Insight: Oktoberfest remains a Bavarian tradition in September

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Yes, it’s true, the real authentic Oktoberfest celebration in Munich, Germany takes place every year in September.

Kegs of beer arrive at the Lowenbrau Pavilion after being
pulled there by a horse-drawn wagon during Oktoberfest
in 1978.  PHOTO BY ED PIERCE 

In 1872, municipal officials staging the annual fall festival moved it up a month to take advantage of September’s longer days and warmer weather. Therefore, a famous event celebrating October has started in September ever since and traditionally ends on the first Sunday in October.

The only reason I happen to know this is because back in 1978 while stationed in the U.S. Air Force in Germany, I joined a dozen members of my unit attending Oktoberfest. We went on a Saturday because of work duties and chartered a bus to take us back and forth to the event.

While driving down the Autobahn to get there from our duty station near Frankfurt, I read about the history of Oktoberfest and why it means so much to Germans.

It seems that on Oct. 12, 1810, Prince Ludwig I of Bavaria, the grandfather of the castle-building Bavarian King Ludwig II, married Princess Theresa in their own version of a royal wedding. The public was invited to celebrate the wedding afterward and the Munich fairgrounds were designated as the site where the wedding reception was to be held.

There was an abundance of food, music and King Maximillian I of Bavaria, the father of Prince Ludwig I, issued royal charters to six different Munich breweries to produce beer for the wedding party.

Those six breweries continue to supply beer for the Oktoberfest festivities to this day and include Augustiner, Hacker-Pschorr, Löwenbräu, Paulaner, Spaten and Hofbräu-München. Each brewery has its own house and pavilion at Oktoberfest and are packed with long tables and waitresses wearing traditional Dirndl (a traditional Alpine dress consisting of a bodice, blouse, full skirt and apron).

I observed that to become an Oktoberfest waitress, you must be strong and resilient. They are expected to carry a minimum of four heavy glass steins of beer by hand while holding the stein handles to each table and to not spill any beer along the way.

Along with finding beer houses and beer tents on the Oktoberfest grounds, visitors can also enjoy traditional oompah bands strolling the grounds playing Bavarian folk tunes and polka music using deep brass instruments and accordions and wearing lederhosen, traditional short or knee-length leather trousers worn by workers.

Food is everywhere and showcases different kinds of German sausages called wursts. Weisswurst is popular during Oktoberfest and is a mild wurst made of minced veal and sweet mustard. Then there’s Brezn, giant twisted and salted Bavarian pretzels and Hendl, which is rotisserie chicken crispy and seasoned.

I passed on eating Schweinshaxe (roasted pork knuckles) but did try the Wiener Schnitzel, a cut of veal pounded nice and thin, breaded, and pan-fried in butter. For a side dish, I had Spaetzle (small egg noodles).

Going to Oktoberfest is like attending a state fair here in America. There are rides such as the Ferris Wheel and Oktoberfest-themed merry-go-rounds.

My German neighbors in Frankfurt told me that Oktoberfest truly is the heart and soul of Munich and exemplifies the Bavarian way of life devoted to home and hospitality. It is intended to have something for everyone who attends to enjoy and experience.

Every year there is a procession in Munich at the start of Oktoberfest with staff, vendors, brass bands and beer wagons hauling thousands of kegs from breweries to the fairgrounds. The procession is traditionally led by a Bavarian girl dressed in a black and yellow monk’s habit and known as the “Münchner Kindl," or Munich child. This procession is known as the Entry of the Oktoberfest Innkeepers.

Following the procession, the official opening of Oktoberfest takes place at exactly noon. The Mayor of Munich taps the first keg of beer and announces the Bavarian phrase "O'zapft is!" (It is Tapped!). 

No matter where you may be from, something you will hear a lot about during Oktoberfest is “Gemütlichkeit.” That’s a uniquely Bavarian feeling of warmth, welcome, and belonging and it’s something that those who host Oktoberfest want to pass on to all who visit.

Of course that’s not always the case. Just two years after I attended the 1978 Oktoberfest, a far-right terrorist attack using an improvised explosive device detonated at the main Oktoberfest entrance in Munich in 1980, killing 13 (including the bomber) and wounding more than 200 people.

There have been other occasions when the annual festival was called off. It was not held in 1813 as Napoleon was waging war across Europe and for a cholera epidemic in 1854. The Prussian-Austrian War in 1866 halted the festival as did another cholera outbreak in 1873. From 1914 to 1918, no Oktoberfest was held because of World War I. In 1923, a financial crisis in Germany closed the event. From 1939 to 1948, the festival was scrapped thanks to World War II and in 2020 and 2021, the COVID-19 epidemic shut things down.

Unlike in America where marketing agencies try to cash in on the Oktoberfest name offering everything from car sales events to fast food sweepstakes, German citizens remain proud of the legacy of Oktoberfest and do not overly commercialize it. <

Tim Nangle: Helping Maine families stay warm as cooler weather arrives

By Senator Tim Nangle

Cooler mornings remind us that another Maine winter is approaching. For many of us, that means thinking about how to fit the next heating oil delivery into the household budget. Heating oil prices are climbing, and I feel that pinch, too.

State Senator Tim Nangle

The war in Iran is disrupting global oil supplies and driving up heating costs here in Maine. According to the Maine Department of Energy Resources, a Sept. 14 survey put the statewide average at $5.77 per gallon. When groceries, housing and other necessities already cost so much, filling the tank can be a difficult expense to manage.

After spending most of my career in public safety, I know that keeping people safe starts with making sure their basic needs are met. A warm home is one of those needs. Nobody should have to choose between buying heating fuel, refilling a prescription, or putting food on the table.

That is why my colleagues and I worked this year to help Mainers manage energy costs. In the supplemental budget, we invested in electricity assistance for households with low incomes. We also authorized up to $1.5 million from Maine’s “Rainy Day” fund for emergency heating assistance during declared emergencies lasting more than 10 days. This gives Maine another way to provide emergency heating assistance when federal funding is delayed, as it was during the federal government shutdown last fall.

We also passed the Energy Fairness Act, which requires the Maine Public Utilities Commission to consider affordability for residential customers when making decisions. It directs a comprehensive review of electric delivery rates to identify ways to contain costs, reduce unpredictable swings in bills and improve transparency. Mainers deserve to understand what we are paying for and to have our household budgets considered when regulators make decisions that affect us.

These steps will not completely ease the strain of a costly winter, but they reflect a responsibility I take seriously: making it more affordable for people to live here.

As we head into the cooler months, I also want to share resources that may help.

The Home Energy Assistance Program, known as HEAP, helps eligible homeowners and renters pay part of their heating costs. Applications for the 2026-2027 season are open, and I encourage you to apply early. Renters may qualify, even if heat is included in their rent. In Cumberland County, call The Opportunity Alliance at 207-553-5900 to schedule a phone appointment. You can also find the online application by visiting mainehousing.org/HEAP.

For households with an extremely low fuel supply the Energy Crisis Intervention Program may provide emergency assistance. The program opens Nov. 1. If you are running low, call The Opportunity Alliance at 207-553-5900, explain your situation and ask what help is available. Learn more at opportunityalliance.org/ecip.

Also, the town or city you live in has a General Assistance program that may help pay for heating fuel and utilities if you cannot meet your basic needs. Contact your municipal office to apply. This is another place to turn if you need help before seasonal emergency assistance opens. 

If you are unsure where to start, dial 211 or text your ZIP code to 898-211. A specialist can help identify heating assistance and other local resources.

When applying for HEAP, ask about other programs like electricity assistance, weatherization and heating system repairs, too. Depending on eligibility, these programs may help with other energy expenses and make your home more energy efficient.

I know these bills add up and asking for help isn’t always easy. We have more work to do to make energy affordable, but support is available now. If you need help finding the right program or navigating an application, contact me at [email protected] or 207-287-1515. My office is here to help you find what you need to stay warm in the months ahead.

State Senator Tim Nangle represents District 26 including Windham, Raymond, Casco, Frye Island, and part of Westbrook.

The opinions in this column are those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of The Windham Eagle newspaper ownership or its staff. <

Andy Young: Making a contribution

By Andy Young

“Time is money,” Ben Franklin wrote in “Advice to a Young Tradesman,” an essay he penned in 1748. I’ve always thought that made a lot of sense, which was why 10 years ago, I decided to make my home television-free.

It’s a choice I’ve never regretted. The thousands (or maybe tens of thousands) of hours I’ve spent doing something other than sitting inertly in front of a video screen have been exceptionally well spent.

One of the many fringe benefits of having no TV is being spared the irritation of the ceaseless (and generally senseless) stream of politically themed hogwash that floods the airwaves during an election year. However, a recent spate of phone calls and text messages originating from area codes I’m unfamiliar with indicate that the lack of a video screen is no longer effective insurance against getting bombarded with campaign ads.

Resourceful political operatives have found new ways to inundate our consciousness with all kinds of propaganda. The text messages and phone calls I’ve gotten in just the past week verify that even for those who don’t do TV or social media, there’s no escaping incessant politically based electronic invasions, the bulk of which are an insult to our collective intelligence.

The upside to the recent spate of junk text messages and robocalls I’ve been receiving is that I’m clearly in high demand, given the frequency with which heavy hitters from both of America’s major political parties are lavishing their attention on me. However, given the tone of their correspondence, it seems these people are less interested in getting my vote this November than they are in obtaining access to my wallet and/or bank account.

Representatives of both candidates for Maine’s U.S. Senate seat have confided in me that they’d really appreciate my fiscal support, although I suspect every adult in Maine is receiving similar appeals.

But it’s not just Maine politicians and their hired guns who are vying for my affection, or more specifically my checkbook.

Somebody from area code 771 messaged me that a historic 13-star flag has been reserved in my name, and they will send it to me for a tax-deductible gift of $35 (or more, if I’d prefer).

The speaker of the United States House of Representatives texted me with, “You’re the key to our success.” I’m not sure why he thinks that, since he represents Louisiana’s 4th congressional district, and I’m not eligible to vote there.

I’ve also heard from the vice-president, several senators, and multiple high-visibility panhandlers from both parties, all of whom use a variety of come-ons to deliver the same basic message: “Give us your money, because if you don’t the bad guys will win, and you, the nation, and the world are doomed.” 

Given the still-rising cost of healthcare, groceries, energy, and just about every other necessity these days, I won’t be contributing money to anyone running for elective office this year. That’s partly because I’m not in a position to, but also because whatever I could afford to give would be dwarfed by the already obscene contributions both Democrats and Republicans are getting from corporations, lobbyists, and other special interest groups already financing the ceaseless attack ads every American who’s not a hermit living off the power grid will be getting swamped with between now and Nov. 3.

But if this army of partisan scroungers (both human and robotic) will take my advice, I’ll give them something of equal or greater value.

Stop pestering people like me for donations. Continuously attempting to shake us down is wasting everyone’s valuable time.

And as Ben Franklin sagely pointed out, time is money. <

Insight: Strength through Truth

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Before being reassigned from The Pentagon to a new duty assignment in the U.S. Air Force in 1981, I received word that I would be attending the Defense Information School at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Lawrence, Indiana.

Ed Pierce's class of military journalists gather for a photo
prior to graduation from the Defense Information
School at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana in 1981.
COURTESY PHOTO

It was a Department of Defense training site for enlisted military journalists from the U.S. Army, U.S. Navy, U.S. Air Force, U.S. Marine Corps, DoD civilians and the U.S Coast Guard. Never having been to Indiana before, I drove there in late August and upon arrival, I was assigned a room in the barracks and found out where DINFOS, the acronym for the Defense Information School, could be found nearby.

I quickly made friends in the barracks with three other U.S. Air Force airmen who were in my DINFOS class. Tim Wyatt and Chan Peter were both studying print journalism like me, and Rick Kerns was going to become a broadcast journalist. Tim was from Texas, Chan was from New York and Rick was from Virginia.

Because I had my own transportation, the four of us would make the short drive to Indianapolis to go to the movies, go out for dinner or sometimes just to get away and explore rural Indiana. After two or three road trips to the countryside, I came away convinced that Indiana farmers worked some kind of magic to grow pigs as large as they did. Some seemed as large as Volkswagen Beetles from the highway.

During the first DINFOS class, the instructor asked us all to write a 1,000-word essay about a television show and what we liked or disliked about it. The purpose was to identify the top writers in the group and have them serve as editors for four mock-up class newspapers.

After thinking about it, I chose to write my essay about the TV show “Dynasty,” not because it was my personal favorite, but because I could focus on the conflict between the show’s characters and the complex story plots. After reviewing all the essays from the class, four of us were singled out as editors and the remainder of the class were assigned to four separate teams under the direction of the editors. The teams were balanced out between experienced and novice writers, and I was directed to lead the first team as an editor.

Each weekday as military print journalists, we received training in how to conduct interviews, write articles and headlines and photo captions. DINFOS also provided us with lessons in how to design newspaper pages. Military broadcast journalists had separate DINFOS training for radio and television production.

Some training sessions were combined between print and broadcast journalists when certain topics overlapped, such as journalistic ethics or involving media relations.

Over the next two and a half months, we had extensive training in reporting about military exercises and deployments, fatal military accidents, and military protocol. We practiced gathering details and turning that information into news stories.

As print journalists, each of us had to complete an assignment for the afternoon daily newspaper “The Indianapolis News.” My assignment was to cover a speech on Veteran’s Day in 1981 made by Herbert Allison, 99, one of the last surviving veterans in Indiana of the Spanish-American War. It posed a significant challenge for me. 

As Mr. Allison was helped up to the podium to speak, torrential rain began to fall and his microphone failed. The speech was called off as the crowd gathered for the occasion ran to their cars. Soaking wet from being in the audience, I followed Mr. Allison to a tent nearby and asked someone from the Indiana Veterans Home if I could interview him for the newspaper.

They gave me a quizzical look and introduced me to him. I asked him what he had planned to say during his speech and he leaned in close to me and whispered, “I hope you all have a good day. Have a good supper.”

For the newspaper article, I focused on Mr. Allison’s military service in 1898, and his subsequent life working for a dairy and plugged in his quote at the end of the story. It was published with my byline the next afternoon.

The following week, my DINFOS team wrote enough articles to fill a four-page mock newspaper. Our top story covered a scoreless tie in a flag football game between two Army units assigned to Fort Benjamin Harrison. The most difficult part of this training for me was not being able to write articles for our mock newspaper. As an editor, my work was to edit articles produced by other military journalists, write the headlines and to design the newspaper.

On the next to last day of our training, all the teams attended a review of the mock newspapers by the DINFOS instructors. Our team’s newspaper received low marks for topic selection but was praised for accuracy and overall layout.

Two days before Thanksgiving, we graduated from DINFOS as military journalists, took one last group photo, said our goodbyes and exchanged contact information. I was headed to my new duty station in Arizona after a month off at home on leave.

At DINFOS, I learned that among military journalists, the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. <

Andy Young: Seventy-six very long years

By Andy Young

A study on centenarians conducted by the Chobanian & Avedisian School of Medicine at Boston University revealed there were 89,739 Americans aged 100 years or older in 2021. If they all lived in the same community, it would be America’s 400th-largest city, bigger than Danbury, Connecticut; Ogden, Utah; and Bloomington, Minnesota, but not quite as large as Santa Fe, New Mexico.

However, America’s total population when that study was released was 336,997,624, meaning a miniscule 0.027 percent of Americans, or about one out of every 5000, will live 10 decades or more. The chances of seeing 100 candles atop one’s birthday cake are slender, but they’re even longer for certain people.

Like, for example, those residing on death row.

Francis Clifford Smith was three months shy of his 102nd birthday when he died this past June. He had been convicted of killing a security guard during a botched robbery in 1949 and was subsequently sentenced to death. The state of Connecticut set an actual execution date for Smith eight times. On each occasion he got a reprieve, although the last one came a mere two hours before he had been scheduled to be strapped into the electric chair.

At the time of his death, Smith was living at the secure nursing home to which he had been paroled. All told, he spent more than 76 years of his 37,187-day life incarcerated. That’s a very long time, particularly if he didn’t commit the crime he was convicted of, which seems likely to have been the case.

Frank Smith was hardly a model citizen. He was sent to reform school before he turned 12. Later, while doing time at a youth reformatory, he escaped and assaulted a guard in the process. That earned him a four-year prison term. When he got out, he toiled as a numbers runner for some racketeers involved in illegal gambling.

On July 23, 1949, two men broke into the Indian Harbor Yacht Club in Greenwich, where they were surprised by Grover Hart, the night watchman. One or both robbers shot the 68-year-old, but before he died Hart told the police one of the burglars was wearing a bandanna, a bit of attire Smith was known to favor. He and his accused accomplice, George Lowden, were arrested for the crime, but Lowden subsequently made a deal, pleading guilty to second-degree murder and saying his partner did the shooting. Smith was convicted and sentenced to death.

Smith steadfastly maintained his innocence, and several post-trial developments suggested he was telling the truth. Lowden refused to testify at Smith’s trial, and three years after the conviction, a Connecticut-born inmate serving time in an Alabama prison for armed robbery confessed that he had been Mr. Lowden’s accomplice and was the actual triggerman.

The State Police Major who had interrogated Smith after he was arrested became convinced of his innocence, but Smith’s appeals were all denied. He never got another trial and was never exonerated, living out his remaining 76 years in confinement, eating meals that cost Connecticut taxpayers approximately $3 per day. He was haunted by dreams of dying in the electric chair. 

“It cooks you,” he told interviewers on more than one occasion.

Connecticut no longer has a death penalty. Nor, for that matter, does Maine, but 27 states still do. Proponents of capital punishment accurately point out that state-sponsored executions eliminate the possibility of violent criminals reoffending, but those opposed to permanently dispatching convicted murderers have what many would consider a more compelling argument: there’s no way of unkilling someone who’s been put to death for a crime they didn’t commit. <

Insight: ‘The Not Knowing’

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

That Tuesday morning started like any other day for me. It was a day off and I had called the previous week and finalized arrangements to bring my 1996 Pontiac Firebird to the dealership in Cocoa, Florida for service.

I had booked an appointment for 8:30 a.m. to minimize my time in the dealership’s waiting area. I needed an oil change and wanted the mechanics to complete the 50,000-mile maintenance checkup.

At the time, I was the only customer sitting in the waiting area and because it was so early, I wasn’t interested in purchasing a snack from the vending machine or looking at the stack of Car and Driver magazines piled up next to the chair I was sitting on. The service technician asked if I wanted to watch television, I said yes and he turned it on to Good Morning America and took my keys to the shop for the mechanic assigned to my car.

I was half-heartedly paying attention to GMA hosts Charlie Gibson and Diane Sawyer when it happened. And the events of that day are something I will never forget as long as I live.

As I sat and watched the dealership’s television, America was under attack as hijacked jets crashed into the World Trade Center towers in New York City killing thousands. I immediately thought about my late father and how as a sophomore in high school he was listening to the radio on a Sunday afternoon in early December 1941 and had learned about the attack on Pearl Harbor leading to America’s entry into World War II.

One by one, I was joined in the dealership’s waiting area by the auto sales manager, several mechanics, another customer and the service technician. When it started to sink in what had happened, I looked around and saw faces of astonishment that terrorists would devise a plan of hijacking and crashing airplanes to kill innocent Americans.

Soon the waiting area was standing room only as most of the dealership’s employees were crowded in there with me watching the live coverage. I looked away from the TV screen briefly to see if any of my family had called me and I suddenly looked up when a newscaster reported that another plane had crashed into The Pentagon in Washington, D.C.

Having been stationed at The Pentagon in the U.S Air Force from 1979 to 1981, I sympathized with those who worked there and what they were going through and was profoundly saddened by the lives lost in that attack.

I sat and watched at the dealership when each of the World Trade Center Towers fell and ended the lives of so many victims. By then my Firebird was ready, I paid the bill and drove home, listening to the car radio.

My emotions were those of sorrow and anger. I couldn’t believe what had just happened to the nation that I had worn the uniform of at home and overseas and had pledged to defend. I wanted those responsible for the tragedy caught and punished for their crimes.

Back in my apartment, I heard about Flight 93 which had been hijacked and was headed for another Washington, D.C. target when passengers fought the terrorists and forcibly crashed the plane in a Pennsylvania field.

As time passed that morning and on into the afternoon, I called my mother to check in and let her know I knew about the events that day.

She asked me if I knew anyone still working at The Pentagon and I told her that after 20 years, I probably didn’t but I was devastated about the people who died there in the attack.

When I hung up with her that afternoon, the world for all of us had changed. We were at war, lives had been lost and many others were about to be.

I believe we all had some sense of personal safety removed from us that morning. Those who went to work at the World Trade Center in New York City did not know what was about to unfold that fateful day, and neither did the flight crews, passengers, airport workers, people at The Pentagon or news reporters across America. 

What I do know is that countless phone calls were made that day to family members and friends expressing their love for one another.

None of us knows exactly how much time that we are given in life and it certainly all could end in an instant. It could come for us on the way to the grocery store, on a hike in the woods or simply sitting by the window reading.

The “not knowing” is certainly part of what makes life difficult and the events of 9-11 reinforced for me the stark reality that we are all subject to death coming for us at any time.

Yet, if there is anything positive for Americans to have emerged from that terrible day, we all learned we are not alone and we worked together to rebuild our future.

We also learned that family and friends and expressions of love matter. And Americans overcame the tragedies of 9-11 and survived, just as the nation will overcome future threats and challenges. <

Rookie Mama – Keeping it real with all the fall vibes

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end” – Semisonic

And just like that, we’re sprinting headfirst into autumnal transition; a whirl of reds and golds, soccer balls and crockpots.

Truthfully, the swap from summer sun to fall fun has quickly become one my favorite times of year. It marks the return of scheduled structure – We need those early bedtimes so we can take a beat – but autumn also presents a bit of a settling down and hibernation’s subtle beginning despite the frenzied swing of back-to-school things with a pumpkin-spiced dash of anticipation.

Sure, we pack up camp for the season; we bid farewell to pool noodle battles in the lake, to dueling banjo style fireworks battles across the banks of the beaches.

We whisper goodbyes to Christmas in Julys – rocking Noel in 80-degree-temps never felt right with me anyway – so we can prepare for the real Yuletide season that’s now sooner ahead of us and more distant behind us.

Fall is the shoulder season upon which I rest my head; whereas spring is a mad dash – less pumpkin-spiced and more espresso shots-times-twelve – of preparation for all things garden, waking up camp, putting all the final touches on carefully laid road trip plans of summer, doing all the school things before it’s a wrap, and spring sports.

The ultimate wake-up call, indeed.

It’s no secret that I much prefer the soccer mama style of fall in the crisp air under my husband’s warm “Class of 2000” fleece blanket, rather than the slight cringe of watching my high-school-aged baby play lacrosse of spring, a contact sport heavy on hitting–and being hit– with poles. I cheer proudly at all the games, but there’s no relax in LAX – It’s not for the faint of heart, friends.

The air turns a bit in an indescribable way at the end of August, with the slightest of cool coasting among the deciduous leaves as they prepare their swan song.

Our boys giddily hang the autumn leaf garlands across the hutch and windows in our home – I’d bought them on Michael’s clearance years before the babes were born.

We begin to creatively dream about Halloween costumes and play our favorite Monster Mash radio remix.

And in between, we crock on with yummy slow cooker roasts and stews and cozy up with Halloween-themed movie favorites rented from our public library. 

Truth be told, the anticipation of seasonal traditions to come often eases the goodbye to a season that is ending.

Our family had a fantastic summer with memories made as we splashed our best cannonballs and traveled more adventurously than we had before – After all, with all kiddos having long been potty-trained, there was nothing that could stop us.

But we’ll bottle up the giggles and ice cream cones, and outdoor movie nights among the singing crickets for now.

Sure, back to school routine is an adjustment.

But we look forward to those reds, those golds, those one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple Monster Mash tunes.

To slowing a bit down as we gather our harvest and spend a day making sauce from tomato abundance, or blanch beans and prepare for winter’s meals ahead – after all, growing our own produce is one of the best money-saving techniques for our large family.

There’s plenty to look forward to, as we set that mild hibernation into motion and put our gardens to bed.

Because before you know it, that dash of pumpkin spice will quickly become dashing through the snow.

And that’s the dashing season that marks my very favorite and anticipated of all.

So, until then, get your kids to hang your Michael’s-clearance-fall garlands, cue up “Casper,” fire up that slow cooker, and crock and roll.

Falleluia.

­­– 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!