Andy Young: The penny’s end is just the beginning

By Andy Young 

Nov. 12 marked the end of a 232-year era of American history. That was the final day the U.S. mint in Philadelphia produced any 1-cent pieces.

There are multiple reasons for the demise of the coin with Honest Abe Lincoln’s likeness on it. The most obvious: it was costing the government three cents to mint every penny it produced. It doesn’t take an economics major to figure out that it no longer makes sense to produce cents.  

Some pragmatists have been advocating for the end of the penny for some time, pointing out the coin has zero purchasing power, and thus has become all but irrelevant. Penny candy disappeared long ago, as did scales that provided both one’s weight and fortune for a mere one one-hundredth of a dollar. Today single pennies are virtually worthless; even amassing five of them won’t buy anything more valuable than a nickel.

The penny’s passing is sure to have an impact on other aspects of American life, including everyday language. “A penny for your thoughts,” an expression already on the decline, is likely a generation or two from utter extinction. The same goes for encouraging financial prudence with, “a penny saved is a penny earned,” describing expensive items as costing “a pretty penny,” and characterizing unwise spending as “penny wise, pound foolish.” 

The 1-cent coin’s discontinuance means eventual obsolescence for “See a penny, pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck” as well, since it won’t be long before people stop carelessly, haphazardly, or absent-mindedly tossing pennies on the ground for good luck seekers to gather.

However, the second half of that old ditty’s disappearance (“See a penny, let it lay, you’ll have bad luck all that day”) is a blessing. Who knows how many innocent people have been cursed with ill fortune due to their reluctance to pick up wayward pennies they’ve noticed, for fear of being seen doing so by random (and potentially judgmental) eyewitnesses?

Doing away with pennies isn’t unprecedented. When Canada stopped minting 1-cent coins in 2012, retailers throughout the Dominion started rounding all cash purchases up (or down) to the nearest nickel. And while Canadian pennies are still legal tender, good luck finding merchants who’ll accept them. Those looking to get value for Canadian one-cent pieces these days had best find a deserving charity to donate them to. 

For serial penny-stashers wishing to cash in their treasure while it still has value, there’s good news: a five-gallon jug full of pennies contains between $350 and $450. Unfortunately, that amount won’t begin to cover the cost of hernia surgery, which they’ll likely need after attempting to lift a five-gallon jug of pennies. 

The penny’s discontinuance won’t be the last alteration concerning America’s currency. Our Canadian neighbors (or neighbours, as they prefer) stopped printing $1 bills in 1987, and discontinued minting $2 bills nine years later. Why? Because $1 and $2 coins last far longer than paper money does, which lessens the need for (and cost of) minting new currency as frequently.

Some people have difficulty imagining a world without small bills, but others, mostly younger consumers, have been purchasing items virtually and/or electronically since the day they became virtually solvent enough to do so.

Cash may still be king in some households, but recent developments on the currency front suggest even more seismic changes loom on both the fiscal and linguistic horizons.

I for one am glad I won’t be around when expressions like “Some Venmo for your thoughts?” and/or “See some Bitcoin, pick it up, all that day you’ll have good luck” become commonplace in America’s lexicon. <

Tim Nangle: Keeping our promise to Maine veterans

State Senator Tim Nangle

By State Senator Tim Nangle

Every November, we gather in town halls, American Legion posts and school gymnasiums to honor the men and women who served our country. We thank them for their courage. We talk about sacrifice, duty and service. These ceremonies are some of the most meaningful moments I’ve had the honor of attending as your State Senator. But as meaningful as those ceremonies are, gratitude is not measured in speeches or parades alone. It’s measured in what we do — especially when a veteran needs help keeping a roof over their head.

That’s why I’ve introduced a bill for the upcoming legislative session to make sure Maine veterans can stay in their homes and avoid falling into homelessness. It’s called “An Act to Keep Maine Veterans Housed,” and its goal is simple: to strengthen the local partnerships that are already keeping veterans stably housed, especially at a time when federal programs are being cut or delayed nationwide.

This bill would stabilize and support the Veterans Flex Fund. This small, targeted program delivers precisely the kind of timely assistance that makes the difference between a veteran keeping their home or losing it. The Flex Fund is a collaborative effort led by Preble Street and the Maine Homeless Veterans Action Committee, which includes the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, the Maine Bureau of Veterans Services, Volunteers of America, Vets Inc., Bread of Life Ministries, and others. The Veterans Flex Fund is one of the most effective examples we have of federal, state and community partners working together to make sure veterans aren’t left behind when life takes a difficult turn.

Over the past few years, through my work in Augusta and the many conversations I’ve had across our communities, I’ve heard veterans describe how close the line can be between stability and crisis. Sometimes, it’s a gap between jobs or an unanticipated rent increase.

Veterans are often reluctant to ask for help. Many will exhaust every other option before reaching out. By the time they get in touch with a service provider, they’re usually facing a very specific barrier, such as a security deposit they can’t cover, an overdue rent payment or a landlord who needs reassurance before offering a lease.

Those are the moments where the Flex Fund has proven its value. It’s built for exactly these situations: small amounts of support that resolve the final obstacle keeping a veteran safely housed. And because it is administered by providers who understand both the housing landscape and the needs of veterans, that help can be provided quickly.

Some have asked why the state should play a role if federal resources are inconsistent. My answer is simple: because these are Maine veterans. Because homelessness is often preventable with the right support at the right time. And because the consequences for a veteran losing stable housing are far greater than the modest investment it takes to help them keep it.

The Legislative Council approved my bill for introduction, with every Democratic member voting in favor. I wish that vote had been unanimous; supporting veterans is not a partisan cause, it is a commitment we all share.

When lawmakers return to Augusta in January, I’ll be asking colleagues on both sides of the aisle to support this bill because keeping veterans housed is one of the most direct and effective steps we can take to honor their service and uphold a promise that should never be broken.

Our veterans stood up for us. Now it’s our turn to stand up for them.

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

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

Insight: Lost and found

Ed Pierce is in the second row, fourth
from right, in this U.S. Air Force
basic training flight photo from June 1977.
Pierce’s friend Keith Gilstrap is in the
first row, third from left.
COURTESY PHOTO

 By Ed Pierce 

Sometimes it takes reconnecting with old friends to realize how far we’ve come in life and how meaningful our journey has been because of people like them.

I first met Keith Gilstrap on the evening of Friday, June 10, 1977. I recall that date vividly because it was my first day of serving in the U.S. Air Force.

Keith took the bunk across the aisle from me in the barracks during our military basic training at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas and we became close friends. He enlisted in Georgia, and I took the oath in New Mexico. We were both young and ready to establish our careers once we were out of basic training.

The experiences we shared over the next eight weeks created a lasting bond that we share to this day. It was intense at times and mentally, physically and emotionally trying. We watched as some members of our basic training flight dropped out and we were determined not to let the same fate befall us. If one of us had a problem, we would put our heads together and figure it out for the betterment of those remaining in our flight.

Upon graduation, Keith and I learned that we would both be boarding a bus to take us to technical school at Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas. He was studying to become an aircraft mechanic while I was learning about Air Force communications systems.  

Since both of us were married, during the first weekend we were there at Sheppard, we learned of some available apartments situated across the road from the back gate to the base. We both looked at them and rented one-bedrooms next door to each other. 

On the evening of Aug. 16, 1977, Keith and I were both assigned to the roof of a building at Sheppard and instructed to watch the skies for tornado formations that could potentially strike the base causing damage. To pass the time that night, I had brought along a transistor radio, and we listened to a news broadcast reporting that Elvis Presley had been found dead at his Graceland mansion in Memphis, Tennessee. 
In mid-October 1977, Keith and I said our goodbyes as we each had completed technical training and were headed home on leave before traveling to our permanent duty assignments in the U.S. Air Force. I shook Keith’s hand and told him I was grateful for his friendship during basic training and technical school and hoped that someday our paths would cross again.

I spent the next three weeks in New Mexico before flying to Germany for my duty station there. Over the next eight years, I served as an Air Force journalist writing articles and serving as editor of a weekly base newspaper but had lost touch with Keith.

Days turned into months and then into years and decades. Somehow during frequent military moves back and forth to new assignments, then returning to college and newspaper jobs in New Mexico, Florida, New Hampshire and Maine, my basic training flight photo disappeared. In fact, the last time that I can recall seeing it was in the early 1980s when I was home in New Mexico visiting while on leave from Luke Air Force Base in Arizona.

Earlier this summer, I joined a Facebook group called 3723 BMTS, featuring flight photos of the Air Force’s 3723rd Basic Military Training Squadron at Lackland Air Force Base in the 1970s and 1980s. It had some, but not all, of flight photos of airmen like me during that time. Unfortunately, my flight’s photo was not among the group posted and it got me to thinking about Keith and wondering what had happened to him.

I searched for him online and found his name on a photo caption for a hunting group in Georgia. I sent a message to the person who posted that photo and asked if he would pass my phone number to Keith, hoping it was him.

Two days later, I received a phone call from Keith, and we spent nearly two hours reminiscing. He told me all about his four years of military service and subsequent career as a civilian F-15 mechanic. He later became so good at his work that he led a rewiring project for F-15s for the U.S. Air Force.

He said he was proud of my journalism career after the military and asked what I missed the most about my time in the U.S. Air Force. I told him that I regretted misplacing my flight photo years ago and only had a few photos of my time in basic training.

Keith then informed me I had signed his basic training yearbook, and he texted me a photo of myself at age 23 in the barber shop waiting to have my hair buzzed off on the second day of basic training. I confirmed it was indeed my signature and told him I never got a yearbook, so I had not seen that photo before.

The next thing he sent was a copy of my lost flight photo and it brought tears to my eyes.  

My life is better because of friends I have made like Keith. <  ~ Ed Pierce

Andy Young: Outgrowing a first love

By Andy Young

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rookie Mama: Put your head on my shoulder season

 By Michelle Cote 
The Rookie Mama

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The day was bright and intentions were tremendous.

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

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

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

A lot of it.

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

Lessons indeed had been learned, for the win.

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

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

Oh my gourd.

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

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

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

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

­­– Michelle Cote lives in southern Maine with her husband and four sons, and enjoys camping, distance running, biking, gardening, road trips to new regions, arts and crafts, soccer, and singing to musical showtunes – often several or more at the same time!