young the only thing worse than going to the principal’s office was what would happen after I got home from school that day. No, my parents didn’t hate me. In fact, they loved me enough to discipline me. How strange. I think those mean folks might have even used the word punish from time to time. For some reason, they didn’t have to use the word or the punishment often.
I do like the fact that going to the principal’s office, in most public schools, has gone the way of the dinosaur. Those principals are much too busy working on social models to worry about the behavioral training of the next generation to lead our country. Kids are now sent to opportunity rooms, and planning rooms. I once actually asked a grammar school teacher what happened in those rooms. I asked what kind of torture was inflicted on those kids, in those rooms, to make them hate going there so much. Her response was, seriously, that the kids hate those rooms because they are made to do their work in there. My goodness… talk about cruel and unusual punishment! My unspoken reply was that I would think those rooms would be unnecessary if the little darlings were made to do their work in the classroom. But that’s just me, and I could be wrong. Every person bent on destruction certainly requires an opportunity to plan.
I realize that I, like the trips to the principal’s office, will soon go the way of the dinosaur. To some who have just read this column that may seem like a wonderful thing. Before I go that way, I would like to offer just one more, tiny, seemingly, socially unacceptable observation. It is this. I know that when I was young, moms didn’t count to three in public. They didn’t need to, as everyone assumed they could probably count even higher than that if they wanted to. Also, back then, there seemed to be fewer unruly children in the schools. This could be some cosmic coincidence, and probably is. We were just so lucky back then. Or, it could be because teachers, as a rule, as rulers of the class, even used rulers to stop unruliness-prone children from actually repeating unruly acts. How medieval! Kids were simply expected to behave well at home and at school, and were not coddled and cuddled every time they made a good choice, and refrained from maiming anybody that entire day. Good choices were the rule, not the exception.
I leave you with the wise words of the well-known Christian family psychologist, Dr. James Dobson: “If your child is looking for a fight, don’t disappoint him.” Now, aren’t you glad I’m not your dad?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Blankets
By G. E. Shuman
The rains poured down to soak the streets,
And puddles brimmed with plopping drops.
Wide fields were gorged with melting snow;
Earth blankets soaked for spring-time crops.
Then soon we walked on summer’s beach,
And watched the waves ‘til nearly night.
The sand they kissed, and churned and breached,
Stretched out, a blanket, pristine white.
One closer day, as evening loomed,
With popcorn bowls and movie time.
Our early autumn chill-filled rooms,
Brought blankets of a different kind.
“Can you get the throw?” Mom asked,
As Emi found her favorite show.
Both cuddled on the couch, at last,
Quite blanketed from head to toe.
And leaves fall down, in fall… to ground,
To hide the grass, from wind-tossed heights.
They warm the earth, while rustling down.
A brittle blanket for long nights,
That pour as if from ashen sacks,
And stretch to dawn from afternoon.
A blanket drawn in inky black;
A backdrop hung for winters’ moons.
One dawn soon breaks; we peer outside,
And squint our eyes in sparkling light.
Cold wind-waves kiss, and churn, and breach,
Another blanket, pristine white.
Another great website on personal finance. Enjoy Debt Freedom. Go there now.
The rains poured down to soak the streets,
And puddles brimmed with plopping drops.
Wide fields were gorged with melting snow;
Earth blankets soaked for spring-time crops.
Then soon we walked on summer’s beach,
And watched the waves ‘til nearly night.
The sand they kissed, and churned and breached,
Stretched out, a blanket, pristine white.
One closer day, as evening loomed,
With popcorn bowls and movie time.
Our early autumn chill-filled rooms,
Brought blankets of a different kind.
“Can you get the throw?” Mom asked,
As Emi found her favorite show.
Both cuddled on the couch, at last,
Quite blanketed from head to toe.
And leaves fall down, in fall… to ground,
To hide the grass, from wind-tossed heights.
They warm the earth, while rustling down.
A brittle blanket for long nights,
That pour as if from ashen sacks,
And stretch to dawn from afternoon.
A blanket drawn in inky black;
A backdrop hung for winters’ moons.
One dawn soon breaks; we peer outside,
And squint our eyes in sparkling light.
Cold wind-waves kiss, and churn, and breach,
Another blanket, pristine white.
Another great website on personal finance. Enjoy Debt Freedom. Go there now.
Monday, April 27, 2009
The Truck
By G. E. Shuman
Okay, yes, I saw the funny shaped truck parked on the sidewalk in front of Barre City Hall a few Thursdays ago. (I think it was the 16th.) Did you see it too? I planned to go back and ask the people of the truck a few questions about it the next day, but, alas, they were gone with the wind by then. Gone with the wind probably came to mind just now because of the depictions of commercial windmills on the truck. I’m not sure.
One of the questions I would have asked, if I had the chance, would have been about the ‘why’ of it all. That is, the ‘why’ of why Barre City allowed their truck to be parked ON the sidewalk all day, and even supplied city wooden barricades to, presumably, stop other people from parking there as well. I would have also asked the truck people why they had the word Greenpeace painted on the truck. Was the truck owned by Greenpeace? I really wish I had stopped to talk to them on Thursday. Also, why was the truck painted with the suggestion to: "Close Vermont Yankee"?
The truck was a really odd looking thing. It was an Isuzu flat bed sort of truck, with a big white, propaganda-laden, slanted-roof box on the back. I happened to pass city hall a few times that Thursday, and did notice that the purpose of the slanted roof was to hold a whole roof-full of solar collection panels. These, obviously, were not there to power the truck, and could no more have done so than the painted windmills on the sides of it could have. They were there to advertise, to propagandize, to promote solar and wind power; which are two power sources I have nothing at all against, by the way. The thing I didn’t appreciate was that the truck also had that darned sign which said we should close Vermont Yankee. No, I didn’t appreciate that very much at all.
You see, I don’t see the problem with Vermont Yankee. Please know right now that the person writing this column believes in nuclear power. Truthfully, I think it should power everything from our homes and cars to our wrist watches and electric toothbrushes, but that’s just me. As far as I know, good old Vermont Yankee has sat right there in Vernon, producing power, for quite a few years now, and has caused me no trouble at all in the process. I think I would have asked the truck people what they had against Vermont Yankee. I thought they liked non-polluting sources of energy. Or do they only like certain ones? If by then they had not begun hurling compost at me, as some anti-nuclear types did to federal nuclear regulators in Brattleboro recently, (Compost throwing? I thought only chimpanzees did that.) I would then have asked if they knew exactly how many people have been killed by accidents at the Vermont Yankee power plant. I think that answer would have been zero. Then I would have asked how many fatal accidents, or radiation-releasing accidents of any kind have ever occurred at nuclear plants in our country. Barring a near accident at the Three Mile Island plant in 1979, I believe the answer to this would have been zero, also. This fact alone is pretty amazing to me, since our government hasn’t allowed the building of any modern nuclear plants since that time. I also might have asked them how many people have been killed by accidents with windmills in our country. I’m pretty sure that answer wouldn’t have been zero.
I understand the gallant efforts of many of our citizens to free our country from dependence on foreign oil, and I support those efforts wholly. I’m just not sure that turning our backs on that other clean, non-polluting, powerful alternative; nuclear power, is the right way to go.
Speaking of power, I would like to ask, someone, how many windmill farms and solar arrays it would take to supply the energy generated by Vermont Yankee today, and at what expense to construct them. I would also ask where these massive wind and sun farms should be built. One question I would not have to ask is who the people are who would likely complain about the windmills the first time a big flock of Canadian geese got decapitated as they migrated, in a huge V for Vermont, through them. It certainly wouldn’t be Vermont hunters. They would be there with big knives and freezer bags. Also, the people who would complain about the unsightliness of hundreds of huge windmills and solar arrays would not be Vermont farmers. They have been accustomed to acres of barns, silos, farm machinery and even windmills for many years now. No, the complainers would likely be the same people who coined the term ‘light-pollution’ in an effort to slow the economic engine of our cities and shopping centers at night. They might be some of the same people who are proposing the closing of Vermont Yankee. I don’t know if they would be compost hurlers or not.
As I recall the truck parked on the sidewalk on Main Street that Thursday, it brings to mind one more question. I would like to ask Barre City officials if it would be okay for me to park a truck there, ON the sidewalk, laden with wood-stoves, oil burners and a sign which read: ‘Up with Vermont Yankee! Or: Greenpeace Trucks Burn Stinking Diesel!’ Or my favorite: ‘Nuke the Whales’. (By the way, that last one was a joke. Geezzz… grow a sense of humor. Will ya?) I would also appreciate the loan of all those city-owned barricades. Thank you, Mr. Mayor.
It’s interesting to me that an Isuzu truck, which was made in Japan, (Sorry Detroit), goes around burning it’s carbon-laden fuel, not to simply promote alternative energy sources, or even bring loads of organic produce to the ol’ co-op, but to denigrate a huge, Vermont-based, power-producing, job-supplying, pollution-free business.
Yes, oddly as it seems, I am all for clean energy, but also believe that nuclear power is safe. If I could have a little reactor in my basement that would supply all my power needs I would get one, today. It would be nice to shut my oil burner down for good, get rid of all those unsightly cables and poles we have become accustomed to seeing along our streets these past hundred years or so, (wire pollution) and still be able to plug an electric car in at night. (Look up at the wires on your street. I bet you hadn’t even noticed how ugly they are.) I also believe that wind and solar power are good, but not good enough yet. If Vermont Yankee is closed down before its time, and replaced by windmill farms and solar panel fields, we might be in for trouble on the first calm day, as night approaches. If you dabble in the stock market, here’s a tip. It might be time to sell Vermont Yankee… and buy Yankee Candle.
Okay, yes, I saw the funny shaped truck parked on the sidewalk in front of Barre City Hall a few Thursdays ago. (I think it was the 16th.) Did you see it too? I planned to go back and ask the people of the truck a few questions about it the next day, but, alas, they were gone with the wind by then. Gone with the wind probably came to mind just now because of the depictions of commercial windmills on the truck. I’m not sure.
One of the questions I would have asked, if I had the chance, would have been about the ‘why’ of it all. That is, the ‘why’ of why Barre City allowed their truck to be parked ON the sidewalk all day, and even supplied city wooden barricades to, presumably, stop other people from parking there as well. I would have also asked the truck people why they had the word Greenpeace painted on the truck. Was the truck owned by Greenpeace? I really wish I had stopped to talk to them on Thursday. Also, why was the truck painted with the suggestion to: "Close Vermont Yankee"?
The truck was a really odd looking thing. It was an Isuzu flat bed sort of truck, with a big white, propaganda-laden, slanted-roof box on the back. I happened to pass city hall a few times that Thursday, and did notice that the purpose of the slanted roof was to hold a whole roof-full of solar collection panels. These, obviously, were not there to power the truck, and could no more have done so than the painted windmills on the sides of it could have. They were there to advertise, to propagandize, to promote solar and wind power; which are two power sources I have nothing at all against, by the way. The thing I didn’t appreciate was that the truck also had that darned sign which said we should close Vermont Yankee. No, I didn’t appreciate that very much at all.
You see, I don’t see the problem with Vermont Yankee. Please know right now that the person writing this column believes in nuclear power. Truthfully, I think it should power everything from our homes and cars to our wrist watches and electric toothbrushes, but that’s just me. As far as I know, good old Vermont Yankee has sat right there in Vernon, producing power, for quite a few years now, and has caused me no trouble at all in the process. I think I would have asked the truck people what they had against Vermont Yankee. I thought they liked non-polluting sources of energy. Or do they only like certain ones? If by then they had not begun hurling compost at me, as some anti-nuclear types did to federal nuclear regulators in Brattleboro recently, (Compost throwing? I thought only chimpanzees did that.) I would then have asked if they knew exactly how many people have been killed by accidents at the Vermont Yankee power plant. I think that answer would have been zero. Then I would have asked how many fatal accidents, or radiation-releasing accidents of any kind have ever occurred at nuclear plants in our country. Barring a near accident at the Three Mile Island plant in 1979, I believe the answer to this would have been zero, also. This fact alone is pretty amazing to me, since our government hasn’t allowed the building of any modern nuclear plants since that time. I also might have asked them how many people have been killed by accidents with windmills in our country. I’m pretty sure that answer wouldn’t have been zero.
I understand the gallant efforts of many of our citizens to free our country from dependence on foreign oil, and I support those efforts wholly. I’m just not sure that turning our backs on that other clean, non-polluting, powerful alternative; nuclear power, is the right way to go.
Speaking of power, I would like to ask, someone, how many windmill farms and solar arrays it would take to supply the energy generated by Vermont Yankee today, and at what expense to construct them. I would also ask where these massive wind and sun farms should be built. One question I would not have to ask is who the people are who would likely complain about the windmills the first time a big flock of Canadian geese got decapitated as they migrated, in a huge V for Vermont, through them. It certainly wouldn’t be Vermont hunters. They would be there with big knives and freezer bags. Also, the people who would complain about the unsightliness of hundreds of huge windmills and solar arrays would not be Vermont farmers. They have been accustomed to acres of barns, silos, farm machinery and even windmills for many years now. No, the complainers would likely be the same people who coined the term ‘light-pollution’ in an effort to slow the economic engine of our cities and shopping centers at night. They might be some of the same people who are proposing the closing of Vermont Yankee. I don’t know if they would be compost hurlers or not.
As I recall the truck parked on the sidewalk on Main Street that Thursday, it brings to mind one more question. I would like to ask Barre City officials if it would be okay for me to park a truck there, ON the sidewalk, laden with wood-stoves, oil burners and a sign which read: ‘Up with Vermont Yankee! Or: Greenpeace Trucks Burn Stinking Diesel!’ Or my favorite: ‘Nuke the Whales’. (By the way, that last one was a joke. Geezzz… grow a sense of humor. Will ya?) I would also appreciate the loan of all those city-owned barricades. Thank you, Mr. Mayor.
It’s interesting to me that an Isuzu truck, which was made in Japan, (Sorry Detroit), goes around burning it’s carbon-laden fuel, not to simply promote alternative energy sources, or even bring loads of organic produce to the ol’ co-op, but to denigrate a huge, Vermont-based, power-producing, job-supplying, pollution-free business.
Yes, oddly as it seems, I am all for clean energy, but also believe that nuclear power is safe. If I could have a little reactor in my basement that would supply all my power needs I would get one, today. It would be nice to shut my oil burner down for good, get rid of all those unsightly cables and poles we have become accustomed to seeing along our streets these past hundred years or so, (wire pollution) and still be able to plug an electric car in at night. (Look up at the wires on your street. I bet you hadn’t even noticed how ugly they are.) I also believe that wind and solar power are good, but not good enough yet. If Vermont Yankee is closed down before its time, and replaced by windmill farms and solar panel fields, we might be in for trouble on the first calm day, as night approaches. If you dabble in the stock market, here’s a tip. It might be time to sell Vermont Yankee… and buy Yankee Candle.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
So I Plant My Pumpkins
By G. E. Shuman
It is a very cold, late February afternoon. The thermometer is hovering around sixteen degrees today, if anything can actually ‘hover’ at that temperature. I recently came in from spending an hour or so of quality time with my snow blower. The weekend’s storm didn’t go away on its own, and I had to force the white stuff, once more, from the driveway. Such times always make me so happy.
I’m not sure how you feel about snow. I’m very sure how I feel about it, especially in late February. By this time in the snow blowing season I’m pretty much sick of the whole routine. Today’s battle with the white stuff sort of put the ‘icing’, so to speak, on the cake. You see, it is not only very snowy today, but very windy, and about half of the snow my blower was blowing turned around and hit me right in the face. Snow blowing on a sixteen degree windy day is not an advisable thing to do. Not to be crude, but it is sort of like Jack Frost’s version of ‘peeing against the wind.’ Anyway, what fun! I don’t mean to whine, but it is pretty much this way every year for me. So I plant my pumpkins, as I did today. (Therapy comes in many forms.)
I know, nobody in Vermont plants pumpkins in late February. Although, that’s not totally true, because I do. Nobody starts pumpkins in flower pots in February or at any other time, either, except perhaps someone with a face still stinging from using their snow blower.
I’m not totally sure why I do this winter-pumpkin-planting thing, but I believe it’s just for the experience of dirt, when all around me is ice. There is something great about warm, moist soil, even a little of it, this time of year. This is strange, but I miss the feeling, and even the smell of dirt, of soil, in winter. In February I start longing for green grass and flowers, for robins on the lawn and buds on the trees. So I plant my pumpkins.
This yearly ritual of mine, as strange as it might seem, is quite anticipated, and even premeditated, in a way. Every October I save a handful of seeds from the kids’ Halloween jack-o-lanterns. I tear a scrap from the newspaper they are using to protect the dining room table from “pumpkin guts”, as Emily calls it. I then put the seeds on the paper, and tuck it into the corner of a rarely disturbed window sill in the room. I guess I’m easily entertained, but it somehow amazes me that tiny parts from those freshly carved vegetables survive that Halloween night, awaiting the chance to grow and show themselves to still be alive. They dry and rest on that window sill, through Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas morning, New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day. Then one day I come in from blowing snow, a bit discouraged from the cold. So I plant my pumpkins.
Several weeks will then go by, and I will water and watch the soil in the pot. Then, one March morning I should notice small whitish-green heads poking up from it. Those, within several more weeks, will have become large leafy plants, with fuzzy and familiar strong stems. And they soon after will bud and blossom, with those great big beautiful pumpkin flowers.
I know that I could just as well start some other seeds from packages, and actually grow a garden from the seedlings I would get. But those plants would supply no important link to last Halloween with the kids. The truth is, so far, I have received no further ‘fruit’ at all for my un-seasonal planting efforts. Actual pumpkins never seem to arrive, but that’s okay. The greenery and flowers are enough to keep me going until I finally get to put the snow blower away for the season. So I plant my pumpkins.
It is a very cold, late February afternoon. The thermometer is hovering around sixteen degrees today, if anything can actually ‘hover’ at that temperature. I recently came in from spending an hour or so of quality time with my snow blower. The weekend’s storm didn’t go away on its own, and I had to force the white stuff, once more, from the driveway. Such times always make me so happy.
I’m not sure how you feel about snow. I’m very sure how I feel about it, especially in late February. By this time in the snow blowing season I’m pretty much sick of the whole routine. Today’s battle with the white stuff sort of put the ‘icing’, so to speak, on the cake. You see, it is not only very snowy today, but very windy, and about half of the snow my blower was blowing turned around and hit me right in the face. Snow blowing on a sixteen degree windy day is not an advisable thing to do. Not to be crude, but it is sort of like Jack Frost’s version of ‘peeing against the wind.’ Anyway, what fun! I don’t mean to whine, but it is pretty much this way every year for me. So I plant my pumpkins, as I did today. (Therapy comes in many forms.)
I know, nobody in Vermont plants pumpkins in late February. Although, that’s not totally true, because I do. Nobody starts pumpkins in flower pots in February or at any other time, either, except perhaps someone with a face still stinging from using their snow blower.
I’m not totally sure why I do this winter-pumpkin-planting thing, but I believe it’s just for the experience of dirt, when all around me is ice. There is something great about warm, moist soil, even a little of it, this time of year. This is strange, but I miss the feeling, and even the smell of dirt, of soil, in winter. In February I start longing for green grass and flowers, for robins on the lawn and buds on the trees. So I plant my pumpkins.
This yearly ritual of mine, as strange as it might seem, is quite anticipated, and even premeditated, in a way. Every October I save a handful of seeds from the kids’ Halloween jack-o-lanterns. I tear a scrap from the newspaper they are using to protect the dining room table from “pumpkin guts”, as Emily calls it. I then put the seeds on the paper, and tuck it into the corner of a rarely disturbed window sill in the room. I guess I’m easily entertained, but it somehow amazes me that tiny parts from those freshly carved vegetables survive that Halloween night, awaiting the chance to grow and show themselves to still be alive. They dry and rest on that window sill, through Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas morning, New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day. Then one day I come in from blowing snow, a bit discouraged from the cold. So I plant my pumpkins.
Several weeks will then go by, and I will water and watch the soil in the pot. Then, one March morning I should notice small whitish-green heads poking up from it. Those, within several more weeks, will have become large leafy plants, with fuzzy and familiar strong stems. And they soon after will bud and blossom, with those great big beautiful pumpkin flowers.
I know that I could just as well start some other seeds from packages, and actually grow a garden from the seedlings I would get. But those plants would supply no important link to last Halloween with the kids. The truth is, so far, I have received no further ‘fruit’ at all for my un-seasonal planting efforts. Actual pumpkins never seem to arrive, but that’s okay. The greenery and flowers are enough to keep me going until I finally get to put the snow blower away for the season. So I plant my pumpkins.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
On Being Fifty-Something
By G. E. Shuman
During a recent bout with a nagging disease which has shared my body with me since I was a child, I was, if you can bear the overuse of the term, ‘awakened’ to something. First I have to tell you that I hate that word ‘disease’. Don’t you? The only consolation I get from it is the idea that the word is a contraction of dis-ease, or, in other words, lack of ease. To me, a lack of ease, or even the idea of being ‘ill’ at ease, is better than ever using the word disease. When I hear that dreaded word I always think of a diseased apple tree. Then I imagine the old, rotten, infested thing being purposely cut down and thrown into the fire so that it doesn’t produce spotted, misshapen, diseased apples, and so the disease it harbors doesn’t spread to healthy trees. In any case, my ‘disease’, (I’m going to keep this description as short as possible) is of the inflammatory bowel syndrome type. The official abbreviation is IBS. For this they went to medical school? The Greek term: bellius painium maximus describes it best. In any case, because of my ‘bowel’ problem, (I know… Too Much Information.) most of the month of July was no picnic for me. That is, especially since our family’s 4th of July picnic. Since then I have had to take it a bit easier than I had before, at least temporarily.
The reason I tell you all of this is that that I have come to a few realizations since the 4th of July this year. The first is that I really am fifty-something. I know, you’re looking at my picture in the paper and asking yourself how this young studly person could possibly be fifty something, but believe me, I am. If you’re a regular reader of the column, I also know what you’re thinking. “He’s way too cute to be this smart.” For that common thought, I simply have no reply. I’m also way too humble for that.
In being this fifty-something person I have recently noticed that I am, I have had a few other realizations thrust upon me. One is that I seem to be turning prematurely gray. (You may notice one or two gray hairs in my picture.) Now don’t tell me they’re not there. I know they are. Another thing is that my eyesight is no longer perfect. That is why you see me wearing glasses. My wife tells me it is also why I think my hair is ‘beginning’ to turn gray. One other thing is that proclaiming myself to be in shape, because round IS a shape, is not that funny anymore. Neither is the thought that it is actually too late for my hair to be graying ‘prematurely.’
Fortunately for me, some other realizations of this less-than-totally-healthy fifty-something year old are much more positive things, and ones that, if you are even nearing my age, you should consider, and actually look forward to. One thing is that my adult kids don’t need me anymore. Hurray! All of them earn more money than me. Well, they make more money than me. Some still ask the occasional bit of plumbing, car-repair or electrical wiring advice, but they are quite self sufficient. That is a good thing, and I’m very proud of them, all. An even ‘gooder’ thing is that I’m not responsible for them, at all. This is something they seem to enjoy, and so do I. Another wonderful realization is that I suddenly, somehow have the idea that I don’t have to fix the world. I would love to get rid of war, world hunger and reality shows, but since I can’t even fix my bumpy driveway, I certainly should leave those other things to other fixers. Yes, something about this recent bout with my lingering dis-ease has changed a few things for me.
I have been persuaded, as perhaps other fifty-somethings should be, to simply relax a bit. As I mentioned in another recent column, I have also nearly decided to never sell my home and to just die here. I’m serious…just die right here. (That’s the grumpy old man in me coming out, and I’m starting to like him.) That way the kids get to clean out the attic next time. Most of the junk up there is theirs anyway. If they want to sell the house and keep the money, good for them. The least they can do is lug their own stuff down the stairs and to the dump. I am also even less interested lately in climbing the corporate ladder than in climbing the stairs to that attic. It seems to me that both propositions have a lot of trash at the top. I have never been to the upper business rungs, and God has always provided for my needs and those of my family anyway. How could I want more than that?
The truth is, dumb as it sounds, I’m not even all that concerned with those skyrocketing gas and oil prices. They’re more than they used to be, and less than they someday will be. So what else is new? At my slowly advancing age, I also take absolutely no ‘stuff’ at all from car salesmen. Period. I tell them the deal I want. If they don’t agree, I leave and let them sell their hurry-hurry-hurry-before-they’re-all-gone car to the next guy. I assume their company will make more cars tomorrow. If they won‘t, I don’t want to buy from them anyway. Also, amusement park rides might still excite me, but don’t scare me anymore. I have decided that if they killed very many people the park would have gone out of business long ago.
Now let’s talk about food, just for a moment. Yes, I do have a defective digestive system, but only sometimes. So when my stomach isn’t in a cranky mood, I tend to drink coffee whenever I wish. I love coffee. If it keeps me awake at night, that’s even more time I have to realize that my life is not over, at least not yet. You know, yesterday I actually saw an internet article headline which asked the question: “Does Charcoal Grilled Meat Increase The Risk Of Cancer?” I didn’t read that article. I’m fifty-something, I love charcoal grilled meat, and those people should just shut up. I don’t drive fast or cheat on my wife. If I want a sizzling steak, sue me. In fact, as shocking as it may be, I would love to someday become a charter member of a red meat, crusty bread, wine and seriously sharp cheese club. Wanna join? I’ll give you a Lipitor for dessert.
I guess my point is that if you happen to be a fifty-something (or older) person like me, you might join me in more than that club. Consider just dropping out of, or at least slowing down in the rat race, for a start. Take the time to enjoy some really good food. Then get rid of some of the toys. Find your happiness in an evening walk on the beach, your peace in lengthy talks with God, and contentment in a superb cup of coffee.
It felt good to tell you all of this. Thanks for listening.
Please be sure to view my favorite links.
During a recent bout with a nagging disease which has shared my body with me since I was a child, I was, if you can bear the overuse of the term, ‘awakened’ to something. First I have to tell you that I hate that word ‘disease’. Don’t you? The only consolation I get from it is the idea that the word is a contraction of dis-ease, or, in other words, lack of ease. To me, a lack of ease, or even the idea of being ‘ill’ at ease, is better than ever using the word disease. When I hear that dreaded word I always think of a diseased apple tree. Then I imagine the old, rotten, infested thing being purposely cut down and thrown into the fire so that it doesn’t produce spotted, misshapen, diseased apples, and so the disease it harbors doesn’t spread to healthy trees. In any case, my ‘disease’, (I’m going to keep this description as short as possible) is of the inflammatory bowel syndrome type. The official abbreviation is IBS. For this they went to medical school? The Greek term: bellius painium maximus describes it best. In any case, because of my ‘bowel’ problem, (I know… Too Much Information.) most of the month of July was no picnic for me. That is, especially since our family’s 4th of July picnic. Since then I have had to take it a bit easier than I had before, at least temporarily.
The reason I tell you all of this is that that I have come to a few realizations since the 4th of July this year. The first is that I really am fifty-something. I know, you’re looking at my picture in the paper and asking yourself how this young studly person could possibly be fifty something, but believe me, I am. If you’re a regular reader of the column, I also know what you’re thinking. “He’s way too cute to be this smart.” For that common thought, I simply have no reply. I’m also way too humble for that.
In being this fifty-something person I have recently noticed that I am, I have had a few other realizations thrust upon me. One is that I seem to be turning prematurely gray. (You may notice one or two gray hairs in my picture.) Now don’t tell me they’re not there. I know they are. Another thing is that my eyesight is no longer perfect. That is why you see me wearing glasses. My wife tells me it is also why I think my hair is ‘beginning’ to turn gray. One other thing is that proclaiming myself to be in shape, because round IS a shape, is not that funny anymore. Neither is the thought that it is actually too late for my hair to be graying ‘prematurely.’
Fortunately for me, some other realizations of this less-than-totally-healthy fifty-something year old are much more positive things, and ones that, if you are even nearing my age, you should consider, and actually look forward to. One thing is that my adult kids don’t need me anymore. Hurray! All of them earn more money than me. Well, they make more money than me. Some still ask the occasional bit of plumbing, car-repair or electrical wiring advice, but they are quite self sufficient. That is a good thing, and I’m very proud of them, all. An even ‘gooder’ thing is that I’m not responsible for them, at all. This is something they seem to enjoy, and so do I. Another wonderful realization is that I suddenly, somehow have the idea that I don’t have to fix the world. I would love to get rid of war, world hunger and reality shows, but since I can’t even fix my bumpy driveway, I certainly should leave those other things to other fixers. Yes, something about this recent bout with my lingering dis-ease has changed a few things for me.
I have been persuaded, as perhaps other fifty-somethings should be, to simply relax a bit. As I mentioned in another recent column, I have also nearly decided to never sell my home and to just die here. I’m serious…just die right here. (That’s the grumpy old man in me coming out, and I’m starting to like him.) That way the kids get to clean out the attic next time. Most of the junk up there is theirs anyway. If they want to sell the house and keep the money, good for them. The least they can do is lug their own stuff down the stairs and to the dump. I am also even less interested lately in climbing the corporate ladder than in climbing the stairs to that attic. It seems to me that both propositions have a lot of trash at the top. I have never been to the upper business rungs, and God has always provided for my needs and those of my family anyway. How could I want more than that?
The truth is, dumb as it sounds, I’m not even all that concerned with those skyrocketing gas and oil prices. They’re more than they used to be, and less than they someday will be. So what else is new? At my slowly advancing age, I also take absolutely no ‘stuff’ at all from car salesmen. Period. I tell them the deal I want. If they don’t agree, I leave and let them sell their hurry-hurry-hurry-before-they’re-all-gone car to the next guy. I assume their company will make more cars tomorrow. If they won‘t, I don’t want to buy from them anyway. Also, amusement park rides might still excite me, but don’t scare me anymore. I have decided that if they killed very many people the park would have gone out of business long ago.
Now let’s talk about food, just for a moment. Yes, I do have a defective digestive system, but only sometimes. So when my stomach isn’t in a cranky mood, I tend to drink coffee whenever I wish. I love coffee. If it keeps me awake at night, that’s even more time I have to realize that my life is not over, at least not yet. You know, yesterday I actually saw an internet article headline which asked the question: “Does Charcoal Grilled Meat Increase The Risk Of Cancer?” I didn’t read that article. I’m fifty-something, I love charcoal grilled meat, and those people should just shut up. I don’t drive fast or cheat on my wife. If I want a sizzling steak, sue me. In fact, as shocking as it may be, I would love to someday become a charter member of a red meat, crusty bread, wine and seriously sharp cheese club. Wanna join? I’ll give you a Lipitor for dessert.
I guess my point is that if you happen to be a fifty-something (or older) person like me, you might join me in more than that club. Consider just dropping out of, or at least slowing down in the rat race, for a start. Take the time to enjoy some really good food. Then get rid of some of the toys. Find your happiness in an evening walk on the beach, your peace in lengthy talks with God, and contentment in a superb cup of coffee.
It felt good to tell you all of this. Thanks for listening.
Please be sure to view my favorite links.
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