Insight: A Windy City Adventure

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

As Christmas break from college neared in December 1972, I was excited to be flying home across the country and spending some time off over the holidays with my family. But I had no idea that my flight home on Friday, Dec. 8, 1972 would be one of the most chaotic but fun experiences of my life.

State Street in Chicago is decorated for the Christmas season
in December 1972 when Ed Pierce was stranded there
overnight when he missed his flight because of an avionics
malfunction and a crash at Midway Airport delaying
flights into O'Hare Airport. COURTESY PHOTO 
  

A group of us from our fraternity rode to the airport in Albuquerque, New Mexico and six of us boarded a plane at 5 p.m. to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport for connections to other flights heading east. We sat together in the back of the airplane and talked about what our plans were for Christmas and New Year’s and when we would be returning for the next semester.

After sitting there and waiting to take off for about 45 minutes, an announcement was made that our airplane required mechanical repair. We were instructed to stay seated while airline mechanics worked to resolve the issue, and that the flight attendants would bring us complimentary food and beverages while we waited.

Since I was under the age of 21, I was not offered any alcohol but my other five friends on the flight had a few drinks while we were stuck there. By the time the plane took off an hour later, everybody was in a happy mood despite our flight being delayed by almost two hours.

About an hour into the flight, an announcement was made that a United Airlines flight had crashed on approach to Chicago’s Midway Airport, and that all air traffic into Midway was being rerouted to O’Hare Airport. It meant that our landing at O’Hare would be delayed by nearly an hour.

By the time we were finally on the ground in Chicago, all six of us from the fraternity had missed our connecting flights. Somebody had an idea that we should call a fellow fraternity brother nicknamed “Murph” who lived there to give us a tour of the city while we were stuck there overnight. He agreed to pick us up and another new adventure unfolded.

Our tour guide “Murph” was working in Chicago as a bartender and had grown up there. He said he would give us an unforgettable tour and proceeded to show us the shoreline of Lake Michigan, and we drove past the legendary Marshall Field’s department store, which was decorated with thousands of twinkling lights for the Christmas season. We parked and walked around the historic Chicago Old Town seeing hundreds of Victorian-era buildings and St. Michael's Church, which was one of the few structures to survive the Great Chicago Fire of 1871.

I marveled when we drove past the construction site for the Sears Tower which was eventually going to be 110 stories tall when finished a few years later. I also enjoyed seeing the Art Institute of Chicago, a building with vast collections of famous American artwork inside.

We kept driving until deciding to stop at a pizza place that “Murph” knew and we had a late evening meal while trying to determine if we wanted to return to the airport or do something else that night to pass the time.

Someone in our group suggested that we should go and hang out at the famous Chicago Playboy Club. We drove there but couldn’t get in because none of us were club members and I was underage. At that point, half of our group continued bar hopping with “Murph” but three of us were invited to go to another fraternity member’s home in the Chicago suburb of Wilmette. Although it was after midnight when we got there, we played cards with our fraternity friend, his mother and his sister, and afterward we all talked for a few hours before finally nodding off to sleep around 3 a.m.

By 10 a.m. the next morning our group had arrived back at O’Hare Airport, and I learned that the next flight to my hometown was at 11 p.m. that night. Rather than waiting at the airport for hours, the ticket agent suggested that perhaps I could get closer to my destination of Rochester, New York by flying to Buffalo, New York about 76 miles away.

Not having many options left to get home, I called my father to pick me up in Buffalo and I boarded the plane.

Outside the airport in Buffalo, I was greeted by my mother, my father and my brother and over the next hour and a half in the car on the way home, I tried to find a good excuse as to why I hadn’t called to alert them of my airline connection issues in Chicago. They told me they had been worried sick about me and were wondering if I had been murdered and could not understand why I had been unable to make a simple phone call to let them know I was OK.

I didn’t have a good explanation for them and agreed that I was wrong not to call or let them know my flight had left Chicago without me.

Looking back at these events 53 years later, overlooking their concern for me was a mistake. But what a time I had. <

Andy Young: Improving vocabulary, inchmeal

By Andy Young

It’s a good thing I was born when schoolchildren were actually required to know how to spell. It’s tougher for youngsters to pick up that ability these days, given "autocorrect" features on electronic devices which remove potentially discommoding composition errors automatically. Young people who spell (and hear) phonetically might assume a shofar was the driver of a fancy limousine. However, a shofar is actually a ram’s horn that’s blown like a trumpet during Rosh Hashanah, and also at the end of Yom Kippur. A shofar is only for special occasions, though. No decent shammash would blow into one during the reading of the weekly parashah, that’s for sure.

I would dearly love to be orgulous about the state of my home. However, like many people of my vintage (those who are coeval to myself), my desultory attempts to downsize by divesting myself of items that I no longer need are almost never effective. I’d like to festinate the obviation of my home’s clutter, but the reality is that I’ll probably have to offcast things inchmeal if I wish to rid my living space of its untidiness.

However, there’s a potentially unexcogitable problem: my parents, like many of their generation, never threw out anything that might someday prove useful. Think empty bottles, plastic containers, sheets of stationary, screws, nuts, bolts, black tape, electrical wire, half-empty bags of concrete, paint cans that might or might not have had paint left in them, and anything else even remotely related to potential home construction (or destruction) projects. I’m guessing this particular trait is heritable, since I too hesitate to discard anything that might someday be of service.

There’s really no way of knowing when some quotidian object that's been doing nothing other than taking up space for decades will come in handy. It’s occurred to me that perhaps the most proficient way to divest myself of all this excess would be to hold a potlatch, which as I recently discovered, is a gift-giving ceremony practiced by indigenous people in the Pacific Northwest. However, there is a shameful dearth of Pacific Northwestern indigenous people in my neighborhood, so that idea is out.

One morning last weekend I awoke shrouded by an unmistakable hebetude but snapped out of it when I realized how fortunate I was to be living above the hadal part of the ocean. My eyes would be utterly useless there, since these areas are located 20,000 or more feet below sea level, and thus are extremely dark. I’ll bet all the ichthyofauna down there are blind.

After a couple of hours of going through my closet I began feeling insatiate, so naturally I began having prandial ideations. When I become esurient my thoughts turn to all kinds of comestibles, like panettone, muffuletta, and even skyr. I’d balk at muktuk, though, and be particularly wary of quenelle and/or yakitori. After all, inadequately prepared victuals can lead to trichinosis or other zoonoses that are a lot worse than mere dyspepsia. And were I to contract one or more of those contagions, it’s possible the sequela that followed would be worse than the disease itself.

Poetry-writing bagpipe players needing a rhyme for squirrel other than curl or earl could turn to skirl, which means to play the bagpipes. I wonder if there was ever a rural girl squirrel who could swirl, twirl, and skirl simultaneously? If I tried to do that I’d probably hurl.

The bottom line: I accomplished almost nothing during my latest attempt at downsizing. But I’m justifiably orgulous over having saved that 2013 “Word-a-day” desk calendar. I knew I’d find a use for it! <

Rookie Mama: ‘Twas the month before New Year’s -- I can’t believe it’s not clutter

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

“All you can take with you is that which you’ve given away.” – Pa Bailey, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’

The most valuable and lasting features of our lives are not material possessions but rather acts of love and kindness shared with others.

And there you have it – You’ve heard some semblance of this, I’ve heard this, we’ve all heard it.

Yet we collectively mad dash to the photo finish of each year with resolutions to start the page flip to January fresh and new.

Among habits atop New Year’s resolutions for many remain the inevitable hopes and dreams to declutter, minimize, and let the rampant consumerism take a beat.

My family is ever-aspirational here – We continue to ask ourselves whether certain household items are really so needed. Do we hold dearly to some items out of legitimate sentiment or out of sheer guilt?

Do we really need two whisks?

Clutter makes us cringe, so we toss, donate and repurpose what we can with intention.

Baby steps. Whisk-y business, indeed.

Our Christmas tree may be artificial – and we’re sure proud of it – but our continued goal toward minimalism bliss is evergreen.

Be that as it may, our family tries at a mega-declutter at the beginning of December, rather than January, our early resolution tradition.

Beginning of December purging of items past is the perfect time to prepare for Christmas presents yet to come.

It’s a time to reflect – room by room – and determine what really needs keeping.

The basement uses this refresh year-round, too.

Last month, I tripped over one of my kiddos’ projects askew on the basement floor, tucked away for who-knows-what.

A family heirloom it was not – Rather, what lay before me was a solar system project from the year before. A glittering, sparkling, Styrofoam mess – Styrofoam is the enemy of our planet, yet here it was emulating several planets.

Too big and bulky to neatly store with our boys’ other school-morabilia, there was no real place for it to live.

I breathed deeply and gingerly asked my son if I could throw it away.

Without hesitation, he gave me a response truly out of this world, solar-system-style – ‘Yes’.

Perhaps he realized that this would be part of his inheritance, his dowry if you will, something to explain to his future spouse, if we didn’t scrap this now.

I chalked it up to a win and thanked my lucky glitter-glue stars for it.

Henry David Thoreau once said, “I make myself rich by making my wants few,” and what wise words indeed.

Our memories are in our minds, not in our things, and whatever problems we have today will not be resolved by purchasing more stuff.

As Americans, accumulation is our jam, unwittingly so, and stuff adds up quickly.

But decluttering your home needn’t be overwhelming or daunting.

Schedule regular times to declutter regularly as you go. Embrace empty space.

Follow the ‘one in, one out’ rule – When you bring a new item into your home, get rid of a similar old one.

For example, coffee mugs. Think of the coffee mugs.

Before buying something, ask yourself if you really need it by keeping non-essentials in your ‘cart’ 48 hours to see if they’re truly needed.

Prioritize experiences over material goods. It takes up less space but capitalizes on fabulous memories.

Other tips that are small works in progress include organizing your phone, limiting distractions, cleaning your inbox, and simplifying your wardrobe.

So toss that spare ‘just-in-case’ kitchen item or donate it to someone who could use it.

Over time, this decluttering will leave you feeling content in a way that no amount of coffee cups ever can.

Because in the end, all you can take with you is that which you’ve given away.

Same goes for old school projects.

No one needs that much Styrofoam.

– 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: Wok this way

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Over the weekend, I noticed a social media post that sought comments about foods that were popular at dinner tables in the 1950s and 1960s but are greatly unknown these days.

It made me think about my own family and upbringing and meals or items we would consume then as compared to now. My mother did not work or drive when I was growing up and she took immense pride in planning and cooking family meals for each day of the week.

She was constantly looking for new ways to improve and add to her meal planning and once she sent for a box filled with handy new dinner recipes from a mail-order company in Pennsylvania.

One of those mail-order recipes was for something called “Porcupine Balls.” It was a kind of meatball rolled in white rice and baked.

Another of her culinary specialties was Hungarian goulash, a mix of tomato sauce, macaroni and hamburger. She served it at least once a week and I eventually came to loathe that meal when I arrived home from school and observed her preparing it on the kitchen stove.

My father’s contributions to our meals were usually canned fruit side dishes that were consumed after the entrée dish.

Some of his favorites as I can recall were small bowls of purple plums or mandarin oranges, each doused with a hearty helping of heavy syrup from the cans they came from.

If I balked at consuming the plums, I can still hear my mother proclaiming, “Just eat them, they will keep you regular young man.” I did enjoy plums, but I never liked piling up plum pits on my plate afterward.

When I asked my father if mandarin oranges were grown in Florida, he told me that he had a friend in high school who once received a box of them as a Christmas present that had been shipped to America from Japan. With his answer, I wondered if instead they should be called Japanese oranges and he told me that was a “ridiculous” proposition.

Other meals or food items my mother served us in the past that I’m glad seem to have disappeared include Campbell’s Green Pea Soup, tuna noodle casserole and Jell-O shaped in molds containing celery or onions. Sometimes her Jell-O molds would have fruit cocktail in them, but mostly she stuck to onions or celery, and I never cared for it.

Green Pea Soup didn’t taste bad, but I had to hold my nose to avoid the smell while eating it. Its odor resembled soiled diapers to me.

Try as I might, the dry, mushy disgusting lump on my dinner plate as a 7-year-old called tuna noodle casserole always turned my stomach. No matter what my mother would add to it including lemon juice, extra mayonnaise or bacon bits, it still tasted worse than cat food.

To my surprise, during my basic training in the U.S. Air Force years later, the dining hall served its own version of tuna noodle casserole, and it was the only menu option that night.

Some other foods that would come home from the grocery store in my parents’ shopping cart would be limburger cheese, liverwurst, canned creamed corn, marshmallow fluff, and sardines.

My father once showed me how he would make a sardine sandwich, but I never could get past looking at the fish heads before taking them out of the can to put them a slice of bread and take a bite.

When my mother would ask if I wanted a “Fluffernutter” for lunch, I would always pass on that too. It was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with marshmallow fluff spread on it. Back then I wasn’t much of a fan of peanut butter and would ask for just a jelly sandwich.

Limburger cheese and liverwurst never really appealed to me as a child. Like Green Pea Soup, it was hard to get past the smell of limburger cheese. No matter how often my mother would try to encourage me to eat liverwurst, which is a kind of spreadable sausage, I never could get past the taste or its aroma. She would put in on saltine crackers or on bread and it was utterly revolting to me.

If I saw her reach for a can of creamed corn from the cupboard to heat up for dinner, it would produce instant upset stomach symptoms in me. To this very day, the sight or smell of creamed corn gives me the chills mentally and makes me want to vomit physically.

I’m sure my mother felt the same way about foods I enjoyed too. Once she visited my home and was surprised to see my wife was fixing some Chinese food on the stove in a wok that we had been given as a wedding present. She told me that ever since she was a small girl, the sight of Chinese food made her ill and she couldn’t eat the meal we were preparing.

All this reminds me of how Mark Twain once described food aversion.

“The only way to keep your health is to eat what you don't want, drink what you don't like, and do what you'd rather not," he said. <

Andy Young: Selflessly (and inexpensively) doing my part

By Andy Young

According to the most recent data available from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, America’s Consumer Price Index (CPI) rose by 0.3 percent in September. A recent Harris Poll found 75 percent of those surveyed reported their monthly expenses had risen by $100 or more, which confirmed the conclusions of the Yale Budget Lab’s finding that current economic policies will increase the average household’s cost of living by approximately $2,300 (about $191 per month) annually.

Economists point to a variety of reasons for rises in the inflation rate which include (but aren’t limited to):

1) increased production costs

2) consumer demand for certain products overtaking available supply

3) natural disasters

4) increased government spending; and

5) increased consumer spending

Most Americans complain endlessly about inflation but do nothing to help curb it. Not me, though. I don’t just impotently wring my hands about knotty problems – I act decisively. And after perusing the list of factors contributing to inflation, I concluded there wasn’t anything I could do about the first four. But the fifth one? That was right up my alley.

The day after Thanksgiving, aka “Black Friday,” has long been America’s biggest single shopping day. It seemed obvious to me what responsible citizens should have been doing to try to fight inflation that day, so after taking several deep breaths I did just that.

I stayed home. I didn’t buy a new car, secure a spot on a cruise ship, purchase any airline tickets, or reserve any hotel rooms. I also passed on procuring lottery tickets, tobacco products, alcohol, or any legal (or illegal) pharmaceuticals.

I selflessly avoided purchasing curtains; sheets; mattresses; pillows; pillowcases; blenders; ironing boards; furniture; power tools; garage door openers; flatware; pots; pans; mixing bowls; sifters; microwave ovens; toasters; juicers; air fryers; pizza stones; or coffee makers. Ditto tickets to hockey; basketball; football or baseball games; golf clubs; fancy watches; or exercise equipment. I steered clear of technology purveyors, buying not a single laptop computer; desktop computer; monitor; gaming system; earbuds; keyboard; iPad; iPhone; mouse; or video game.

Though sorely tempted, I resisted the urge to procure further additions to my impressive wardrobe. That meant no new pants; shirts; sneakers; work boots; sandals; bedroom slippers; platform shoes; boxers; briefs; jackets; ties; hoodies; wristbands; jewelry; personal grooming products; or formal wear, no matter how enticing the deals on them were.

Even though I desperately wanted to, I didn’t purchase a single houseplant; book; record; CD; DVD; magazine subscription; or movie ticket on Nov. 28.

There were some unexpected benefits connected to my selfless acts of commercial abstinence. Thanks to my minimalistic attitude regarding consumption, I didn’t have to rent a storage facility for all the possessions that would have been displaced had I, unlike other, less patriotic Americans, contributed to rising inflation by buying all those things I wanted for myself, my family, or certain special friends.

Apparently, there’s now something called “Cyber Monday” but I stayed completely out of Cyberspace that day, or at least out of the portion populated by cybermerchants; cyberretailers; cybervendors; and similar cybercapitalists. Instead, the Cyberbusiness I did was “unsubscribe” to the flood of emails I’ve been getting from, among others, Amazon; Home Depot; Apple; Ocean State Job Lot; Staples; Tripadvisor; and “Shop Your Way,” none of which I remember actually signing up to receive email from in the first place.

Some hold the current president responsible for America’s ongoing battle with inflation; others fault the fiscal policies of his predecessor. I honestly don’t know who (or what) exactly is to blame for America’s increasing cost(s) of living.

But I’m quite sure it’s not me. <

Insight: A Relative Term

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

In looking back at this past year, the importance of family in my life has never been more important.

Ed Pierce reconnected with members of his 
family this fall in New York state. Top, from 
left, are Ed's cousin Tracy and Ed's wife 
Nancy. Bottom, from left are Ed Pierce
and his aunt, Barbara Wolf. 
COURTESY PHOTO    

It started in March when my youngest stepson, Danny and his fiancé Makayla, brought a new life into the world, a little girl by the name of Summer.

She is a precious little bundle of smiles who brings us joy, no matter if she is just visiting us in Maine, or we are babysitting Summer at her apartment in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. I never knew there could be so many baby toys and devices for infants available until her parents showed up with them.

Then in April I was sworn to keep a special secret when my oldest stepson Chuckie decided to pay my wife Nancy a visit from Danbury, Connecticut for her birthday and brought along our then 3-year-old grandson, Leon. I vowed to keep the secret for a few days and took Nancy for a late dinner at a local steakhouse where she was surprised by the two of them.

They stayed with us for a few days, and we had a blast because we usually only get to see Leon and his 6-year-old sister, Olivia, several times a year.

In early September, both Olivia and Leon and their parents Chuckie and Casie came for a visit and during that time, we ate at a Chinese buffet restaurant, visited a carnival, went to the beach and then we all drove to the Maine Wildlife Park in Gray.

Never having been there before, Maine Wildlife Park was a perfect outing for our family. We saw beavers and white-tailed deer, exotic birds, a Maine black bear, a cougar, a gray fox and a skunk. There were raccoons, a bobcat, a porcupine, a woodchuck and even a fish hatchery to feed fish.

The highlight of our visit certainly had to be standing just a few feet away behind a fence from a large Maine moose. Never having seen one before, I was amazed at how large moose are and that they eat tree leaves among other things.

The grandkids told us they would like to go back there again the next time they come to Maine for a visit, so that convinced me we had made a great choice for a recreational outing that day.

In late September, Nancy and I rented an SUV and drove to my high school class reunion gathering in Rochester, New York. It rained the entire way over from Maine to the New York State Thruway but once we arrived in the Rochester area, the sun came out and temperatures there were summer-like.

After seeing friends at the reunion activities, we drove to my Aunt Barbara’s house for a visit and brought along a carrot cake with us. Aunt Barbara is now 86 and her daughter Robin and Robin’s husband John were there that night too. I had been an usher at a wedding with Robin when she was a little girl and I hadn’t seen her since. She was the flower girl at that same wedding.

To my surprise, Robin’s siblings, my cousins Tracy and David, were also there that evening and I hadn’t seen either of them for many years.

We had a wonderful visit and seeing Aunt Barbara made the entire trip worthwhile for me. I had lost touch with her over the years and re-establishing that family connection and having them meet my wife Nancy reinforced for me that family ties are indeed an important component of our lives.

Before leaving Rochester, we spent a Saturday with my cousin Mark, his wife Holly, and their daughter Adeline. It was a memorable visit as we got to taste Adeline’s candied lemons and sample some of Mark’s freshly made pickles. We also went to a large thrift shop, a bargain store and then traveled to Seabreeze by Lake Ontario to enjoy a meal at a place my father used to take us to when I was small. The restaurant is now called “Don’s Original” but back years ago it was “Don & Bob’s.” Not much has changed since I first went there in the 1950s from the exact same menu board to the counter seats and the food there was the best we had eaten during the entire trip.

Returning to Mark and Holly’s house, they showed us a spot in their front yard where they were able to observe and study a group of praying mantis insects over the summer. The creatures were fascinating, and they had given some of them distinct names. Before dying, one of the females had laid a sack of eggs at the end of the summer to perpetuate the species next year if they survive the winter.

All in all, this past year has proven to me how significant positive family members can be upon my life and why it’s so critical for me to surround myself with them.

I believe that the time we spend with family determines our well-being and survival in this world. Some of my family may now be gone, but the way I see it, my family's never in the past. I carry them around with me each day. <

Andy Young: Tough to start, easy to finish

By Andy Young

So how does one start a Thanksgiving-themed 600-word column on gratitude? The best place, I suppose, is at the beginning.

I’m thankful for having had parents and grandparents who loved me and cared enough to reward me when I deserved it but who also possessed the courage and character to rein me in when the situation warranted it. I’m also glad they had the patience and self-control necessary to not punish me every single time I deserved it.

I’m grateful for having a roof over my head, and for residing where it’s not too cold in the winter or too hot in the summer. I also appreciate not being food-insecure and knowing I can safely drink tap water from any faucet in my home.

I’m thankful for my three healthy children, all of whom have already begun to make a positive impact on the world.

I’m grateful for my siblings, who thankfully don’t hold grudges. I know for certain they will be there, if and when I need help. I’m also thankful for my extended family, which consists of cousins, uncles, nieces, nephews, and a few others I’ve designated. I’m also thankful no law specifies that families must consist solely of blood relatives.

I’m fortunate I don’t live in a war zone or someplace plagued by disease and/or poverty. I also fully realize that the vast majority of my blessings are due to the utter coincidence of where, when, and to whom I was born, and I’m thankful I’ve never lost sight of that.

I’m blessed to live in an area free of terrorists and/or hate groups like Isis, Al-Shabaab, or the Ku Klux Klan.

I’m grateful for kind and generous neighbors who treat me like royalty, and who never ask for anything in return.

I’m thankful I learned the difference between “needs” and “wants” at a relatively early age.

I’m even more grateful that my needs and wants are currently identical.

I’m thankful for having the privilege of working alongside individuals who are dedicated to helping high school students reach their full potential and are equally bound and determined to help their colleagues do so as well.

I’m grateful for every bright young person who enters my classroom each day at school and for the parents/guardians who’ve entrusted them to me and my fellow educators.

I’m thankful for my co-workers who’ve become friends, and for my friends who, by happy coincidence, are also my co-workers.

I’m thankful my home is firearm-free, and that my family has no desire or need for guns.

I’m thankful for attentive, considerate drivers who make traveling by bicycle a viable option.

While I’m grateful for all this and more, I’m equally thankful for countless things I don’t have.

For example, I’m thankful I’ve never become dependent upon tobacco, alcohol, gambling, opioids, caffeine, cell phones, or any similar potentially addictive scourges.

I’m thankful I haven’t broken any bones or been concussed in the past decade. I’m also grateful I haven’t contracted poison ivy lately.

I’m grateful I don’t live anywhere near scorpions, fire ants, or venomous snakes.

I’m consciously appreciative of the complete lack of chronically miserable, mean-spirited, petty, vengeful, backstabbing individuals in my life. This includes family, friends, co-workers, neighbors, and, it seems to me, every random stranger I encounter.

I’m thankful I don’t have chronic pain or any serious medical concerns at the moment.

I’m grateful for learning yet again that 600 words are nowhere near enough to list everything I’m genuinely thankful for.

But how does one finish writing a Thanksgiving-themed 600-word column on gratitude?

That’s easy.

With the 600th word, of course! <

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