Insight: Blowing in the Woodwind

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Following my mother’s insistence that I learn how to play a musical instrument as a teenager, I reluctantly agreed to try the clarinet, and it turned out to be a disaster.

She grew up during the Great Depression and was a fan of bandleader Benny Goodman, who happened to be one of the best clarinet players in America at the time.

To get me started, my parents took me on a Saturday morning to a music store where I could pick out a clarinet. My mother said she dreamed of me playing in a band and becoming as well-known as Benny Goodman someday.

But from the start, there were issues with the clarinet. At the music store, my father was reluctant to spend several hundred dollars for a new clarinet and case, and instead turned his attention to the used instruments which were much less expensive.

He selected one with a beat-up old black case that was only $15. There was a reason why this clarinet was placed in the discount rack as apparently one of the keys would stick and the mouthpiece was scratched. My father said it was a perfect instrument to practice on before I could use some of my own money from my newspaper delivery route to buy a new one.

The music store salesman also sold my father a small packet of reeds used with the clarinet. You would use your tongue to moisten the reed on the mouthpiece before blowing into the instrument. To me, it was like licking a small thin piece of wood and I detested it.

Responding to an advertisement in the Sunday newspaper, my parents arranged for me to attend lessons with a clarinet teacher for $5 a week every Saturday morning. His house was old and smelled like mildew and I quickly came to realize that learning how to play the clarinet would be extremely difficult. There was more to do than just blowing onto the reed and placing my fingers on holes in the clarinet and tapping various keys.

To make music, clarinets use multiple octaves using different fingerings and you are using every finger on both hands to play the instrument. The learning curve was formidable and at age 12, there were many other things I wanted to do with my time after school than sitting in my bedroom practicing scales on my clarinet until dinner.

When I reached junior high school that fall, my parents signed me up to be a member of the school’s band. The music teacher, Mr. Taylor, led the band and would choose music we would be playing for our annual Christmas and Spring concerts.

Every day during the period after lunch, we would gather in the music room with our instruments for band practice. Of everything I associate with playing the clarinet, that was the best for me because I got to sit between two attractive girls, Jackie Duane and Eleanor Gruver. One played clarinet like me and the other played saxophone. I couldn’t decide which one I liked more, but I never told them such.

By ninth grade, I had come to loathe the clarinet. I never really advanced beyond basic playing skills. My clarinet would constantly squeak when I tried to play the notes I wanted. Or several of the keys would stick when I played it, and I’d have to pound on them to make them unstick.

I would compare myself to others in the band and was amazed at how much better they were than I was on their own musical instruments. Each time I messed up during band practice, Mr. Taylor would stop the rehearsals and let me know about the mistakes I was making. It became intolerable and wasn’t much fun for me.

When I mentioned to my parents over dinner that I wanted to quit playing the clarinet, my father said nothing, but my mother had a meltdown of epic proportions. She berated me for wanting to play a musical instrument and then not following through with it. She said no matter how much I wanted to quit that she wasn’t going to let me do that. She said she wasn’t going to throw away all the money she spent on my clarinet lessons for the past three years.

It was a dilemma that I somehow had to resolve. I was a terrible clarinet player, and I didn’t like having to use the reed for the clarinet. I was never going to become Benny Goodman. I felt trapped into doing something I didn’t want to do in the first place.

One day after Christmas when I was in the ninth grade, I saw Mr. Taylor outside the band room, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him it was hard trying to live up to my mother’s expectations and he said he understood. He told me that playing a musical instrument is not for everyone and he would call my father about it.

The next evening, my father told me that I no longer had to play the clarinet if I didn’t want to.

So ended my time as a musician and I seriously haven’t looked back since.

Andy Young: The Extinction Bowl

By Andy Young

The College Football Playoff (CFP), a 12-team tournament that will ultimately determine this season’s national collegiate championship, begins this weekend with four games. The winners will move on to play higher-seeded teams, with the 11-game single-elimination tournament concluding with the Jan. 20 national championship game.

Truthfully though, it doesn’t matter which group of youthful mercenaries ultimately triumph. Each represents a multi-million-dollar corporation that, for the sake of convenience, has nominally attached itself to an institution of higher learning. This year’s field includes Texas, Georgia, Notre Dame, Ohio State, and eight similar athletic factories.

Regardless of which squad wins, every team involved in this year’s CFP will be back in the hunt in 2025 with revamped squads, augmented with the largest and quickest gladiators-for-hire money and similar inducements can buy. And while the contributions of influential alums will help pay for renting next season’s athletic soldiers of fortune, the bulk of the costs will be borne, largely through the courtesy of compliant lawmakers, by ordinary citizens who pay taxes and/or tuition.

I believe something of tangible value ought to be at stake in any meaningful post-season football playoff. That’s why America (and specifically ESPN’s programming department) needs the Football Elimination Tournament (FET), featuring the nation’s 12 least-successful Division I programs. This year’s lineup of gridiron sad sacks is clear-cut, since exactly 12 major college teams won fewer than two of the dozen games on their schedule. In the FET, the four worst squads would get byes through the opening round, just as the nominal top four get free passes through the initial round of the CFP.

The FET’s first quartet of games would feature eight one-win, eleven-loss teams. This year’s opening round would pit Dixie State (which, inexplicably, is located in Utah) against Delaware State, with Charleston Southern opposing Purdue, North Carolina A&T taking on Southern Mississippi, and Virginia Military Institute squaring off against Mississippi Valley State. However, unlike the overhyped, over-subsidized CFP, a win in an FET playoff game would entitle the victors to conclude their dreadful season, while the teams they beat would be forced to play on.

In the second round, the four Round One “losers” would play, in order, Kent State, Northwestern State (which, improbably, lies in the not-so-northwestern state of Louisiana), Northern Colorado, and Murray State. Kent State and Northwestern State would merit their pass through the first round by having lost all 12 of their games in 2024. The other two would get first-round byes thanks to having, among the ten teams that finished 1-11, the two worst point differentials. Northern Colorado scored 317 fewer points than their opponents, while Murray State registered an even more abysmal minus 341.

Assuming the higher remaining seeds play their way out of the FET by winning their second-round games, and that Murray State and Northern Colorado subsequently (and mercifully) end their horrible seasons by winning in the semi-finals, it would set up a loser-take-all showdown between the tournament’s last two remaining teams. But why would anyone care about the outcome of a game between two winless squads? Because of the stakes: the loser of the Extinction Bowl, Kent State or Northwestern State, would be required to drop their football program for at least five years!

Many of America’s major-college football programs (which most likely includes every team in the mythical FET) that aren’t affiliated with a major conference annually operate in the red, costing their schools obscene amounts of money. That established, the chance to rid one’s university, at least temporarily, of the fiscal sinkhole intercollegiate football has become would be a prize well worth competing for. <

The Rookie Mama: Tidings of comfort and joy and Mod Podge

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

We’ve got this, Mamas – Let’s close out this calendar year on a note of hope.

We’ve got to cross this holiday finish line together before we then jump to next year’s track, which from this vantage point might look ahead to be a big ol’ confetti blast of unknown.

But in this final stretch, I’d like to assure all that you can be the joy in this time of uncertainty.

Joy to the world, sure, but joy for your household is also an important endeavor.

And oh, what an endeavor during the month where it’s already easy enough to monumentally stress over the holiday season, let alone give a thought to the unknowns to come in the new year like bonus Yankee swap gifts you weren’t expecting.

Many of us polar plunge directly into this festive season with warm intentions to pace ourselves with a holiday head start, but the Sisyphean extraneous tasks find a way to tack on to our lists, along with concern for things beyond our control, beyond our immediate homes.

In this whirlwind world that at times may feel more like a Christmas ball of nerves, you can be the peace and hope in your own household for your littles.

In your home is where you can be the comfort and joy.

My ensemble of six spends December days steeped in sweet time-honored traditions that are not extravagant in cost, but rich in core memory-making.

A touch of frugal to our fa-la-la.

We make salt dough ornaments to frame small photos for loved ones – one of my favorite excuses to go bananas with Mod Podge – and we movie-marathon the heck out of our favorite holiday films as we eat microwave s’mores made with leftover Halloween chocolates.

Because those things have got to go.

I have enough musketeers in my household.

Another time-honored custom of ours is decorating gingerbread houses.

In the spirit of simplifying to be kind to ourselves during this time of year, we buy prebuilt.

Trust me on this.

As much as I pride myself in scratch-making lots in the kitchen, I have no shame in buying prebuilt gingerbread houses prior to SweetTarts and gum drop madness – Too many tears were once shed over royal icing and caved in walls years ago, and that solitairy ho-ho-ho hum incident was more than enough for us to walk away from that sticky disaster forevermore.

Lesson learned, just like the time our family declared ourselves independent from hunting down a suitable live tree and permanently migrated to faux fir, in all its pre-lit artificial glory.

But I digress.

Many simple Cote customs have become beloved over the course of our decade-plus of boy-raising.

We relish the magic (though it’s mustard for pork pies – a column for another day).

But the frugal tradition I love most is spending a day baking up a winter storm of fudge, cookies and reindeer chow to box up gingerly and deliver to friends and neighbors as we tour the local lights we’ve mapped out.

For more years than I’d like to admit – okay, 13, a whole teenage worth of ‘em – we’ve referred to this night as ‘platzing and the schussing,’ because it’s how Bing Crosby wondrously describes anticipation for snow when headed to Vermont in “White Christmas.”

It sounds like a beautiful way to describe ‘plotting and planning’ so ever festively, as if you had, say, magical sleighbells attached.

But as it turns out, ‘platzing and schussing’ are actually German words to describe skiing, and have nothing whatsoever to do with twinkling lights and delivering buckeye fudge.

Nonetheless, we’re sticking to the phrase like wet snow on sealcoating because we’ve invented the quirky new context for it.

Platzing and shussing – Catchy, right? – is about much more than those beaming lights.

It’s about our beaming kiddos as they become instilled in the work of creating something and giving to others.

It’s about spending our time, warming hearts, counting blessings – rather than sparkling gifts – and does not cost much to do.

It’s about a means to keep connected, to share emotions via warm conversations, not via social media posts for a moment.

Tidings of comfort and joy, in uncertain times around us.

So let’s close out this year on a hope-filled note.

Here’s to peace on earth, buckeye fudge, and platzing and shussing for all.

Be that joy for your little ones, and have the merriest holiday season yet.

And don’t forget the Mod Podge.

­– 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: Visitors from The Great Beyond

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

There are some topics up for discussion on social media that I’d prefer not to take part in. Recently I saw one that asked if you could bring back someone from your past who is no longer living, who would it be and why?

Since I chose not to answer that one for the whole world to see, I thought about it and decided to share a few people I would like to see again and speak to somewhere in The Great Beyond.

When I was a sophomore in college in 1972, my mother called to let me know that a good friend of our family, Elma Jolley, had passed away in Rochester. She was in many ways like a sister to my mother, who had been orphaned at 12. After being placed in a succession of brutal foster homes and orphanages during the Great Depression, my mother and her sister found a permanent home with a devout Catholic family in Rochester, New York.

The family had three teenage daughters but welcomed two other girls into their household. One of the family’s daughters was Elma, who became lifelong friends with my mother. Elma married a man who worked at Eastman Kodak Company, and they did not have children, but after her father died of a sudden heart attack in the 1950s, she and her husband took in her mother and cared for her for the rest of her life.

We frequently visited them and spent several memorable Christmas Eves with them over the years. Elma’s mother, Philomena Shay, was my godmother, and when I was confirmed by the Catholic Church, I chose the name of Elma’s father, Louis, as one of my confirmation names.

Whenever our family went to their house, Elma would instruct me to go to their basement and bring up some soda pop for myself and my brother. They kept 10-ounce bottles of Coca Cola, Orange Crush and 7-Up in a cooler down there.

In the summer of 1971, about a month before I left for my freshman year of college, Elma and her husband, Bert, came to our house because they wanted to tell our family some news. It was one of the saddest days of my life when Elma sat in our living room and told us she had inoperable cancer and would soon die. She was only in her 50s and I burst into tears. I told her that I wasn’t going to go to college with this happening and she immediately stopped me.

She told me that I had to live my own life and going to college was something that she never had an opportunity to do. She encouraged me to go and make something of myself and that God had other plans for her. She said she would be watching me and pulling for me from wherever she was going.

Five months later she was dead, and 52 years later, I still find myself thinking about Elma from time to time. It is comforting to believe she is up there advocating for me and somehow, she sees what I have accomplished in life. I sure would want to speak with her again.

My father left this world so suddenly on May 19, 1991. He had just turned 65 and was driving home after a day of visiting his elderly sister. While going 55 mph and in his own lane, a drunk driver headed in the other direction crashed into him near Kissimmee, Florida and he died after being cut out of his station wagon and airlifted to Orlando Regional Medical Center.

I never got a chance to say goodbye to him, but I know he was proud of me. From time to time when I was covering an event for the newspaper I was working for, I’d spot him unexpectedly while he watched me interview a football player after a high school game or in the stands at a college basketball game I had been assigned to write about.

When I submitted my college admissions application, it had originally listed my major as physical education. I wanted to be a basketball coach but was shocked when I arrived at college to discover that I was registered for numerous journalism classes. I thought there certainly must be some sort of mistake, so I asked to see my original application and found that before signing it as my parent and mailing it for me to the school, my father had erased “Physical Education” as my college major and replaced it with “Journalism.” It was there in his unique handwriting for all to see.

I decided to mention it to him on the phone that weekend when I called home. He laughed and said, “father knows best.” I didn’t press the issue because after my first few classes of “Journalism 101,” it seemed like something I was good at, and it changed my life.

The conversation with my father took place more than 53 years ago and I am still in awe that he had the foresight to envision a lengthy career in journalism for me. He’s definitely someone that I’d like to see again someday and to say thanks. <

Andy Young: Three memorable memoirs

By Andy Young

Anyone who’s lived at least seven decades has likely collected more than enough material to author an engaging autobiography, assuming the individual in question has the necessary time, motivation, imagination, endurance, and writing ability. However, since few possess all of those half-dozen assets in sufficient quantities, there have always been (and likely always will be) far more readers of such chronicles than there will be producers of them.

Many published memoirs are entertaining, inspiring, and thought-provoking. However, all are at least to some extent self-serving, since the writer controls both the anecdotes they’ve chosen to share and the context in which they present them. None of the three life stories I’ve just finished reading is an exception to this.

The authors, who were born in 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s respectively, all share fascinating stories, but the voice(s) they use to express them reveals far more than the tales themselves do.

In Taking the Stand: My Life in the Law, Alan Dershowitz chronicles his rise from humble beginnings to internationally acclaimed and admired litigator, defense lawyer of choice for the rich and famous, sought-after television commentator, and best-selling author. There’s no denying Mr. Dershowitz’s influence and importance. By his account he’ll employ any tactic that’s legal and ethical on behalf of his clients, many of whom he’s represented pro bono. But he also comes across as a world-class namedropper and egotist who’s rarely if ever been wrong. His lengthy (528 pages!) narrative is equal parts of passionate and narcissistic, which may at least partially explain why he’s been so successful. To borrow an old expression, after reading Mr. Dershowitz’s book, I’d like to buy him for what I think he’s worth, and then sell him for what he thinks he’s worth.

Al Pacino’s Sonny Boy is also a renowned individual’s life story, but one featuring numerous co-stars who are portrayed as being equally important to the author’s overall narrative as he himself is. Like Dershowitz’s book, Sonny Boy teems with references to multiple well-known people. But in Pacino’s book, the recognizable names are almost always referred to with gratitude by the author, and when he relates a story where another character comes across as less than attractive, he rarely mentions them by name. Pacino expresses genuine appreciation for his life in general, and for many of the people who’ve helped make it possible in particular. In a business where those who succeed usually possess outsized egos, Mr. Pacino seems an exception. His is a voice that speaks to readers as equals, rather than pontificating down to them.

But the best memoir I’ve read this month is One Stop West of Hinsdale, by Valerie Kuhn Reid. Hers is a clearly told, courageous and unembellished story involving coming of age amidst a family in crisis, the author’s continually-evolving self-awareness, and her ultimately coming to grips with an intensely traumatic past. Her clear, articulate prose, which is presented as a letter to her long-dead father, is rich in detail. The book clearly required extensive research, decades of self-analysis, and plenty of processing of past events that were in many cases undoubtedly as painful to recall as they were to originally experience.

Full disclosure: Ms. Reid is a friend of mine. However, even If I knew nothing about her, I’d recommend One Stop West of Hinsdale to anyone looking for a relatable, eloquently told, painfully honest story of a genuine human being’s ongoing journey of self-discovery.

Want to get rich quick? Go purchase some random item for what you think it’s worth, then turn around and sell it for what I think Ms. Reid and her wonderful book are worth. <

Insight: Been there, done Frat

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Whatever made a diverse group of college students choose a shy 17-year-old freshman kid away from home for the first time as that year’s fraternity pledge president, I’ll certainly never know.

Ed Pierce, right, is shown with
his fraternity brother Larry Brooks
at New Mexico Highlands
University in 1971.
COURTESY PHOTO

There were 10 of us in that group and many with more worldly experience than I possessed. As we gathered at the fraternity house in September 1971, it became apparent quickly that I was way in over my head. They were all older than I was and two had served previously in the military in Vietnam. Two others were college juniors, having transferred to our school after completing junior college. One fellow only had one leg following a car crash and had an artificial leg that he would suddenly take off to surprise people at parties.

I had just met these guys, and they knew little about me but here I stood after the first vote and chosen to lead this motley group as we tried to survive our time as fraternity pledges.

The first order of business was to protect ourselves from what was described by some fraternity members as “being kidnapped.” A group of frat guys would drop by unexpectedly in the middle of the night, put you in a car, drive you three miles out of town and make you walk home. To avoid this from happening and stay under the radar, five of us slept in one dorm room on campus while the other five slept in the dorm room next door.

Yet somehow at 3 a.m., the dorm room door flung open, and we barely had enough time to grab our coats and then squeeze into the back seat of a 1965 Ford LTD. It was a miserable, desolate and long walk home. It was cold and damp, there were plenty of rain puddles to avoid and angry dogs emerging from hidden driveways nipping at your heels along the way. But we all survived and made it back to campus safely.

As fraternity pledges we had to push the school’s cannon back and forth from the gymnasium to the football field and figuring out how to do that without running anyone over or blocking traffic was a tactical nightmare. Thankfully there were only five home football games that season, and we moved the cannon on Friday nights ahead of Saturday’s game.

Pledges gathered at the fraternity house every Sunday afternoon to study for what would be on our written test for induction into the fraternity. The local chapter had provided each pledge with a handbook of pertinent facts as to when and where the national fraternity was founded, and what each letter in the Greek alphabet was. But I came to the conclusion that no matter how many times we reviewed the handbook, some of these guys were just never going to remember the material needed to pass the test.

Another of our group tasks to complete as pledges was called “Escape Weekend.” We had to go somewhere as a group for 48 hours one weekend and not be seen by any other fraternity members. As it happened, one of the pledges’ family members owned a cabin about 50 miles away that was available. We cleared everyone’s schedule, loaded a cooler with ice, beer and sandwiches and all 10 pledges squeezed into the back of an old pickup truck with a camper and took off at 4 a.m. unseen by active fraternity members.

It was an adventure to say the least. One of the pledges, who suffered from PTSD after serving in Vietnam, brought along a pistol and he would fire it off indiscriminately outside when he had consumed too much alcohol. Unfortunately, one of those gunshots struck an elk on a property adjacent to the cabin, and we huddled together indoors hiding out and wondering what to do or if the police would come and investigate after someone reported hearing gunfire. Despite our fear and apprehension, nobody showed up, the elk disappeared back into the woods and by the end of the 48 hours, we were back in the pickup truck and headed back to the college.

The next Friday night, we all took part in something called “Three Fires.” It was a fraternity exercise where we walked alone to three different campfires at night in a large field and got to spend time speaking with active fraternity members about why we wanted to join them in the fraternity. They provided evaluations for each of us as pledges and pointed out our potential strengths and weaknesses. As for me, I was praised for my organizational skills and willingness to take on a leadership role among the pledges. 

One member told me though that he had apprehensions about me. He said that he couldn’t understand why I dropped Economics at mid-term despite having an “A” in the class. I told him that I was simply overwhelmed by the amount of reading required for that class and knew that it only got tougher after mid-term, so I chose to focus on my other classes instead and hoped I could someday take Economics again. He asked me to chug a beer in front of him to prove my worthiness and even though I detested alcohol, I did it, only to barf it out on my way to the next campfire.

By the second weekend of November 1971, our pledge class was ready to take the test and become initiated as full-fledged active fraternity members. One by one, we went down to the fraternity house basement for the test with blindfolds. Unbelievably, we somehow all passed.

When I look back now through the prism of 53 years later, I am amazed at how adept I was to survive pledging a fraternity and still maintain good grades in my first year as a college student. It’s an experience I wouldn’t trade today for anything.

Andy Young: The twelfth, not the last

By Andy Young

It was curiosity that led me to conduct an imaginary survey earlier this fall. The one-question bogus poll’s query was: “What’s the first word that comes to mind when you think of December?”

The unsurprising results were, well, not surprising. Of the 794 fictitious respondents, 53.7 percent answered “Christmas,” “Hanukkah,” “Kwanzaa,” or “holidays.” An additional 42.8 percent responded with “cold,” “snow,” “ice,” or “skiing,” and another 3.4 percent said, “New Year’s Eve.”

The poll was somewhat skewed by one individual (0.125944584 percent of those participating) whose response was “surfing and intense heat.” Here’s a hint for future information-gatherers wishing to administer meaningful surveys that will yield useful findings: when conducting climate-related polls, don’t include any New Zealanders.

If I headed up December’s marketing department, I’d launch a serious rebranding. There’s far more to the year’s concluding month than just holidays and the onset of winter.

Once I got the go-ahead from December’s 12-member board of directors, the first thing I’d establish is that the calendar’s final month isn’t the year’s last one; it’s the twelfth one! The difference is as stark as the contrast between day and night, near and far, or good and evil. Being last is a downer. The last person in the chow line gets the dregs, if they get anything at all. The last people outside the arena or theatre get the crummiest seats at the concert, the movie, or the ballgame, assuming it’s not sold out by the time they get to the ticket window.

Being the last pick at the National Football League draft has become somewhat noteworthy, but other than that the only three times in history when being at the end of the line was a good thing were: In 1876, when the last available uniform for General Custer’s 7th cavalry regiment had been handed out; in 1912, when the Titanic’s final berth had gotten filled; and in 1978, when the Kool-Aid supply ran out in Jonestown, Guyana.

Being twelfth, on the other hand, is always significant. Don’t believe it? Why then are there twelve eggs in a dozen? Why do two twelve-hour periods make up a day? Why are there twelve inches in a foot, twelve people on a jury, and twelve signs of the zodiac?

The apostles Marvin, Orlando, Betty, and Sharon (yes, there were women apostles, but the misogynistic chroniclers of the day wrote them out of history) had wanted to be present at the last supper, but there was a reason only Andrew, Bartholomew, James the Greater, James the Lesser, John, Judas Iscariot, Jude, Matthew, Peter, Phillip, Simon and Thomas got invites: there were exactly one dozen tribes of Israel, which is why Jesus wanted twelve (and only twelve) guests to share His last meal with Him.

There’s a reason Shakespeare didn’t author a play called The 8th Night, and Hollywood never made movies called Ten Angry Men, Eleven O’Clock High, The Dirty Baker’s Dozen, Thirty-five Monkeys, or The Fifteen Chairs.

Even casual football fans know Tom Brady’s uniform number. But the quarterback who engineered six New England Patriot Super Bowl victories (and one for some forgettable squad with weird uniforms) isn’t the only number-12-wearing Hall of Fame quarterback to call signals for an NFL championship team. Joe Namath, Terry Bradshaw, Bob Griese, Roger Staubach, Ken Stabler and Aaron Rodgers all did it, too.

Is there something magic about the number twelve? It seems plausible, given that Henry Armstrong, the only man to ever hold three world boxing championships (featherweight, welterweight, and lightweight) simultaneously, was born on December 12, 1912.

And for those still unconvinced of twelve’s significance, well……try counting your ribs! <

Insight: Instrumental to my happiness

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Music is such an integral part of our daily lives that it’s hard to imagine what the world would be like without it.

Nancy Pierce, left, and her school principal Mary Jane Cooney,
right, meet singer Peter Noone before the Herman's Hermits
concert in Laconia, New Hampshire in September 2016.
PHOTO BY ED PIERCE

The people who create, compose and play music are observers of life, of possibilities, of tragedies and of joy. They inspire us and provide the soundtrack for each of our lives.

Here are a couple of stories about how I met several musicians whose songs are still remembered today.

In 1973, I was fortunate to be nominated to work for the Student Entertainment Committee at New Mexico Highlands University. The committee’s mission was to use fees appropriated during student registration to bring nationally known musicians and entertainers to perform on our campus. We booked bands and selected available dates for their performances.

After the dates were booked and confirmed, and once the performers arrived in town for their shows, committee members would assist them with transportation to and from the shows or locate area restaurants or other activities they requested.

Being a fan of progressive country in the early 1970s, I had both of B.W. Stevenson’s first two albums, once self-titled and the other called “Lead Free.” His music was powerful and ranged from singing about heartbreak to understanding the human condition. When I learned that the committee had booked him to perform a concert at our school, I volunteered to assist him and his band while they were in town.

They arrived by tour bus late in the evening the day before their show. I met Stevenson, who promptly instructed me to call him “Buck,” short for his nickname, Buckwheat. We made sure that the hotel suite he had chosen for his band was satisfactory and the next day I guided Stevenson and the band to the auditorium for a sound check prior to the concert.

While waiting backstage to be introduced, Stevenson pulled me aside and asked me if I knew of any parties or things to do in town after the concert. I told him that my fraternity was having a party with a keg of beer later and I invited him and the band to stop by. During the concert, Stevenson performed songs from his latest album, and I really liked one of them called “My Maria.” It was a smash hit for him and is the song he is most remembered for today.

After the concert, Stevenson and his band did indeed drop by our fraternity house and I had him autograph his albums in my collection. I found it incredible that I was standing and talking with someone whose music was all over the radio and it’s a memory that I cherish to this day. I was saddened to learn 14 years later that Stevenson had died at the age of 38 following open-heart surgery in Texas.

In 2016, I was the Editor of the daily newspaper in Laconia, New Hampshire and wanted to write about an upcoming concert there featuring Peter Noone of the 1960s band Herman’s Hermits. Event organizers gave me his cell phone number and I called him in California and did a phone interview with him while he was waiting to board a plane for the East Coast.

I asked him lots of questions about his career and his music and by the time that lengthy phone conversation ended, I felt like I understood Peter better and it was evident that his charisma, personality and talent were a major factor in his success. He had first started with the band as a 15-year-old lead singer and said he was proud of what he had accomplished in his career. He mentioned a fact I didn’t know that in 1965, Herman’s Hermits had sold more records worldwide than The Beatles did.

To me, Noone came across as down to earth, candid and humorous. I told him that I could recall dancing to one of his songs called "Listen People" with one of my classmates, Janet McGraw Howland, at a dance at Carlton Webster Junior High School in Henrietta, New York and he laughed and said, “Don’t we all wish we were young again?”

Before ending our conversation, I asked Noone if I could bring my wife Nancy backstage before the show to meet him and take a photo. He agreed to do so, and we got to his concert early and met up with my wife’s boss, Mary Jane Cooney, who was also attending the show. She was the principal of the Holy Trinity Catholic School in Laconia and when I told her we were going backstage to meet Peter Noone, she asked if she could go with us.

The three of us then met Peter and he graciously let us take photographs with him. He thanked me for writing about his concert for the newspaper and we returned to our seats. During the show, he dazzled the audience with some of Herman's Hermits' biggest hits such as “Mrs. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter,” or “Can’t You Hear My Heartbeat,” "I'm Henry the VIII, I Am," and “I’m Into Something Good.”

A week or so later, Noone sent me an autographed photo and a CD of Herman’s Hermits’ greatest hits. Without reservation, I can say he’s as genuine as they get and remains one of my all-time favorite entertainers.

As a journalist, through the years I’ve met and interviewed many singers, but these two really stand out. <

Andy Young: Where do missing items go?

By Andy Young

I’ve lived just 10 hours of my life in Oregon, but two of them, which I spent having lunch with a friend in his hometown of Yachats, were so enjoyable that before leaving I purchased a cloth shopping bag with the town’s name emblazoned on it. Such washable carryalls are useful mementos, since they can serve as reliable containers of groceries, towels, or any reasonably-sized items that need transporting from one location to another.

I never leave home without a cloth shopping bag. There are several in my car, and whenever I go biking, I’ve got one in my backpack. I even take one when venturing out on foot, just in case I’m feeling public-spirited and decide to pick up some not-too-icky trash while I’m nature-walking.

No two of my cloth totes are alike. Several bear the name of a grocery store. Others are souvenirs from places I’ve visited. One features the logo of the Hardware City Rock Cats, a defunct minor league baseball team. The one from Seattle’s Pike Place Market features a mini-pocket that my niece sewed onto it to cover an unsightly hole. The big blue one came from UMaine-Presque Isle. Each of those bags conjures a pleasant memory.

I’m still grieving over a particular missing one, though.

This past summer my son and I spent two magical weeks exploring Newfoundland. When we got to Cape Spear, North America’s easternmost point, I instructed my offspring/companion to take a photo of me prominently displaying the Yachats bag as we were taking a hike overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The picture he took that sunny morning came out beautifully, so I texted it off to my Oregon connection. Mission Accomplished!

But tragically, only two of the trio that went to Newfoundland returned to Maine after our idyllic and unforgettable adventures. How, when, and where the cloth Yachats tote bag got separated from us is something I’m afraid I'll never know.

I’ve probably lost hundreds of items over the years, although my inability to remember most of them likely indicates that in the grand scheme of things they probably weren't all that important after all.

The only other loss of something tangible that I’ve never quite gotten over was a high school soccer jacket with my name stitched on it. My coaching mentor gifted me with it, either as a reward for my serving as his loyal assistant for several years, or because he figured out that I was too cheap to buy one for myself. The jacket instantly became the featured outerwear item in my sartorial ensemble; I sported it proudly everywhere I went. I donned it one frosty morning in 1989 prior to boarding a plane for a cross-country flight, taking it off at midday after reaching the west coast, where it was far warmer.

Several hours later when the bus I was riding to northern California started getting chilly, I decided to put my jacket back on. The problem: I couldn’t locate it. After a few moments of frenzied panic, I came to a sickening realization: I’d neglected to pick up my first and only personalized coaching jacket from wherever I’d absentmindedly put it down somewhere at the San Francisco airport.

Hopefully the black jacket with “Coach Young” embroidered just above the soccer ball on the left breast is still out there making someone’s life a little bit better. I’d like to think it’s keeping a needy San Franciscan who shops at Goodwill warm at night.

But I’d be even happier if the individual wearing it were carrying their modest belongings inside a cloth bag with “Yachats, Oregon” printed on it. <

Insight: A bridge to the past

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

It’s that time of year when I go searching for a DVD of collected home movies that my parents made of our family when I was young.

The flickering images of treasured holidays long ago spent with relatives since departed always return me to my roots and takes me back to a simpler time and place, if only in my mind.

My mother and father had purchased a Kodak Brownie 8mm movie camera when I was just an infant and the first movie they shot was in 1956 when my mother took me on a bus trip to meet her cousin who taught at West Point Military Academy. The last few minutes of that film are of me at age 2 playing in the backyard in a plastic pool before my younger brother was born the following year.

The early part of that film was badly faded and can barely be seen as the movies were stored for more than 50 years in a box in a hallway closet in my parent’s home before I rescued them and had them put first on a VHS tape and later copied to a DVD by my friend Derek Suomi. There are more than 25 films that survived, and they perfectly capture what it was like growing up in our household and the unique personalities of people who came to visit us.

There are images of my late Uncle Bernie and Aunt Jeanette, Thanksgivings, Christmas celebrations, a snowball fight, birthday parties and a summer trip to Washington, D.C. in 1963.

In looking back at these images, I do recall my father dragging out the camera at certain times and the light bar he held to illuminate the scenes. Mostly what I remember about that light bar was how hot the lights were and looking up at it was rather blinding if it was pointed in my direction.

One of the films was taken at my sister’s wedding reception in 1966. It was the first time I had worn a tuxedo because I was an usher at the wedding, I had to sit with other members of the wedding party instead of with my parents and brother. I was situated next to my cousin Robin Wolf who was the flower girl at the wedding and my hair was slicked back by some Dippity Do gel to keep it manageable.

Another film showed my mother’s elderly cousin, Willie Newman, walking across his farm in Perinton, New York in the early 1960s. I remember how much my brother and I loved visiting that farm in the summer. He had a large strawberry patch where we could go and pick and eat as many strawberries as we wanted. I especially enjoyed the strawberry pies that my mother would make after a trip to Willie’s farm.

For one Thanksgiving dinner in 1962, my mother took the camera and filmed my father carving the turkey. It was amazing to see how everyone gathered around the dining room table that day was dressed up. The women all wore dresses for the occasion and the men were wearing white shirts and ties. My father was wearing a wristwatch that is noticeable as he is carving the turkey. It was one given to him by my mother on his 30th birthday in 1955. It no longer runs but I keep that wristwatch today in a jewelry box on my dresser in remembrance of my father, who died in 1991.

In that same movie, I spotted a large Oriental lamp my parents had in their living room going back to the 1950s. I still have it today, although it is in the basement right now as my wife and I have been looking for a new lampshade for it.

There’s a film included on the DVD of my 6th birthday party in 1959. I was dressed in a red fringe cowboy shirt, and I’m holding up one of my presents I received that year, a book called “Black Beauty” about a horse. What’s interesting in looking at the DVD is the difference in gifts that my brother and I received. Many of my Christmas and birthday gifts were books or for creative pursuits such as music or painting, while my brother received toy blocks for building or toy trucks.

There is movie footage of my late Aunt Bernice and Uncle Ray, my foster grandparents Bill and Ida Topham, the wedding of our family friend Jimmy Bartlett, and from when our new home was under construction when I was entering junior high school. I can watch as my father filmed me learning to ride a bicycle, and a memorable New Year’s Eve party in 1968 in which the party’s host filmed my parents kissing to ring in the New Year.

Watching these old home movies again always makes me nostalgic for the past and those I have lost to time. They are mementos of who I am, what I have experienced and who was there in that portion of my life.

These old home movies are a bridge for me and allow me to carry my past experiences into the present and not forget where I came from. <

Andy Young: Thankful for what I don’t have

By Andy Young

This coming Thursday is Thanksgiving, the national holiday when Americans gather together to formally express gratitude for all the blessings in their lives. In reality though, every day ought to be Thanksgiving for just about everyone living in the United States. Anyone wishing to dispute that should try residing for a spell in just about any other nation not located in northern North America.

Most Americans can, with a mere turn of the wrist, obtain water that’s safe to drink. The vast majority (though sadly, not all) of us have a roof over our heads and access to food, electricity, and reasonably clean air.

People with the correct attitude realize they have far more blessings than they can count. Anyone possessing good health for themselves and their family, a decent job, and good friends should realize they’ve hit the gratitude trifecta. It’s probably impossible for anyone with those three advantages to list every single thing that they’re thankful for, let alone do so in a 600-word essay, as I’m vainly attempting to do here.

I’m a big believer in appreciating everything I have. But sometimes I find it helpful to acknowledge some things I’m thankful I don’t possess.

For example, I don’t have a single immediate or extended family member in my life who is greedy, vengeful, selfish, mean-spirited, narcissistic, sneaky, and/or dishonest.

I’m grateful I don’t have collection agencies pursuing me over bills I can’t or won’t pay. I’m also pleased with not having a tyrannical boss, petty co-workers, or unfriendly neighbors to deal with. I’m thankful I’m not nursing any grudges, and that no one I know of is holding one against me.

I’m thankful I’ve never borrowed money from a loan shark, agreed to become a spy for a foreign power, or consorted with international drug smugglers. Had I engaged in any or all of those activities it’s likely there'd be a price on my head, not to mention a bevy of professional assassins vying to collect it.

I’m pleased I don’t live downwind from a paper mill, a slaughterhouse, or a sewage treatment plant.

I’m darned lucky to not need help getting out of bed every morning. I also don’t require any assistance in getting myself from Point A to Point B, whether that means traversing a room, a sidewalk, or a highway without aid. I’m acutely aware there are plenty of folks my age (and younger) who no longer have (or in some cases never had) those capabilities.

Another often-overlooked blessing: here in Maine there’s no reason to worry about being bitten by fire ants or poisonous snakes. In addition, I’m reasonably certain there aren’t any rabid skunks residing underneath my back porch. I’m also thankful I can remove my shoes at day’s end and leave them on the floor without having to worry about scorpions taking up residence in them overnight.

I’m thankful I don’t have hives, ulcers, acne, head lice, tennis elbow, insomnia, halitosis, shingles, nosebleeds, constipation, dropsy, bunions, jock itch, or any number of other maladies that one can acquire via insect bites, blood-borne pathogens, airborne transmission, ill-advised sexual activity, or just plain bad luck.

And like most Americans, I’m thankful to not have to endure another presidential campaign, since the next one won’t get underway in earnest for at least another couple of months.

I don’t know that there’s any verifiable scientific findings suggesting that maintaining a perpetual attitude of gratitude can extend the number of years in an individual’s life. However, based on the anecdotal evidence I’ve gathered so far, I’m convinced that doing so unquestionably adds life to one’s years. <

Insight: First impressions are lasting

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

When you meet as many people as I do in my profession, it’s hard to gauge what they are all about during a brief interview. Through the years I’ve relied on first impressions to help guide me in any future interactions after meeting someone initially.

Sometimes my first impressions of someone are correct and sometimes they are not. I suppose it depends upon the person I may meet, what they have going on at the time I meet them and how personable they may be.

On my first evening at the unit that I was assigned to while serving in the U.S. Air Force in Germany in 1977, I was taken around to rooms in the barracks and introduced to my new co-workers and colleagues. Some became my friends and some I avoided like the plague.

My unit sponsor knocked on one barracks door, and an Airman First Class named Greg Nelson answered. He had a Budweiser beer in one hand and the stereo system in his room was blaring Johnny Horton’s “The Battle of New Orleans” at a high volume. I shook Greg’s hand and noticed that just about every inch of Greg’s room was covered in empty Budweiser bottles.

When I asked him if he ever drank German beer, he shook his head and answered, “Never, a million times no. I prefer Bud.”

He said he would drive about 45 minutes one way just to buy Budweiser at the Base Exchange Store at Rhein-Mein Air Base and he loved 1950s hillbilly music.

My first impression of Greg Nelson, who was a fuel specialist, was here we were in Germany, renowned for brewing many different types of beer and he insisted on drinking Budweiser. I didn’t come away with a great first impression of Greg when I realized that he had consumed too many Budweisers that evening and was obviously drunk. About a year later, I learned that Greg had been drinking one night and tried to take a corner in a military Jeep too sharply and had crashed injuring himself and two other airmen riding with him near our unit. Not long thereafter he was reassigned to a base in the United States and I never heard from him again.

That same first evening I was in Germany, I was introduced to another unit colleague who lived right across the hallway from me in the barracks. His name was Sergeant Daryl Green, and he told me that he was from Brooklyn, New York and was a journalist like me. He invited me into his room and showed me his stereo system and a new turntable that he had recently purchased.

He asked me if I liked jazz, and I told him I didn’t listen to it much. Daryl showed me some of his record albums and said he loved jazz music and pointed out that many of the same jazz artists such as the Brecker Brothers, Idris Muhammad and Herbie Hancock would appear on each other’s albums.

Daryl and I became great friends and when he was transferred to be the editor of the base newspaper at Bolling Air Force Base in Washington, D.C., I didn’t know if I would ever see him again. That notion was proven wrong the next year when I was transferred to The Pentagon and many of the stories that I was writing there for my job were published in the base newspaper that Daryl was the editor of called the Bolling Beam.

We stayed friends through the years but unfortunately this past summer I heard from Daryl’s brother, who is a firefighter in New York City, that he had passed away. I had to inform several old friends from our unit in Germany about his death and that wasn’t easy.

My first impression of meeting a television actor in person was also favorable. I was assigned to interview Fred “Rerun” Berry from the old TV show “What’s Happening?” in the late 1980s. On television, Berry came across as a jovial comic actor who was overweight and would often poke fun at his physical appearance. Yet I found out that Berry was highly intelligent, very serious and deeply cared about keeping children away from using drugs.

He was touring the country visiting elementary schools and giving a presentation to young students that involved rap music, break dancing and Super Soaker giant squirt guns. His message to children was that there are many ways to feel good about yourself without taking drugs and it was powerful and effective.

When I shook Berry’s hand when I first met him, it was like I was suddenly drawn into his larger-than-life persona. I instantly felt welcomed by him and believed that I could ask him any question for my newspaper interview and that he would give me an honest answer. I was shocked and saddened to hear the news that Berry had died of complications from a stroke at the age of 52 in 2003.

I don’t know about you, but over my lifetime I’ve come to trust my first impressions and although they may sometimes be wrong, I’ve learned that my first impressions are instinctive and can be spot on target. <

Andy Young: Knowing when to fold ‘em

By Andy Young

Decades of life experience have shaped me into a generally cautious respecter of rules and social norms. I’ve been called many things, but lately “risk-taker” hasn’t been one of them.

It wasn’t always this way, though.

When I was in college, I rode a borrowed moped down a flight of stairs simply because someone dared me to. Later on when I was in charge of a residence hall, I used my master key to open a room so that some immature pals and I could stuff it full of crumpled up newspapers from floor to ceiling, a practical joke on the room’s residents which amused the rest of us greatly. It was only later that someone pointed out that if any of my co-conspirators had struck a match, the room, the dorm, my job and my future would likely have gone up in smoke. A decade later I took a slightly more thoughtful risk when I elected to sign up for the Peace Corps.

But even my younger self occasionally exercised some discretion. Four decades ago, I was introduced to diabolical poker game called “fifty-two.” It began with each player placing a modest ante (usually a quarter) in the center of the table.

The dealer subsequently distributed five cards to each participant. There was no further betting; everyone appraised what he’d been dealt, and then, starting with the player to the dealer’s left and proceeding in order, each person announced his intentions. Uttering the word “in” meant the declarer wished to continue playing; “out” meant his involvement in that particular hand was over.

Once that was done the “ins” received another two cards, evaluated what they had, and laid down their best quintet. Whoever’s five cards constituted the best poker hand collected all the money in the pot; the loser(s) had to match it. That meant that if four of the six players stayed in, one would rake in the half-dozen quarters, while the other three paid the pot a dollar fifty each. The deal then moved to the left, and the process was repeated. However, with $4.50 now in the middle of the table, anyone electing to play the next hand who subsequently lost would owe that much to the pot. If three players opted to vie for it, the two losers would have to pay $4.50 each.

That meant participating in the following hand (and not winning) would cost nine dollars. The pot continued growing exponentially until such time as a hand ended with only one player staying in and the other five folding. At that point the game ended, which gave everyone the opportunity to let his blood pressure begin descending.

Four decades ago, inside the barracks of a National Guard Armory in Kenai, Alaska, I participated in a late-night game of fifty-two and watched a colleague with three aces lose $864 to another of our co-workers who drew the fifth heart he needed to complete his flush. Since each of us was earning a total of $1,500 for two months of work that summer, I’d have seen losing $864 of them at the poker table as somewhere between catastrophic and apocalyptic.

By the time the game broke up that evening I knew for sure I’d never develop a gambling addiction. I also strongly suspected that I wouldn’t risk losing $864 on a single hand of fifty-two unless I was dealt four aces and even then, I’d probably have to think twice about it.

I don’t know that for certain, though. That’s because I haven’t participated in a game of fifty-two since that memorable night in Kenai. <

Andy Young: Even dumber than the lottery

By Andy Young

Like nearly everyone in America who voted thoughtfully in this year’s elections, I’m satisfied with some outcomes and less than thrilled about others.

At least I can look forward to a respite from the dozens of daily emails I’d been getting from Democrats, Republicans, special interest groups, temporarily motivated celebrities, lobbyists, and others pestering me for my money, my vote, or both. Another upside: campaign-themed ads have stopped filling the mailbox outside my home, meaning the junk mail I’ll be getting for the foreseeable future will be limited to the familiar circulars that trumpet the weekly specials at local grocery stores, appeals from various charities, and inducements to buy products I either don’t need or can’t afford.

Thankfully I am not among those whose health returned to normal only after the campaigning had concluded. My blood pressure was approximately 100 over 70 when it was measured at the Red Cross back in early May, and it was virtually unchanged this past weekend when I stopped by the Portland Blood Center again to drop off another load of platelets for someone who currently needs them more than I do.

That my health was apparently unaffected by the just-completed election cycle can be attributed to three factors. The first, of course, was dumb luck, since I wasn’t run over by a bus, bitten by a rabid animal, or stricken with any debilitating illnesses in the past 10 months.

The second was the conscious decision I made early this year to completely tune out every political pundit who makes their living pontificating about the election. Staying true to this self-pledge was made somewhat easier by not having a television in my home. However, I still had to make the effort to avoid using my computer to access any and all election-centric print, broadcast, or internet commentaries having anything to do with the popularity contest that decided who’d be America’s 47th chief executive. But doing so was surprisingly easy. After all, I’ve successfully gone years without watching a single moment of the World Series, not to mention entire seasons of college and professional football. For a male of my vintage, tuning out politics was a breeze compared to that.

But the most significant reason election-related hypertension hasn't troubled me involves an epiphany I had some years ago, when I realized that giving money to any aspiring presidential candidate (or to either major political party) is even dumber than playing the lottery.

A Powerball ticket costs $2. The chances of winning the grand prize are approximately 1 in 292.2 million. Some insensitive types have compared purchasing lottery tickets to flushing money down the toilet.

But at least lottery players have a chance, albeit an infinitesimal one, to get some return on their ill-advised investment(s). Americans remaining in touch with reality fully realize by now that the chances of an ordinary citizen impacting the presidential race with a financial contribution are exactly zero.

The previous sentence’s key phrase is “ordinary citizen.” If the contributor in question is Google, Apple, Amazon, a large labor union, or a corporation that sells oil, tobacco, pharmaceuticals, alcohol, firearms, or some other scandalously profitable product(s), well, that's a well-fed thoroughbred of a different color.

Anyone considering a run for the White House in 2028 will be wasting their time if they come to me looking for financial assistance. The only difference between giving money to presidential candidates and flushing it down the toilet is that tossing it to the politicians won’t clog up the plumbing.

And nearly all Americans agree Washington D.C. doesn’t need any more of what clogs up plumbing. <

Tim Nangle: Maine veterans need more than just gratitude

By Senator Tim Nangle

My father served in the Navy during World War II. He rarely spoke of the hardships, but his courage, resilience, and sense of duty showed me the sacrifices veterans make. My father's legacy is a constant reminder of the respect and care that every veteran deserves and needs.

State Senator Tim Nangle

Veterans are honored in towns and cities across Maine, from solemn gatherings on Memorial Day to celebratory parades on Veterans Day – proof that Maine communities agree that together, with state and federal lawmakers, we need to support services veterans’ needs with meaningful services too.

Maine's veteran suicide rate is 34.5 per 100,000, much higher than the state's general population rate of 23.9 per 100,000. These numbers show a troubling gap in specific mental health and crisis support. The concern is especially urgent for Maine veterans aged 55 to 74, who face the highest suicide rate at 40.8 per 100,000. Too many veterans are not receiving the care they need, and many experience isolation. For these veterans, the transition to civilian life and the challenges of aging can be overwhelming.

American Legion posts, Local VFWs, and other veterans' organizations are cornerstones of our veteran communities and ensure veterans are connected to each other and services. In our district, organizations like the Westbrook Memorial Legion Family Post 197 and Field Allen Post 148 in Windham play vital roles in fostering unity and getting help for veterans in crisis. The Windham Veterans Center, operated by Field Allen Post 148, provides crucial connections to state and VA programs, runs community events, and even loans medical equipment like wheelchairs to veterans in need. I’ve recently had the honor of attending several local events led by veterans, including the first Annual Vets Family Day at the Windham Veterans Center this past weekend. These gatherings offer me an opportunity to witness the comradery and support first-hand in our community.

I’m inspired by people in our community, such as a Windham man and Vietnam War veteran who dedicated years of service to his local American Legion in NY before relocating to Maine seven years ago. This service culminated in his election to lead the American Legion nationally during 2023. Vincent “Jim” Troiola, dedicated his year as the national leader of the American Legion, an organization representing nearly 2 million veterans, to promoting “Be the One”, a program to prevent veteran suicide. The program destigmatizes asking for mental health support and provides peer-to-peer training using the existing networks of veteran-led organizations.

Maine's veterans also deserve meaningful action on housing as veteran homelessness reached a crisis here in Maine during the pandemic. While much of veteran support is handled federally, our state has worked hard to address the needs of homeless veterans and improve housing stability. The Maine Legislature allocated nearly $45 million in emergency housing and shelter support, and this effort has had a particularly positive impact on veterans in our state, with veteran homelessness decreasing faster than in other populations. Programs like the 'No Homeless Veteran Challenge,' coordinated with the Maine VA and organizations like Preble Street, are making real strides in reducing homelessness across Maine. Seeing this progress directly impact veterans is encouraging, as it helps them transition from shelters to stable housing.

Funding Maine Veterans' Homes has been a priority as well. The Legislature approved $2.6 million to close the funding gap and a one-time $5.1 million investment to ensure they remain viable as we work toward a sustainable solution. Veterans' Homes provide essential care; we must ensure our vets are well-supported as they age.

The challenges our veterans face — from high suicide rates to difficulties in accessing stable housing — demand our continued attention and action. Today's veterans need the same unwavering support as my father’s generation. It is not enough to thank our veterans for their service; we must show our gratitude by enacting policies that provide meaningful results for Maine veterans. I will continue advocating to ensure every veteran in Maine receives the respect, care, and support they deserve, honoring their service not just in words but in action. We owe them nothing less.

988 offers 24/7 judgment-free support for mental health, substance use, and more. Text, call, or chat 988.

Contact me directly at Timothy.Nangle@legislature.maine.gov or call the Senate Majority Office at 207-287-1515. For the latest updates, follow me on Facebook at facebook.com/SenatorTimNangle, and sign up for my e-newsletter at mainesenate.org. <

Insight: A time for heroes

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

As residents of the greatest nation on Earth, we eagerly await special and meaningful holidays to arrive every year. No matter if it’s Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Independence Day, there are occasions where we take time to reflect on what these holidays mean and why they were created.

A portrait of five-star U.S. Army General Omar Bradley 
hangs outside the hallway near his old office at The
Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Bradley maintained an
office at The Pentagon until his death in 1982. 
PHOTO BY JIM GARAMONE, DOD

When I think of Veterans Day, I am drawn back to the time I spent in the U.S. Air Force at The Pentagon in Washington, D.C. and some of the individuals I had the opportunity to meet there. A few of them left their mark on the history books and are renowned for their valor and dedication to the cause of freedom, while others performed their duties in relative obscurity.

Each time I walked around the building, I would discover something I hadn’t known about before, or run into someone who inspired other soldiers, sailors, airmen or Marines.

If I needed to deliver paperwork to the Joint Chiefs of Staff on a Saturday, I would pass by the office of General Lew Allen, a four-star general and the U.S. Air Force Chief of Staff at the time. He liked to work on weekends because it was quieter then and on at least three occasions he invited me in to have coffee with him.

He wanted to know what I felt about military service from my perspective as an E-3 Airman First Class and he would ask me what I thought about my military pay, how to keep good people in the Air Force and my thoughts about college basketball. His favorite team was the University of Maryland, and he showed me an autographed photo he kept in his office of then-Maryland coach Lefty Driesell.

He was kind and caring and I always felt he listened to what I had to say, even though he was a four-star general. After he retired from military service, he served as the director of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and worked closely with NASA to make space shuttle missions safer after the Challenger explosion in 1986.

Once I had the opportunity to meet legendary U.S. Army General Omar Bradley, who maintained an office at The Pentagon until his death in 1982. He had been General Dwight Eisenhower’s field commander for American soldiers during the invasion of Normandy on D-Day and rose to the rank of five-star general after World War II. He also was the first chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

I had met him one afternoon when he was leaving his office for the day. By then, General Bradley was in his late 80s and only came to his office every other month. He asked me where I was from and about my parents. When I told my father about my meeting the general, he said Bradley was one of the top generals he served under as a soldier in Libya in 1943.

In February 1981, I attended a ceremony in The Pentagon courtyard where U.S. Army Master Sergeant Roy Benavidez was awarded the Medal of Honor. He was given the honor for his courage in combat near Loc Ninh, Vietnam in 1968.

While part of a 12-man Special Forces patrol, Benavidez and his team were surrounded by a North Vietnamese infantry battalion numbering more than 1,000 troops. Caught off guard and armed only with a knife, he jumped from a helicopter some 30 to 40 feet off the ground with a medical bag and ran to help members of the patrol who were trapped. He joined his comrades who were under unrelenting enemy fire despite sustaining numerous wounds, Benavidez saved the lives of at least eight men.

During the battle, an NVA soldier encountered Benavidez and stabbed him with a bayonet. He pulled it out, drew his own knife, killed the NVA soldier. He later shot two more NVA soldiers with an AK-47 rifle he picked up while providing cover fire for members of his patrol who were boarding the helicopter. In all, Benavidez was treated for 37 different bullet, bayonet, and shrapnel wounds he sustained during the six-hour battle against the enemy.

Another time I was humbled to meet retired General Jimmy Doolittle, who inspired Americans during the early days of World War II by leading a daring air raid on the Japanese mainland in April 1942.

Doolittle commanded a group of 16 bomber crews who took off from the USS Hornet on a one-way mission to bomb Japan, after that nation had crippled the U.S. Navy fleet at Pearl Harbor in Hawaii slightly more than four months earlier. Each member of Doolittle’s raid knew their planes didn’t have enough fuel capacity to bomb the target and make it back safely, but they flew their missions anyway. Of the 80 airmen who participated in that mission, three died and 15 planes were lost. But Doolittle’s raid demonstrated that the Japanese mainland was vulnerable to American air attacks and boosted America’s moral at a dark time in U.S. history.

Each of us owes a measure of respect for the men and women who wear the uniform of the United States and the ongoing struggle for freedom. Honoring those who served on Veterans Day is the perfect way to do that. <

Insight: Yard Sale Confessional

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

I have a confession to make. For many years I avoided going to yard sales, garage sales, estate sales, thrift stores or flea markets because I saw no purpose in it and didn’t understand why anyone would want to accumulate more of someone else’s junk or castoffs. But was I ever wrong.

Slightly more than 20 years ago, my wife encouraged me to drive her to a community wide garage sale in Florida and in looking over a table, I discovered a perfectly good wristwatch priced at just $2. Having $5 cash on me at the time, I paid for the watch and used the $3 change at the next house we stopped at to purchase complete sets of 1988 and 1989 baseball cards which were priced at $1.50 each.

When the weather was nice, visiting yard sales became a favorite Saturday morning activity for us. There were some things we could afford, and some we passed on. Not having small children, I avoided any neighborhood sales with piles of baby clothes or toys stacked in the driveway. My wife being an avid reader, she always stopped at sales that featured boxes of books. I preferred visiting ones with practical things I could use for our home, such lawn furniture, shovels or hedge trimmers.

And best of all, many of these used items up for sale came without a hefty retail price tag.

Once when we told my mother that we were spending a Saturday morning driving around looking for garage sales, she shook her head and gave me a quizzical look.

“I don’t understand why you would want to go rummaging through some else’s used underwear,” she told me. “I wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near one of those places.”

She didn’t know it at the time, but the chair she was sitting in at our home when she said that came straight from a yard sale. So were the napkins and glasses at the dinner table we ate at.

Through the years my wife accumulated an enormous selection of like-new children’s books for her classroom by visiting yard sales. Some of the books were priced at a fraction of what they would cost if purchased at a store.

Many pieces of furniture in our home have been rescued from a yard sale or a thrift shop, repainted and repurposed to fit our décor. We’ve found bookcases, several wardrobe cabinets, a kitchen clock, a bicycle, an antique soup tureen, a dresser and a like-new microwave oven that way.

For years I would buy most of my clothing at a department store and pay full price. But after seeing a generous selection of gently used pants and shirts and jackets at a thrift store, my thinking changed. I still buy some new clothes as needed but if I can find pants in great condition at a thrift store for $4 that fit me well, I’d much rather do that than pay $48 for new ones.

I can go through my closet right now and find several winter coats, five or six sweaters, some dress shirts and pairs of pants that came from a yard sale or a thrift shop.

Our beloved Scrabble game that swivels came from a garage sale. So did a pink serving dish in our cupboard that resembles one my wife’s grandmother had when she was a child.

Yard sales and garage sales have also been a way for us to get out of the house and to do something together on weekends. I’ve found it’s also an excellent way to meet people who live in our community and to learn more about streets and the geography of where we live.

Now that we have grandchildren, my wife is always on the outlook for inexpensive clothes for them at these local sales. Sometimes a sale at a local church will include homemade baked goods.

This summer at a church sale near our home I found a huge selection of record albums priced at $1 each with many of them still in the original retail shrink wrap. At a flea market nearby, I purchased a DVD set of Season 3 of the old television series “The Fugitive” for just $3.

The exciting thing about visiting a yard sale or a garage sale or an estate sale is that you never know what you will find there or what kind of deal you can make. Sometimes near the end of the sale, items will be greatly reduced in price just to get rid of them. Or you can offer what you can afford and many times, your offer will be accepted.

After the sales are over, sometimes leftovers will be set at the end of the driveway in boxes for free to anyone who wants them. The same thing happens when people are moving and can’t take everything. My wife and I just found a sitting room chair in perfect shape from neighbors who were moving while we were out walking our dog, and it had a free sign on it.

I’ll never know why I never went to a yard sale when I was younger, but I confess that I’m hooked on it now. <

Andy Young: Humiliation with a capital B

By Andy Young

I’ve never earned a paycheck as a butcher, baker, sous chef, dietician or short order cook. Consequently, I have no special knowledge about nutrition, not to mention any professional experience preparing, cooking, presenting or serving food. In retrospect, perhaps I should have kept that in mind before opening my mouth some years ago when I heard someone blabbing about a certain edible item.

I had joined a group of friends and acquaintances at a local sports bar. One of the latter, a serial center-of-attention-craver who loved eating nearly as much as he did boasting about himself and embellishing his supposed myriad accomplishments, was raving about some “Buffalo wings” he was consuming. I tried listening respectfully to his tiresome discourse, occasionally murmuring in faux agreement and even nodding when it seemed appropriate. But when it appeared he wasn’t planning on stopping, I decided enough was enough.

After checking to make sure it wasn’t April Fools’ Day, I decided to shut down our verbose, attention-hogging pal by bringing up a verifiable fact that would mercifully end emphatically conclude his ongoing harangue.

Trying (though not terribly hard) not to seem smug or condescending, I blurted, “Buffalos don’t have wings, ____________!” (I’ll leave the term I addressed him with to the imagination, since some might consider it inappropriate for inclusion in a family publication.)

Momentarily flustered by my interruption, the speaker paused, presumably staggered by the superbly timed zinger I had just launched his way. That self-important braggart had been holding court for what I, and presumably everyone else, felt was far too long. Now everyone was staring at me. Suddenly I had become the center of attention.

Full disclosure: I’ll admit that for the briefest fraction of a second, I found myself bathing in approval, enjoying what I assumed were the appreciative and admiring stares of my grateful peers.

But the silence my clever quip had evoked continued for what seemed a bit too long. (Looking back, maybe everyone there was checking to make sure it wasn’t April Fools’ Day.) Then I noticed the gazes of my companions morphing from admiration to incredulous. It was apparent I had committed some significant faux pas.

Panic set in, followed by full-blown paranoia. Had I forgotten to zip my fly on my return from the men’s room? Was there something unsightly hanging out of one of my nostrils? Had I inadvertently worn a pink shirt to an establishment where all 15 TV sets were tuned to football games, truck pulls, or professional wrestling?

My mistake became obvious when the blowhard I thought I had shut down triumphantly retorted, “They’re called Buffalo wings because they were invented in Buffalo, New York, ______________.” Irony of ironies, he had expertly employed the ultimate weapon to humiliate me: the very same derogatory term I had used on him just seconds earlier. The difference: he had used it far more accurately.

I spent the rest of the evening brooding silently, responding only when one of my now all-too-jovial chums referred to me with one of several new nicknames, including “Buffalo Boy,” Buffalo Bill,” and, most insultingly, “Buffalo Chip.”

Fate can be awfully cruel sometimes. If that big-mouthed egotist in our group had only mentioned any other food that began with B, I’d never have suffered through that horrible night of humiliation. Why couldn’t he have been holding forth about beans, blueberries, butter, bass, baby back ribs, bacon, bagels, burritos, baklava, beer, bologna, bread, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, bok choy, Baked Alaska, beets, bananas, burgers, buns, beef stew, or even Vitamin B?

Hmmmmm.

I wonder if Vitamin B was named after Buffalo.

Correction: In last week’s column I incorrectly stated that no one born in the 1950s has ever been president or vice-president of the United States.. Thankfully though, several alert readers pointed out the inaccuracy, noting that Mike Pence, who was vice-president from 2017 to 2021, was born on June 7, 1959. The error was mine. However, in my defense, Mr. Pence is pretty easy to forget. <