By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor
One of my favorite movies is “To Kill A Mockingbird,” and in that film attorney Atticus Finch proclaims, “A court is only as sound as its jury, and a jury is only as sound as the people who make it up.” Judge for yourself, but throughout February, I have been summoned as a potential juror.
Most of my exposure to the legal system comes from watching cases tried on television, such as the Johnny Depp v. Amber Heard media circus or most notably, the O.J. Simpson murder trial in the 1990s.
I previously served on two juries when I lived in Florida. The first time the parties went through the jury selection process, and I was seated in the group, but within minutes of starting the trial, the judge dismissed the jury as the parties had reached a settlement.
The second time was totally different. It took most of the morning to find jurors acceptable to both attorneys involved in the case. By noon a jury was seated, and I was among them. The judge had the courtroom break for lunch and the trial resumed with testimony for the remainder of the afternoon and into the following day.
The case was rather interesting to me. A Haitian immigrant who spoke very little English finished work as a stonemason for a contractor late in the afternoon of the Friday before Memorial Day. Before leaving, the contractor paid him a month’s salary of about $8,000 in cash in a brown paper bag he placed in the truck’s center console. He got in his pickup truck and started to drive home when another Haitian immigrant at the work site flagged the stonemason down and asked if he could give him a ride home.
During one of the hottest and most humid times of the year in Florida, the air conditioner in the pickup truck did not work and so the stonemason and his co-worker rolled the windows down to have some fresh air come into the truck. As they arrived at the co-worker’s home, he asked the stonemason to wait for a moment as he went inside for something. He reemerged with a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers, although it was missing two bottles. He said it was a gift for his kindness in giving him a ride home.
Taking off again, it was now dark outside, and the stonemason noticed flashing lights up ahead on the highway. It was a police DWI roadblock. He was pulled over and an officer noticed the unopened Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers on the passenger seat. He instructed the stonemason to step out of the truck and gave him a field sobriety test.
The Haitian immigrant passed all field sobriety testing, but as he didn’t reply to some of the questions the officer asked because he didn’t understand much English and the officer didn’t speak his language, Creole, the officer detained him and requested another police car and officers to take him to the police station for blood testing for intoxication.
Once at the police station, blood was drawn from the Haitian. Since results would not be available from the lab for several days, he was booked for DWI and transported to the county jail. His pickup truck was towed to the county impound yard. It was Memorial Day Weekend, and the Haitian waited in the jail the remainder of Friday evening, Saturday, Sunday and through Monday as it was Memorial Day, just to obtain an attorney.
When the results of the blood test confirmed no alcohol in his system, the attorney for the state dropped charges filed against him and he was freed from jail. At the impound yard, he reclaimed his truck only after his attorney paid the $750 towing and storage fees. And to his surprise, the brown paper bag of cash was missing.
He sued the city and the police department for $50,000 for false imprisonment, false arrest, his expense of having to hire an attorney, the loss of a month’s salary from the missing bag of cash, and the suffering and humiliation from spending four days in the slammer.
All of this had taken place three years before this trial that I was a juror for. We listened to all the testimony and adjourned to the jury room for our deliberation. To us, it was clear who had made a mistake. We reached a verdict for the plaintiff but before we could announce our decision, the judge dismissed the case.
It seems that the plaintiff’s attorney had made some sort of technical error when filling out the paperwork for the case and this was brought to the judge’s attention during the jury’s deliberations. The judge visited us in the jury room before we left and said he had no choice but to dismiss this case and that the plaintiff’s attorney said he was going to file the case for trial again, even if it took another three years to get on the court docket.
Now I am on the precipice again of doing my civic duty and serving as a potential juror. Paying homage to Atticus Finch, I’m hoping I can remain of sound mind until then. <
Friday, February 7, 2025
Rookie Mama: The discount snack haul of fame
By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama
I’ve rekindled that old lost love for our local surplus and salvage store.
Alas, it’s the store filled with many, many, rotating and delightfully haphazard overstock items that replace themselves so quickly, inevitably one may regrettably think, ‘I should have bought it…’
Mainers, you know the jingle.
But my relationship with our town’s local discount shop had been an oscillating one.
And not just because you can buy oscillating fans next to the carpets next to the dog leashes next to the snow pants in said warehouse space.
I have had a years-long aversion for shopping inside stores, namely stores with erratic inventory that require any sort of rifling through of goods.
I became a mama precisely around the dawn of curbside grocery pick-up, a sort of kismet convenience so appreciated that couldn’t have come at a better time, and so I’ve been spoiled in that regard.
Just like that, no more had I the patience nor time for browsing aisles, scouring deals, feeling stifled by the marketing of clutter-some items I just didn’t need.
Online grocery shopping with the painless advantage of pickup without leaving the vehicle is an undeniable luxury – one that keeps me on budget and no longer requires me to lug two shopping carts down all the aisles as I excuse myself to every single shopper ever because I’m taking up all the lanes, only to end each excursion with a double-down Tetris round as I meticulously pack every item back into the cart, then again into the vehicle.
In those days, I ended each grocery shopping run like a flushed, wild-haired Supermarket Sweep contestant, and who had time for that?
No, sir; I’ll keep my curbside pickup just fine.
But back to our local salvage store.
For years, I was less and less enticed to stop in and shop because of its unpredictable merchandise, although I couldn’t help but acknowledge the prices were right, and always had been, no matter the product.
I have family and friends who love their local discount store for this very reason.
Oh what fun for the knitters of my family to browse the skeins upon skeins of yarn galore.
What a glorious feeling for friends who score the name-brand clothing deals. They are the patient ones, and they deserve all the bargains.
Until recently, I only perused this store strictly day after Christmas, because it was a near guarantee I’d find significantly marked down holiday wrapping paper well ahead of budget and next Noel season.
But as of late, fellow mama friends have nudged me along with encouraging assurance that I could score fantastic bargains on school snack hauls – Now that’s a hard one to pass up.
And what hauls I’ve since made off with, indeed.
My family and I recently embarked on a road trip that necessitated road snacks, and I found treats a’plenty at the salvage store for a deal.
Some of the snacks were bigger hits than others; some had mixed reviews, but all cost very little.
So, why are salvage store prices so low anyway?
Often products are nearing their expiration date, dented, damaged, or overstocked.
My favorite finds have been snacks or other food items that may include a promotion for a limited time offer of a movie or other deal that has since expired, but the food item at hand is still perfectly fine.
Items publicizing expired promotional ads such as these won’t be found on traditional retail shelves, so are re-sold for a fraction to the salvage shop.
Food items ranging from dented cans of tomato sauce to frozen foods still safe for consumption but marked beyond a stamped date are also often included in these finds.
As well, company product roll-outs that don’t quite catch on as hoped and produced en masse are often found – I’m looking at you, Hostess SnoBall-flavored coffee pods.
High hopes for sure, but no go.
I can’t stress enough that shopping salvage stores truly requires patience.
I’ve visited mine before with all the intentions of a fabulous snack haul only to return home dismayed with shopping bags empty.
But most recently on a particular shopping trip, I lucked out and walked down a random aisle – a road less traveled, you might say – and was face to face with rows upon rows of name-brand boots.
Garden boots.
I needed garden boots to replace my eleven-year-old beloved purple wellies that had spent more than their fair share deeply embedded in garden muck as my kids and I ran amok.
So beloved were the boots that cracks had formed in various areas, and I’d every intention of duct taping the cracks this year to squeeze out one more garden summer in their faded purple beauty.
And here I was, facing gorgeous replacement boots, a higher-end brand in a dusty rose color, just my size, dreamily comfortable, for an incredible fraction of the cost.
Perhaps the company merely had overshot their expected sales and so sold their overstock to this warehouse.
The world may never know.
But in that moment, these boots were not only made for walkin,’ but made for me.
That’s the satisfaction of shopping salvage in a moment just right.
Had I waited another day, I may have missed the opportunity altogether, and stubbornly spent one more summer in fancy duct-taped glamorous wellies.
So shop salvage with pride.
If you don’t find the knitting skeins you seek, there’s probably a dented stewed tomato can or two waiting for you.
And if you’re very lucky, you can score a fantastic snack haul for your kiddos and super fancy footwear to boot.
And that’s spinning no yarn.
– 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! <
The Rookie Mama
I’ve rekindled that old lost love for our local surplus and salvage store.
Alas, it’s the store filled with many, many, rotating and delightfully haphazard overstock items that replace themselves so quickly, inevitably one may regrettably think, ‘I should have bought it…’
Mainers, you know the jingle.
But my relationship with our town’s local discount shop had been an oscillating one.
And not just because you can buy oscillating fans next to the carpets next to the dog leashes next to the snow pants in said warehouse space.
I have had a years-long aversion for shopping inside stores, namely stores with erratic inventory that require any sort of rifling through of goods.
I became a mama precisely around the dawn of curbside grocery pick-up, a sort of kismet convenience so appreciated that couldn’t have come at a better time, and so I’ve been spoiled in that regard.
Just like that, no more had I the patience nor time for browsing aisles, scouring deals, feeling stifled by the marketing of clutter-some items I just didn’t need.
Online grocery shopping with the painless advantage of pickup without leaving the vehicle is an undeniable luxury – one that keeps me on budget and no longer requires me to lug two shopping carts down all the aisles as I excuse myself to every single shopper ever because I’m taking up all the lanes, only to end each excursion with a double-down Tetris round as I meticulously pack every item back into the cart, then again into the vehicle.
In those days, I ended each grocery shopping run like a flushed, wild-haired Supermarket Sweep contestant, and who had time for that?
No, sir; I’ll keep my curbside pickup just fine.
But back to our local salvage store.
For years, I was less and less enticed to stop in and shop because of its unpredictable merchandise, although I couldn’t help but acknowledge the prices were right, and always had been, no matter the product.
I have family and friends who love their local discount store for this very reason.
Oh what fun for the knitters of my family to browse the skeins upon skeins of yarn galore.
What a glorious feeling for friends who score the name-brand clothing deals. They are the patient ones, and they deserve all the bargains.
Until recently, I only perused this store strictly day after Christmas, because it was a near guarantee I’d find significantly marked down holiday wrapping paper well ahead of budget and next Noel season.
But as of late, fellow mama friends have nudged me along with encouraging assurance that I could score fantastic bargains on school snack hauls – Now that’s a hard one to pass up.
And what hauls I’ve since made off with, indeed.
My family and I recently embarked on a road trip that necessitated road snacks, and I found treats a’plenty at the salvage store for a deal.
Some of the snacks were bigger hits than others; some had mixed reviews, but all cost very little.
So, why are salvage store prices so low anyway?
Often products are nearing their expiration date, dented, damaged, or overstocked.
My favorite finds have been snacks or other food items that may include a promotion for a limited time offer of a movie or other deal that has since expired, but the food item at hand is still perfectly fine.
Items publicizing expired promotional ads such as these won’t be found on traditional retail shelves, so are re-sold for a fraction to the salvage shop.
Food items ranging from dented cans of tomato sauce to frozen foods still safe for consumption but marked beyond a stamped date are also often included in these finds.
As well, company product roll-outs that don’t quite catch on as hoped and produced en masse are often found – I’m looking at you, Hostess SnoBall-flavored coffee pods.
High hopes for sure, but no go.
I can’t stress enough that shopping salvage stores truly requires patience.
I’ve visited mine before with all the intentions of a fabulous snack haul only to return home dismayed with shopping bags empty.
But most recently on a particular shopping trip, I lucked out and walked down a random aisle – a road less traveled, you might say – and was face to face with rows upon rows of name-brand boots.
Garden boots.
I needed garden boots to replace my eleven-year-old beloved purple wellies that had spent more than their fair share deeply embedded in garden muck as my kids and I ran amok.
So beloved were the boots that cracks had formed in various areas, and I’d every intention of duct taping the cracks this year to squeeze out one more garden summer in their faded purple beauty.
And here I was, facing gorgeous replacement boots, a higher-end brand in a dusty rose color, just my size, dreamily comfortable, for an incredible fraction of the cost.
Perhaps the company merely had overshot their expected sales and so sold their overstock to this warehouse.
The world may never know.
But in that moment, these boots were not only made for walkin,’ but made for me.
That’s the satisfaction of shopping salvage in a moment just right.
Had I waited another day, I may have missed the opportunity altogether, and stubbornly spent one more summer in fancy duct-taped glamorous wellies.
So shop salvage with pride.
If you don’t find the knitting skeins you seek, there’s probably a dented stewed tomato can or two waiting for you.
And if you’re very lucky, you can score a fantastic snack haul for your kiddos and super fancy footwear to boot.
And that’s spinning no yarn.
– 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! <
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Andy Young: An abs soul loot game changer
By Andy Young
No one, least of all me, can afford to stagnate professionally. That’s why, in an effort to improve myself technologically, I recently decided to try out an “app” (I think that’s what it’s called) which, according to its creator, can sharpen up anyone’s writing, or at least the spelling part of it. Has it helped? You be the judge.
Pea pull who no me well R deaf in it lea awe ware I’m not reel lea inn two tech knowledge gee. But I’m also not afraid to add mitt when I’m wrong, and boy, was I miss take in about this knew spell Czech app I just started yew zing. It’s give in me fresh incite into the weigh I do things. Sum (though not awl) of the other methods I’d used bee four were just plane useless, but this gnu soft wear makes everything else pail bye come Paris sun.
Here in mane (wear our state animal is the mousse), nun of my previous N gauge mints with pro grams that purr ooze my spelling have been grate. Inn fact, most have provided no ade what sew ever. But to be fare, in the passed I’ve off tin felt blew when matt teary ills that were sup post too uh cyst me never maid any differ rinse. I new nun of those things maid buy technologists were worth N knee thing. In fact, nearly awl of them were waists of thyme and F fort.
I wondered if I had scene the last of my good daze as an edge you cater. I was all ways inn a fowl mood, feeling spiritually baron. Their were times I gist wanted to drop out of site, flea the staid of main, and hit the rode for sum place wear I could S cape the pane of all the sole-crushing tech knowledge gee, fig you ring it wood be good for what ales me. I kneaded a brake, gist to bear my sole (oar, if I whir feeling week, flecks my mussels) in some out door low cay shun wear eye could breathe sum fresh heir. If aye were aloud two, I wood put on a pear of old genes, fined a would den chair, and pro seed two go smell sum flours, swim out to a choral reef, wok in a reign foe rest, sit amongst the reads in a swamp, ore maybe reel axe beneath sum fur and/ore beach trees.
Of coarse, I’d half to tell the prince sip pull at my school, a former banned liter, before I hit the rode, not only to say high, but too let him no wear I was head did, in case he kneaded me. I don’t think he’d mined, butt cents he’s a fare and cay ring person, I’m sure he’d have tolled me knot to overdue things. And weather or knot hour principle mint it, aye bet he wood say I’d be mist bye the wrest of the staph. He’d also wont to make sir tin that I eight rite. I mien, eye sup hose I could all ways gist take an our ore two too visit a soup per mark it sew I could bye myself a thick juice E stake, butt I probably all sew ought to inn jest some hell thee foods, like maybe sum bran serial, a pare, or sum carats, just sew I don’t get the flew.
Eye gist proof red this; there’s knot won sin gull miss steak.
This A Eye is a maze zing! Y eye weighted sew long to try it, I’ll never no. <
No one, least of all me, can afford to stagnate professionally. That’s why, in an effort to improve myself technologically, I recently decided to try out an “app” (I think that’s what it’s called) which, according to its creator, can sharpen up anyone’s writing, or at least the spelling part of it. Has it helped? You be the judge.
Pea pull who no me well R deaf in it lea awe ware I’m not reel lea inn two tech knowledge gee. But I’m also not afraid to add mitt when I’m wrong, and boy, was I miss take in about this knew spell Czech app I just started yew zing. It’s give in me fresh incite into the weigh I do things. Sum (though not awl) of the other methods I’d used bee four were just plane useless, but this gnu soft wear makes everything else pail bye come Paris sun.
Here in mane (wear our state animal is the mousse), nun of my previous N gauge mints with pro grams that purr ooze my spelling have been grate. Inn fact, most have provided no ade what sew ever. But to be fare, in the passed I’ve off tin felt blew when matt teary ills that were sup post too uh cyst me never maid any differ rinse. I new nun of those things maid buy technologists were worth N knee thing. In fact, nearly awl of them were waists of thyme and F fort.
I wondered if I had scene the last of my good daze as an edge you cater. I was all ways inn a fowl mood, feeling spiritually baron. Their were times I gist wanted to drop out of site, flea the staid of main, and hit the rode for sum place wear I could S cape the pane of all the sole-crushing tech knowledge gee, fig you ring it wood be good for what ales me. I kneaded a brake, gist to bear my sole (oar, if I whir feeling week, flecks my mussels) in some out door low cay shun wear eye could breathe sum fresh heir. If aye were aloud two, I wood put on a pear of old genes, fined a would den chair, and pro seed two go smell sum flours, swim out to a choral reef, wok in a reign foe rest, sit amongst the reads in a swamp, ore maybe reel axe beneath sum fur and/ore beach trees.
Of coarse, I’d half to tell the prince sip pull at my school, a former banned liter, before I hit the rode, not only to say high, but too let him no wear I was head did, in case he kneaded me. I don’t think he’d mined, butt cents he’s a fare and cay ring person, I’m sure he’d have tolled me knot to overdue things. And weather or knot hour principle mint it, aye bet he wood say I’d be mist bye the wrest of the staph. He’d also wont to make sir tin that I eight rite. I mien, eye sup hose I could all ways gist take an our ore two too visit a soup per mark it sew I could bye myself a thick juice E stake, butt I probably all sew ought to inn jest some hell thee foods, like maybe sum bran serial, a pare, or sum carats, just sew I don’t get the flew.
Eye gist proof red this; there’s knot won sin gull miss steak.
This A Eye is a maze zing! Y eye weighted sew long to try it, I’ll never no. <
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Friday, January 31, 2025
Insight: Remembering kindness and tragedy
By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor
I’m not exactly sure how I became friends with Danny Meyering, but I’m certainly glad I did.
As an eighth grader at Carlton Webster Junior High School in Henrietta, New York in the fall of 1966, I was officially a teenager, and my family had moved to a new community and into a new house where I had my own bedroom. I was attending a public school for the first time at age 13 after many years of being in a Catholic school.
Danny Meyering was a year older than I was and he was always laughing and joking whenever I passed by him in the school hallways. One day in November 1966, Danny and I were assigned to spot other students jumping on the trampoline during gym class. Our job was to stand guard and prevent students from landing awkwardly and bouncing off the edge of the trampoline and injuring themselves.
While doing that he asked who my favorite football player was and when I told him it was Joe Namath, Danny grinned and said, “Mine too.” As the school year went on, he invited me to sit with him and some of his other friends at a junior high basketball game over the Christmas break and I had a blast.
One day over the holidays, Danny walked to my house and my mother made us some lunch. He brought some Marvel comic books with him and after eating, we sat at the kitchen table reading them.
In our first week back to school in January 1967, I noticed a poster outside the school library announcing tryouts for that spring’s school musical “Finnian’s Rainbow.” I thought it would be fun to audition and told all my friends, including Danny, that I was going to try out for the cast. Several classmates told me that afterschool activities were a waste of time, and that I would never be chosen for a part in the musical.
The only one who thought I could possibly win a role was Danny and he took the time to listen to me when I sang my audition song for him “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?” from “Finnian’s Rainbow.” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up even though I was horrible.
On the Friday afternoon of the audition, I was very nervous. Waiting backstage, I was shaking and could barely stand. When my name was called, I summoned my courage and walked out into the spotlight to perform the song for the musical’s director.
It didn’t go well. My voice cracked several times during the song, and I also forgot some of the lyrics. Without a doubt, my audition was one huge disaster, and I wasn’t selected for the cast of “Finnian’s Rainbow” when the list was posted on the auditorium door on Monday.
At lunchtime, I sat in the school cafeteria with Danny, and he noticed that I was feeling dejected about not getting the part. He told me that it really didn’t matter and at least I had tried. His comment made me feel better and helped me get over the disappointment I was feeling for flubbing my audition.
A week or so later in January 1967, a huge snowstorm hit the area, and the temperature hovered near zero. Danny decided to go ice skating at the town park on a school night and walked there with a couple of his other friends. On the way home, a driver ran over them with a car and left the scene. Danny was killed and police were searching for the hit-and-run driver.
The next day at school was terribly sad once the word got out about what had happened. It was like everyone who knew Danny was bewildered and shocked and was trying to come to terms with his senseless death. He was the first friend I had known who had died and it left me angry and confused.
A 18-year-old area resident called police and told them she thought she had hit something when she noticed a crack in her windshield. She was arrested by the police and charged with hit and run. Eventually her charges were reduced to leaving the scene of an accident.
Eventually that school year ended, and another started. My classmates and I moved on to 10th grade at Rush Henrietta High School. Danny’s memory and what had happened to him seemed to fade away for many.
Through the years I have thought about him and wondered what he would be doing today or if he would have had a family of his own if he had lived.
I never again attempted to audition for a school musical and instead, I stuck with performing with the school’s chorus. One of Danny’s friends that he introduced me to, Nick Vecchioli, has remained my friend for more than 59 years now.
The passing of time has not diminished my recollection of Danny’s kindness to me all those years ago and although I only knew him for a short time, I appreciated him for always being positive and a true friend, especially when I needed it most. <
Managing Editor
I’m not exactly sure how I became friends with Danny Meyering, but I’m certainly glad I did.
![]() |
Carlton Webster Junior High School in Henrietta, New York is where Ed Pierce went to school from 1966 to 1968. COURTESY PHOTO |
Danny Meyering was a year older than I was and he was always laughing and joking whenever I passed by him in the school hallways. One day in November 1966, Danny and I were assigned to spot other students jumping on the trampoline during gym class. Our job was to stand guard and prevent students from landing awkwardly and bouncing off the edge of the trampoline and injuring themselves.
While doing that he asked who my favorite football player was and when I told him it was Joe Namath, Danny grinned and said, “Mine too.” As the school year went on, he invited me to sit with him and some of his other friends at a junior high basketball game over the Christmas break and I had a blast.
One day over the holidays, Danny walked to my house and my mother made us some lunch. He brought some Marvel comic books with him and after eating, we sat at the kitchen table reading them.
In our first week back to school in January 1967, I noticed a poster outside the school library announcing tryouts for that spring’s school musical “Finnian’s Rainbow.” I thought it would be fun to audition and told all my friends, including Danny, that I was going to try out for the cast. Several classmates told me that afterschool activities were a waste of time, and that I would never be chosen for a part in the musical.
The only one who thought I could possibly win a role was Danny and he took the time to listen to me when I sang my audition song for him “How Are Things in Glocca Morra?” from “Finnian’s Rainbow.” He smiled and gave me a thumbs up even though I was horrible.
On the Friday afternoon of the audition, I was very nervous. Waiting backstage, I was shaking and could barely stand. When my name was called, I summoned my courage and walked out into the spotlight to perform the song for the musical’s director.
It didn’t go well. My voice cracked several times during the song, and I also forgot some of the lyrics. Without a doubt, my audition was one huge disaster, and I wasn’t selected for the cast of “Finnian’s Rainbow” when the list was posted on the auditorium door on Monday.
At lunchtime, I sat in the school cafeteria with Danny, and he noticed that I was feeling dejected about not getting the part. He told me that it really didn’t matter and at least I had tried. His comment made me feel better and helped me get over the disappointment I was feeling for flubbing my audition.
A week or so later in January 1967, a huge snowstorm hit the area, and the temperature hovered near zero. Danny decided to go ice skating at the town park on a school night and walked there with a couple of his other friends. On the way home, a driver ran over them with a car and left the scene. Danny was killed and police were searching for the hit-and-run driver.
The next day at school was terribly sad once the word got out about what had happened. It was like everyone who knew Danny was bewildered and shocked and was trying to come to terms with his senseless death. He was the first friend I had known who had died and it left me angry and confused.
A 18-year-old area resident called police and told them she thought she had hit something when she noticed a crack in her windshield. She was arrested by the police and charged with hit and run. Eventually her charges were reduced to leaving the scene of an accident.
Eventually that school year ended, and another started. My classmates and I moved on to 10th grade at Rush Henrietta High School. Danny’s memory and what had happened to him seemed to fade away for many.
Through the years I have thought about him and wondered what he would be doing today or if he would have had a family of his own if he had lived.
I never again attempted to audition for a school musical and instead, I stuck with performing with the school’s chorus. One of Danny’s friends that he introduced me to, Nick Vecchioli, has remained my friend for more than 59 years now.
The passing of time has not diminished my recollection of Danny’s kindness to me all those years ago and although I only knew him for a short time, I appreciated him for always being positive and a true friend, especially when I needed it most. <
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Andy Young: The pros and cons of a healthy walk
By Andy Young
Assuming nothing’s falling from the sky and the temperature is somewhere between 20 degrees and 80 degrees Fahrenheit, nothing is more invigorating than taking a brisk walk.
Few easily performable acts nourish the soul more thoroughly than hiking, striding, moseying, or, for thesaurus junkies, perambulating or locomoting. And that’s regardless of whether the hike, mosey, amble, trudge, perambulation or locomotion is done alone or with company.
Rural lanes, city streets, open fields, sylvan forests or, in case of foul weather, indoor shopping malls, are all fine places for a healthy jaunt. Walking is particularly beneficial for those of us who formerly enjoyed running but currently hesitate to do so on account of a replacement hip or knee joint. It’s also advisable when the surgeon who installed said prosthetic joint has threatened to slay any former patient who attempts to go jogging or heaven forbid, running, and thus put his handiwork at risk.
I’ve long since decided, for a variety of reasons, that going for a walk is preferable to running, particularly since it’s getting harder to find disguises that would fool my potentially homicidal doctor. That’s why, on a recent bright sunshiny, not-too-chilly, not-too-windy Saturday, I decided to treat myself to a hearty stroll. I was in an area encompassing sidewalks, residential areas, a business district, and even a glimpse of the ocean. What could be better?
Since I was by myself, I was a little more observant of my surroundings than usual, which meant I couldn’t help noticing a significant amount of randomly strewn detritus along my chosen route. Apparently those responsible for it had decided they couldn’t be bothered to find a trash can for their gum wrappers, energy drink containers, fast-food packaging and/or cigarette butts, and had opted to heedlessly discard them instead. This sort of totally avoidable blight briefly made my blood pressure rise, but then, reminding myself that the cretins responsible for these miniature eyesores probably make up less than one percent of our local population, I calmly soldiered on.
A few blocks later I came to a crosswalk on a heavily traveled street. Making eye contact with the oncoming motorist, I gave a wave of acknowledgement. Then, to show my respect and gratitude, I quickened my pace, though not into an all-out jog, just in case the driver was my hip doctor. I then resumed my leisurely stroll, satisfied I had shown appropriate courtesy to someone who’d routinely done the same for me.
Approaching another crosswalk moments later, I observed two cars that had stopped for a youthful pedestrian. However, not only did the street-crosser (“streetwalker” didn’t sound right) not acknowledge the drivers who had paused for her, she slowed her already snail-like saunter to a shuffle, her body language suggesting she’d have flipped both drivers the bird if only it didn’t require so much energy to do so.
Shortly after that I arrived at a busier section of town, passing a place of business where seven SUV’s, three trucks, and three cars, all with engines running, were waiting in line to pick up overpriced, over-caffeinated, sugar-laden drinks that were most likely going to be served in containers that take 500 years to decompose. I’m not sure which irritated me more: watching that exhaust-belching line of vehicles inch forward every 90 seconds or so or breathing in the foul hydrocarbons they were discharging. I couldn’t help wondering how many folks inside those vehicles waiting for their fixes proudly describe themselves as environmentalists.
I don’t know the precise age someone has to be to officially qualify as a curmudgeon, but I think I’m closing in on it. <
Assuming nothing’s falling from the sky and the temperature is somewhere between 20 degrees and 80 degrees Fahrenheit, nothing is more invigorating than taking a brisk walk.
Few easily performable acts nourish the soul more thoroughly than hiking, striding, moseying, or, for thesaurus junkies, perambulating or locomoting. And that’s regardless of whether the hike, mosey, amble, trudge, perambulation or locomotion is done alone or with company.
Rural lanes, city streets, open fields, sylvan forests or, in case of foul weather, indoor shopping malls, are all fine places for a healthy jaunt. Walking is particularly beneficial for those of us who formerly enjoyed running but currently hesitate to do so on account of a replacement hip or knee joint. It’s also advisable when the surgeon who installed said prosthetic joint has threatened to slay any former patient who attempts to go jogging or heaven forbid, running, and thus put his handiwork at risk.
I’ve long since decided, for a variety of reasons, that going for a walk is preferable to running, particularly since it’s getting harder to find disguises that would fool my potentially homicidal doctor. That’s why, on a recent bright sunshiny, not-too-chilly, not-too-windy Saturday, I decided to treat myself to a hearty stroll. I was in an area encompassing sidewalks, residential areas, a business district, and even a glimpse of the ocean. What could be better?
Since I was by myself, I was a little more observant of my surroundings than usual, which meant I couldn’t help noticing a significant amount of randomly strewn detritus along my chosen route. Apparently those responsible for it had decided they couldn’t be bothered to find a trash can for their gum wrappers, energy drink containers, fast-food packaging and/or cigarette butts, and had opted to heedlessly discard them instead. This sort of totally avoidable blight briefly made my blood pressure rise, but then, reminding myself that the cretins responsible for these miniature eyesores probably make up less than one percent of our local population, I calmly soldiered on.
A few blocks later I came to a crosswalk on a heavily traveled street. Making eye contact with the oncoming motorist, I gave a wave of acknowledgement. Then, to show my respect and gratitude, I quickened my pace, though not into an all-out jog, just in case the driver was my hip doctor. I then resumed my leisurely stroll, satisfied I had shown appropriate courtesy to someone who’d routinely done the same for me.
Approaching another crosswalk moments later, I observed two cars that had stopped for a youthful pedestrian. However, not only did the street-crosser (“streetwalker” didn’t sound right) not acknowledge the drivers who had paused for her, she slowed her already snail-like saunter to a shuffle, her body language suggesting she’d have flipped both drivers the bird if only it didn’t require so much energy to do so.
Shortly after that I arrived at a busier section of town, passing a place of business where seven SUV’s, three trucks, and three cars, all with engines running, were waiting in line to pick up overpriced, over-caffeinated, sugar-laden drinks that were most likely going to be served in containers that take 500 years to decompose. I’m not sure which irritated me more: watching that exhaust-belching line of vehicles inch forward every 90 seconds or so or breathing in the foul hydrocarbons they were discharging. I couldn’t help wondering how many folks inside those vehicles waiting for their fixes proudly describe themselves as environmentalists.
I don’t know the precise age someone has to be to officially qualify as a curmudgeon, but I think I’m closing in on it. <
Friday, January 24, 2025
Insight: The Stranger, Bookends and the Ring of Fire
By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor
Every single day, in some way, shape or form, music touches my life. And I’m a better person for it.
Last weekend, my wife Nancy and I spent time visiting several thrift shops and antique stores and we each found something to bring home. She is into sewing and with the time speeding by until a new grandchild is born in March, she’s been busy accumulating fabric to turn into clothing and other items for the baby. As for me, I always find a record album or two during these excursions to add to my growing collection.
On this trip, I brought home Billy Joel’s 1977 recording “The Stranger” priced at only $5, and Simon and Garfunkel’s 1968 “Bookends,” also for $5. I also bought a “Peter Paul and Mary” album for $3. Considering those to be genuine bargains, you can only imagine my surprise when I noticed a pristine copy of 1963’s “The Best of Johnny Cash: Ring of Fire” for $12. I brought four all-time classic recordings home for just $25.
That Billy Joel album remains one of my favorites, and I am lucky to say that I saw him and his band perform it live during his “Just the Way You Are” tour at the Frankfurt Zoo in Germany in 1978. I was stationed in Frankfurt in the U.S. Air Force at the time and a friend called and asked if I wanted him to purchase tickets for the concert. I was able to scrape up the $20 and the next evening, my wife and I joined our friend and his wife to walk two blocks to the zoo for the show.
The Frankfurt Zoo Auditorium featured a small stage facing 300 folding chairs with 150 on each side divided by an aisle. We sat near the aisle in the third row, and I was completely mesmerized by how great the acoustics were there. At one point, Billy Joel stepped off the stage and ran up and down the aisle while singing and I certainly felt that he gave a great performance that night.
If you’ve watched the movie “Almost Famous,” you’ve probably seen the cover of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bookends” album. It’s a black and white image of the two singers and in the film, actress Zooey Deschanel brings the album home and her mother, portrayed by actress Frances McDormand, disapproves. Deschanel says that the music of Simon and Garfunkel is poetry, but McDormand says “Yes, it's poetry. It is the poetry of drugs and promiscuous sex.”
The “Bookends” album contains an interesting mix of catchy tunes including “A Hazy Shade of Winter,” “At the Zoo,” “Mrs. Robinson” (from the 1967 film “The Graduate”), and “America.” Deschanel plays “America” from “Bookends” to explain to her mother why she’s leaving home to become a flight attendant. At one time in the 1970s, I owned the Simon and Garfunkel album “Bookends” on 8-Track tape for my car, but that’s another story for another time.
Growing up in the 1960s, I loved listening to Peter Paul and Mary but have never previously owned one of their albums. This was their first album on the Warner Brothers label in 1962 and includes classic folk songs such as “500 Miles,” “Where Have All The Flowers Gone,” “If I Had A Hammer,” and “Lemon Tree.” I was on my way to the front of the store to pay for the other records I had found when I noticed the “Peter Paul and Mary” album. Its cost of $3 was less than a gallon of gas and it promises to be a much-beloved part of my collection, especially since it was the first folk music album to ever reach the top position in America on the Billboard Popular Music chart.
The weekend after the New Year’s holiday, Nancy and I went to the theater to see the Bob Dylan biopic “A Complete Unknown.” Scenes in that movie depict the friendship between Dylan and Johnny Cash and although I’m not much of a country music afficionado, I am aware that Johnny Cash is truly a legend, and through the years I have come to appreciate his music.
Finding “The Best of Johnny Cash: Ring of Fire” album was indeed a stroke of luck. The distinctive purple album cover, and the LP inside it are in near-mint condition, and it’s a tangible piece of history now residing in my music room. Released in July 1963, sales for “The Best of Johnny Cash: Ring of Fire” grew over the rest of that year and it was the first #1 album when Billboard debuted their “Country Album Chart” on Jan. 11, 1964. Some new copies of the soon-to-be 62-year-old album are selling for $35 currently on Amazon.
With each passing day, I’m so grateful to have rebuilt my home stereo system last summer. I even have co-workers contribute albums to my collection. Over Christmas, Melissa Carter of The Windham Eagle was in Goodwill and found two old Neil Diamond albums which she purchased and gave to me.
For me, music rekindles past memories, it helps me travel to places I wouldn’t normally visit, and awakens my sense of creativity. <
Managing Editor
Every single day, in some way, shape or form, music touches my life. And I’m a better person for it.
Last weekend, my wife Nancy and I spent time visiting several thrift shops and antique stores and we each found something to bring home. She is into sewing and with the time speeding by until a new grandchild is born in March, she’s been busy accumulating fabric to turn into clothing and other items for the baby. As for me, I always find a record album or two during these excursions to add to my growing collection.
On this trip, I brought home Billy Joel’s 1977 recording “The Stranger” priced at only $5, and Simon and Garfunkel’s 1968 “Bookends,” also for $5. I also bought a “Peter Paul and Mary” album for $3. Considering those to be genuine bargains, you can only imagine my surprise when I noticed a pristine copy of 1963’s “The Best of Johnny Cash: Ring of Fire” for $12. I brought four all-time classic recordings home for just $25.
That Billy Joel album remains one of my favorites, and I am lucky to say that I saw him and his band perform it live during his “Just the Way You Are” tour at the Frankfurt Zoo in Germany in 1978. I was stationed in Frankfurt in the U.S. Air Force at the time and a friend called and asked if I wanted him to purchase tickets for the concert. I was able to scrape up the $20 and the next evening, my wife and I joined our friend and his wife to walk two blocks to the zoo for the show.
The Frankfurt Zoo Auditorium featured a small stage facing 300 folding chairs with 150 on each side divided by an aisle. We sat near the aisle in the third row, and I was completely mesmerized by how great the acoustics were there. At one point, Billy Joel stepped off the stage and ran up and down the aisle while singing and I certainly felt that he gave a great performance that night.
If you’ve watched the movie “Almost Famous,” you’ve probably seen the cover of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bookends” album. It’s a black and white image of the two singers and in the film, actress Zooey Deschanel brings the album home and her mother, portrayed by actress Frances McDormand, disapproves. Deschanel says that the music of Simon and Garfunkel is poetry, but McDormand says “Yes, it's poetry. It is the poetry of drugs and promiscuous sex.”
The “Bookends” album contains an interesting mix of catchy tunes including “A Hazy Shade of Winter,” “At the Zoo,” “Mrs. Robinson” (from the 1967 film “The Graduate”), and “America.” Deschanel plays “America” from “Bookends” to explain to her mother why she’s leaving home to become a flight attendant. At one time in the 1970s, I owned the Simon and Garfunkel album “Bookends” on 8-Track tape for my car, but that’s another story for another time.
Growing up in the 1960s, I loved listening to Peter Paul and Mary but have never previously owned one of their albums. This was their first album on the Warner Brothers label in 1962 and includes classic folk songs such as “500 Miles,” “Where Have All The Flowers Gone,” “If I Had A Hammer,” and “Lemon Tree.” I was on my way to the front of the store to pay for the other records I had found when I noticed the “Peter Paul and Mary” album. Its cost of $3 was less than a gallon of gas and it promises to be a much-beloved part of my collection, especially since it was the first folk music album to ever reach the top position in America on the Billboard Popular Music chart.
The weekend after the New Year’s holiday, Nancy and I went to the theater to see the Bob Dylan biopic “A Complete Unknown.” Scenes in that movie depict the friendship between Dylan and Johnny Cash and although I’m not much of a country music afficionado, I am aware that Johnny Cash is truly a legend, and through the years I have come to appreciate his music.
Finding “The Best of Johnny Cash: Ring of Fire” album was indeed a stroke of luck. The distinctive purple album cover, and the LP inside it are in near-mint condition, and it’s a tangible piece of history now residing in my music room. Released in July 1963, sales for “The Best of Johnny Cash: Ring of Fire” grew over the rest of that year and it was the first #1 album when Billboard debuted their “Country Album Chart” on Jan. 11, 1964. Some new copies of the soon-to-be 62-year-old album are selling for $35 currently on Amazon.
With each passing day, I’m so grateful to have rebuilt my home stereo system last summer. I even have co-workers contribute albums to my collection. Over Christmas, Melissa Carter of The Windham Eagle was in Goodwill and found two old Neil Diamond albums which she purchased and gave to me.
For me, music rekindles past memories, it helps me travel to places I wouldn’t normally visit, and awakens my sense of creativity. <
Andy Young: The simple pleasure of interacting
By Andy Young
About a week ago I stopped for groceries on the way home from work. I needed bananas, oranges, fresh spinach, brown sugar, and milk.
It didn’t take long to find everything on my list. I also picked up some blueberries because they were on sale; two boxes of store-brand Rice Chex, because I remembered I was running short of cereal; and a box of generic wheat crackers, because I went shopping when I was hungry, which I recalled too late was the first thing the professor for the “Personal and Family Financial Management” course I took in college told us never to do.
When I went to pay there was only one checkout line open, so I dutifully lugged my nine items to a spot behind a person leaning on a cart that was overflowing with groceries. She was behind an individual who was buying a bottle of wine, who was behind the first person in line. His numerous purchases were being scanned by an adolescent cashier, who then sent them down a belt to a second teenaged employee, who carefully placed each item in one of the customer’s cloth shopping bags.
It looked like I’d be waiting a while, but then, for no apparent reason, the tiny, older woman in front of me asked if I’d like to go ahead of her in line. I told her that wasn’t necessary, but she insisted. “No, really. I’ve got all this stuff, and you’ve only got a few items,” she said. “You go first.”
So I did, and got checked out in a flash, since both the cashier and the equally youthful bagger perhaps inspired by my new friend’s courtesy, were exceptionally efficient, friendly and accommodating.
That woman’s random act of kindness probably allowed me to get home three or four minutes earlier than would have been the case had we each maintained our respective places in line. But the generosity of spirit she showed with her tiny bit of thoughtful unselfishness has paid off in far greater ways than just that.
A few days later I made another post-work trip to the grocery store, got my 10 or so items, staked out my spot in the checkout line, and prepared to wait my turn. A moment later a young man who was probably less than a third of my chronological age got in line behind me, clutching a lone can of soda. I invited him to go ahead of me. The genuine appreciation he expressed made my already pretty good day into a great one. He enthusiastically pledged he was going to let a whole lot of people in front of him the next time he had a cartful of groceries, and I don’t doubt for a second that he has.
So why, a cynic might ask, didn’t I just get into one of the four self-checkout lines that the local grocery store has installed in order to save time?
I suppose I could claim it’s for the same reason I always walk into my local credit union and stand in line to cash my check, rather than use the automated drive-up teller outside: so I can interact with someone who is as happy to serve a cheerful person as they are grateful to have a job that feeds and clothes them and their family.
But the real reason I choose to deal with actual people rather than soulless, computer-powered machinery is a selfish one. I truly enjoy direct communication with other human beings and choose to believe they appreciate being cheerfully interacted with at least as much as I do. <
About a week ago I stopped for groceries on the way home from work. I needed bananas, oranges, fresh spinach, brown sugar, and milk.
It didn’t take long to find everything on my list. I also picked up some blueberries because they were on sale; two boxes of store-brand Rice Chex, because I remembered I was running short of cereal; and a box of generic wheat crackers, because I went shopping when I was hungry, which I recalled too late was the first thing the professor for the “Personal and Family Financial Management” course I took in college told us never to do.
When I went to pay there was only one checkout line open, so I dutifully lugged my nine items to a spot behind a person leaning on a cart that was overflowing with groceries. She was behind an individual who was buying a bottle of wine, who was behind the first person in line. His numerous purchases were being scanned by an adolescent cashier, who then sent them down a belt to a second teenaged employee, who carefully placed each item in one of the customer’s cloth shopping bags.
It looked like I’d be waiting a while, but then, for no apparent reason, the tiny, older woman in front of me asked if I’d like to go ahead of her in line. I told her that wasn’t necessary, but she insisted. “No, really. I’ve got all this stuff, and you’ve only got a few items,” she said. “You go first.”
So I did, and got checked out in a flash, since both the cashier and the equally youthful bagger perhaps inspired by my new friend’s courtesy, were exceptionally efficient, friendly and accommodating.
That woman’s random act of kindness probably allowed me to get home three or four minutes earlier than would have been the case had we each maintained our respective places in line. But the generosity of spirit she showed with her tiny bit of thoughtful unselfishness has paid off in far greater ways than just that.
A few days later I made another post-work trip to the grocery store, got my 10 or so items, staked out my spot in the checkout line, and prepared to wait my turn. A moment later a young man who was probably less than a third of my chronological age got in line behind me, clutching a lone can of soda. I invited him to go ahead of me. The genuine appreciation he expressed made my already pretty good day into a great one. He enthusiastically pledged he was going to let a whole lot of people in front of him the next time he had a cartful of groceries, and I don’t doubt for a second that he has.
So why, a cynic might ask, didn’t I just get into one of the four self-checkout lines that the local grocery store has installed in order to save time?
I suppose I could claim it’s for the same reason I always walk into my local credit union and stand in line to cash my check, rather than use the automated drive-up teller outside: so I can interact with someone who is as happy to serve a cheerful person as they are grateful to have a job that feeds and clothes them and their family.
But the real reason I choose to deal with actual people rather than soulless, computer-powered machinery is a selfish one. I truly enjoy direct communication with other human beings and choose to believe they appreciate being cheerfully interacted with at least as much as I do. <
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