Insight: Memories frozen in time

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Some of my most vivid memories are not things I experienced in person, but from listening to the radio.

Whether it was from an AM radio in my father’s 1962 Chevrolet Impala or through the earphone of a transistor radio late at night, the radio airwaves helped create endearing moments frozen in time deep inside my consciousness.

I’m not sure why some of these broadcasts stick out for me, but here’s a sampling of what I recall:

It was a warm Friday evening on Sept. 11, 1964, and although I had to look up the exact date, I do remember everything from that occasion as if it were yesterday. After taking our family out to eat after getting off work, my father wanted to take a long drive along Lake Ontario to Sodus Point for ice cream.

My mother didn’t drive, so she sat in the front passenger seat while my brother and I were in the back seat. My father turned on the car radio and I instantly recognized the voice of Mel Allen, who was the announcer for New York Yankees baseball games. The Yankees were playing the Minnesota Twins and were trailing in the game, 5-3, when New York manager Yogi Berra selected a 23-year-old rookie named Roger Repoz who was making his major league debut to pinch hit for relief pitcher Rollie Sheldon in the bottom of the seventh inning.

Twins’ relief pitcher Jim Perry got Repoz to ground out to end the inning but for some reason, that moment has rolled around in my brain ever since. We arrived at Sodus Point and had our ice cream and by the time we drove home, the game had ended and instead of baseball, my father tuned his car radio to his favorite country music station. When the opening lines of “Wolverton Mountain” began and my father started to sing along, I closed my eyes and wondered how great it must have felt for Roger Repoz to play in a game with Yankees’ immortals like Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris.

I asked my father if he thought Roger Repoz was going to be the next great Yankees outfielder. He said only time would tell. Being a baseball card collector, I followed the career of Roger Repoz for the next nine seasons in the major leagues. He hit 12 home runs for the Yankees the next season but could not break through to become a full-time ballplayer for New York. By 1966, he was traded to the Kansas City Athletics, who in turn traded him to the California Angels the following year. By 1972, Repoz was released by the Angels and spent another five seasons playing in Japan before retiring.

But listening intently to his first at bat with Mel Allen describing each pitch, my father behind the wheel and feeling the warm lakeside breeze on my face as we drove that night is a memory I will never forget as long as I live.

Another radio memory for me growing up was tuning in late at night on my transistor radio while I was supposed to be sleeping and hearing the laugh of WBZ radio personality Larry Glick. Boston was 392 miles from Rochester, New York where we lived, but the 50,000-watt channel reached my radio crystal clear there in 1968.

I enjoyed listening to Glick, who referred to himself as “The Commander” and his unique sarcastic comedy, it was something I had never heard broadcast on the radio previously. He had a revolving door of humorous callers who entertained me to no end. One evening in May 1969 and I do not remember the exact date, Glick’s guest was a man who claimed he had seen a UFO near the airport in Beverly, Massachusetts. It opened the floodgates for at least eight different callers to Glick’s broadcast who said they had witnessed that same UFO.

Each caller described in detail the bright green appearance of the UFO and another suggested that because the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile was supposed to be in Boston the next day, it was hovering nearby to collect hot dogs to bring back to outer space.

With that call, Glick instructed his late-night newsman Art Gardner to call the Beverly Police Department and see what possible information they had about sightings of this UFO. The interview with the police was hilarious and years later, I still remember it like it happened an hour ago.

I’m not sure why these two broadcasts remain lodged somewhere in my psyche, but they are and there’s little I can do to escape replaying them every so often before I drift off to sleep. And there are quite a few more including listening to a basketball game on my 13th birthday in 1966 in which John Havlicek of Boston scored 32 points as the Celtics lost by three to the Detroit Pistons or hearing “Those Were the Days” by English singer Mary Hopkin on the radio for the first time in 1968.

Listening to the radio is still one of my favorite activities and probably will be for the rest of my life and it continues to generate lasting memories for me. <

Andy Young: Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

By Andy Young

For the past decade or so one of the best things about getting my day started at 4 a.m. has been listening to the kitchen clock at that hour. Its ticking, along with the hum of the refrigerator, forms a soft, sweet and familiar symphony. Once the day starts in earnest, these quiet yet pleasing sounds get relegated into the background, drowned out by running tap water, pouring cereal, opening and closing doors, and other less subtle audible reverberations. But by then they’ve done their job.

I’ve been thinking about those quiet but pleasing early-morning vibrations lately, the ones which have allowed me to begin each day bathing in what has become my early a.m. “comfort zone.” I first learned to savor solitude, albeit in small doses, sometime in my early thirties, and as years and then decades passed, that sweet early-morning near-silence morphed into a guilty pleasure that ultimately became equal parts necessary and habitual. On those rare occasions when the ticks and humming were absent, I consciously missed them. But while I still deeply appreciate my daily dose of reassuring near-silence, too much of anything, even a good thing, is never beneficial.

The reason for all this introspection is two events that took place this past weekend. On Saturday I drove 230 miles south to drop off my daughter at the college she’ll be attending this fall. Getting home that night after darkness had fallen, I slept soundly and quickly, then woke the next morning in time to take my younger son 140 miles north to the school he’ll be going to for the foreseeable future, the one his older brother already attends. All three young Youngs have been blessed with good roommates, and each is pursuing areas of study that truly intrigue them. But they probably won’t be back around here until Thanksgiving, which means major changes not only for them, but for their suddenly empty nesting dad.

Many of the life adjustments I’ll make in the coming weeks and months seem on the surface to be fortuitous ones. My grocery bill is going to drop precipitously. I’ll be doing fewer loads of laundry, which means using less water. I’ll be turning on fewer electrical appliances, and also turning off fewer lights which have been absent-mindedly left on by others. There’ll be less vacuuming to do. The bathroom won’t need cleaning quite as often. There’ll be fewer meals to prepare, and thus fewer dishes to wash.

I’m cognizant that the primary object of parenting is to prepare one’s children to successfully navigate the world on their own, and I’m reasonably certain that all three of my offspring are well on their way to being able to do just that. Readying their brood to leave the nest is what parents are supposed to do. But who prepares parents to return to a once-bustling but suddenly empty nest?

My kids are doing fine, my expenses are shrinking, my day-to-day chores are less onerous than they once were, and for the foreseeable future I can shower with the bathroom door open if I feel like it. So why is the early morning ticking and humming I’ve found so comforting in the past suddenly sounding so shrill and irritating? And why is the face I see in the mirror first thing in the morning looking so melancholy?

There is, I suspect, a very thin border between the solitude and privacy I crave and the isolation and loneliness I dread.

The challenge lying ahead for me and other first-time empty-nesters is locating that line, but then doing whatever is necessary to avoid crossing it. <

Insight: My least favorite childhood activity

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Growing up each year as the calendar turned to August, I was keenly aware that my least favorite activity was about to reappear.

The cover of Ed Pierce's report card from
his second grade class during the
1960-1961 school year is shown.
COURTESY PHOTO

As the Saturday morning before Labor Day rolled around, my parents would wake my brother and me for breakfast, then they would have us wash up and brush our teeth before loading us into the car for a drive to the Sears store. It was the annual school shopping trip, and one that I came to loathe and despise each year because it meant the end of summer vacation and our getting ready to return to the classroom.

While some friends were rejoicing about the return of football to their television screens, I was dreading what was about to happen and accompanying my mother to the underwear aisle at Sears was not a pleasant experience.

Back then, the options for boys’ underwear were limited to a style commonly known as “tighty whities.” They were briefs that came in only one color, white, and the Sears store only carried three brands, Jockey, Fruit of the Loom, or their own Roebucks offering. The briefs came in packages of six or eight and my brother and I would have to choose a package to put in the shopping cart before leaving that aisle.

Then we would move on to the T-shirt aisle and like the briefs, the only color available was white and the only style sold for boys was a crew neck collar in packages of six or eight in Jockey, Fruit of the Loom, or the Roebucks brand.

Next, we would visit the sock aisle, and this was where my mother would always make the selection. She would choose a package of six crew socks which were black in color.

The Sears boys’ clothing department would include a special section for Catholic school students for kids like my brother and me. My uniform for Our Lady of Lourdes School which was worn every day consisted of a long-sleeve light blue dress shirt, a dark blue clip-on necktie, dark blue pants, black socks, and black dress shoes. It did not matter what season it was, that was the school uniform that was mandated and if you wore anything other than that, you would be sent home for the day. My brother attended Queen of Peace School, and his official uniform varied slightly from mine to include a light brown long-sleeve shirt, black pants and a black clip-on tie.

It always prompted my father to say during the school shopping trip that he wished that the Catholic diocese would standardize the school uniforms so they would all be the same and I could pass on my clothes to my brother when I outgrew them. I heard him tell my mother that on six different occasions over the years.

After purchasing two new shirts and two new pairs of pants to go with what we already had in our closet, we would move on to the Sears shoe department. I was always fascinated by those foot measuring devices there and it was always fun to see how much of an increase in shoe sizes that my brother and I experienced since our last visit. This was always the time when my mother would tell my brother every year that he was never going to pass me in height or shoe size unless he started eating more vegetables like it was some sort of competition.

Although it was only August, my parents would insist that we needed to purchase winter items during this shopping trip. Despite the temperature being in the 80s outside, I would have to choose a new winter cap, scarf and gloves and sometimes those black rubber boots with buckles that were worn over my dress shoes. When I would complain about having to wear those boots, my father would stop me and tell me he had to pay $4.99 for my dress shoes and he wasn’t about to waste that money by me ruining my new shoes in ice and snow. If we needed a new one, my brother and I would also choose a new winter jacket to wear to school later that year.

The best part of this shopping trip was when we walked down one of the aisles to get to the cash register. With my father leading the way, we could always tell where he would stop by the aroma in the air floating our way. Sears had a display case featuring warm Spanish peanuts or cashews and he would stop and buy a bag of Spanish peanuts for 39 cents and share it with us.

And while we were there, my mother would visit the women’s department while my father would take my brother and me to the hardware section, or we’d look over what was available in lawn equipment or power tools.

Before checking out, my mother would place four “Big Chief “writing tablets and a package of No. 2 pencils in our shopping cart for us to take to school.

Driving home, my father would always remark about how expensive that school clothing is, and my mother would always tell him, “Well, you wanted children.”

Andy Young: Same-day arrivals and departures

By Andy Young

Ingrid Bergman, the actress who memorably starred alongside Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca, the 1943 Oscar winner for best picture, was born on Aug. 29, 1915. That makes next Thursday the 109th anniversary of her birth.

But it’s going to be a bittersweet day for her remaining devoted fans, because it also marks the 42nd anniversary of the day the three-time Academy Award winner drew her last breath, Aug. 29, 1982.

The glamorous Swedish actress’s arrival and departure on the same calendar day seems like quite a coincidence. After all, what are the odds of someone’s birthdate and death date being on the same day of the same month?

Well, basic math says they’re approximately four in 1,431. Or, for those born on February 29, one in 1,431.

Given the number of people who’ve inhabited Earth over the past few thousand years, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Ms. Bergman is hardly the only person to have arrived and left on the same calendar day. Arguably the most noted individual having that distinction was William Shakespeare (1564 to 1616). The Bard of Avon not only died on his birthday (April 23), he did so at Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire, England, the very same location where he had been born 52 years earlier.

Feminist writer and activist Betty Friedan (1921 to 2006) was born and died on February 4. Country music legend Merle Haggard’s earthly incarnation (1937 to 2016) started and finished on April 6, and singer/entertainer/talk show host Mike Douglas (1920 to 2006) both began and ended life on August 11.

Hall of Fame jockey Johnny Longden was born on Valentine's Day 1907 and expired exactly eight dozen years later, on Feb. 14, 2003. Another accomplished individual who passed away on his 96th birthday: Levi P. Morton (1824 to 1920), who served as vice-president from 1889 to 1893 under Benjamin Harrison. His four score and 16 years began and ended on August 11.

Not everyone with a recognizable name who was born on the same date they died was famous for what many folks might assume they were. For example, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Jr. (Aug. 17, 1914 to Aug. 17, 1988) wasn’t the president of the United States during the Depression and World War II. He was, however, FDR’s son. And Raphael, (1483 to 1520) who like Merle Haggard was born and died on April 6, isn’t the famous Ninja Turtle, but rather Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino, a renowned Renaissance-era Italian artist and architect.

Not everyone who departs on their birthday dies of natural causes. “Crazy Joe” Gallo, a notorious New York City mobster, was celebrating his 43rd birthday with his family in Little Italy at 4:30 a.m. on April 7, 1972, sitting with his back to the door of Umberto’s Clam House when an unknown assailant walked in, shot him three times, and subsequently jumped into a waiting getaway car. And Bob Moose, a Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher, died in an auto accident on Oct. 9, 1976, his 29th birthday. Oddly, 39 other major league ballplayers, including Hall of Famers Gabby Hartnett (Dec. 20, 1900 to Dec. 20, 1972), Joe Tinker (July 27, 1880 to July 27, 1948) and Bucky Harris (Nov. 8, 1896 to Nov. 8, 1977) have died on their birthdays, according to baseball-reference.com.

For those who consider studying the lives of people who were born and died on the same calendar date a waste of time, think again. Thanks to what I’ve learned about Johnny Longden and Levi P. Morton, I won’t be taking any unnecessary risks on my 96th birthday, which means no skydiving or bungee jumping that day.

And while I’m not sure how many birthdays I’ve got left, I won’t be spending any of them going to a restaurant for clams at 4:30 in the morning. <

Insight: Comic Book Gags-R-Us

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

When I was growing up in the 1960s, I anxiously would await each month for the arrival of new comic books. The stories and artwork were fantastic, and I would read each edition from cover to cover. My favorite feature every month was always the gag and novelty advertisements listing a dazzling array of objects available only by mail order and not commonly sold in stores.

There were phony arm casts for $1.50 making it appear like you had a broken arm, bars of soap for 40 cents that would leave your skin a bright shade of green, trick packs of chewing gum for 20 cents for sharing with friends that came in “spearmint wrappers” but tasted like onions, garlic or hot peppers, and $1 packets of sea monkeys which when added to water would eventually grow into tiny living sea creatures.

For just 50 cents you could purchase a “joy buzzer,” which was a ring that you could wear that would deliver a “shocking sensation” when someone shook your hand. Then there was a “Silent Dog Whistle” for $1 that could not be heard by human ears but only by Rover.

For $1 you could receive a free book revealing the secrets of Jiu-Jitsu or a 20-course home study program detailing the 20 best karate moves.

The sort of items appearing in these clever promotions for kids included See Behind Spectacles, a specially treated pair of sunglasses containing secret mirrors that enabled you to see behind you without anyone knowing you’re watching for 75 cents, or a Werewolf Horror Mask for $1.98 made of rubber for year-round use and not just at Halloween.

Merchandise offered for under 25 cents included marked playing cards, an instruction pamphlet to teach you how to throw your voice, packets of magic pellets that would turn into worms when placed in someone’s drink, and a brochure promising to unveil the mysterious secrets of hypnosis to convince anyone to do something they normally wouldn’t do.

My favorite of all these comic book novelty ads was X-Ray spectacles for $1, which promised that you could put them on and be able to see things you weren’t supposed to see. This ad suggested that based upon an optical illusion you could view bones in your hand or even peer underneath whatever someone was wearing at a party. I was always too chicken to ever purchase this item because I didn’t want someone to put them on and see underneath my clothes.

Priced at just 60 cents, you could send away for an authentic Australian boomerang billed as “the latest thing in target throwing.” Or for $1.98 you could own a rugged 12-inch by 24-inch vinyl inflatable pillow adorned with a photo of Raquel Welch. For 75 cents, you could order a speedometer for the handlebars of your bicycle to tell how fast you were riding.

There were tiny space-age walkie-talkies, a fake camera that a rubber snake would pop out of when you snapped someone’s photo, 25-cent joke rubber hot dogs, or lifelike rubber mice, caterpillars and cockroaches or a wig worn to make you appear to be bald all for 88 cents.

My brother once ordered a rubber doggy do-do pile for 50 cents to play a trick on our father, while a few months later, I ordered what was called a “Whoopi Cushion” to play a joke on my mother. When placed under her seat at the breakfast table, it released an embarrassing sound resembling a quacking duck.

It was truly an adolescent prankster’s dream. You could purchase a set of “chattering teeth” or a “trick baseball” that could not be thrown straight no matter how hard you tried, a “secret pocket pen radio,” fake traffic tickets, cherry colored smoke bombs, a can of shave cream that wouldn’t stop spilling out lather when the button was released, fake rubber bullet holes, or a makeup kit to create fake black eyes or fake bleeding wounds.

For $2 you could build huge muscles fast or develop a body like Charles Atlas. For $1.50 you would learn the secrets of how to lose weight or purchase undetectable shoe lifts to fit any size and make yourself appear taller. For 15 cents you could order a bottle of magic disappearing ink to fool your friends or for just 50 cents you could purchase a book that could teach you how to play the harmonica or a “secret book safe” for storing valuable items and containing a combination lock which could be placed undetected on a bookshelf with other books.

Magic tricks were plentiful with everything from what was called a “moneymaker,” in which a blank piece of paper could be inserted, a handle pulled and out would pop a $1 bill to sneezing powder to an ordinary looking scarf that would mysteriously change colors if you knew how to operate it.

In this current day and age, I suppose a person looking for a gag or novelty item can visit the gift store at the mall or stroll through the nearest flea market. But way back when the only way to buy gum that turned your teeth black was on the back page of a comic book. <

Andy Young: Changing of the guard at the National Statuary

By Andy Young

The National Statuary Hall in Washington D.C. contains 101 full-body sculptures of important individuals, including two from each state. The 101st is of Rosa Parks, who represents either no particular state or every state, depending on the eye of the beholder.

The National Statuary Hall is in Washington, D.C.
COURTESY PHOTO

The gallery houses a wide variety of statues depicting famous Americans. A likeness of Virginia’s George Washington is there, as are representations of Ohio’s Thomas Edison, Alabama’s Helen Keller, and Dwight Eisenhower of Kansas. Not everyone represented is well-known, though. How many Americans are familiar with Iowa’s Norman Borlaug, Father Damien of Hawaii, Esther Hobart Morris of Wyoming, or Po’pay of New Mexico?

Perhaps surprisingly, inclusion in America’s de facto Hall of Fame isn’t necessarily permanent. Individual states can choose to remove one or both of their representatives and replace them with others, which is why the gallery is about to add a statue of its first professional musician, thanks to Arkansas’s legislature having passed a bill five years ago allowing the state to displace its two previous honorees.

Designating Johnny Cash, who’ll be depicted holding a guitar and a Bible, to take the place of James P. Clarke, a professed racist who served as the state’s governor for two years in the late 1880s, seems like a no-brainer. So does the other half of the 2019 legislation, which designated Daisy Lee Gatson Bates, a civil rights champion and key figure in the contentious but ultimately successful desegregation of Little Rock’s schools in 1957, as the replacement for Uriah M. Rose, who pledged allegiance to the Confederacy and renounced his U.S. citizenship in order to retain his county judgeship during the Civil War.

It’s not just Arkansas that’s changing direction. Thirteen other honorees have been replaced since the start of the 21st century, and Julius Sterling Morton of Nebraska, Philo T. Farnsworth of Utah, and Marcus Whitman of Washington are all scheduled to be supplanted (by Willa Cather, Martha Hughes Cannon, and Billy Frank, Jr., respectively) in the not-too-distant future.

Other recent additions to the Hall include North Carolina evangelist Billy Graham, a replacement for avowed white supremacist Charles Brantley Aycock, who served as the state’s governor from 1901 to 1905, and Standing Bear, the Ponca chief who, in Omaha’s U.S. District court in 1879, successfully argued that Native Americans had civil rights. He occupies a spot formerly held by Nebraska’s William Jennings Bryan, a three-time unsuccessful candidate for president who spent his twilight years arguing against the teaching of evolution.

Replacements will likely continue coming to the National Statuary. Jefferson Davis, the first and only President of the Confederate States of America during the Civil War, is inexplicably still one of the two Mississippians displayed in the gallery. The other is a fellow slave owner James Z. George, a politician and Confederate military officer.

Two schools of thought exist regarding the replacing of various figures from the National Statuary. On one hand, extracting strident racists, misogynists, ethnic cleansers and other autocratic bullies from the gallery of esteemed Americans seems like a step in the right direction. However, opponents of removing statues of historical figures that spent their lives enslaving and/or oppressing fellow Americans based on race, creed, or gender argue history is still history, and posthumously condemning those who engaged in conduct considered odious today but that was common amongst their contemporaries is counterproductive. Whitewashing history doesn’t change it, they maintain.

Thankfully money has nothing to do with who’s in and who’s out at the National Statuary. But like it or not, next month James P. Clarke’s likeness is going to be removed in favor of a cold, hard Cash. <

Insight: Practicing self-forgiveness

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Fashion designer Kenneth Cole once said he believes much of our lives is about guilt management and he may be right.

Last week I was driving home from work and listened to NPR’s “Life Kit” presentation on the radio about how to make peace with your guilty feelings. It led me to think about my own guilt that I carry with me and why I should just let it go.

The dictionary defines guilt as a moral emotion that occurs when a person comes to believe that they have compromised their own standards of conduct and bear significant responsibility for those violations.

During the “Life Kit” program, two psychology professionals reviewed strategies for coping with the unhealthy emotions associated with carrying around guilt and then discussed how to transform guilt into a positive force. The professionals said that when you realize that you feel guilty about something you’ve done wrong that creates a personal sense of responsibility that works to motivate us to do better in the future.

When I was about the age of 5 or 6, my mother took me with her to the A&P grocery store and while the cashier was ringing up the purchase, I asked my mother if I could have a 2-cent peppermint from a candy display at the checkout. She said no, but I decided to not listen to her and put the peppermint in my pocket. We left the store, I climbed up onto the back seat of our car, pulled the candy from my pocket and was about to unwrap and eat it when my mother suddenly caught me with it.

She grabbed me by the ear and dragged me back into the store. She brought me to the manager where I handed the peppermint candy over to him and apologized for taking it from the candy display. I was distraught and felt guilty about my behavior and vowed never to steal anything ever again. More than six decades later, I’ve kept that vow, but still think about taking that peppermint and what a bad thing it was to do.

Perhaps that is the penance or positive motivation that the psychology professionals claim I have attached to my guilty feelings about taking the peppermint that day so long ago.

Another situation that pops up every so often in my brain is one that took place near the end of the school year once when I was in high school. I was taking a state standardized Algebra test, and it amounted to more than three-quarters of our final grade in that class. One of my classmates, who did not pay much attention in class and wasn’t a very good math student, demanded that I let him copy some of my answers on the test. He sat across the aisle from my desk and wanted me to not shield my test paper if he happened to glance over at it.

This student was known for intimating other students and frequently used violent tactics to achieve his objectives. He was about a foot taller than me then and outweighed me by at least 100 pounds. Right up until the test started, I didn’t know what I was going to do, and I was too embarrassed to discuss my predicament with my father.

I answered the questions on the test to the best of my ability and although I didn’t go out of my way to safeguard my answers during the examination, I also didn’t make it easy for someone’s prying eyes to copy my answers either. I passed the test easily but to this day I do not know if my intimidating classmate passed or failed the Algebra test.

But I have felt some sense of guilt that I could have told him no when he insisted that I help him cheat on that test or that I may have contributed to him trying to cheat on it. I was physically afraid of him and a coward for not standing up to him and my moral shortcoming is something I’ve had to live with for years since that happened.

Neither one of these issues that I have described kept me from going about living my life, so those instances are not toxic guilt for me, but I do think about each one occasionally and kick myself for not doing the right thing either time.

I did make amends to the grocery store manager at the time and because my bullying classmate died a few years ago, I no longer have an opportunity to confront him about what he did or what he wanted me to do on his behalf. It truly doesn’t matter today yet my personal feelings of guilt persist.

The bottom line is that I’m the only one responsible for my own emotions and my own value system and behavior.

Writing all this down and admitting my mistakes does help relieve some of the guilt that I’ve carried with me for these things. I’ve slowly come to accept that my own guilt may be a way for me to express to other people that I do have a conscience and I can clearly recognize the difference between right and wrong. <

The Rookie Mama: Working from Son Up to Sun Down

By Michelle Cote

When my husband and I found out we were expecting in late 2010, we got right to work preparing. I watched him become a champion crib-builder and master assembler of all things. I dusted off my acrylics to get working on a nursery mural and started on some serious research.

We went back to class. Birthing classes, lamaze classes, CPR classes, breastfeeding classes, baptism classes; I was tempted to dig out my old L.L. Bean backpack for all of this additional education.

We spent our evenings excitedly poring over stacks of birthing books and baby magazines (thanks to my late doctor grandfather whose office subscription oddly never ended).

We both had visions of our little girl, whose hair I'd put in pigtails, whom we'd dress in flowery outfits.

My husband and I each grew up with younger sisters - no brothers - so it was natural to imagine a daughter of our own.

We read the Heidi Murkoff classic; it told us what to expect.

My husband, who had the 'What to Expect' app on his phone, would read me the daily update: "Baby's the size of a pea! Baby's the size of a grape!"

What we did not expect: our ultrasound technician's announcement at our 18-week visit.

"You're having a boy!"

She pointed to a screen with quickly moving blurs and shapes, as if it should be obvious.

Boy, oh boy. I knew absolutely nothing about baby boys.

Matchbox cars and Tonka trucks were a foreign concept, from a land far, far away from my childhood's familiar glittery jump ropes, Skip-Its and Lisa Frank coloring books. Everything that was pink and purple to me was about to come to a screeching halt.

I had vague memories of my male cousins' Nerf guns and football Nintendo games, but we girls never really took part in those shenanigans; we were more preoccupied with sidewalk chalk and friendship bracelets.

I am still not quite sure what a 'zone defense' is, but I know it has to do with football.

Months passed, and I was still no clearer on what was to come.

Brad Paisley's lyrics about his wife's pregnancy with their son was constantly running through my head:

"He'll probably climb a tree too tall and ride his bike too fast/End up every summer wearing something in a cast".

I waddled into work thinking of this song every day as my due date came and went.

According to Heidi Murkoff, my baby boy was now the size of a watermelon.

At 42 weeks, our fashionably late little man came into our lives at last.

Here he was - a mysterious, miniature version of ourselves just as bewildered as we were.

What my aunt had repeatedly told us throughout my pregnancy was true - My husband and I would discover a piece of our hearts that we never knew existed.

And so, the extreme vigilance and feeding schedules began. Ah, adventures in parenthood.

Two years have passed, and I've surprised myself at how I've come to love all little boy things with our now-toddler (made more obvious since we lopped off his long, blond ringlets).

My husband and I share in his wide-eyed excitement as a plane flies overhead. We jump for joy alongside him as he sees the City trucks come pick up our trash. (I'll especially jump for joy when we get curbside recycling this summer, hey-o!)

Our potted plants and picture frames which once lined our windowsills have been completely replaced by trucks. Trucks with sounds, trucks with flashing lights, trucks that dig. I really dig it.

It's become so commonplace that I'm not sure I could ever go back to my pre-boy decor.

I've even come to appreciate a boys' easy wardrobe.

Sure, boys' clothing will never be as adorable as girls', but they are so darn easy to mix and match. Everything goes with everything, so it's easy to swap out clothes after a good ol' playtime in the dirt.

I'm only two years into parenthood. There are so many exciting things to discover: little league, camping trips to take, and s'mores to make.

Part of me is apprehensive of what sometimes comes with that territory - skinned knees and stitches, sports injuries and biking tumbles.

I'm doing this for the first time, and the unforeseen can be daunting.

Just as doctors refer to their work as 'practice', parenthood is a delicate practice all in its own.

So maybe having a boy wasn't the true shock - it was having a child.

It was knowing that the three of us are total rookies. My husband and I can only try our best to make a positive difference in our son's life, as he already has in ours'.

As Elizabeth Stone said, having a child is 'to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body'.

That's beautiful. And terrifying.

But my favorite quote, what truly says it all, is: "Mamaaaa! Dadaaa!" when we walk through the door.

And that's how we know it's worth it.

– 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! <

Andy Young: Where to take a domestic world tour

By Andy Young

Bangor. Bath. Berwick. Bristol. Freeport. Moscow. Newry. Strong. Windsor.

Pine Creek Gorge in Pennsylvania is rated as one of the
most scenic locations in the Keystone State.
COURTESY PHOTYO

There’s plenty for visitors to see in Maine. However, a summer isn’t nearly enough time to experience everything that’s special about America’s nominal Vacationland.

But imagine trying to explore multiple far-flung places outside of northern New England. Does any traveler possess the wherewithal necessary to see Wyoming, Oklahoma, Indiana, and California during a single summer? Ditto for Denver, Oakland, Dallas, Houston, Austin, Knoxville, Akron and Palo Alto, not to mention foreign locales like Dublin, Lima, Berlin, Hanover, Heidelberg, Halifax, Newfoundland, and Yukon. Even doing justice to comparatively nearby attractions like Cooperstown or Shenandoah would be challenging. And imagine the difficulty of accessing places like Athens, Alexandria or Egypt. No one can realistically expect to see all those places in just one summer.

Unless they have a reliable car, and a map of Pennsylvania.

Every location listed above exists in the Keystone State of Pennsylvania. There is also a Cumberland County there, plus places called Lincoln, Knox, Washington, Hancock, Oxford, Somerset, York and Franklin. That’s nine of Maine’s 16 counties Pennsylvania’s got covered. But where’s Waldo? Alas, not there. There’s also no Penobscot, Androscoggin, Kennebec, Sagadahoc, Aroostook, or Piscatiquis in PA. However, having 56 percent of one state’s counties’ namesakes within another’s borders is no small feat.

Presidential scholars no doubt appreciate the Pennsylvania communities of Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Jacksonville, Polk, Taylor, Lincoln, Johnsonburg, Wilson, Hooversville, Nixon, Kennedy Township, Ford City, Bushkill Falls, and Clintonville. And it’s likely they’re on pins and needles in Harrisburg, the state capital, and Harrisville, a Butler County community of 802 residents, awaiting the results of this fall’s election.

City people undoubtedly enjoy Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, and Erie. But Pennsylvania also contains Broad Top City, Dickson City, Tower City, Central City, Ellwood City, Evans City, Fayette City, Forest City, Grove City, Homer City, Karns City, Lake City and Mahanoy City.

Those turned off by cities can check out Allentown, Norristown, Johnstown, Doylestown, Middletown, Elizabethtown, Jugtown, Quakertown, Snydertown, Watsontown and scores of other towns. And those who prefer even tinier places can explore some of Pennsylvania’s numerous villes, which include Monroeville, Gilbertsville, Schnecksville, Cherryville, Alleghenyville, Plumsteadville, Schwenksville, Montoursville, Factoryville, Meadville, Pottsville, Lionville, Normalville, Ohioville, Titusville, Phoenixville and my personal favorite, Youngsville. There’s also a Unionville, which seems only fair, since there’s also a Union City and a Uniontown.

Pennsylvania contains multiple burgs, including Greensburg, Stroudsburg, Bloomsburg, Mechanicsburg, Blossburg, Hollidaysburg, and the utterly irresistible Wormleysburg. And boaters can, one assumes, drop anchor in Williamsport, Bridgeport, Glassport, Smethport, or Walnutport.

Fun fact: Pennsylvania’s got two towns named Liberty. There are also two separate Newburgs, Centervilles, Coaldales, Jeffersons, and Pleasantvilles.

The state’s numerous colorful communities include Red Lion, Blue Bell, White Haven, Brownstown, Orangeville and Greencastle. It can also boast of having Economy, Freedom, Liberty, Industry, Progress and Paradise. And there’s plenty that’s modern there, including New Britain, New Buffalo, New Baltimore, New Paris, New Philadelphia, New Salem, New Washington, and 22 other “New” municipalities.

There are undoubtedly some great stories behind how each Pennsylvania community was dubbed. For starters, consider places like Moosic, Flying Hills, Arnot, Hop Bottom, Mars, Yoe, Slickville, Cokeburg and Wampum. The origins of some town names are probably self-evident, like Limestone, Cherry Tree, Turtle Creek, Slippery Rock, Sinking Spring, and Shade Gap.

But in the interests of decency, morality and rectitude, it’s probably advisable not to explore exactly where, when and how Black Lick, Sugar Notch, Intercourse, Blue Ball, Beavertown and Manns Choice got their names.

Hmmmm.

Come to think of it, perhaps it’s best not to examine the derivation of the word “rectitude” too closely, either. <

Tim Nangle: Building a Strong Foundation for Our Children’s Success

By State Senator Tim Nangle

As summer winds down and our children prepare to head back to their classrooms, I’m reflecting on the progress we’ve made in the Legislature to support education over the past year and how we can ensure a smooth transition back to school. Our commitment to education is stronger than ever, and I am proud of the strides we have taken.

State Sen. Tim Nangle

One of our most significant accomplishments this year was upholding our promise to fund 55 percent of K-12 public education. This move helps ease the burden on local property taxpayers while ensuring our schools have the necessary resources. I also supported the creation of a $30 million Education Stabilization Fund. This proactive step ensures that our schools remain well-supported, even during tough economic times.

In addition to securing funding, we’ve made meaningful progress in supporting our educators and school support staff. Recognizing the vital role that educational technicians (ed techs) and support staff play in our schools, I voted for a budget that increases wages to 125 percent of the minimum wage for ed techs and 115 percent for support staff. While this is a positive step, we must continue addressing the widespread shortage of these critical positions across the state.

We also bolstered the School Revolving Renovation Fund to support public preschool programs. This funding will help school districts undertake necessary construction and renovation projects, providing a free and appropriate public education for children ages 3 to 5. Investing in early childhood education is crucial for laying a solid foundation for our children's future success.

Ensuring our students' safety, including school bus safety, is paramount. I encourage all parents and guardians to review bus safety rules with their children and remind them to stay alert and cautious around school buses.

For children, it is crucial to wait safely at least 6 feet away from the curb while waiting for the bus. They should board carefully, waiting until the bus has come to a complete stop and the driver signals them to board. It is also important for them to stay visible and avoid walking behind the bus, always crossing in front where the driver can see them.

For drivers, it is essential to be alert and always watch for children walking or biking to school, especially in the early morning and afternoon when buses are picking up or dropping off. All traffic must stop when the bus extends its stop sign and flashes its red lights. Additionally, drivers should slow down in school zones and residential areas where children are present. And remember, never pass a stopped school bus.

Our bus drivers play a vital role in transporting our children safely, and we must all do our part to support them. Let’s make sure our roads are safe for everyone as the new school year begins.

As we approach this new school year, let’s continue to work together to support our students, educators, and families. By supporting our dedicated school staff and ensuring the safety and well-being of our children, we can create a positive space for our children to grow and learn. I am committed to advocating for policies that strengthen our educational system and provide opportunities for every student to succeed.

Here’s to a successful and safe school year ahead.

Even though we are out of session, I am a resource and advocate for you all year. 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: Exploring the Golden Gate City

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Back when Nancy and I were first married, we would always plan a summer trip to someplace that we had never been before just to recharge and relax for a bit.

A guide gives a tour of the San Francisco waterfront to visitors
mounted on Segways in 2007. PHOTO BY ED PIERCE  

With each of us having stressful and demanding jobs, we felt this was important to our well-being and spirit of adventure. One year we drove from Florida to Asheville, North Carolina for a week’s getaway and another year we flew from Florida to Rochester, New York to visit my relatives, then rented a car and drove across New York state to visit Nancy’s family in Vermont.

But in 2007, we found an affordable deal and chose to visit San Francisco, California for a week. It was certainly one of the most memorable trips of my lifetime and I’d love to go back someday.

Nancy and I had never been there before, and we found San Francisco to be charming and interesting. Our hotel was conveniently located in the Russian Hill district and there were plenty of available transportation options to get around the city.

During our first stop, we took a bus to the piers near Fisherman’s Wharf, a crowded commercial location teeming with vendors selling everything from T-shirts to fried shrimp. Nancy wanted to see Alcatraz Island in San Francisco Bay, so we stopped in at a storefront that offered Alcatraz tour tickets on a sign in their front window. Unfortunately, the clerk told us that all the Alcatraz tickets for the next two weeks were sold.

We were disappointed, but as we continued walking around, we found a boat tour that sailed around Alcatraz Island and under the Golden Gate Bridge, and tickets for the next trip in 30 minutes were available. We took advantage of that opportunity and took as many photos out on the water as we could. The tour guide on the boat explained what each building on Alcatraz Island was used for at the old U.S. prison there.

Our boat excursion also offered us quite a laugh as we docked overlooking Pier 39. That’s the location where hundreds of 800-pound male sea lions like to spend the day lying around taking in the sunshine. It’s a sight that’s indelibly etched into my brain. The sea lions are rather loud creatures, and we were told that if you get close enough to them, you can really smell them too.

Returning to our hotel, we rested up from our busy day of activities before finding a great steakhouse to have dinner at within walking distance of our hotel.

The next day we traveled on one of San Francisco’s world-famous cable cars to the Shabby Chic Department Store. Nancy has always been a big fan of Shabby Chic interior design and furniture and we saw first-hand where that trend was originally launched and sold. The rest of that day was spent visiting a few large thrift stores nearby and were able to find some great clothing at bargain prices.

We spent time on another day taking a driving tour of the city. We saw the house where part of the movie “Mrs. Doubtfire” was filmed, and The Black Horse London Deli Pub, known as the smallest bar in San Francisco. We also saw the factory where Ghiardelli chocolates are made and took several hours walking around in the Chinatown district.

I wanted to explore more of the waterfront, so Nancy and I got up early one morning and walked there. As we approached the area, we both saw a sight we thought we could only see in San Francisco. A guide on a Segway was leading a group of seven tourists, also riding Segways, on a tour of San Francisco’s waterfront area.

The day before we were to leave, we had lunch at In-N-Out Burger near Fisherman’s Wharf. You walk up and place your order at In-N-Out and then watch as employees carefully prepare your food right in front of you. I’d have to say that of all the hamburgers I’ve eaten in my lifetime, the In-N-Out Double-Double Cheeseburger remains my all-time favorite.

Right across the road from In-N-Out Burger, we saw a sign that read “Alcatraz Tour Tickets.” I walked over and they explained that if we sat in on a timeshare presentation, we could take a tour of Alcatraz Prison that afternoon. We agreed and despite losing an hour of my life listening to someone trying to get me to buy a timeshare, we took the free tickets and boarded a boat for the island.

That experience was amazing. Walking through the former federal penitentiary was an eerie experience. With a reputation as being America’s toughest prison, it was chilling to see where some of the worst convicts in American history were incarcerated. I got to sit in the cell where Robert Stroud, the subject of a Burt Lancaster movie called “The Birdman of Alcatraz,” was jailed for 17 years.

Our final morning there was spent taking photographs with the Oakland Bay Bridge in the background before taking a taxi to the airport and flying home.

I’ll never forget our visit to San Francisco, and I encourage everyone to visit there if given the chance to do so.

Andy Young: A job I could do

By Andy Young

There are numerous professions that for a variety of reasons I’d be a bad fit for.

Most of these jobs require having skills and/or personal traits which I don’t possess. I’m no good at sitting still for long periods of time, which would make me an ineffective office worker. I lack the patience necessary to do work requiring significant care to detail, making me ill-suited for anything involving working with my hands, and thus disqualifying me from becoming a surgeon, carpenter, jeweler, electrician, tailor, hairdresser or plumber, among other things.

Performing the same task(s) over and over again, like working on an assembly line, would probably make me (and many of those around me) crazy. I’ve always steered clear of anything requiring me to be in, around, or atop water, which eliminates the possibility of being a fisherman, boat captain, or lifeguard. And since I prefer having solid ground under my feet, airline pilot is out, too. There are also certain lines of work I couldn’t execute due to self-imposed moral limitations, including tobacco purveyor, sniper, drug dealer, casino operator, lottery spokesperson, and reality TV star.

I’ve also never been wild about exerting authority over strangers, which means I’d make a lousy police officer. On a recent trip to Canada, I observed another job I’d be ineffective at. When my son and I crossed into New Brunswick last month, a stern-looking customs agent, after checking our passports, asked if we were bringing any alcohol, drugs, firearms, or explosives into his country. We responded truthfully that we were not and after looking us over briefly, he waved us through.

We were being 100 percent honest, but how did he know that for certain? Border guards clearly have skills I’d be unable to master. (Thank goodness he didn’t ask if I were carrying some old Canadian coins, because I was carrying quite a number of those.)

But thanks to a memorable trip earlier this summer, there’s a job I know I’d be great at: Director of Tourism for the Canadian province of Newfoundland and Labrador. I could go on for hours about how wonderful it is up there, and I probably saw less than one percent of what makes it so magical. True, getting there takes a great deal of time, and it’s probably less attractive in the winter. There are also a few smaller, trivial flaws which my conscience would require me to point out.

For example, every so often a moose wanders out into the path of a car going 130 kph down the Trans-Canada Highway, which results in the immediate demise of all involved parties. Also, no one accepts Canadian pennies there anymore, although that’s understandable, since the country stopped minting new ones in 2012, and officially took them out of circulation the following year. I also discovered one other imperfection, although it doesn’t impact everyone.

The American dollar is exceptionally strong in Canada these days and given the current exchange rate, I thought I might pick up a new pair of sneakers while I was there. But alas, I learned that either no one in Newfoundland takes a size 14 shoe, or the person who does had already purchased every available pair. I never saw anything above a twelve-and-a-half during my entire time in the province.

However, if what you’re looking for is natural beauty, fascinating history, and gracious people who’ll treat you like royalty, Newfoundland’s just the place for you. It’s got something for everybody.

Unless you’re looking for a pair of size 14 shoes, and planning on paying for them with a bag of Canadian pennies. <