Andy Young: Outgrowing a first love

By Andy Young

Nearly anything redeemable about who I am today can be traced to my involvement with baseball. America’s nominal national pastime helped me discover the relationship between hard work and success, acquire a sense of belonging, and learn the significance of being part of something bigger than myself. The social skills I picked up from my participation in the game have been more valuable to me than my ability to hit a curveball ever was.

Okay. Ever would have been. Full disclosure: I never actually learned to consistently hit a curveball.

But even after it became apparent that I lacked the ability to be a professional athlete, my close personal relationship with the game continued. I spent decades immersed in and around it, coaching, umpiring, and working in various capacities for a string of minor league professional teams. And while I never reached my original goal of becoming a major league radio/TV announcer, my journey was a supremely rewarding one. Many of the friends I met along the way have helped me attain the rewarding life my family and I enjoy today.

This year’s World Series between the Dodgers and Blue Jays, which concluded two weeks ago, was one of the most exciting in the game’s long history. That’s what reliable sources reported, anyway. I had to take their word for it, since I didn’t watch even one minute of a single contest.

Part of my rationale for skipping the series: the conscious choice I made some years ago to make my home televisionless. It’s one of the few decisions I’ve never for a moment regretted, since resisting the temptation to sit inertly staring at a two-dimensional rectangle is far easier when no such screens are readily available. But there are other reasons I’ve abstained from watching the World Series for the past two decades or so.

Another justification: I currently hold a full-time job. Each of this year’s games started at 8 p.m. Eastern Time. Two of them ended well after midnight, and another three continued past 11 p.m., an hour at which many of us who wish to remain gainfully employed have retired for the evening.

Fun fact: had I watched every moment of every game of this year’s World Series, it would have cost me 1m533 minutes of time I’d have never gotten back.

But the biggest reason for my tuning out major league baseball is money. This year’s average major league baseball player’s salary exceeded $5,000,000, although that’s somewhat deceiving, skewed by the annual compensation due to megastars like Shohei Ohtani ($70,000,000) and Juan Soto ($51,000,000). The median salary in 2025, a comparatively paltry $1,350,000, is bankrolled largely by stratospheric fees television networks pay for the right to air the games.

I have no quarrel with baseball players making the money they do. Unlike other workers ballplayers have limited available time to ply their trade. Their relatively short careers will probably end by the time they reach their mid-30’s. In contrast, teachers can go on teaching, nurses can continue healing, hairdressers can keep beautifying, and plumbers can continue to plumb at ages twice that of washed-up athletes. Ballplayers are entitled to whatever compensation they can get. Anyone in any field of endeavor who’s offered a seven-figure annual salary would be foolish not to take it.

Similarly, I don’t object to major league baseball team owners reaping huge profits any more than I would anyone else earning a living in their chosen field. Affluent young baseball players and even-wealthier owners have the right to amass all the money they can.

They just won’t get any of it from me. <

Rookie Mama: Put your head on my shoulder season

 By Michelle Cote 
The Rookie Mama

Once upon a time, November signaled pure adrenaline and deadline pandemonium in my life.

I was in my newspaper advertising era pre-kids, back when the lead-up to Black Friday promotions was a totally serious business prior to this National Sales-Flyer-and-Tryptophan-Recovery Day becoming a free-for-all with no real rules in place – Why wait until late November when merchants can push discount coffee makers and giant TVs fresh on the heels of back-to-school shopping-palooza?

But I digress.

Take my CMYK-printed word for it; Black Friday in its heyday of Kohl’s flyer pallets under lock and key in every daily newspaper’s mailroom was once totally serious business for sure.

Today, November is just as frenzied for different reasons – pande-Mom-ium, if you will.

Along with October, it’s a curious peak-shoulder season, a medley of all times of year compounded with alternating hot and blustery days, as blazing foliage drifts about and garden beds attempt to spring to life just for kicks, far past their bedtime.

It’s a final Cliff’s Notes weather summary before we end out on a December note with a Fa-la-la.

My family and I work diligently to better our seasonal shift-navigational skills each year, in an attempt to spend more time intentionally living in the moments as the summer closes up shop, sports run amok, and autumn monster-mashes in and back.

There’s much ado about buttoning up the season before snow flies and we hunker on down.

In October of last year, we ventured to a pumpkin patch on a sprawling, local farm to pick our future jack-o-lanterns.

In theory, the stage was set for a memorable adventure.

The day was bright and intentions were tremendous.

Yet near-meltdowns were had – as it turns out, the kiddos were the ones sprawling – and a Great Pumpkin-sized fortune was spent on what truly had become more of a time-sucking, tiring chore, Charlie Brown.

This year, we turned pumpkin-picking on its head and took a more practical approach.

My husband and I packed up our four boys, drove to much-nearer Walmart, and everyone picked out their prize pumpkin from the vast array in a giant box smack dab in Produce. Pumpkins were $3.97 each, everyone was happy, and we spent the difference from what we’d paid the year prior on apple cider, bacon, and egg nog.

A lot of it.

The elated moods were priceless, no one cried, and – did I mention there was egg nog?

Lessons indeed had been learned, for the win.

And like the frugal sextet we are, we made the most of those gourds by carving up creepy-funny hybrid designs, scraping every last scoop of goopy guts – the technical term, no doubt – into fabulous puree for delicious chocolate chip pumpkin cookies.

We roasted up lightly seasoned seeds for healthy, tasty snacks at home and school – All made possible by $3.97 pumpkins.

Oh my gourd.

Our traditions ebb and flow and evolve each year, but we try our best – albeit imperfectly – to cut unnecessary cost when we can.

And there’s no better time to reflect on this than a little shoulder season we call November, a month best known for a holiday rich with loved ones, hot food, and heapings of gratitude.

Can-shaped cranberry sauce is the icing on the cake.

And no matter the weather, as fall neatly closes to make way for winter’s persistent chill, you can bet on eggnog all month long.

­­– 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: Giving Back Isn’t Just About Charity

By Lorraine Glowczak

As our managing editor, Ed Pierce, has been called away to tend to a family emergency, I’ve been asked to fill in for this week’s Insight. I must admit, stepping into Ed’s shoes is a bit intimidating. His weekly reflections are rich with experience, journalistic grace, and heartfelt wisdom. I can only hope he’ll be gentle with his critique when he returns. (Ed, if you’re reading this…please, no red pen marks!)

It’s that time of year again, the season when we hear phrases like “giving back,” “helping those in need,” and “the spirit of the holidays.” They’re lovely words, and they’re true. But as I grow older and have gained more life experience, I’ve come to realize something deeper: giving back isn’t just about charity. It’s about building a supportive, thriving community where everyone has the opportunity to succeed and feel valued.

And if there’s any place that embodies that idea, it’s right here in Windham and Raymond.

When we hear the word charity, we often think of donations such as food drives, clothing bins, or fundraising campaigns. All of these are essential and make a difference. But charity, in the traditional sense, tends to be one-directional: someone gives, and someone receives. It’s often a quick, compassionate response to an immediate need, a short-term fix for a problem that might resurface again and again.

Giving back, however, is more than that. It’s about connection. It’s about seeing yourself as part of a larger whole and recognizing that what strengthens one person strengthens us all. It’s about relationships, understanding, and the belief that we each play a role in shaping the kind of community we want to live in.

When we give back, we’re not doing it out of pity or obligation. We do it because we understand that everyone’s well-being is intertwined. Helping others helps us, too. It reminds us of our shared humanity and restores our faith that good still exists in the world.

In my work in education, I wear many hats, and one of them includes coordinating Capstone Projects for high school seniors. Part of that work requires students to engage in meaningful community service, projects that require them to give of themselves.

At first, some students approach the requirement like it’s just another box to check before graduation. But then something happens. They volunteer at an animal shelter, mentor at the other schools in the district, provide volunteer efforts with the community per community requests, or find a volunteer request that is meaningful in their lives. Slowly, they begin to understand as they write their second reflection paper what giving back really means. More often than not, some are surprised to find that they gain something too, a sense of purpose, connection, and belonging.

Recently, one student wrote in one of his ELO reflections about giving back. “When you help others, your brain can give out chemicals that can boost your mood and emotional well-being. Small acts can make a difference. This means that no matter how big or small the act can be, the impact can still be a huge difference. While helping others, you can connect to yourself in plenty ways, like finding something new about yourself through your actions.” (Liam Moxey, Sophomore.)

I see examples of Windham and Raymond residents lifting each other up, while also lifting themselves. There are the volunteers who organize the Christmas Angels program, helping ensure local children have gifts and warm clothing during the holidays. There are those who quietly drop off groceries for a struggling neighbor or shovel an elderly friend’s driveway after a storm. There are teachers who spend extra hours helping students succeed and business owners who sponsor youth sports or donate to local causes. And sometimes, those who were once in need come back to give, when their lives begin to shine brighter.

As we head into the holiday season, we’ll hear many calls to give, to donate food, coats, toys, or money. And while all of that is important, I hope we also think about why we give. Do we continue that inspiration throughout the year?

Or, do we check a box, or to make ourselves feel good for a moment? Or do we give because we truly believe in the power of community, that each act of kindness, each hour of service, each dollar shared contributes to something larger than ourselves?

Giving back, at its heart, is not about charity, it’s about being connected and community bonds. It’s a way of saying, “We’re in this together.”

That’s what makes this community so special. Windham and Raymond is a network of people who show up, for neighbors, for families, for students, for one another.

So while I may never match Ed Pierce’s eloquence as his Insights, I think he would agree with this: the real heart of our community beats strongest when we give, not just out of charity, but out of genuine care.

Insight: The Skies the Limit

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

I recently had to fly out of state to attend an event and not having flown or visited the airport for a while, my best advice for those contemplating boarding a commercial aircraft anytime soon is to check your emotional baggage at the ticket counter.

When first reviewing the flight schedules for my destination, the thing that stood out the most for me was the difference in cost for traveling early in the morning as opposed to times later in the day. The least expensive flights are the ones departing around 6 a.m., and therefore those are the ones I chose. But the catch for flying that early in the morning is I had long layovers and waits to board the connecting flights to my destination.

Despite the early hour, I found long lines and crowded TSA security checkpoints in the terminals. I had been able to check in and could receive my boarding passes on my iPhone, but I wasn’t able to check my suit bag in that way, so I had to visit the ticket counter to do that. Before it could be sent to the plane’s cargo deck though, I had to pay $40 for that privilege.

Going through security, I discovered that you no longer are required to remove your footwear for agents to check for shoe bombs. But you do have to look into a specialized camera for facial recognition and present identification embossed with the REAL ID symbol.

On the way to the gate, I passed by several airport bars with patrons already visiting there at 5:30 a.m. and observed that the line of individuals waiting at Starbucks had reached more than two dozen.

At two different airports that I had flown into, the restroom was convenient, but I had to carefully select a stall to use because I did not want to set my canvas carry-on bag in puddles of an unknown liquid substance on the floor nearby. Also, at one of the Philadelphia Terminal F men’s restrooms, it had 12 sinks with soap dispensers for hand washing, but only two dispensers contained soap.

Boarding the airplane for my seat in Row 8 departing my home airport, my seat space was all of 22 inches wide. And even though the seat cushion can be removed and used as a flotation device during an emergency flying over water, it wasn’t very comfortable. And when you are wearing a coat like I was, buckling the seat belt is a challenge.

Fortunately, I was able to stash my carry-on bag under the seat in front of me, but it left no room to extend my feet beyond my tiny space on the floor. Having that option though was helpful as the surrounding overhead airplane compartments near my seat were already filled with backpacks and carry-on luggage even though our boarding group got to get on soon after parents traveling with small children, the disabled and those flying first class.

Each flight I took was on the same airline for this trip, so I found that each safety instruction briefing prior to takeoff was an identical pre-recording. None of the flights I was on offered water or peanuts, but if you wanted, you could purchase liquor or beer even if it was before 8 a.m.

While waiting for a connecting flight to my destination, I decided that I would look and see if any vendor selling food on the airport concourse had something I would be interested in eating. It was barely 9 a.m. and other than Starbucks, which had posted a large sign saying it was out of croissants and fruit cups, the only restaurants open in the airport at that hour were several unhealthy choices in Sbarro Pizza, Burger King or Smashburger.

I opted to purchase a cold drink from an airport convenience-like storefront. The choices were limited to two coolers containing tall cans of energy drinks with names I couldn’t read or decipher or a plastic bottle of Dunkin’ Donuts Iced Coffee.

The cost of the iced coffee also shocked me when I went to pay. No pricing was indicated for anything in the cooler or in the store for that matter and the digital register display showed that including tax, my 13.7-ounce bottle of Dunkin’ ice coffee was $12.99. And that particular store did not accept cash for merchandise, it only took smartphone payment app systems or debit or credit cards.

Even worse, about 15 minutes later while sitting at the gate waiting for my flight, I felt like I had to blow my nose. Ironic as it was, I had to return to the airport store and buy a small pack of Kleenex. I first looked in the nearby restrooms, but they did not offer paper towels, only electronic hand-drying machines and all toilet stalls were being used. I then felt fortunate paying only $8.99 plus tax for a small package of 10 disposable 3-ply tissues.

It’s been a few years since my previous flight and after this latest trip, my thought is that it's better to be on the ground wishing I was up in the air than up in the air wishing I was on the ground. <

Andy Young: Still living the dream(s)

By Andy Young

Traffic, as it inevitably does on weekday mornings, slowed to a crawl on the Merritt Parkway.

My first reaction: annoyance. The earlier-than-usual delay meant I’d be late for school.

Fuming because I was boxed into the right lane directly behind a bus full of schoolchildren, I spent the next 10 minutes inching along at five miles per hour. Finally, after crawling around a curve at a snail’s pace, I saw the bottleneck’s cause.

A sad-looking man was standing beside a car with steam billowing from beneath its hood. Irritated, I wondered why anyone would take such poor care of his mode of transportation. But I also couldn’t help noticing no one was stopping to help him, even though he had his thumb out. Feeling more empathetic than angry, I spontaneously decided to play Good Samaritan by picking him up and taking him to the nearest service station, even though doing so would make me even tardier for work.

But as I drew closer, I saw that the stranded man was none other than Willie Mays, who is considered by many to be the greatest baseball player the game has ever seen. Reassessing the situation, I realized the universe had arranged this meeting because Willie and I were destined to become friends. The selfless act I was about to perform on his behalf was no doubt arranged by some higher power to help accelerate that process.

Except … the school bus picked him up first! Not only that, but traffic remained snarled for another ten or so miles, which meant that not only was I late for school, I had to continue following that immense yellow vehicle, helplessly watching Willie Mays smile beautifically as he handed out autographs and tips on playing center field to every kid who asked.

I was still seething when it occurred to me that:

A) Buses aren’t allowed on the Merritt Parkway

B) I haven’t lived in Connecticut for three decades

C) Willie Mays died over a year ago; and

D) My alarm was going off, and my dream of meeting baseball’s best center fielder had been just that: a dream.

This was by no means my first such nocturnal imagining. Some years ago, I scored from first base on a home run by my Chicago Cub teammate Gordie Howe at Wrigley Field, even though in reality Howe was his generation’s greatest ice hockey player. Then a few months ago I awoke from a vivid dream of Montreal Canadiens center Jean Beliveau taking me on a tour of Biddeford in his monster truck.

Just last week I found myself grabbing a rebound in a college basketball game, and firing an outlet pass to my teammate Larry Dierker, a former pitcher for (and manager of) the Houston Astros. We broke downcourt two-on-one against a lone but familiar-looking defender. Dierker tried to get the ball back to me, but LeBron James’s defense was so effective that Larry, out of sheer frustration, fired the basketball as hard as he could, trying to ricochet it off LeBron’s hip and out of bounds. Unfortunately, it deflected off me before going over the sideline. “Larry!” I yelled. “Does my hip really look like LeBron James’s hip?”

We all smiled; it was a friendly game, apparently. But as I slowly regained contact with reality, I recalled that neither Larry or LeBron had ever played college basketball. And as I shook loose the last of the cobwebs, I reluctantly remembered that I definitely hadn’t either.

So, what do all these bizarre overnight athletically themed fantasies mean? Don’t ask me. I don’t analyze ‘em; I just dream ‘em. <

Insight: Is this the party to whom I am speaking?

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Four years ago on Nov. 9, 2021, I was sitting at my kitchen table eating alone and wondering how events were about to transform my life.

Robert 'Bob' Boyd was an example of
courage and inspiration for Ed Pierce
and could imitate the voice of Kermit
the Frog. COURTESY PHOTO     

Just 17 years earlier, I had no idea that someone I had met recently for the first time while on a vacation trip would have such a profound effect upon me and how that person became an example of courage and inspiration for me.

Robert Stanley Boyd grew up in Winooski, Vermont and was five years older than me. I had married Bob’s youngest sister Nancy in June 2005, and I had not met him in person before flying to Vermont for a weeklong trip to my wife’s hometown that fall.

Entering the mudroom to the home in Essex Junction, Vermont where Bob lived with his wife, Jacinthe, Nancy pointed out a mountain of shoes stacked up there as wearing shoes was not permitted in their spotlessly clean home.

Despite never having met Bob before, he gave me a gigantic bear hug and rattled off a dozen or more corny jokes, followed by the silliest of laughs. We became close, and I found it fascinating that the lost art of sarcasm dwelled within Bob Boyd. He played the guitar during church services and knew all the words to the same songs from the 1960s that I did.

In fact, from the first time that I met him and each subsequent trip to his home thereafter, a music channel playing classic hits from the 1960s was always playing on his television.

He complained about everything from high taxes to the price of mandarin oranges and made sure people heard him. When large trucks started something called “engine braking” in front of his home while nearing his town, he argued before the town council to forbid such a terrible practice there. During our next visit, he proudly showed us a sign about a quarter of a mile away from his house that prohibited “engine braking” on that street.

Bob delighted in telling me stories about when my stepsons were young and how he gave their mom some time off and took the three boys out for lunch at McDonalds. With a twinkle in his eye, he talked about how the youngest, Danny, kept shoving straws into his cup until he had put more than 200 in there. While his brothers thought it was ridiculous, Bob played along with Danny and said if he wanted to do that, he should be able to.

Something I had in common with Bob was that we had both served in the U.S. Air Force. We had long discussions about military life and how Bob had joined the Air Guard instead of becoming a Marine like his two brothers.

I also thought is funny that each time Bob called to wish us a happy birthday or to say hello he would do so using a voice and snort sounding like Lily Tomlin as Ernestine the Telephone Operator from Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In.

In turn, each time we called him, and I got to wish Bob a happy birthday, I would always ask him how old he was on this birthday and then tell him he didn’t look a day older than he was yesterday. He would always chuckle and say to me “at least I’m retired,” even though he would have part-time gigs working for a funeral home or giving directions to tourists while manning the information booth at the Burlington, Vermont airport.

On one of our visits to Vermont about 2015, Bob told us that he was sick of snow and cold and was buying a home in Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina where he could go fishing all year long. He loved it there and even flew Nancy down to visit him and Jacinthe one winter when she was on winter break from teaching her first-grade class in Maine.

About 2019, Nancy said she could sense some urgency in Bob’s voice each time he called and asked us to come and visit. We were soon to find out why.

Bob had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, and he underwent surgeries and treatment. His health declined and it was only a matter of time. That November day in 2021, Nancy was visiting Bob for perhaps the final time. Over Christmas week in 2021, I broke down and cried when I couldn’t find a Veterans Administration official to help Bob enter hospice care. I felt helpless as someone I truly loved was in such great pain.

Then on the morning of Jan. 2, 2022, we received notification that Bob had been admitted to a nearby hospice facility but had passed away.

This coming holiday season marks four years since Bob has left us and although he’s gone in many ways, I can still hear his voice or remember some of those stupid corny jokes he would tell. Or recall his silly impression of Kermit the Frog singing “Rainbow Connection.”

Every day I look at a photo of Bob on my dresser and imagine he’s out there somewhere laughing at something I’ve done. In that sense, he’s never left. <

Tim Nangle: The quiet public health service that saves Mainers every day

By State Senator Tim Nangle

When you think about essential public health services, you might picture an ambulance, a local clinic or a hospital emergency room. But behind the scenes, one of Maine’s most effective and cost-saving health services is the one you’ll never see unless you need it — the Northern New England Poison Center (NNEPC).

State Senator Tim Nangle

Based in Portland, the NNEPC operates 24 hours a day, seven days a week, connecting Mainers with specially trained nurses, pharmacists and board-certified toxicologists who can offer expert medical guidance within moments of a potential poisoning or overdose. Whether it’s a toddler who accidentally ingested household cleaner, an older adult who double-dosed a prescription medication or a hospital emergency department that needs toxicology consultation, the NNEPC provides immediate, lifesaving expertise.

According to the NNEPC Annual Report for 2024–2025, the Poison Center managed 13,814 Maine cases, including 11,546 human exposures and 606 animal exposures. Nearly one in four calls came directly from health care providers seeking advice on severe or complex cases. Maine’s hospitals, pharmacists and first responders rely on the center for expert toxicology support every day.

Children under six made up 36% of non-hospital cases, and an incredible 93% of those were treated safely at home with guidance from poison specialists, avoiding unnecessary and costly emergency room visits.

During a visit to the center this fall, I saw firsthand how a single phone call can make the difference between panic and peace of mind, or even life and death. As a former paramedic, I relied on the Poison Center many times for expert advice in the field, and I’ve seen how that guidance can change outcomes for patients in crisis. Every call is answered by professionals who not only treat emergencies but help prevent them, educating the public and medical community alike.

The results are clear: for every dollar invested in poison control services, the system saves at least $13 in other health care costs by preventing unnecessary ER visits and reducing hospital stays.

Earlier this year, I introduced LD 689, “An Act to Support the Northern New England Poison Center,” to ensure Maine continues to fund this critical public health service. The bill passed with unanimous, bipartisan support, providing $50,000 in each of the next two fiscal years to help strengthen the center’s operations and ensure Mainers can always reach a toxicology expert when they need one.

At the public hearing on LD 689, medical professionals and emergency responders offered powerful testimony about the value of this work.

Joe Kellner, CEO of LifeFlight of Maine and a Windham resident, shared how closely their air ambulance service works with the center. In his testimony, he reminded us of what’s at stake:

“When contemplating the merits of funding a critical program, it is important to evaluate what would happen should funding NOT occur. In this case, it is very direct — without the Center, at best, treatment outcomes are suboptimal and at worst, people die.”

LifeFlight transports over 3,000 patients annually across Maine, many of whom receive improved care thanks to the expert support of the NNEPC. This partnership between our air medical service and the Poison Center underscores how tightly integrated and essential this system is to Maine’s health care network.

Dr. Mark Neavyn, Medical Director of the NNEPC, told the committee that Maine’s state funding for poison control is “less than half that provided by New Hampshire, a state with a similar population, and less than Vermont’s, which has half our population.”

Smart investments in public health strengthen the entire system. When the Poison Center has the resources to support front-line medical staff, it helps every hospital, ambulance crew and emergency room do their jobs more effectively and keeps Mainers safer.

If you ever face a poisoning emergency or have a question, help is only a phone call away. Mainers can reach the Northern New England Poison Center any time by dialing 1-800-222-1222, texting POISON to 85511 or visiting nnepc.org for live chat support.

For the latest, follow me on Facebook at facebook.com/SenatorTimNangle, sign up for my e-newsletter at mainesenate.org, or contact me directly at Tim.Nangle@legislature.maine.gov. You can also call the Senate Majority Office at 207-287-1515.

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. <