Insight: A simpler life

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Nearly 53 years ago, I stepped onto a Greyhound bus for a three-hour ride to college after flying across the country from Rochester, New York to Albuquerque, New Mexico. As I settled in the front of the bus for the last leg of my trip, I noticed a tall, gangly looking red-haired young man in the back of the bus who was talking loudly in a pronounced Southern drawl and telling his life story to anyone within earshot.

Woodson 'Woody' Taylor was the first
person Ed Pierce met on his first day
of college in 1971. He died in January
at the age of 70. COURTESY PHOTO 

My first impression was that this fellow was extremely nervous and trying to make new friends and I couldn’t believe some of the personal details that he was sharing with complete strangers. He discussed growing up in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, his family and where he was headed, which happened to be the same college that I was traveling to. In what I considered to be a totally naïve and gullible thing to say, he mentioned that his parents didn’t want him to carry cash but instead had given him $1,000 for his trip in traveler’s checks.

This guy talked nonstop during the entire bus ride and when we finally arrived at our destination, two older students from the college met us at the bus stop to take us to our dormitory on campus. I learned that my fellow bus rider’s name was Woodson “Woody” Taylor, and he was the son of a prominent family from Louisiana. When we got to the college, the resident advisor on duty that evening had Woody’s reservation for a dorm room, but somehow mine was not found.

One of those students who met me at the bus stop belonged to a fraternity and he suggested that I spend the night at the frat house and sort out the dorm room mix-up the next morning. I agreed and said goodbye to Woody, who in a way for me, was sort of like meeting Gomer Pyle in person.

I ended up as a pledge for the fraternity and Woody, who was in one of my freshman history classes, mentioned to me that he had pledged another fraternity. As the school year wore on, I saw Woody one day outside the college library, and he told me that the other fraternity had kicked him out for being “different.” I asked him to join our fraternity and eventually he became a fellow member like I was, and he also moved in to our fraternity house.

One night I got back to the fraternity house late at night after going out to a movie and I found Woody sitting alone in the dining room writing on a pad of paper. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me he was jotting down every single place he had spent the night in his lifetime so he wouldn’t forget them. Another time I found him writing down counties in America that he had visited. I found his interests to be eccentric, but they weren’t bothering anyone, so it didn’t matter.

Plenty of students at the college laughed at Woody’s southern accent or made fun of him but I never did. He went to church every Sunday and was interested in Japanese culture and those activities kept him busy. I transferred to a larger university a few years later and lost touch with him.

I saw Woody once in the late 1980s when I was a reporter for a daily newspaper and was covering an event at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. He was volunteering his time helping students from Japan become accustomed to American life at the university. He was single, heavily involved with the Episcopal Church, and had gained a lot of weight.

Through the years, I left New Mexico and went on to work for several newspapers in Florida. Woody had called me a few times to stay in touch and wanted me to come back to New Mexico to visit but my work schedule was hectic and that never happened.

When Facebook was created, Woody reached out in 2010 and we re-established our friendship. He had moved from Santa Fe, New Mexico to Denver, Colorado and his parents had died. He belonged to several Japanese clubs and had traveled to Japan numerous times. Many of his Facebook posts were of colorful birds with names I had never heard of before and he posted thousands of them, one a day for more than 10 years.

A few years ago, his Facebook posts became more desperate as he struggled to pay rent and his health declined. He was unable to receive Social Security for some reason and was accepting donations from a “Go Fund Me” to keep the lights on. Before Christmas last year, I saw a post that he was going into a nursing facility and no longer had a cell phone.

When I hadn’t seen anything from him for months, I visited his page and discovered that Woody had died in January. It was a tragic ending for such a simple, kind and caring individual. I’ll certainly always think of him as that naïve kid on that Greyhound bus in 1971 and am glad to have called him my friend.

Andy Young: Using time more efficiently

By Andy Young

I’ve never been accused of being a quick learner. I was chosen for a Little League baseball team at age 9, but didn’t get my first actual hit until after I turned 11. I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was 19, and it took four additional years after that for me to buy my first car. It took me six years to acquire a bachelor’s degree, and I didn’t get my first serious girlfriend until … well, I’ll let you know when that happens.

But perhaps it wasn’t laziness or unwillingness to learn that was responsible for the slowness with which I’ve picked up certain things. Maybe it’s in my DNA. I base this theory on the fact I didn’t start shaving regularly until several years after nearly all of my age alike peers did. Until I was nearly 20, I merely snipped the occasional random protruding chin hair with a pair of scissors every other week or so.

However, once shaving became necessary, I picked up the essential skills seamlessly, and continued to use them on a daily basis until I took a summer job in Alaska at age 27, when, for reasons I cannot recall, I decided to stop shaving.

After a few razor-free days the face I saw in the mirror began looking so ruggedly handsome that I wondered if I might need to invest in some karate lessons, just to keep all those man-hungry Alaskan women at bay. But alas, that brawny, vigorous he-man look was temporary. After a month or so I began looking less like a matinee idol than like someone who regularly slept outdoors. The random thatch on my face came out in several different shades and occurred in irregular patterns. The only redeeming thing about my rapidly increasing unattractiveness was ultimately that I didn’t need to squander any money on learning the manly art of self-defense.

At the end of that summer, I clipped off every single facial hair, and have remained clean-shaven since then.

Until about six weeks ago, when I had an epiphany.

Like many people, I often find myself short of the time necessary to accomplish everything I’d like to. But then I had my brainstorm. If I stopped shaving every morning, I’d be buying myself an extra two or so minutes each day. Give up shaving for a month and I’d have accumulated an extra hour. I could create 12 extra hours of free time every year simply by going razor-free!

I began implementing my new time-creation policy the morning after the last day of school, and sure enough, after one month I had collected an extra hour of leisure time. I also had a developing beard that was only one color: gray. In addition, during that stretch I frittered away an extra three hours itching, picking crumbs out of my pseudo-mustache, imagining there were bugs nesting on my face, and explaining to friends (and occasionally frightened-looking strangers) that no, I wasn’t really homeless. The bottom line: giving up shaving yielded a net loss of two hours! Now I’m further behind than ever!

When school starts next month, I intend to be clean-shaven again. Like most other folks I have no desire to be the object of sympathy, and the only thing that inspires more pity than an unkempt, bearded man who looks like Bigfoot’s mangy cousin is an unkempt, gray-bearded man who looks like Bigfoot’s mangy grandfather.

Maybe I’ll miss that itchy beard after it’s gone. But if that happens, I’ll just use some of my recently reacquired spare time to buy myself an ant farm, and/or a scratching post. <

Insight: An unforgettable caregiving situation

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Recovering from chemotherapy and several cancer surgeries in 1999 was harder than I thought it would be. As I was starting to function again after months of poor health, I couldn’t go back to work with the newspaper right away and needed something simpler to regain my strength and slowly reacclimate myself to more challenging tasks after months of inactivity.

While recovering from cancer surgery in
1999, Ed Pierce provided caregiving
for a retired U.S. Navy captain named
Earle, who was suffering from dementia.
PHOTO BY ED PIERCE  

My mother worked as a case manager for a social worker and asked if I would be interested in helping an elderly veteran with dementia a few days a week while on a leave of absence from my journalism job. The pay was good, and it wasn’t a difficult situation making his meals and keeping him safe. Being a caregiver for him turned out to be one of the most memorable experiences of my life.

Earle was in his 80s and had served as a captain in the U.S. Navy during World War II. When he retired from 30-plus years of military service in the 1960s, he and his wife invested in oceanfront property in Cocoa Beach, Florida, purchased a home and enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle. The couple had no children and after his wife’s death in 1991, Earle began a slow cognitive decline.

By that time, he had accumulated a portfolio worth more than $2 million from land sales and sound stock purchases and he appointed a friend as his guardian to safeguard his income and to ensure that he remained in his home for the rest of his life instead of being placed in a nursing home.

Round-the-clock caregivers were hired after he drove to a nearby Denny’s for breakfast and instead of hitting the brakes on his truck, he hit the gas pedal inadvertently and drove into the front of the restaurant. When the police arrived, they discovered he wasn’t wearing any clothes too.

Over the course of several years as Earle’s mental health declined, some of the caregivers helped themselves to some of the cash that the guardian provided for groceries or were asleep in the middle of the night when he slipped out the door and was found wandering through town in his pajamas. That’s when the social worker became involved, and my mother thought I could help myself through looking after him, but I could also be a trustworthy and dependable person to spend time with Earle.

Accepting the job, I quickly learned this was not going to be easy. The guardian asked me to take him to the movies and I did. In the middle of the film, he removed one of his hearing aids and flung it across the darkened theater. Another time he flushed another of his hearing aids down the toilet. I found a hearing aid buried in his sock drawer and another one was whistling in his mouth when I asked him what happened to it.

The caregivers would stay overnight at his house and one week both the caregivers and Earle were suddenly sick from colds in the middle of summer. We couldn’t figure it out. But then one night I heard Earle in the kitchen at 3 a.m. and watched what he was doing. He got a spoon out of the drawer, opened the refrigerator and ate a spoonful of mayonnaise straight out of the jar. He licked the spoon dry and replaced it in the silverware drawer and went back to bed. That’s how we all became sick at the same time.

The first week I worked there, the guardian dropped by and handed Earle $400 to buy groceries with. I made a list of things we needed and then I drove Earle to the grocery store. He helped choose the items and brands he wanted, and we filled the shopping cart up. Going through the checkout line, the cashier finished ringing everything up and the bill came to $335. I asked Earle to pay her for the groceries and he said no. He wouldn’t give us his wallet with the cash in it and I learned a lesson that day, the guardian needed to hand me the cash for shopping, not Earle.

I also discovered a lot about myself and my own phobias while working that job. One time, Earle slipped and hit his head on a table, cutting his forehead. Blood spurted onto the floor, and I found that I didn’t mind cleaning up blood. But another time Earle was in his room taking a nap and had taken off his Depends and made quite a mess in his room. I found cleaning that up to be rather unsettling for me.

Eventually my health was fully restored after a year or so and I was ready to return to my newspaper job full-time. It was difficult to say goodbye, but I left that situation knowing I had done my best for him, and he was in good hands with people who cared about him and were honest.

About six months later Earle was eating breakfast one morning when his heart gave out and he died at the kitchen table. It was sad, but I was comforted in knowing this proud veteran was at peace and no longer suffering.

Andy Young: On improved dentistry and being prepared

By Andy Young

“Be prepared,” Scouts (of both genders) urge.

I thought about those Scouts last week prior to a dental appointment I had to replace an old filling. The hour-long procedure was scheduled for 10:30. However, since I had eaten breakfast that morning prior to 6 a.m., I knew I’d be famished by the time it was over. The dentist’s office is a half-hour from where I live, so I thoughtfully prepared for my anticipated hunger by sealing a day-old bagel in plastic wrap for a post-session snack.

The plan was a solid one, and since the skies were clear that morning, I left the bagel on the passenger seat in direct sunlight, insuring that it would taste warm and fresh-baked when I returned.

Dentistry has come a long way in my lifetime. When I was young, going to get my teeth serviced wasn’t even remotely enjoyable. Aside from being allowed to spit into a bowl-shaped whirlpool after each assault on my choppers by the person allegedly cleaning them with some sort of nasty-tasting, gritty paste, there wasn’t anything to look forward to.

And once I got a cavity, those visits to the dentist became downright terrifying. Even if I hadn’t been exposed to watching Dr. Moe, Dr. Larry and Dr. Curly torture some hapless patient on TV, the shot of Novocain that allegedly dulled the impending pain was excruciating and did little to lessen the discomfort still to come. And the hideous sound of the approaching drill made the experience even worse. Thinking about it today still makes me cringe.

But that was then. This is now. Last week the dentist began by rubbing numbing gel on my gums. A moment later he began jiggling my cheek with his finger while giving me a pain killing shot I never even felt!

He explained my nerve endings could only sense one thing at a time, which was why I barely felt the needle go in. An hour later we were done, just as he had promised. My teeth felt good as new.

Remembering that it sometimes takes a bit of time for fillings to solidify, I asked the dentist how soon I could have something to eat.

“Any time you want,” he responded cheerily, adding, “This isn’t like the old days. It’s safe to eat right away.”

Having been granted absolution, I went back to the car and unwrapped my bagel. Leaving it in the sun wrapped in plastic had been sheer genius; the first bite did indeed taste like it had just come out of the oven. Savoring its softness, I took a second chomp, and then another.

But then the bagel’s consistency changed from soft to rubbery, sort of like a thick dried apricot. Chewing with renewed determination, I began sensing a taste not normally associated with bagels. I also felt a bit of drool on my chin, which I casually wiped away with a Kleenex.

But when I glanced down at the suddenly crimson tissue, I realized what I had been tasting was blood. Eating with a just-filled tooth is indeed safe, but only when the gums and jaw it’s attached to aren’t still numb.

What I had been enthusiastically munching on was my own lower lip. I had planned on grocery shopping on the way home, but since the gruesome face in my car’s mirror looked like it belonged to someone who’d just finished dinner at Jeffrey Dahmer’s all-you-can-eat buffet, I decided to replenish my milk and banana supply at some other time.

The Scouts are right; we should be prepared. But how does one adequately prepare for inadequate preparation? <

The Rookie Mama: We all scream for sunscreen

By Michelle Cote

Lather up, friends; sun’s out!

I was recently reminded of the generational divide between my children and me one sunny, sticky morning as we ventured beachward for a day, and I stopped at a local pharmacy to pick up sunscreen.

The tube I plucked off the shelf was a high-enough SPF, which was all that concerned me in a pinch.

But upon returning to my awaiting family minivan and tossing the tube to my boys, I read their horrified expressions and quickly learned the SPF acronym in the moment stood for Shocked and Pretty Frightened.

Sunscreen… cream.

In a squeeze tube like the olden days.

What’s next, cassette tapes?

My boys have been so spoiled in the sunshine by the convenient spray applications their entire lives, they’d never experienced this sun protection in what I believe the traditional sense, experienced the glory of streaky NO-Ad whiteness in which ‘90s children slathered up, moments prior to the inevitable stickings-on of all the sand so we looked like breaded chicken tenders – happy chicken tenders – with smeared white faces splashing gleefully in the sea with our sparkly pink pails and shovels.

According to the National Library of Medicine, the association between sun exposure and skin cancer was first discovered in the late 1800s, but the creation and commercialization of sunscreen didn’t really burst onto the fun-in-the-sun sandy stage until the late 1970s.

Today, we know everyone’s free to wear sunscreen.

Those of us who were teens a quarter century ago – Yikes! – will remember the informally dubbed ‘Sunscreen song’ by Baz Luhrmann which bestowed words of wisdom, commencement-speech-style, to the Class of ’99 in spoken word which began – and ended – with a nod to sunblock.

Great tips beyond just frosted tips at the turn of Y2K, who knew?

But now that I have a troupe of fair-skinned mini-Cotes of my own, who rely on my husband and me for care and wellness beyond imploring they eat their veggies, we’re keeping sun protection at top of mind – and hats at top of head – so we can enjoy the outdoorsy lives in which we’re immersed.

The American Academy of Dermatology (AAD) recommends varieties SPF 30 or higher that are water resistant with broad-spectrum protection.

Babies younger than six months should be kept from the sun altogether.

The older circuit should use a lotion that screens out both UVA and UVB rays, applied to all skin not covered by clothing – so keep an SPF 30 lip balm at the ready for those lips – and reapply every two hours.

The FDA requires all sunscreens retain original strength for at least three years, so in the spirit of frugal living, shop end-of-summer sales and stock up on next year’s haul.

As for sunscreen types, sprays are often preferred by parents – and apparently all of my kiddos – because of their ease of application, but they are available as creams, gels, and sticks too.

The best sunscreen’s ultimately the one you’ll reapply.

And after our Great Sunscreen Debacle of 2024, it’s back to sprays for days for us.

Remember – There’s never any such thing as a ‘healthy tan.’

Any excessive sun exposure is bad exposure.

This doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy our gorgeous outdoors with your family – Maine parks, poolside fun, gardens, lighthouses, trails, rivers, lakes and beaches await at the ready to welcome you warmly – often for free or at little cost.

Just remember to apply sunscreen generously to yourselves and your littles.

You only need an ounce, and you know what they say about an ounce of prevention.

During this month of celebrating independence, remember to not be independent from solid skin care.

Your future self will thank you.

And as my 10-year-old just exclaimed moments ago, ‘We all scream for sunscreen.’

Happy summer!

­­– Michelle Cote lives in southern Maine with her husband and four sons, and enjoys camping, distance running, biking, gardening, road trips to new regions, arts and crafts, soccer, and singing to musical showtunes – often several or more at the same time! <

Insight: A Change of Heart

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

When it comes to music, I know what I like and avoid listening to bands and singers I don’t particularly care for. This has been the case for me since I was 9 years old and first tuning in to popular rock n’ roll radio stations on a transistor radio.

Avril Lavigne performs during a
concert June 30 at Glastonbury,
England before 100,000 people.
COURTESY PHOTO

Through the years I have developed my own musical tastes and musical dislikes and as I’ve gotten older, I rarely, if ever, have a change of opinion about those on the wrong side of my preferences.

Yet lately, I seem to have had a change of heart or a reversal of my personal feelings about some music.

Back in 1979, I was serving in the U.S. Air Force in Germany and was thrilled that the base exchange store offered many of the newest releases and at a discount for military members too. Every Friday, if I saved my money up during the week, which wasn’t always easy as I was earning $360 a month back then, I could find new albums priced between $4.99 and $7.99.

Soon I had built up quite a collection of vinyl records that included many new artists that I took great pride in introducing to my friends and some better-known bands and singers from the 1970s.

Before I had enlisted in the Air Force in 1977, like many other young adults my age, I had become a fan of the band Fleetwood Mac and considered myself fortunate to have included 1975’s self-titled “Fleetwood Mac” album and the 1976 Fleetwood Mac “Rumors” album in my vinyl collection.

But being overseas and working long shifts, sometimes it was hard for me to keep up with music news from the United States. Therefore, in October 1979 I was shocked when a friend told me he had visited the base exchange store earlier that day and purchased Fleetwood Mac’s newly released album called “Tusk.” He asked if I wanted to join a group of friends at his apartment that evening to listen to the new album for the first time and I readily agreed as I hadn’t even heard the band had been working on a new album.

But from the very first song he played on the “Tusk” double album, some of us were taken aback. It was music quite different from the “Rumors” album and I left that apartment that night saying that the new “Tusk” album would take some getting used to. Through the years it never happened for me, and “Tusk” became one of the Fleetwood Mac albums I never bought.

A few years before that in 1975, I had been driving in my 1974 Mercury Capri when a song called “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” by a singer named Elvin Bishop came on the radio. I wasn’t crazy about the song the first time, the second, or the third time I heard it while driving. In fact, it seemed every time I turned on the radio, no matter what station I selected, it would eventually end up playing “Fooled Around and Fell in Love.”

It was played so many times and in so many different places that I grew to detest the song and it became an automatic reflex action of mine that if the opening refrains of Elvin Bishop’s “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” appeared on the radio, my fingers were ready to hit the buttons to choose another radio station. If I was shopping in a store and heard the song, I’d search immediately for the nearest exit.

By 2002, I would watch MTV on television to stay current with new performers and bands. Some of the newer singers and bands I enjoyed, while some just didn’t do it for me. Such was the case with Avril Lavigne. I thought her voice resembled what I believed was close to sheer caterwauling. I just found her music irritating and all her hit songs sounded the same to me. I told some of my friends that in my opinion she was sort of a poor man’s version of Alanis Morissette.

Like Elvin Bishop and Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk” album, Avril Lavigne became just another performer on my personal dislike list, and you may think that’s the end of the story.

But since I have redone my stereo system at home and started listening to vinyl and CDs from my personal collection again, something remarkable has happened.

I saw the “Tusk” CD in a record store for $6.97 and decided to give it another listen. It’s truly amazing music and I now consider it the best of all their albums. I’m lucky to own a copy of it.

A month ago, my wife Nancy and I were driving somewhere and “Fooled Around and Fell in Love” was playing on the radio. We listened to it, and we both agreed that it’s an awesome tune.

Then last weekend I watched Avril Lavigne’s performance of “I’m With You” during a televised concert in Glastonbury, England. Her voice was truly incredible, and I must admit I was wrong about her after all.

I suppose that one is never too old to have a change of heart when it comes to your musical tastes.

Jane Pringle: Addressing Maine’s opioid crisis with compassion

By State Rep. Jane Pringle

For so many Mainers, the opioid crisis is deeply personal. Whether you have been directly impacted or not, it is almost certain that every Mainer knows of someone whose life has been turned upside down by addiction. Controlled substances, like opioids, have been a problem in our state for the last several decades, and the 131st Legislature made it a priority to tackle this growing epidemic head-on.

With hard work and continuous collaboration, my fellow lawmakers and I have enacted several measures to address every facet of this crisis. From increasing access to emergency treatments to bolstering recovery centers, we are committed to finding comprehensive and compassionate policy solutions aimed at providing hope for those who are struggling right now.

Last year, the Legislature enacted two pivotal measures targeted toward saving the lives of those experiencing an overdose. The first bill mandates that law enforcement officers carry Narcan on their person while on active duty. The second measure requires all Emergency Medical Services (EMS) workers to be trained in the administration of Narcan, enabling these professionals to act swiftly and effectively when called to the scene of an overdose.

Narcan, also known as Naloxone, is an opioid reversal agent that can rapidly ease the effect of an overdose, such as respiratory distress. When applied promptly, Narcan can provide front-line workers, like EMS and law enforcement, with a critical window of time to allow for further medical intervention. Equipping these professionals with this overdose-reversal treatment has been shown time and again to make the difference between life and death for so many.

Addressing the opioid crisis also requires an approach that goes beyond emergency interventions. We must provide ongoing support for those who are in recovery. In the supplemental budget enacted by the Legislature a few months ago, language was included to give vital support to withdrawal management programs across the state. The budget appropriated $4 million to expand Medication Assisted Treatments in county jails, building upon an already existing initiative in our state prison system. It is a safe and proven “whole patient” approach that combines FDA-approved medical treatment with behavioral counseling. This course of care not only eases withdrawal symptoms and cravings, but it has been proven to reduce the likelihood of relapse, increase rate of survival and support a return to a healthy, productive life.

For many, recovery and sobriety is a lifelong journey; that’s why we enacted a measure that helps create a sustainable revenue source for Recovery Community Centers (RCCs) across the state, so that folks will always have a place to turn to when they need additional support. These organizations focus on helping individuals recover from substance-use disorder by providing non-clinical services, such as support groups, recovery coaching and skill-building programs. Individuals who utilize RCCs have been shown to have a lower likelihood of relapse and an increase in long-term well-being. This funding will help invest in long-term recovery for Mainers who find themselves in the grip of addiction.

My colleagues and I in the Legislature know that it is imperative to continue developing comprehensive policies that strengthen emergency responses and treatments as well as bolstering any necessary ongoing support for those struggling with addiction. Recent data released by the state indicates that the number of opioid-related deaths has dropped by 16%. This data is encouraging and shows that our efforts are working, but despite this success, the number of overdoses remains too high. We cannot wait for this epidemic to subside; we must continue to address it with compassion and sustained effort. We all have a stake in this, not just lawmakers, medical professionals or even law enforcement officers. We all need to be committed to putting in the work to help end this crisis, together.

Rep. Jane Pringle is serving her second non-consecutive term in the Maine House of Representatives, having previously represented Windham from 2012-2014. She is a member of the Legislature’s Health Coverage, Insurance and Financial Services Committee. <