Insight: Looking back on an indelible friendship

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

It’s been mentioned that if you embrace the unfamiliar it can often lead to unexpected friendships.

I first met Ray Clifford in September 1971 as a freshman attending New Mexico Highlands University. I was about to turn 18 and he was five years older and 23, having served as a military policeman on a patrol boat on the Mekong River during the Vietnam War.

Ray Clifford, back row fifth from right, and Ed Pierce,
front row fourth from right, were members of the same
college fraternity in 1971. COURTESY PHOTO  

Clifford was 6 feet tall and weighed 240 pounds while I was 5 feet 6 and 130 pounds. I was in school to earn a degree and launch a career, while he was there for beer, parties, women, good times and certainly not academics.

My tuition was paid for by student loans and his was covered courtesy of the GI Bill from his service in the U.S. military. I was from Rochester, New York and he was from Breezy Point, New York on Long Island.

Somehow, both of us ended up in the same fraternity pledge class and were living in the same fraternity house off campus. After getting to know Ray Clifford for a few weeks, I determined that something was unusual about him, especially when he requested a room to live in the basement.

His ambition was to become a police officer or detective in New York City, but I sensed that his temperament wasn’t a great fit for that. He was quick to anger and often exhibited poor judgement. He drove recklessly when borrowing another fraternity member’s car and he would carry a bottle of peach schnapps in his coat to take sips in class when the professor wasn’t looking.

It just didn’t seem like he was all there at times, and I can cite examples of his questionable actions.

Once when I was carrying a laundry basket down the cellar stairs filled with dirty clothes to wash, I stopped just inside the door to turn on the light and see where I was going. Immediately after turning on the light, it went out and someone grabbed me from behind around the neck and held a butcher knife to my throat saying, “What are you going to do now?” I realized it was Ray Clifford right away because of the tone of his sing-song voice and I asked to be released, telling him I watched "Kung Fu" on television every week. He laughed and told me that I should be more careful when entering darkened rooms in the future.

During our fraternity pledge weekend where we were supposed to leave the area for 48 hours and not be found, the entire pledge class traveled more than 100 miles away to a remote cabin.

Not long after arriving, Clifford went outside to smoke and those of us inside the cabin heard a gunshot. He came running in saying he had brought a pistol and fired it indiscriminately, but a bullet had ricocheted off a fencepost and somehow hit a cow standing nearby in a field. He was scared and wouldn’t let us notify the farmer so we spent the next two days fearful that the police would arrive and arrest us all for murdering a heffer.

As the first semester exams neared and before everyone departed to go home for the holidays, the fraternity held a huge dance. Clifford made what he called “Breezy Bash,” a concoction of fruit punch and generous amounts of alcohol mixed in. While people were dancing, I observed him add six bottles of Everclear (pure alcohol) to the “Breezy Bash” and I’m sure it produced quite a few hangovers for anyone who drank it.

He shared his first semester grade report with me while we were flying home for Christmas. In Economics, he had received a “C,” but in American National Government, Psychology, English 101, and Earth Science, he received an “F.”

Before the school year ended, he was involved in a fight and melee that spring while sticking up for a fellow fraternity brother who had been called a racial slur and then punched at the Student Union Building on campus.

Many members of our fraternity and college administrators were surprised though when Ray Clifford did not return that fall for his sophomore year.

Years passed and I eventually served in the U.S. Air Force, got married, earned my college degree and began a career in journalism writing for newspapers.

In 2010, I was watching a baseball game on television in early May at our home in Florida when the phone rang. I answered it and was shocked to learn it was Ray Clifford on the other end.

He said a fellow fraternity member had given him my number. He told me that he had obtained degrees from both Saint Francis University and Florida International University and had never married. He had worked as a court officer for the State of New York and was now retired and living in New Smyrna Beach, Florida about 80 miles from me.

I told him about my newspaper career and my wife and family, and before we said goodbye, he said to me, “We sure had some crazy times in college, didn’t we?’

Years later I found out that he had died at the age of 65 in 2013.

It’s my contention that no friendship we ever make is purely by accident. <

Andy Young: The necessity of all five vowels

By Andy Y.

Exactly how many people on this planet speak English cannot be determined precisely, or at least not for certain. The total, according to Wikipedia, an online encyclopedia where many folks go to obtain esoteric information, is somewhere in the neighborhood of 1.5 billion. However, if that seems a bit inflated, well, it is. For the majority of Earth’s denizens, English never has been and never will be their primary method of sharing ideas. 

A mere 360 million earthlings consider it their primary form of expression. Others converse (or trade opinions) by employing Spanish, French, Mandarin, Arabic, Farsi, or Hindi. These are only a few of the many other systems of engaging in verbal or written interactions by employing a common system of terminology. English is, for many people, at best a secondary method of engaging in conversation and/or written correspondence with others.

While there are 26 letters in the alphabet, five are widely considered more important than all the others. Were it not for vowels, words, phrases, and sentences as we know them might not exist. Imagine trying to clearly convey a vital message, verbally or in writing, if speakers, writers, and all other creators of oral and written transmission of ideas didn’t have those five most important letters of the alphabet at their disposal!

Even professionals who examine books, articles, words and sentences for a living can’t effectively analyze controversies related to literary topics if they’re limited to availing themselves solely of mere consonants.

Make no mistake: this analytical commentary is not intended as a jab at the letters B, C, D, F, G, H, J, K, L, M, N, P, Q, R, S, T, V, W, X, Y, and/or Z. These twenty-one easily recognizable symbols have served English speakers with clarity, honor and distinction for more than one and a half millennia, and it’s likely they’ll persist in doing so for at least that long into whatever period of time lies ahead for mankind. Consider for a moment the prospect of a vowel-less world. It’d definitely be a wretched one, since there’d be severe limitations regarding the capability of men, women, and children to know what anyone else was thinking at any given time or place.

If it weren’t for vowels there’d be no viable way to attempt to compose even a brief letter, to say nothing of lengthier written pieces like this one, which consists of a mere fifty dozen words. Can anyone fathom a life devoid of the alphabet’s five-letter assemblage of vowels?

If these five splendid letters didn’t exist, there’d be no effective form of oral or written expression available to anyone. Imagine trying to relay messages with only hand signals or facial expressions, while emitting only snorts or groans. We’d have to “baaah” like rams or ewes, and assign meanings to words like zvmmt, kwrss, pklxz, or qmkllffs! I don’t see that as being even a remote possibility.

Crafting a viable, coherent dissertation while deprived of even one specific vowel doesn’t seem doable. Composing a 600-word article that doesn’t contain each of them at least once is inconceivable even for me, and I’ve got an exceptionally healthy imagination. I’m really glad nobody ever assigned me to write a lengthy treatise on the importance of vowels, while at the same time prohibiting me from employing a specific one even once. To decent writers, each vowel is of vital importance.

Thank goodness for these five essential letters. I can’t imagine writing an essay sans any A’s, E’s, I’s, or O’s. It’s simply not attainable for me.

Nevertheless, it might be achievable for someone else.

Maybe even yew. <

Insight: If You Wanna Be Happy

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Recently I listened to part of a podcast featuring a so-called expert discussing her series of books instructing people how to be happy.

The podcast’s host described how this “happiness expert” has sold more than two million books and is one of the most requested public speakers currently in America. Using what she says are scientific resources while pursuing opportunities and experiences fostering growth and learning is this author’s mantra and she advocates that self-knowledge and strong relationships are the keys to unlocking happiness.

Listening to her share her rationale about how to create happiness made me think that I too could detail what makes me happy and not charge anyone a dime for my thoughts on the subject.

Without further ado, here’s Ed’s Happiness Rules, free of charge:

Rule #1: Surround yourself with upbeat people. I’ve found that I’m happiest when I reduce the amount of time I spend with negative people, whiners and complainers, anyone who is easily annoyed or know-it-all Debbie Downers. Anyone who makes me laugh is a great way to start my day and I believe that associating with upbeat, happy and positive people always rubs off on me.

Rule #2: Inject something of personal significance into every day. Hardly a day goes by when I am not listening to music or spending time with my baseball card collection. Music does indeed soothe my soul and remains a huge part of my personal happiness equation. My music makes me feel nostalgic and content and so does reviewing my baseball cards as it produces a similar feeling for me. No matter what it is that is significant to you, I recommend finding out what that is and enjoying it as often as possible.

Rule #3: Eat breakfast for dinner. At least one night a week, forget spending hours preparing a meatloaf, making mashed potatoes and tossing a salad for the family. Trust me, a hearty stack of buttermilk pancakes, scrambled eggs, hash browns, fruit, toast and juice at dinnertime always leads to a very happy evening in my household.

Rule #4: Sleep when you are tired. I do have a regular bedtime that I turn in each night, but during the college basketball season, I occasionally skip that bedtime to stay up late watching my favorite team play on the west coast. Believe it or not, by the time the games are over, I sleep soundly through the rest of the night.

Rule #5: Take a walk. I do not go to the gym each morning and I do not spend hours every day working out or exercising. However, I do enjoy taking my dog for walks and just being outside in the fresh air and trying to keep up with my canine friend does work wonders for me.

Rule #6: Focus on what you can control while watching the news. Whenever I sit down for an extended period and watch the news on television lately, it seems that I quickly become overwhelmed with the state of the world. Multiple airplane crashes, wartime massacres, starvation, looming economic problems, injustice, terrorism, natural disasters and diseases can certainly drive a person to the looney bin faster than any attempt to change the channel. After consuming a half-hour of televised daily misery and conjecture, what I do is try and think of all the positive things happening in my life and discount those uncertain world and national events that I simply have no control over. Turning off the non-stop barrage of cable news is beneficial.

Rule #7. Think only good thoughts about other people. We live in such a divisive society today that makes us distrust everyone and everything. It’s not easy to be kind and compassionate and not find shortcomings in others that you see out and about every single day. I recall Michael Jordan once saying during an interview that he had missed 26 game-winning shots during his professional career and yet he didn’t stop taking them, and he ended up winning six NBA championships. Jordan credits his teammates thinking good thoughts about him and having the confidence that he could accomplish what he did in basketball. During my own career in journalism, I’ve discovered that telling someone something positive about them can truly make a difference in how they view themselves and their work.

Rule #8: Let go of the future. We all have worries about what lies ahead for us down the road, be it old age, poor health, loneliness, a shortage of money because of the rising cost of living or losing our close and cherished friends to cancer or heart disease. I recommend forgetting all the worry and angst and simply taking things day by day. Otherwise, anxiety and depression take charge and control of your life, and that’s not what life should be about, no matter where your journey takes you.

It's my contention that as I go through life, my happiness is not about being enormously wealthy or blessed with athletic talent or possessing movie-star looks. What makes me the happiest are the little things that I’m truly grateful for such as a loving wife and family, a new granddaughter born March 5, and wonderful friends. <

Andy Young: Ahead to the future or back to the past?

By Andy Young

When someone asked me not long ago if I would rather visit with my great-great grandparents or meet my great-great grandchildren, my initial reaction was, “What an utterly random question!”

Both are intriguing possibilities though, even if neither seems likely to occur anytime soon. Barring changes in the space-time continuum, there’s no chance I’ll ever meet my grandparents’ grandparents. As for seeing my grandchildren’s grandchildren, since I’m currently both grandchild-less and eligible for Medicare, it’s hard to imagine I’ll live long enough to see three additional generations of Youngs.

That established, there are reasons to desire both of these theoretical scenarios. For me oral history is far more fascinating and relevant than opening a textbook to read someone’s biased version of past events.

Hearing recollections from people who genuinely experienced history is the closest thing to actually being there. And while any eyewitness account of the past can bring history to life, hearing one from actual ancestors would make those particular memories even more vivid.

There would be some challenges involved with meeting my ancestral great-greats, since some of them probably spoke English with difficult-to-understand accents, and others didn’t speak it at all. But where there’s a will there’s a way, and I’ll bet if I were to somehow find myself face-to-face with a great-great grandmother or great-great grandfather, we’d be able to figure out some effective way to communicate.

However, checking in with my great-great grandchildren would be tempting, too. There are multiple upsides to meeting one’s four-generations-ahead descendants.

Given the current state of humanity, the future is even more unknowable than the past. It’d be thrilling to meet my great-great grandkids, although the prospect of lasting long enough to do so seems unlikely. Still, while it’s easy to imagine what the future might look like, wouldn’t it be great to find out for certain how accurate our conception of it actually is?

After thoughtfully considering this conundrum, and in the process squandering many hours that could have been better utilized for trifles like working, eating, and sleeping, I’ve come to what I consider the only logical conclusion.

First of all, for either of these scenarios to occur, time travel would be required. Assuming mankind obtains this ability sometime in the next two decades or so, I’m going to buy myself a time machine, which I will use to travel back to meet with my great-great-grandparents. That journey won’t just be through time, though. It’ll also be geographical, since I know for a fact that I’ve got progenitors from both Ireland and Hungary, and perhaps from parts of North America as well.

Once time travel has been normalized there’ll be plenty of vehicles to choose from, and with that in mind I’m going to opt for a really big one. That’s because what I plan to do after briefly experiencing what life in their world was like is to transport all 16 of my great-greats back to the present, where I can update them on what life is like here in the first quarter of the 21st century.

I’ve got nothing against any of my forebears, but I suspect that after getting a taste of what life in the middle of the 1800s entailed, I’ll be ready to return to a world with electricity and indoor plumbing, to name just two amenities I’d prefer not to go without for long.

Another reason that going back in time makes more sense than journeying ahead: suppose I travel forward four generations, only to arrive and subsequently find out that I don’t have any great-great grandkids?

Or, even worse, that nobody does. <

Insight: Déjà vu thought through

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

The other night I had a dream in which I was in a dark movie theater watching “The Sound of Music” with my date, Angela Cartwright, who was an actress who appeared in that film as Brigitta von Trapp.

Angela Cartwright portrayed Penny
Robinson on the 1960s TV series
'Lost in Space.' COURTESY PHOTO

Angela Cartwright was a longtime crush of mine growing up in the 1960s. Along with “The Sound of Music,” she starred as Penny Robinson in the classic television show “Lost in Space” and portrayed the stepdaughter of Danny Thomas on “Make Room for Daddy.”

I never missed anything with Angela Cartwright in it and so it’s interesting that she showed up in my dream 60 years later. But it seems the concept of people coming and going in my life has been a recurring theme for me.

For several years while I was attending college in the 1970s, I worked at a business called American Furniture Company. It was a physically demanding job that only paid me $2.70 an hour.

My duties were to unpack boxes of furniture delivered on the loading dock, remove the furniture from plastic coverings and ask a store merchandiser where it needed to be displayed on the sales floor. Unpacking and preparing it for display was the easy part, carrying it out to the sales floor was the hard part.

Some of the sofas and large couches were heavy and the store owner would only let us carry the furniture by their arms, thereby protecting them if we bumped into doorways. The merchandisers were tough and demanding, wanting these new pieces of furniture displayed immediately and they were not always kind to dock workers like me.

But one merchandiser was. Jerry Sena was always friendly and good-natured and laughed a lot with the dock workers. He always treated me with respect, and I found out he was an avid tennis player.

During Wimbledon or the U.S. Open, Jerry would pause at the display of televisions on the sales floor to see if Jimmy Connors or Cris Evert was playing in a match that day. If he was directing us to the location where he wanted the sofa or dinette set placed on the sales floor, I knew he was aware of how heavy the load we were carrying was, and he would give us a chance to stop and take a small break at some point.

Eventually I asked for a raise from $2.70 to $3 per hour at American Furniture. The store owner told me he would give me a 5-cent raise to $2.75 but since I had only worked there for two years, his policy was not to pay anyone $3 an hour unless they had worked for him for five years.

I moved on and eventually enlisted in the U.S. Air Force and following my military experience, I obtained my degree in journalism and started to work for newspapers as a reporter about 13 years after working for American Furniture Company.

One of the jobs I worked at was as a reporter for a twice-a-week newspaper called the Valencia County News-Bulletin in Valencia County, New Mexico.

Not long after being hired there, I was at my desk typing when I heard a voice speaking on the phone in a nearby cubicle and it sounded familiar. For several weeks if I was at my desk in the mornings, I would hear this voice and I racked my brain trying to figure out where I had heard it before.

One day I left my desk and walked over to that cubicle and discovered that the voice belonged to an advertising representative for the newspaper. When I introduced myself as the new reporter for the News-Bulletin newspaper and shook his hand, I realized that it was Jerry Sena.

We worked together for several years there before I moved to Florida, and I would sometimes have dinner with Jerry and his wife Yvonne at their home. To me it was just another example of someone re-entering my life after an absence.

The same can be said of some of my high school classmates, many of whom I had last seen in the early 1970s.

One day in November 2000, I was working for a newspaper in Florida and the phone rang. On the other end of the line was a former high school classmate of mine named Bob Fay.

He told me that I was on a list of missing school classmates, and he was tracking people down so I could be invited to our 30th high school reunion in 2001.

As it turned out, going to that reunion brought many people I knew and had grown up with back into my life after a stretch of more than 30 years. As I reconnected with them, I felt grateful and was happy to learn what had happened to them in their lives.

Through the years, some of my classmates who attended that 30th reunion celebration passed away, so the chance to see and talk to them again is not lost on me.

There’s an old saying I once heard that “people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.” In my case, I can certainly attest to that as the truth. <

Barbara Bagshaw: Maine’s educational leadership is failing our students

By State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

I am encouraged that the woeful state of Maine’s education system is finally getting some public attention. Sadly, it is negative attention at both the national and state levels. For some time, parents, teachers and many students have been calling for a change in focus and a return to teaching the basics.

State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

Just recently the National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP) released its’ results for 2024. NAEP measures the reading and mathematics proficiency of 4th grade and 8th grade students in American public schools.

It is one of a handful of nationwide standardized tests that can be used by policy makers to evaluate the effectiveness of state public education systems.

Since 2013, Maine spent 71 percent more per pupil, a total of $26,000 per student. Despite increased spending, the results of the NAEP report are disturbing:

· Maine had the biggest drop in reading and math proficiency in the country, falling 10 percentage points since 2019.

· Just 33 percent of Maine fourth graders are proficient in math.

· Only 26 percent of those fourth graders were proficient in reading.

· Only 25 percent of eighth graders were proficient in math and 26 percent in reading.

To begin to fix the problem, we need to start at the top.

Clearly what Maine is doing as a state is failing our students. We can no longer afford to focus on experimental diversity, equity and inclusion and gender issues at the expense of traditional learning.

That, unfortunately, is not the position of Maine’s Commissioner of Education. Before our committee, she stated that “unfortunately academics will have to take the back seat” to social-emotional learning and gender studies.

Our test scores are abysmal, and it seems that the powers that be are satisfied with that. When questioned about out low scores, they stated they see the scores as “neither good nor bad.” We are spending the most we ever have on education – with the results the worst they’ve ever been.

This session, I have sponsored and co-sponsored a number of bills designed to strengthen education and promote school choice bills. Unfortunately, Maine’s educational leadership and its focus on everything but student achievement, is failing us.

Through my extensive work with school systems, I’ve learned that the legal firm Drummond and Woodsum is running most of Maine’s schools – they have a monopolistic grip on school boards across Maine.

School Boards are never given an opportunity to hear any other legal opinions – they are at the mercy of Drummond & Woodsum’s interpretation which is always very left leaning. In fact, school board members are told if you have angry citizens come to a school board meeting, listen to them and essentially disregard what they say.

Local school boards and parents need access to as much information as possible in order to make sound decisions that affect our children’s future.

As a former art teacher, I understand that social emotional learning is important. Music, teachers and sports coaches also understand the value of social emotional learning. In spite of that, it cannot be at the expense of academics. We have excellent teachers in the state of Maine. We should give all the new teachers a raise, as well as stepping up the pay of all our seasoned, beloved teachers. This can be done without raising taxes if we prioritize Maine citizens over illegal aliens.

As a member of the Education Committee, I am committed to giving parents a greater voice in their children’s education and finding ways to improve student learning. I had the opportunity to go to a School Choice Summit for legislators in Utah last summer. They, in fact, say where there is choice, there is instant improvement in public schools because there is choice.

Maine taxpayers deserve choices.

It is an honor to represent part of Windham in the Legislature. If there is any way that I can be of assistance, please contact me at barbara.bagshaw@legislature.maine.gov .My office phone number is 207-287-1440. You can find me on Facebook. To receive regular updates, sign up for my e-newsletter at https://mainehousegop.org/ <

 

Andy Young: The folly of competing with St. Patrick

By Andy Young

Relatively few people are familiar with St. Gertrude of Nivelles, who, when she was 10 years old, rejected her social-climbing, ambitious father’s proposal that she marry the son of an influential duke.

Later the selfless young woman ran a monastery that provided care and shelter for travelers, the sick, and the elderly. Worn out by a life of perpetual piety, fasting, and charity, she died at age 33, and was justifiably canonized by Pope Clement XII in 1677, a mere 1,018 years after her death.

I didn’t know this until recently. Nor, in all likelihood, did anyone who is reading this. But that’s not our fault.

The person responsible for America’s collective ignorance on this particular subject is the knucklehead who decided to declare March 17 as St. Gertrude of Nivelles Day. What’s dumber than pitting this altruistic woman’s “day” against a fellow saint’s day of commemoration? And not just any saint, but the one who drove every snake out of Ireland!

Surprisingly though, St. Gertrude’s press agent was far from the stupidest publicist of all time.

Few people know March 17 is also Doctor-Patient Trust Day. But given that hardly anyone thinks of anything not green and/or related to St. Paddy that day, it’s no wonder so many people currently distrust their doctor(s).

Why would anyone in their right mind choose to commemorate a person or an event on a day that’s already universally recognized for something else? If I were in charge of doing public relations for doctor-patient trust or St. Gertrude, I’d fire the underling(s) responsible for choosing March 17 for our cause’s special day and replace them with someone possessing at least an ounce of common sense.

Trying to draw national attention to a person or organization on St. Patrick’s Day is pure folly. But March 17 isn’t the only date that’s been foolishly chosen by some clueless publicity agent(s).

If you haven’t consumed any breadsticks lately, perhaps that’s because the morons in charge of making people desire these slender, crisp delicacies chose the final day of October as National Breadstick Day.

The people whose job it is to boost breadstick sales aren’t the only imbecilic publicizers who chose Halloween as the one day of the year to call attention to their product or cause.

National Magic Day, National Unity Day, National Knock-Knock Joke Day, National Muddy Dog Day, and Girl Scout Founders Day all fall on Oct. 31, the one date each year where virtually everyone with a pulse is fixated on Halloween.

It’s no wonder illiteracy is on the rise, given that both International Book Giving Day and Read to Your Child Day fall on Feb. 14, a date when most people have romance on their minds. No wonder reading has plummeted from the already-low spot it had previously occupied on the average American’s priorities list.

Another worthy cause has chosen Valentine’s Day for its annual call for attention, but whoever opted for designating Feb. 14 as National Impotence Day either has an affinity for irony or a mean streak the size of the Grand Canyon.

Unfamiliar with copyright laws? Blame it on the dope who made Jan. 1 Copyright Law Day. And don’t expect any dramatic rise in vegetarianism this year, since Independence from Meat Day falls, along with National Hillbilly Day, Jackfruit Day, and Invisible Day, on July 4.

Anyone responsible for promoting a specific cause who willingly chooses the date of a pre-existing national celebration for their annual “Day” clearly has rocks in their head.

Competent publicists, it seems, are rarer than invisible, impotent, breadstick-eating hillbillies who tell knock-knock jokes and trust their doctors. <

Rookie Mama: Are eggs all they’re cracked up to be? Substitutions keep your budget sunny-side up

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

There’s much to be said about eggs and bird flu at the moment; an Avian atrocity that’s put the nation on eggshells as we navigate an industry once considered unflappable.

The severe impact of rising egg costs on just about everyone is nothing to squawk at – and it doesn’t look to be resolved any time soon.

Between runny breakfast sandwiches and floury baked goods and four growing boys, my family consumes 18-36 eggs weekly on average. Well, ‘consumed’; past tense.

We’re adapting to ways around this, migrating to egg substitutions, because we’ve really no other choice for now.

Fortunately, I’ve recently learned great news about these swap-portunities – As it turns out, there are many alternatives. But as with any cooking or baking experiments, results may vary – sometimes laughably so.

My family and I kicked off the year with a resolution to start celebrating each other’s half birthdays.

We figured that there’s a lot going on in the world; let’s grow more veggies and eat more cake.

No sooner had we made this decision that we realized cakes – even the simplest of Betty Crocker box varieties – require eggs.

Oof.

Or, as the French word for ‘egg’ goes: ‘Oeuf.’

Whereas I’d originally thought avoiding eggs was easily doable by skipping our favorite over-easy variety fried up each week, I hadn’t quite wrapped my head around just how many eggs I use for baking weekly.

I dug out my well-loved, heavily creased Substitution Bible, to which I often turn in a frenzy when in a pinch to substitute a pinch of whatever a recipe calls for and I just don’t have.

A quick web search brought up easy solutions as well.

As it turns out, there are several affordable alternatives for eggs to keep your budget on the sunny side. To name a few:

• Unsweetened applesauce or mashed bananas – Use for waffles, quick breads, muffins where moisture is key. Swap ¼ cup for each egg.

• Ground flax or chia seed – Use for baked goods; results may be denser. Measure 1 tbsp of either one in a cup, add 3 tbsp water, wait five minutes prior to use.

• Vinegar and baking soda – Use for baking items in which the outcome needs to be light and fluffy. Substitute 1 tsp baking soda mixed with 1 tbsp vinegar.

• Plain yogurt or buttermilk – Use for cakes, muffins, quick breads. The acidity will add lift and moisture. Substitute ¼ cup for each egg.

• Carbonated water and beer – The carbonation will add moisture and make for a fluffy rise. Substitute ¼ cup of either one.

• Gelatin – Measure 1 tbsp mixed with 3 tbsp cold water to replace 1 egg.

• Nut butter – This substitution brings more flavor and works well in a quick bread where nuts are used. Substitute 3 tbsp of any nut butter to replace 1 egg.

• Soy lecithin – Use in place of recipes that call for egg yolks. Use 1 tbsp to replace 1 egg yolk.

• Aquafaba – Use in place of whipped egg whites, in recipes such as meringues and macaroons. The chemical bonds create a scaffold that keeps shape when baked. Use 3 tbsp for each egg or egg white.

• Liquid commercial egg substitute – Use for savory dishes, particularly for quiches, omelets, frittatas. Use ¼ cup per egg.

• Tofu – Use silken tofu for baking dense items such as brownies or cookies. Crumble extra firm tofu for a scramble or egg salad. Use ¼ cup silken tofu.

The beauty of using any of these over easy-peasy substitutions is several are inexpensive possibilities, so allow yourself a bit of grace should the recipe fail you.

Have fun with it.

Worst case scenario– Raise a toast with a can of soda, combine it with a box cake mix, and you’ve got yourself a fantastic dessert. Go ahead and do a happy dance, like Duncan Hines met Gregory Hines.

Earlier I mentioned laughable baking results.

Last week, I was whipping up a “half birthday” cake for one of my kiddos.

I dutifully subbed in a quarter cup applesauce for an egg in the mix.

After a straightforward baking, cooling, and frosting experience of the chocolate goodness, I noticed a large crack forming down the center of my “7 ½” designed in chocolate chips upon the vanilla frosting, an epic failing of sugary proportions before my eyes.

The cake was literally becoming a “half” birthday cake as it split.

I sprinted to action, placing toothpicks at various base points of the cake in desperation to keep it upright, as my witnessing kiddos tried their darnedest to stifle all the laughs and look away.

But lo and behold, the entire masterpiece became pieces indeed, falling delicately apart like a crumbly lava cake. The binding agent of the applesauce just hadn’t quite – bound.

What devolved became a Vesuvian science fair experiment and that, my friends, was the icing on the cake.

We were able to laugh about the dirt cake later – My family joked we should have placed gummy worms inside to complete the look – and fortunately it tasted just fine.

Next week, I’m trying the can of soda, and we’ll let the experimenting continue.

So let’s keep calm and scramble on, by whisking up egg alternatives as we weather these times.

Remember to bring the gummy worms.

And don’t forget your happy dance.

­­– 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: Two Weeks on Death’s Doorstep

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

It began innocently enough with a cough as we approached mid-February and ended up being two of the worst weeks of my life from a health perspective.

This shows a sampling of some of the medications that were
used by Ed Pierce to overcome pneumonia in both lungs
during the last two weeks of February.
PHOTO BY ED PIERCE   

Back around Thanksgiving last fall, I was suffering from some sort of viral infection that persisted for days and was eventually conquered by my doctor prescribing an effective five-day antibiotic treatment. I felt good afterward and got through Christmas and New Year’s and on into January without further illness.

But around Feb. 10, I started to develop a cough and treated it with cough syrup and taking a Nyquil pill at bedtime. Within three or four days I seemed better and was on the mend when I had my annual physical with my doctor on Valentine’s Day.

He listened with a stethoscope to my lungs and said whatever I had been experiencing earlier that week had cleared up because he couldn’t hear anything in there.

That evening my wife and I went out to a restaurant for a meal and the following day we attended a funeral at a local church for a friend who had passed away. I noticed that I had the sniffles at the church, but they didn’t seem excessive or anything out of the ordinary.

The next morning, Sunday, Feb. 16, it began to snow heavily, and both my wife and I worked outside clearing the driveway of ice and snow. I was using my snowblower and the snow was so fine as it scattered around, I could barely see a few feet in front of my face.

Then it began to rain lightly, and the moisture appeared to be frozen before it reached the ground. My coat, hat and gloves were soaked, but I had cleared the driveway of the snow.

My wife and I decided to return indoors but before we did that, as I was putting away the snowblower in the garage, I felt this weird type of chill travel from one end of my body to the other. When that has happened to me before, it’s a signal that I’m coming down with something.

By later that evening, I was in poor shape. My nose was running like a raging river, I had an uncontrollable cough, a sudden loss of appetite, and was experiencing a terrible headache. I took an extra Nyquil pill to try and regain some control of my health while I slept that night, but it didn’t work.

When I woke up on Monday, Feb. 17, I was sicker than a dog. I was still coughing, my nose was still running, and the headache was still there. But two new symptoms suddenly appeared. The first one was severe diarrhea and the second was that I could now hear the fluid building up in both of my lungs.

The pronounced wheezing was troublesome because it occurred every time that I took a breath in and then exhaled. It sounded like hitting a low note on an accordion or a moose in distress and was deeply concerning.

During all this time it was difficult to sleep through the night. I would doze off at some point but then wake myself up with a loud wheeze. I recall waking myself up one evening at 1, 2, 3 and 4 a.m. with my wheezing.

After realizing that my over-the-counter cold medicine wasn’t helping me, I called the doctor on Tuesday, Feb. 18. He was booked solid for the rest of the week, so my healthcare provider asked if I would be willing to see another doctor in the practice who had an appointment available that Thursday.

I agreed to make an appointment to see her. She examined me and after listening to my lungs with her stethoscope, she diagnosed me with Community Acquired Pneumonia. That means someone at one of the places I visited, either the restaurant or the funeral at the church, had been suffering from pneumonia and then spread it to me.

She prescribed a five-day course of antibiotics, the exact same medication that I had been prescribed over Thanksgiving, and she told me that if my pneumonia didn’t clear up by the end of the antibiotic treatment, she would prescribe another medication.

Throughout this entire ordeal, my wife wouldn’t let me go outdoors to work on the driveway when it snowed several times again and I wasn’t even allowed to take the dog outside. I felt absolutely useless.

By Day Five of the antibiotic treatment, my runny nose had stopped, my headache had subsided, and my diarrhea had gone away. But I was still coughing a great deal, and I could still hear pronounced wheezing coming from my lungs.

My doctor then prescribed a treatment for the next five days of taking two prednisone pills daily.

Those were aimed at clearing my lungs of the fluid and by the time that medication was finished, I felt better and began to think that I was on the road to recovery.

In looking back at the last two weeks of February, some irrefutable facts are hard to overlook.

When you’re old, it’s hard to ward off sickness, no matter how healthy you are. And you can’t fully appreciate good health until you become sick. <

Andy Young: Time for a rebranding?

By Andy Young

I’m a little out of sorts because this weekend is an hour shorter than usual. Daylight Saving Time begins this Sunday morning when the clocks “spring forward” one hour. That reminds me: is any month associated with more tired adages, vapid platitudes, and outright inaccuracies than March?

A crazy person is labeled “Madder than a March hare,” but the reality is hare behavior in the spring is attributable to the animal’s mating ritual and has nothing to do with anger or insanity.

“Beware the Ides of March,” a cautionary phrase immortalized by William Shakespeare, is nothing more than silly superstition. There’s no inherent danger in any particular calendar date. That established, if a group of toga-wearing Roman senators comes at me on the 15th, I’ll probably turn tail and start sprinting.

And even though The Old Farmer’s Almanac annually forecasts that the third month’s weather will “Come in like a lion, and go out like a lamb,” that doesn’t always turn out to be the case.

March has much to recommend it. It contains more letters than its two one-syllable sisters, May and June. It’s the only month that can legitimately call itself a true verb; sorry May, but auxiliary ones don’t count. It’s also the only month that can be used as a non-proper noun. Archaic nouns don’t count, so get over yourself, May.

March has spawned numerous significant individuals, including inventors Albert Einstein, Alexander Graham Bell, and Rene Descartes; literary titans Robert Frost, Flannery O’Connor, and Dr. Seuss; Hall of Fame athletes Cy Young, Gordie Howe, and Shaquille O’Neal; high-profile entertainers Elton John, Chuck Norris, and Lady Gaga; and harder-to-categorize movers and shakers like Harriet Tubman, Vincent Van Gogh, and Michelangelo. And since Sir Isaac Newton, Taylor Swift, and LeBron James were all born in December, it’s obvious each member of this accomplished trio was conceived in March!

Even more impressive, consider this: Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Emperor Caligula, Ted Bundy, Charles Manson, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Jeffrey Dahmer, Saddam Hussein, Benito Mussolini, Ayatollah Khomeini and the Reverend Jim Jones all weren’t born in March! And there’s a 91.7% chance Jack the Ripper wasn’t either.

March has numerous assets, but also some very real liabilities. Drawback number one: it’s one of only two months without a three-day weekend.

New Year’s Day, Martin Luther King Day, Presidents Day, Patriots Day, Memorial Day, Juneteenth, Independence Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Columbus/Indigenous Peoples’ Day all provide their respective months with a built-in leisure Monday. The only other federal holiday-less month is August, but since much of the country is on vacation during that time anyway, the void is less noticeable.

Being three-day-weekend-free is bad enough, but adding insult to injury, March is an hour shorter than the other six 31-day months. Blame the Energy Policy Act of 2005 for that and it was what changed the start of DST from the last Sunday in April to the second Sunday in March.

At least March is still as long as January, May, July, August, October, and December are in Arizona, Hawaii, and the five populated US territories (Puerto Rico, American Samoa, the US Virgin Islands, Guam, and the Northern Mariana Islands) that don’t observe DST.

March clearly needs an image makeover, so I’m spending this weekend trying to invent a catchy new motto for it. Possible slogans I’ve come up with so far:

“Happier than a March hare,” “Eagerly anticipate the Ides of March,” and “In like Manson, out like Tubman.”

Okay; I know these all sound pretty weak. But you try being creative when you’ve only got 47 hours to work with! <

Tim Nangle: My bills to increase transparency and protect consumer rights

By State Senator Tim Nangle

As your state senator, one of my top priorities is ensuring Maine consumers are treated fairly and transparently in the marketplace. Too often, people are caught off guard by hidden fees, unfair policies and unexpected financial hits.

State Senator Tim Nangle

That’s why I’m introducing several consumer-protection bills this session to tackle deceptive pricing, simplify subscription cancellations and bring fairness to how parking violations are issued. At their core, these bills are about keeping more money in your pocket and preventing corporations from taking advantage of Mainers.

If you’ve ever bought a ticket to a concert or booked a hotel room, you’ve probably experienced the frustration of hidden fees. The initial price you see rarely matches what you actually pay.

Service charges, resort fees and convenience fees can quickly inflate costs, turning what seemed like a good deal into a much more expensive purchase.

My bill would require businesses to disclose the full price upfront – including all mandatory fees – whenever they advertise prices. This would prevent deceptive pricing tactics from misleading you and help maintain fair competition in the marketplace. When you buy something, you deserve to know exactly what it will cost – no surprises, no gimmicks.

Just like hidden fees, subscription traps are another way companies make it easy to start paying them, but hard to make it stop. Many of us have signed up for a free trial or subscription only to find that canceling is a confusing, frustrating process. Some businesses make it so complicated that people give up, continuing to pay for services they no longer want or need.

That’s why I’ve introduced a bill to simplify subscription cancellations by requiring companies to offer a clear, easy way to cancel online – just like they do when you sign up. If you don’t have to mail in a letter or go to a physical office to subscribe for a service, you shouldn’t have to jump through those hoops to cancel.

These bills are about making sure Mainers aren’t losing money due to deceptive practices. This includes parking violations. I’ve heard from constituents in my district who were blindsided by tickets they didn’t even know they had – some of them only finding out when the fine was sent to collections. That’s not right.

My bill would require that drivers be notified of parking violations at the time of the offense, eliminating delayed notifications that arrive weeks later with additional penalties. It also prevents parking fines from being reported to credit agencies, protecting Mainers from long-term financial harm.

These are common-sense protections that put consumers first. Whether it’s making pricing more transparent, ensuring subscriptions are easy to cancel or stopping predatory parking fines, these bills are about fairness. If you want to make your voice heard, learn how you can submit testimony by going to mainesenate.org/testify.

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: Rules of the Road

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Growing up, I always wondered why my mother didn’t want to drive.

Ed Pierce's mother was driving a 1962 Chevrolet Impala
exactly like this one when she hit a concrete pole head-on that
was dividing entrance and exit lanes in a bank parking lot. 
COURTESY PHOTO

My father drove us everywhere and he offered to teach her numerous times. For a while when I was about 10, she was enthusiastic about it. That is, until on a certain Friday night in 1964, she drove our family in my father’s 1962 teal-colored Chevrolet Impala to the drive-through bank in Pittsford, New York where my father could cash his paycheck.

We had made that same trip many times since that bank had opened just a few years before. As my mother approached the side entrance, she turned on her left turn blinker, checked the oncoming traffic and started to pull into the bank’s parking lot. But we suddenly came to an abrupt stop when she hit a newly installed concrete pole intended to divide traffic between entering and exiting turning lanes.

This was before the advent of seat belts so my brother and I who were sitting in the back seat tumbled forward when we hit the concrete pole. My father was in the front seat next to my mother and he immediately jumped out of the car to inspect the damage to the Impala.

The hood was crumpled and there was radiator fluid pooling underneath the car and running out into the street. The drive-through banking teller witnessed the accident and immediately called the police.

A policeman arrived and he helped my father push the car out of the bank parking lot entrance and into a parking spot. The officer spoke with my mother in a calm and reassuring manner and asked if she was injured. She was not.

My father asked the officer if he could drive my mother and us home. He stayed behind with the car and looked for a telephone to call his nephew Pete, who had his auto mechanic shop in a neighboring town.

Later that evening, Pete dropped my father off at our house. They had towed the Impala to his repair shop and the two of them had replaced the radiator. My father said Pete was going to work on the hood on Saturday so he could have the car back to drive to work on Monday morning.

In the meantime, my mother was a nervous wreck. She kept asking why the bank would install the concrete divider pole and not alert the public about it. She insisted that the accident wasn’t her fault and that before she even had time to react, the concrete pole was there and even at a turning speed of 10 mph, she would not have been able to avoid colliding with it.

She talked briefly about suing the bank for placing the pole there and my father pointed out to her that it was indeed the bank’s property, and that we were under no obligation to turn in there.

She cried a lot and said she was never going to drive again after that experience.

But my father would always ask when we got in the car to go anywhere if my mother wanted to drive that day. She always refused and said he knew why.

It became almost a running joke whenever we were turning in somewhere when driving to “look out for concrete poles.” As my mother was really high strung and keenly sensitive to criticism, joking about the accident or her driving just served to make her even more steadfast in her refusal to get her driver’s license.

In 1966, my father traded in the 1962 Chevrolet Impala for a 1966 Ford Galaxie 500 and my mother wouldn’t even get into the new car unless she was assured that she wouldn’t have to drive.

Years later she moved with my father to Florida and began work as a home health aide. She needed a car to get around and so at the age of 55, she practiced for a while and then tested and received her driver’s license.

In 2001, when we were visiting our hometown in New York for a wedding, I let her drive the rental car and we drove through Pittsford and past the bank parking lot.

I pointed out the exact location where in 1964 she had struck the concrete lane divider pole. At first, she didn’t want to look, but I showed her that it was no longer there and had been removed.

She almost couldn’t believe it and told me that the accident was the reason why she didn’t want to drive for many years afterward.

As she got older, my mother tried to retire at 65 but never liked sitting around being idle. She took a position as a case manager for a social worker and would visit nursing homes to see patients.

She drove everywhere right up until being diagnosed with macular degeneration in both of her eyes at the age of 84 and forced to forego driving until she passed away at 95 in 2018.

A few years ago, my wife Nancy and I were on vacation in New York, and we drove past that bank parking lot. I mentioned the accident and Nancy said, “you’re not going to talk about that again, are you?” <

Andy Young: A baseball treat that’s easy on the ears

By Andy Young

Pitch counts, designated hitters, nine-figure contracts, outrageous ticket prices, and ear-assaulting player theme music played at or above the 120-decibel level are just some of the reasons I no longer wish to attend any Major League Baseball games in person.

When I grew up every bat was made of wood, Sunday doubleheaders were the norm, and the pitcher not only occupied a spot in the batting order, but his goal was to hurl (and win) a complete game. Home runs, strikeouts, and earned run average mattered; contrived statistics like exit velocity, launch angle, and WAR (wins above replacement, for the uninitiated) most certainly did not.

The days of button-down wool uniforms, train travel, and back-of-the-cereal-box baseball cards aren’t coming back. But for those of us who fondly remember when there weren’t mandated 150-second breaks for TV commercials between each half-inning, there’s a reliable (and far more affordable) way to rediscover the passion we had for baseball when it truly was the National Pastime. It’s called reading.

Here’s the first thing anyone wishing to revive a fading romance with baseball by absorbing printed words should know: if it’s written by Joe Posnanski or the late David Halberstam, read it! Both men write beautifully, but more importantly, their historical reliability is impeccable. That’s not always the case with other frequently published authors.

Baseball-related literature can be hit-or-miss, but nothing rekindles my love for the game I grew up with faster than a well-researched work about the game’s history. And for those who agree, here’s a recommendation: go get yourself a copy of the fourth (and probably last) edition of The Encyclopedia of Minor League Baseball, by Lloyd Johnson and Miles Wolff. It’s a two-volume, 1049-page, 4.8-pound treasure chest. If something happened in professional baseball between 1876 and 2019, it’s here.

For example, the independent Maine State League operated with teams in Portland, Bangor, Lewiston, Belfast, Augusta and Rockland in 1897. Unfortunately, it disbanded in mid-season, as did leagues with that same name in 1907 and 1908.

If you’ve always wanted to know who holds the record for hitting the most career minor league home runs (Hector Espino, 484), striking out the most minor league batters (George Brunet, 3,175), or having the highest single-season minor league batting average (Gary Redus, .462 for the 1978 Billings Mustangs), you’ll find it in TEMLB’s pages.

Open up to any random spot and you’re guaranteed to find some hidden gem that requires further investigation. For example, page 715 features the season records of the eight teams in the 1980 Carolina League. And while it looks like a misprint, the Rocky Mount Pines really did triumph just 24 times in 139 games that year. Their winning percentage (.174) isn’t the worst ever; that honor goes to the 1951 Granite Falls Graniteers, who went 14-96 (.127) in the Western Carolina League. However, Rocky Mount’s shortstop, Jim Gabella, was the improbable MVP of the 1980 Carolina League all-star game, hitting a game-winning homer in the bottom of the 10th inning. Not only that, he later became the only minor league field manager to complete the coveted Burlington hat trick, piloting minor league teams in Burlington, North Carolina; Burlington, Iowa; and Burlington, Vermont.

The cost of purchasing The Encyclopedia of Minor League Baseball may take a few potential buyers aback but bear in mind that amount (including shipping) is far lower than the price of a field level seat at Fenway Park, Yankee Stadium, Dodger Stadium and numerous other big-league venues.

And, even better, poring over The Encyclopedia of Minor League Baseball can be done at an ear-friendly decibel level of zero. <

 

Insight: A life to be remembered

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

For years when I was downcast and dejected, I knew that a phone call with one of my closest friends would lift my spirits.

Todd Clemens

Todd Clemens had an innate way of knowing exactly what to say to make me feel better or to support my decisions when I even had my doubts about some of them.

I first met Todd the summer before my sophomore year of high school when we each coached Little League teams on the ballfields behind Winslow Elementary School and Carlton Webster Junior High in Henrietta, New York. He had given me some coaching tips to instruct baserunning and congratulated me when my team’s pitcher threw a no-hitter leading us to a 1-0 win in the opening playoff game.

In high school that year, I had Todd’s father, George, as my Physical Education teacher and Todd was in some of the same classes as me. He always was kind and supportive to everyone he met and was a natural athlete, playing football, basketball and baseball for our school.

After high school, Todd attended West Point Military Academy but transferred to Colgate University where he earned his degree. He married and had three children and was thrilled to be working as a broker on Wall Street in New York City.

But his perfect life suddenly fell apart when he came home from work to find an empty house. His wife had left him for his boss and took the kids with her out of state. He began a frantic search to find them and when he did locate them, he discovered that his wife was suing him for divorce and custody of their children. And he learned that his wife had maxed out their credit cards, leaving him deeply in debt.

He quit his Wall Street job and took a job coaching football and baseball and teaching French at Chaminade High School in South Florida, but a prolonged divorce and custody lawsuit left him depressed and a shell of his former self.

For a while, he took a job for several years as a sportswriter and sports editor at a newspaper in Connecticut but ended up having to commute back and forth from Massachusetts because the Connecticut state taxes were so high, it left him unable to even rent his own apartment.

Eventually he paid off the enormous credit card debt and moved to Arizona, where he worked as a broker and financial services advisor in Phoenix. He told me that he was proud that his son pitched for Boston College in a spring exhibition game against the Boston Red Sox. And in working as a sportswriter, he was following in his mother’s footsteps as she was the first female sportswriter in the state of Indiana.

Listening to his story, I tried to cheer him up as much as I could during our lengthy phone conversations, but he ended up encouraging me as I was working for a newspaper in Florida and starting to put my own life back together after my first wife’s death at the age of 37.

We talked a lot about baseball, and Todd took great delight in sharing how his favorite team, the 1971 Pittsburgh Pirates, had defeated my beloved Baltimore Orioles in the World Series, 4 games to 3, by winning the final game of the 1971 World Series, 2-1, in Baltimore.

As his parents aged and needed help, Todd moved back to Massachusetts from Arizona. His mother died in 2011, and he then stayed with his father to look after him. In 2014, Todd called to tell me he had read an article in the Boston Globe I had written for the newspaper I was working for in New Hampshire. It was picked up and run nationally by the Associated Press and he wanted me to know what a big deal that was.

One summer evening in 2017, Todd decided to jog a couple laps around the high school track in Milford, Mass. after dinner to stay in shape. He passed out on his second lap and when he woke up, he was in a hospital bed, and one of his legs had been amputated just below the knee. He fought valiantly to overcome infection and the lingering trauma of losing a leg and finding a comfortable prosthetic.

When my mother died in August 2018, I was surprised to receive a call from Todd. Despite everything he was going through himself, he took the time to call and let me know how sorry he was and how proud he was of my career in journalism. It certainly meant a lot to me.

In February 2019, Todd’s father died. I called Todd and he thanked me for being supportive. He said he was slowly putting his life back together and was very appreciative of me mailing him some old Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cards.

On July 26, 2019, I received word from a classmate that my friend Todd had died at the age of 65. He was someone of high character, intelligent, athletic, kind, warm and personable.

At each class reunion I attend, it pains me to see his photo included on the poster of lost classmates. The world sure lost a good person. <

Andy Young: A February whodunit

By Andy Young

Maybe it’s my imagination, but even though I don’t care much for winter, it seems like February goes by far more quickly than any other month on the calendar.

Maybe it’s because of the increasing daylight that comes with each 24-hour passage of time. Another possibility, at least for teachers like me: the month contains a weeklong school vacation. Or there could be a more obvious explanation, like February having fewer actual days than any of the other 11 months, even during a leap year.

Coincidentally, I was born in early February, and this year one of the best gifts I received came the night before my actual birthday, when I (and presumably a couple hundred other faculty and staff in my school district) received a text message from the superintendent explaining that due to anticipated inclement weather, there would be no school in RSU 21 the next day. Woo-hoo! The only thing better than having a birthday snow day in February is knowing ahead of time that you’re going to have one! I joyously shut off my alarm and slept in until nearly 5:30 the next morning. And when I finally did become conscious, I did so with a smile, imagining that I now know for certain what life for the idle rich must be like.

Nothing was falling from the sky when I got up and for a brief moment, I thought the superintendent was doomed to getting pilloried on social media by the district’s perpetual complainers, but fortunately for her snow began falling right when the forecasters had said it would, and by noon there was no question she had made the right call.

One drawback to having a snow day when one’s children have moved away: snow removal becomes a one-person job. And to do that efficiently and lessen the chance of pulling one of my few remaining muscles, my shovel and I go out every two hours or so. At about 3 p.m. I cleared four inches of fluffy white flakes off the driveway, but knew I’d have to return later to finish the job. However, I didn’t think it would be too tough, given the slackening rate at which the snow was falling.

By 7 p.m. the storm was over, but another inch or two needed clearing, and of course there’d be the wall of cinder-block-sized ice chunks the town plow inevitably leaves at the foot of the driveway as well.

But when I got to the end of my driveway there wasn’t any snow. However, there was evidence that someone equipped with a machine had been there, and had cleared everything away for me.

Elated, I raced inside and began pounding out a “thank you” text message to my neighbor Cris, who I’ve caught in the past doing covert good deeds. But then it suddenly occurred to me: what if I were thanking the wrong person? Suppose the driveway-clearer had been Will, who lives across the street and is also prone to committing random acts of kindness? Or maybe it was Dan, the new neighbor with the big snow-throwing tractor. Then again, it could have been Mrs. A, or Angela, or one of Angela’s energetic children, or some other neighborhood kid(s). Who knew?

Then it hit me: the best birthday present of all was realizing there are too many plausible suspects living near me to know for certain who the Good Samaritan was!

I’ve always loved Thanksgiving, but events like the one that occurred on my birthday help me remember that there’s no need to wait for November to feel (and express) sincere gratitude. <

Nangle: Pass the Supplemental Budget to protect Maine families

By Senator Tim Nangle

Every two years, the Legislature passes a biennial budget, a long-term spending plan for Maine. But, just like balancing a checkbook, adjustments are often needed. The supplemental budget is how we make those adjustments, allowing us to address emergency needs, funding gaps and changing economic conditions. 

State Senator Tim Nangle

Whether it’s rising healthcare costs, shifts in federal funding, or critical investments left unmet in the biennium, the supplemental budget ensures Maine remains on stable and predictable financial footing.

That’s exactly where we are today.

Maine faces a $118 million MaineCare shortfall, which threatens health care access for many residents. Half of Maine children and one in three adult Mainers — including seniors and working families — depend on MaineCare. Without funding, hospitals and providers may be forced to cut services and staff, leaving vulnerable people without care.

The shortfall stems from rising health care costs and increased usage of services post-pandemic. If we do not act, Maine’s families, seniors, and rural communities will pay the price.

The supplemental budget also provides funding for critical spruce budworm remediation. This destructive pest threatens our forests and, in turn, the livelihoods of thousands of Maine workers. Without intervention, the economic impact could exceed $794 million, crushing Maine’s forest products industry, small businesses and rural economies.

The Legislature took an initial vote on this budget, and some representatives from our area chose not to support it. Their inaction threatens health care access, nursing homes, and hospitals and leaves our rural economy vulnerable.

This is not about politics — it’s about keeping Maine families healthy and our economy stable. This funding must be approved by a two-thirds vote to take effect immediately. Otherwise, Maine people will pay the price while we wait months for relief.

Democrats have compromised. We have negotiated in good faith. However, my colleagues on the other side of the aisle keep shifting the goalposts, making unworkable demands. Continued delays of these necessary budget adjustments will hurt the most vulnerable Mainers.

We cannot move forward alone. Please contact your legislators and tell them why passing this budget is crucial to your family and families across Maine. We cannot afford further delays.

Find your lawmakers here: https://www.maine.gov/portal/government/edemocracy/voter_lookup.php

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: Life in the fast lane

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

In looking back regarding my experience with automobiles, I’d have to say it’s not my favorite subject.

The first new car that Ed Pierce ever purchased was this
1974 Mercury Capri. COURTESY PHOTO

That can probably be explained by a series of misfortunes and bad purchases through the years that left me wondering if I would ever find the right vehicle.

Former U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell once said, “Always focus on the front windshield and not the rearview mirror,” and yet there are some automobiles that I’ve owned that are truly unforgettable.

The first one I owned was a 1956 Chevy that I purchased from a college classmate. That lasted for a few years until the left rear wheel well rusted through, and driving through puddles resulted in a stream of rainwater spraying the back of my driver’s seat.

My first new car purchase was a 1974 Mercury Capri and the difference between it and the 1956 Chevy was significant. The Chevy’s interior was made of steel, while the Capri’s interior was mostly plastic. The Capri’s rear window was angled and the sun damage it caused to the back seats and rear window mat left me with no other choice than to place a bathmat there to absorb the harmful UV rays.

The Capri was sold when I entered the U.S. Air Force and was assigned overseas. Returning to the U.S. two years later, I purchased a 1969 Volkswagen Beetle for $500 and was pleased with it until driving to work at The Pentagon one winter morning. The sun was shining, and I wanted some fresh air, so I rolled the driver’s window down about halfway.

Apparently, that knocked the driver’s window off the track, and it was stuck in that position. No matter what I did to fix it, it wouldn’t work. So, I tried taking the entire door apart to resolve the problem. That only created more of a problem in trying to put the door back together. I never could get the window back on its proper track, so I inserted a piece of wood there to hold the window up. If I needed to put the window down, I removed the wood. But after a while that got very tedious, and so I went to the auto salvage junkyard and found another Volkswagen door. The only issue was it was white, and my Volkswagen was green.

I drove the Volkswagen that way for a year until I traded it in for a new 1981 Datsun pickup truck. That truck took me across the country to my new military assignment in Arizona. The only problem with it turned out to be the truck’s plastic fuel filter which was so tiny that it frequently clogged from using inexpensive gasoline and left me stranded on more than one occasion.

That truck was sold, and I eventually purchased a 1978 Chrysler LeBaron. That was a huge and lengthy automobile and was good for a few years until the brakes went out on it as I neared a brick wall at 40 mph. I struck the wall head-on, and that vehicle’s front end crumpled like an accordion. Before it could be hauled away, tall grass underneath where it was parked caught fire and burned the interior.   

Moving to Florida, my father helped me buy a used 1986 Buick Regal for $1,700. That was a decent car, but it was doomed when some sort of hose became loose while driving on I-95 late at night sparking an engine fire and resulting in it too being dispatched to the junkyard.

A co-worker then sold me a 1985 Ford Tempo for $400. It had belonged to his daughter, and he was selling it because his family had presented her with a new car for her high school graduation. The daughter’s boyfriend had upgraded the stereo system in the vehicle, and it was good on gas. But one night at work, somebody returning from a break in the parking lot told me they thought they saw smoke inside my car. When I opened the side door, a fireball erupted inside, torching the steering wheel and melting most of the dashboard. The daughter’s boyfriend hadn’t connected wires properly installing the stereo and caused the fire.

A used car dealer took the Tempo in trade and gave me $300 for it when I purchased a used 1988 Pontiac Grand Am from him. After spending thousands on mechanical repairs for the Grand Am over three years, I traded that in for a used 1996 Pontiac Firebird. I drove that for several years after paying off the five-year car loan. The Firebird had pop-up front headlights and when one of the headlight motors went out, I couldn’t afford to replace it.

Instead, I inserted a spoon in the grill to the headlight framework to hold it up and that worked for a while. The other issue was the outlandish replacement cost for tires on the Firebird which I also could not afford. It was parked for about a year before I sold the Firebird to someone who wanted to use it to haul their boat around.

My next vehicle was a 2004 Hyundai Sonata which ended up being a total loss following a crash. These days I have a 2011 Hyundai Sonata which I purchased in 2014 and it’s still going.

If my vehicle history was a novel, its title would be “Exhausting.” <

   

Andy Young: Valentine's Day - the untold story

By Andy Young

Like St. Patrick’s Day and Halloween, Valentine’s Day doesn’t come with legally mandated time off from work. But there’s more to earning red-letter-day status than falling on a Monday. Sure, each of the 12 federal holidays is significant. But if you ask any florist, chocolatier, or restaurateur what the year’s most important holiday is, their response won’t be Memorial Day, Labor Day, or Juneteenth.

February 14th is nominally about appreciating one’s sweetheart(s)but what truly drives it is unfettered capitalism, or more specifically the combined marketing efforts of corporate giants like Hallmark, Godiva Chocolates, and FTD. Plush toy sales skyrocket on Valentine’s Day as well, and have ever since 1889, when German inventor Heinrich Tedibaer revolutionized the industry by inventing a process enabling skilled seamstresses to fashion cuddly toys with man-made materials. Previously the only way of producing a stuffed animal was to actually slay one, then gut it, remove the bones, and fill the fur with sawdust and rolled-up newspaper before sewing it back together. Unsurprisingly, few recipients of pre-1889 stuffies found such gifts even remotely romantic.

The differences between Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day are striking. One pseudo-holiday is named for the saint credited with removing every snake from the Emerald Isle. The other commemorates a 1929 massacre that eliminated less than one one-hundredth of a percent of Chicago’s gangster population. In addition, March 17th has an endearing nickname, St. Paddy’s Day. In contrast, February 14th’s proposed diminution, VD Day, never caught on, although no one really knows why.

The only holiday rivaling Valentine’s Day for sugar consumption is Halloween, which combines another alarming spike in candy sales with the commemoration of the memorable (though fortunately fictional) lives of Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and Freddy Krueger, among others.

Anyone who thinks Valentine's Day is just about roses, romantic dinners, and candy hearts embossed with romance-themed two-word expressions like “Love you,” “Be mine,” and “Do me,” hasn’t studied American political history.

Democrat Tim Valentine served six terms as a Congressman from North Carolina’s 2nd district from 1983-1995, and Republican Edward Valentine represented Nebraska’s 3rd district in that same chamber a century before, from 1883-1885.

Comedian Jack Benny was born on February 14th, 1894. Other notable Valentine’s Day babies: labor leader Jimmy Hoffa (1913), former New Hampshire governor and senator Judd Gregg (1947); radio host Terry Gross (1951), 7-foot-7-inch basketball player Gheorghe Muresan (1971); NFL football star Jadeveon Clowney (1993); and legendary jockey Johnny Longden (1907).

Among the people of consequence who breathed their last on a Valentine’s Day: Captain James Cook (1779); Vicente Guerrero, Mexico’s 2nd president (1831); Hall of Fame baseball pitcher Three-Finger Brown (1948); and legendary jockey Johnny Longden (2003). February 14ths are challenging for the remaining members of the Longden clan, who don’t know whether to celebrate the date of their famous relative’s birth or mourn the anniversary of his passing.

Actress Karen Valentine won an Emmy Award in 1970 for her role on Room 222, a pioneering TV show about a racially diverse high school. Major league baseball players Ellis Valentine, Bobby Valentine, and Fred Valentine all starred at times during their respective careers, as did professional grappler Jonathan Anthony Wisniski, who was more familiarly known to wrestling fans as Greg “The Hammer” Valentine. Unfortunately, none of these Valentines were born on February 14th.

So now, in the words of the late, legendary radio commentator Paul Harvey, you know The Rest of the Story about Valentine’s Day.

Except Paul Harvey wasn’t born on February 14th. And Heinrich Tedibaer is just as fictional as (albeit far less ghoulish than) Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and Freddy Krueger. <