Insight: Where do nomads go on vacation?

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

When you sign up for military service, as I did, you learn quickly that where you wake up today may not be the same place you wake up tomorrow.

C-Rations were canned prepared meals used by military
members on deployments in the late 1970s.
COURTESY PHOTO      

For me, it could be best described as a nomadic lifestyle, and certainly not something everyone can embrace.

It takes a person to all kinds of places and situations and looking back on that time of my life years later, how I adapted to constantly moving from place to place can only be attributed to my youth and being open to experiencing new things.

I can recall being with my unit on a wintertime deployment in what was then West Germany in February 1978. Our commanding officer was directed to have us establish a camp at the edge of some woods near Fulda, close to the border with East Germany, which at that time was a communist nation under the control of the Soviet Union. We pitched our tents in darkness and set up a diesel stove inside the tent for warmth.

Outside there was snow on the ground and the temperature was hovering at around 5 degrees. Our unit’s tent sat on a massive sheet of ice which never melted, despite keeping the diesel stove going throughout our entire week there.

There was no mess hall for food, so we ate what were called C-Rations, canned prepared food, much of which was left over and recycled by the military following the Vietnam War. I was informed by other unit members that some C-Ration meals were better than others. The meals were stored in drab olive cans and flimsy brown boxes.

Inside each box was a canned entrée, a small package of stale crackers, a packet of ground coffee, packages of salt and sugar, canned pound cake or bread, a chocolate bar or chewing gum, matches and a package of three cigarettes. To open the C-Ration cans, we were issued what was known as a P-38, a tiny aluminum disposable tool.

Sometimes by the time I finally got the C-Ration cans open, I would find that what was inside was rotten or moldy. Because of that, I became a bit more selective in meals that I chose when they were offered. I preferred C-Ration cans of tuna and boned turkey over beef slices with potatoes (we called these ones beef with boulders), chicken chunks and noodles, beans with hot dog chunks (known commonly as beanie weenie) or ham and lima beans.

To this day if I see a can of C-Rations for sale somewhere in an antique store, I gasp, and my stomach turns.

There is very little that compares to sleeping in your clothes for a week in a sleeping bag, waking up on a tiny wooden canvas cot and smelling burned coffee grounds on top of the diesel stove in freezing weather. There were no showers, no running water, and no amenities associated with modern life which we all take for granted such as electricity.

Later in my military career, I was a candidate for a TDY, a temporary duty assignment to another location, along with another E-5 staff sergeant who worked in our office with me. It was not disclosed where this temporary assignment would be, and up until the moment that we received our official orders, we had no idea where that location might be.

We were going to flip a coin to see who had to go, but he said he was supposed to be best man at a wedding that weekend and asked me nicely if I could go and he would then gratefully take the next TDY assignment in the future. I agreed and then was informed that my TDY was to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas, Nevada.

I spent three weeks there and slept in the NCO barracks, getting up early each morning to conduct interviews, gather stories and then produce a newsletter for Air Force air crews participating in an air-to-ground military exercise. Each newsletter was finished and distributed by noon and the rest of my days and evenings were free to see the sights in Las Vegas, go to some shows and enjoy great food served in almost every casino on the Las Vegas Strip.

When it was all over and I had returned to my regular duty station, eight months passed before another TDY assignment arose. The other staff sergeant received orders to travel to a remote jungle location about 75 miles from Tegucigalpa, Honduras. When he got back from his trip, he spoke about living in the utmost primitive conditions there.

He said there wasn’t laundry service at the camp he was assigned to. All their clothing was washed in a large boiling vat, which resulted in most of his military T-shirts turning a shade of light brown. He was also receiving medical care for a mild case of malaria after being bitten by plenty of mosquitoes and hordes of other insects.

I chose not to share with him how different our TDY experiences turned out to be, but I thought to myself how fortunate I was to be sent to Las Vegas, Nevada instead of some remote jungle location in Honduras. <

Andy Young: A bad-weather-induced rant

By Andy Young

Four straight rainy weekends in what should be a beautiful time of year in Maine have me in a foul mood and have forced me to do the unthinkable: release my inner curmudgeon, which will now vent about everything that cries out for ventage.

Cell phones are instruments of the Devil. Having instant gratification at one’s fingertips 24/7 isn’t just an imagination suppressor; it robs serial phone users of interpersonal skills. Younger folks who’ve never lived in a world without phones are often flummoxed on those occasions when circumstances dictate that they must communicate face-to-face with others.

Today more people than ever are considered “on the spectrum.” Is that because more is becoming known about autism? Or is it that increasing numbers of individuals don’t take the time to pick up on social cues because they’re too busy taking selfies, playing video games, or commenting online about the most recent celebrity scandals. There’s no telling how many traffic accidents are caused by people operating a motor vehicle while simultaneously gazing in fascination at their phone’s screen.

And heaven help the technology-dependent when their devices are lost or become disabled. Those unaccustomed to a phoneless existence often have difficulty coping rationally without hand-held technological aid. People relying on phones for everything from waking up to charting their daily exercise are often incapable of independent thought, even when they’re in possession of a fully functional (albeit attention-monopolizing) device.

But perhaps the worst thing about phones is they allow too-convenient access to social media, a term which is an outrageous misnomer. “Anti-social media” would be more accurate, since far too many readily accessible websites offer individuals already short on impulse control the opportunity to impetuously spout ignorant, offensive and/or inflammatory nonsense publicly.

Profit-driven platforms like Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook don’t just perpetuate unnecessary drama, or create strife where it needn’t exist; they spread trends that too often virally metastasize into risky social behaviors, not to mention provide the opportunity for potentially horrific online misconduct like cyberbullying. It’s unsurprising that increasing numbers of elected officials (and aspiring elected officials) are textbook narcissists, since social media is grooming Americans to become more vapid, egocentric, and non-thinking with each passing hour.

Today’s high schoolers have every bit as much potential at this point in their lives as teens in past generations did, but greed-fueled social media platforms are leading them into self-centered, exertion-free existences. The only thing more alarming than millions of non-thinking citizens is the prospect of a looming generation content to let ambitious, ethically unconcerned types do their “thinking” for them.

When my then-home state instituted a lottery in 1972, my father characterized it as a “Stupidity Tax.” That harsh but accurate description goes for other forms of gambling as well. Casino operators skillfully market the business of picking their customers’ pockets as a chance to have fun getting rich the quick and easy way. “Gaming” boosters maintain lotteries and other forms of legalized gambling create jobs and generate revenue for the government agencies that regulate them, and in fact they do. But gambling also preys on individuals with obsessive tendencies, and often those who can least afford to pick up the habit. And as is the case with most addictions, betting has ruined far more lives than it has improved.

I’ve got lots more axes to grind, like littering, the monetization of youth sports, the designated hitter rule, and my computer’s spellchecker claiming “ventage” isn’t a word, but it’s best that I stop here. Released inner curmudgeons that stay out too long inevitably become outer curmudgeons, and America already has more than enough of those! <

Insight: Underrated inventions and revelations

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

If I were to compile a list of prominent inventions introduced throughout my time on earth that have made my life easier, it would certainly be long and extensive.

Instead, for brevity’s sake, I’ve limited my list to just four and detailed some of them below.

My first automobile was a 1956 Chevy that a student and friend of mine had driven across the country from Vermont to New Mexico. Somehow, when he graduated from college, he sold it to me in 1972, and despite some physical defects – such as a rusted rear driver’s side wheel well that eventually fell off forcing me to stuff a towel in the hole to prevent the back of my head getting sprayed when driving through puddles – the car ran great.

Because power steering for automobiles was a relatively new feature in the 1950s, my Chevy was not equipped with that enhancement and at times it required a good deal of strength to turn the steering wheel.

I suppose I was young and didn’t know differently when I drove the 1956 Chevy, but I was about to be astounded when I purchased a new Mercury Capri in 1974. The Capri came with power steering included and the steering wheel turned so easily that I could steer it using just one of my fingers instead of the two-handed grip required for vehicles without that special feature which we all take for granted these days.

Therefore, my first marvelous invention on my list would be automobile power steering.

When I was 13 in 1967, our family received an invitation from one of my mother’s cousins to visit their home to see something incredible. Color television had been around for a while, but my father didn’t want to spend $500 to purchase one. The cousin made us close our eyes and sit on her living room floor. In opening our eyes, she revealed her own version of “color TV,” which was a tri-colored piece of Saran Wrap stretched across a black and white TV screen. One third was blue, another third was yellow, and the other third was red.

At home we had a black and white console set and a black and white portable that could move from room to room, but each time I asked when we would be getting a color model, I was chastised by my parents for not being frugal and wanting to spend money needlessly. I grew up watching classic TV shows such as Bonanza, Batman, Star Trek and Disney’s Wide World of Color in good old black and white. I was thrilled when my father wheeled the portable TV into the dining room to watch a World Series game in 1963 between the New York Yankees and the Los Angeles Dodgers in black and white, although my mother complained about watching television during Sunday dinner.

For Christmas in 1975, my wife and I pooled our money and bought a color portable television set, and I was finally able to watch shows such as The Price is Right, Baretta, The Captain and the Kings mini-series and the Super Bowl between the Dallas Cowboys and the Pittsburgh Steelers in color.

Item #2 on my great invention list would be color television.

Because my father insisted that being head of the household was his duty and his alone, he never taught me simple tasks such as the proper way to carve the Thanksgiving turkey. He had his own set of specialty carving knives and decades of carving experience behind him for that annual chore. By the time I was grown up, married, and living elsewhere, my knowledge of carving was limited at best and highly primitive. Yet, the job of carving the Thanksgiving bird fell upon my shoulders and no matter how hard that I tried, cutting off turkey legs and slicing portions precisely was not something that I mastered quickly.

Then one year when I worked part-time at a furniture and appliance store, I saw a presentation for a handy inexpensive tool that I knew I had to buy. A manufacturer’s rep at the store I worked at demonstrated an electric knife and after buying one for $19.99, my carving worries were soon behind me.

I’d put the electric knife as my third great invention of my lifetime.

During the summer break between my freshman and sophomore year of high school, my parents insisted that I not waste the summer lying around doing nothing. They insisted that I enroll for a summer school class that taught students how to type. I showed up for the first class and found that all the typewriters in the classroom were manual ones from the 1930s and some were in better condition than others. We were assigned seats, and my typewriter had a carriage return key that would stick. To make it work you had to bang on it hard and having learned to type that way, to this very day, I am told that I strike the return and space keys on the keyboard with force.

Lastly, I’d place the Royal electric typewriter that I received as my high school graduation present in 1971 on my list of the greatest inventions of my lifetime. <                 

Andy Young: When does Gatorade go bad?

By Andy Young

Gatorade, the liquid thirst quencher, was invented by scientists at the University of Florida in 1965. It originally came in one variety: green. I didn’t try the stuff until after I had turned 10. Perhaps that was due to its cost at the time, or from a lack of its availability where I lived.

My interest in this skillfully marketed, ubiquitous source of electrolytes was reignited recently when I was gifted with three bottles of it, and from a most unlikely source.

However, in order to effectively protect the privacy of the individuals involved in this real-life tale of intrigue, I’ve opted to use a pair of three-letter pseudonyms.

“Amy” and I went to see a mutual friend (and former colleague) one afternoon last month. “Joe” has been retired for 15 years or so, but he’s still as vital, witty, and caring as he was when the three of us served as English teachers together. He’s universally acknowledged as one of the best educators to ever roam the halls of the high school where I’ve been employed for the past 23 years. He’s also, incredibly, an even better person than he was a teacher; his kindness and generosity of spirit are both palpable.

When we arrived at his home, “Joe” greeted us with hugs, handshakes, and an offer of refreshments. Then he asked a question I had not been anticipating. “Andrew,” he intoned in the same stentorian voice that mesmerized his students and colleagues alike for decades, “do you drink Gatorade?”

Even more unexpected than that odd inquiry was its source. “Joe” has never hidden his aversion to perspiring. He pronounces the word “exercise” with the same level of disgust most people my age reserve for such terms as “racist,” “human trafficker,” or “social media influencer.” Why he had three bottles of Gatorade in his possession is unclear, since someone who detests exercise needs Gatorade like Helen Keller needed binoculars.

Still, when I’m asked an honest question I provide an honest answer, so I responded, “Sure … if it’s free.” “Well then,” he intoned. “I’ve got three bottles you can take home with you.”

Our thoroughly enjoyable visit flew by, but as dinnertime approached and “Amy” and I reluctantly had to depart, “Joe” reminded me not to forget the Gatorade. “Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “it may be a little, ah … old.”

A couple of weeks later, after taking a lengthy bike ride, I downed the contents of the bottle containing orange-flavored (or more accurately, orange-colored) Gatorade. It tasted normal, which is to say not even remotely like oranges. But then, remembering the parting remark “Joe” had made about the libation’s age, I thought I’d check to see if there was an expiration date on the outside of the container.

There was. It read, “Oct 24 21.” Then I checked the other bottles. The one containing what I had just consumed was the youngest of the trio.

Since I’m still very much alive, and it’s apparent I’ve suffered no harmful after-effects from gulping down 32 four-year-old ounces of Gatorade. I’ve yet to sample the lemon lime (expiration date; Sep 30 18) variety yet, nor the kiwi strawberry (expiration date: Aug 07 18), which is an indistinct, indescribable color I have never encountered anywhere in nature. I’m saving those two bottles for a special occasion, like maybe after they’ve turned 10.

There are, as I see it, two takeaways from all this.

One is that it’s safe to drink four-year-old Gatorade. The other: pseudonyms only work if you use a name different from the actual one of the person(s) whose identity you’re trying to protect. <

Insight: Long Lost Secrets

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

I recently listened to a podcast about how to speak with your parents about their past and why it is important to learn about their lives and pass it down to future generations in your family.

A newspaper article from 1924 reveals details
about a violent incident that took place between
Ed Pierce's maternal grandparents that he
never knew about while growing up.
COURTESY PHOTO   

In my case, both of my parents are deceased, but they did tell me a great deal about how they grew up and their experiences during World War II while they were still alive.

I found out quite a bit about my mother just by being a snoop as a child. Once when my parents were shopping on a Friday night, I discovered a bonanza of information I hadn’t previously known by exploring a kitchen cupboard that contained our family’s cups and glasses when I was 8 and in third grade.

Opening the cupboard door to get a glass for a drink of water, I looked up at the top shelf and noticed some papers there. Curiosity got the better of me and I climbed up onto the kitchen counter and was just tall enough to be able to pull the papers down off their lofty shelf.

Sitting on the kitchen counter, I looked through the documents, which were my mother’s divorce papers from her first husband. To that point, I did not know that my mother had been married before, and that she was divorced before meeting and marrying my father. The papers were sent to her by an attorney and the listed reason for the judge to grant the divorce was on the grounds of physical and mental cruelty. And in what was a bombshell revelation to me, the judge had ordered that my mother’s ex-husband was to pay her child support of $10 per month.

I carefully returned the papers to the top shelf where I had found them, climbed down from the kitchen counter and began to process what I had just learned. As it turned out, my older sister was my half-sister, and it now made sense to me as to why her last name was different from mine.

The more I thought about it, the story about how my parents had first met that my father had told me became clearer. While working his way through college to obtain a degree in mechanical engineering, he worked at night as a private detective. He told me he had been assigned by the agency he worked for to investigate a case for my mother. They met, and he asked her to go to a square dance with him. Not long after they got married.

Years later I discovered that the case my father had investigated for my mother involved her ex-husband and his claim that he couldn’t afford child support for several months because he wasn’t working. She hired my father to verify if that was true. My father found out that he was working at night at a manufacturing plant and my mother then reported the details and his employer to the court.

My sister got married when I was 12 and I made the mistake of asking my mother if my sister’s father was coming to the wedding. She wanted to know how I knew that, and I explained how I had discovered her divorce papers years before. As I expected, she got mad and told me to stay out of her personal things.

A conversation I had when I was 16 with my father also revealed a story about him that I didn’t know. It seems when he was a teenager, he and a friend had purchased a pack of cigarettes, and they were caught smoking behind a barn on my grandparents’ farm.

To teach my father a lesson about smoking, my grandfather took him to the barn and proceeded to have him smoke a box of Dutch Masters cigars one by one until the box was empty. The experience made my father sick, and he ended up being admitted to the hospital for nicotine poisoning. After that, he said he never again had any desire to smoke.

Neither my mother nor my father drank alcohol, and I came to understand why they didn’t decades later. I read a newspaper article from 1924 regarding my maternal grandfather getting drunk and then striking my maternal grandmother with a stick breaking her wrist after she threatened him with scissors with my mother watching as it happened.

My father also told me about an embarrassing incident during the Great Depression in which my paternal grandfather was out somewhere drinking when it started to snow. He became drunk, took off all his clothes and went running down the street naked. The police were called, and they soon found him, wrapped him in a blanket and returned him to my grandparents’ front door in front of my grandmother, my father and his siblings.

The incident shamed him so much that my father said that he took a week off from school to avoid being teased by classmates about it. He grew up avoiding alcohol and I can’t ever recall seeing him with a drink in his hand during my lifetime.

No matter what someone’s past experiences might be, they can offer an invaluable glimpse into the person they are now. <

Andy Young: Far more than just a foodie city

By Andy Young

West Virginia, Vermont, Delaware, Wyoming and Maine are the only U.S. states that don’t have a city of at least 100,000 residents within their borders. That bit of trivia makes the naming of Maine’s Portland as (according to tripadvisor.com’s “Travelers’ Choice Awards Best of the Best” America’s 8th-best destination for food even more impressive.

I wasn’t one of those polled by tripadvisor.com, but after checking out their roster of the 10 top-rated restaurants in the Portland area, I can understand why. I’ve only heard of two of the places listed, and have eaten at just one of them, Becky’s Diner. For what it’s worth, if I’m remembering the right place, I’d give Becky four stars.

Being ranked amongst the nation’s top “foodie” cities is no small feat for a community of Portland’s size. Other metropolises in the Top 10 include New York, Boston, and New Orleans. That a place of under 70,000 residents can rank above world-renowned cities like San Francisco, Chicago and Philadelphia is nothing short of remarkable. Maine’s grandest municipality isn’t even the nation’s largest Portland; in fact, its current population (68,408, at the 2020 census) is closer to that of Portland, Texas (20,383) than it is to Portland, Oregon’s (652,503).

There’s no reason for Maine’s Portland to have a population-related inferiority complex, though. Its number of residents is greater than the combined populations of the Portlands located in Texas, Tennessee (11,486), Connecticut (9384), Indiana (6320), New York (4366), Michigan (3796), North Dakota (578), Pennsylvania (494), and Arkansas (430). No population numbers were available for the unincorporated Portlands in Colorado, Georgia, Kentucky, Ohio, Missouri and Kansas.

Sudden thought: am I the only one who’s wondering if Portland, Kansas is a fictitious place invented by some Wikipedia prankster? Sure, Kansas has plenty of land, but where would they put a port?

It’s tough determining exactly where Maine’s largest city’s population stands nationally, although it’s definitely somewhere in the top 1,000. According to Reddit.com, which cites the 2020 census as its source, Portland stands 563rd, 44 people ahead of Franklin, New Jersey, but trailing Palo Alto, California by 164 residents. However, gist@github.com has Portland 524th, 15 souls shy of Bossier City, Louisiana, but 21 more than St. Cloud, Minnesota. Both agree, though, that what people around here see as an urban megalopolis is far less populated than burgs such as Killeen, Texas; Murfreesboro, Tennessee; Avondale, Arizona; Racine, Wisconsin; Billings, Montana; and Layton, Utah, to name just a half-dozen places that can only dream of being considered for some sort of culinary-related award from organizations like tripadvisor.com’s “Travelers’ Choice Awards Best of the Best.”

There’s no need for Portlanders to feel inadequate just because the population of Maine’s largest city is a mere 10.48 percent of Portland, Oregon’s. Our Portland has nearly seven times the population of Portland, Victoria, Australia, which isn’t just that nation’s biggest Portland; it’s the largest one on the entire continent as well! South Africa’s Portland, a neighborhood located in the Mitchell’s Plain area within the city of Cape Town, has fewer than 25,000 residents, and Portland, New Zealand is home to just 483 inhabitants. That’s even fewer than New Portland, Maine, a Somerset County town of 765. And as for the two Portlands in Jamaica and the one in Ireland, well, they’re so minuscule that they don’t even list their populations.

But when it comes to all things culinary in the five American states without a city of over 100,000, Maine’s Portland stands tall. Need proof? Try finding a tripadvsior.com list of the ten best eateries in Charleston, West Virginia; Burlington, Vermont; Wilmington, Delaware; or Cheyenne, Wyoming! <

Insight: A mentor and a friend

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

On the night before Thanksgiving in 1977, I was more than 5,000 miles from home, it was raining all the time, and I didn’t know anyone there. I had just been sent to my first duty assignment in the U.S. Air Force at the age of 23, at a remote location near Frankfurt, Germany.

Daryl Green was a longtime friend
of Ed Pierce and they served
together in the Air Force
in Germany and in Washington,
D.C. during their military careers.
COURTESY PHOTO

It was not what I had hoped for. My unit’s barracks were at Drake Kaserne in a U.S. Army housing building surrounded by a tall stone wall. My third-story room contained a cot, a closet and a window looking out over the stone wall onto a city street below. It was a 7-minute walk to the mess hall for a meal and by the end of my second week there, I was wondering if I had made the right decision in wanting to see if things looked any different on the other side of the world.

For the Thanksgiving holiday, my unit had been given four days off. I wasn’t envisioning having a fun time eating my Thanksgiving dinner alone in the mess hall and without receiving my first paycheck yet, I was unable to afford to use a payphone to call my family back in America.

Then something unexpected happened. Another member of my unit who lived across the hall from me in the barracks invited me to listen to music in his room and that simple gesture renewed my spirit. His name was Sgt. Daryl Green and meeting him turned out to be one of the best things to ever happen to me.

He was originally from Brooklyn and had been in the Air Force for almost four years. He was single and had some of the most expensive stereo equipment I had ever seen. Although I did not share his love for jazz music, I discovered that sitting and listening to his jazz albums in his room was as close to attending a jazz concert as in person.

All his record albums were jazz greats such as Miles Davis and John Coltrane and he introduced me to more contemporary jazz musicians such as the Brecker Brothers, Idris Muhammad and Herbie Hancock.

Even more impressive was Daryl’s turntable. It was a $2,000 Jean Francois Le Tallec linear turntable that electronically sensed the album tracks, and the turntable’s tone arm was self-contained. Each record played on it sounded incredible.

As I got to know Daryl, I found that we both loved college basketball and were both writers. He was working in Aerospace Ground Equipment in Europe, but his next duty assignment was to be the editor of the base newspaper at Bolling Air Force Base in Washington, D.C. When he was eventually transferred out of our unit, I shook his hand goodbye, thanked him for being my friend, and sensed that it wouldn’t be the last time I would see him.

About 13 months later, I was reassigned to a squadron at The Pentagon in Washington and soon thereafter reconnected with Daryl. He asked if I would write some articles about events at The Pentagon for the newspaper that he was editing called the “Bolling Beam.” Over the next two years, I produced more than 200 articles for Daryl’s newspaper, and we went to a few college basketball games at American University and at the University of Maryland. I was with him when we ate lunch at the first Wendy’s Restaurant to open in Oxon Hill, Maryland.

By August 1981, I was reassigned from The Pentagon to Luke Air Force Base in Arizona to work for the base newspaper there and Daryl learned that he was being transferred in January 1982 to Beale Air Force Base in California. Before leaving Washington, I had dinner with Daryl and his wife Taryn at their home in Maryland and we talked about what it was like to serve as an editor of an Air Force newspaper.

We spoke on the phone almost weekly for four years and he congratulated me when I was promoted to serve as the editor of the Luke Air Force Base newspaper in 1982. He called me several times in New Mexico in 1986 after I had gotten out of the military and was in the process of earning my degree in journalism at the University of New Mexico.

In 2009, Daryl and I became Facebook friends, and he mentioned that he was retired from the military and was seeking a job in Las Vegas, Nevada as a card dealer in a casino. Despite sending him several more messages, I didn’t hear from him again. But earlier this year I noticed that his brother Vinny was on Facebook and sent him a message asking about Daryl.

He told me Daryl had passed away in 2012 at the age of 56 in Maryland and I couldn’t believe it. He had retired as a Master Sergeant from the Air Force and had served in Vietnam and in the Gulf War and was one of the smartest people I have ever known.

It was more than mere coincidence that led Daryl Green to invite me to listen to music with him in 1977, and I will always remember his kindness and guidance in serving as one of my mentors and a great friend.

Andy Young: Exploring current (and future) centennials

By Andy Young

I’ll be umpiring a Little League baseball game this coming Monday evening, which is oddly appropriate, given it’s the exact date that a ballplaying American icon, Yogi Berra, would have turned 100 years old.

Yogi Berra played on 10 teams 
that won the World Series and he
is immortalized in the Major
League Baseball Hall of Fame.
COURTESY PHOTO   

In addition to putting together a remarkable Hall of Fame career that saw him play for more World Series-winning teams (10) than any other player in history, Berra was the embodiment of the American dream. Born Lorenzo Pietro Berra, he grew up in the hill district of St. Louis, the son of Italian immigrants. Quitting school as a teenager, he joined the United States Navy, ultimately becoming a gunner’s mate who survived the Normandy landings on D-Day.

After the war concluded he doggedly pursued a baseball career despite possessing a 5-foot-7-inch, 185-pound frame that looked anything but athletic. Neither of the then-existing major league teams in his hometown, the Cardinals or the Browns, saw fit to offer him an acceptable contract, so he ended up signing with the New York Yankees, and subsequently spent all but the final four contests of his 2,120-game career wearing the black-and-white pinstripes of the perennially powerful Bronx Bombers.

By nearly anyone’s definition Berra’s life was an extraordinary one. He had a beautiful family, achieved unquestioned success in his chosen field, and attained material wealth through a combination of endorsement deals and wise investments. His adopted New Jersey hometown is the site of the Yogi Berra Museum and Learning Center, which is adjacent to Montclair State University’s home baseball field, Yogi Berra Stadium. He also appeared on a US postage stamp.

Unfortunately like every other individual granted that particular tribute, he had to die first in order to qualify for it.

Casual noticers of Yogi Berra’s would-have-been 100th birthday may think that starting an 11th decade of life isn’t that unusual; after all, accomplished people like Jimmy Carter, George Burns, Bob Hope, Henry Kissinger, Grandma Moses, Kirk Douglas, and Olivia de Havilland all reached that particular milestone.

And while a significant number of well-known folks who were, like Yogi, born in 1925 (or MCMXXV, in the land of his ancestors), didn’t make the century mark (Paul Newman, B.B. King, Barbara Bush, Johnny Carson, Angela Lansbury, Malcolm X, Margaret Thatcher, Rock Hudson, Medgar Evers, Robert F. Kennedy, Sammy Davis, Jr., William F. Buckley, Jr., and Laura Ashley, to name just a baker’s dozen), at this writing there are still a few noted 1925 natives hanging around, like Dick Van Dyke, June Lockhart, and, uh … Jiro Ono, the retired sushi chef who owns a restaurant in Tokyo, Japan. (Thank you, Wikipedia.)

According to the Pew Research Center, a nonpartisan think tank and trusted public opinion polling organization based in Washington D.C., people aged 100 years or older currently make up .03 percent of America’s population. More detailed statistics reveal that while there are currently around 101,000 people of triple-digit age in the United States, that number will increase to upwards of 422,000 by the year 2054.

The folks at Pew also report that America currently houses more centenarians than any other nation, but the number of individuals who’ve lived beyond the century mark is actually higher per capita in Japan and Italy than it is here. Projections suggest that by 2050 China will lead the world in centenarians, followed, in order, by Japan, the United States, Italy, and India.

Statistics such as these are fascinating, but are they accurate? After all, the Pew Research Center wasn’t founded until 1990. Why would anyone trust findings regarding longevity from a callow organization that’s only 35 percent of the way to reaching the century mark itself? <

Tim Nangle: Helping towns enforce laws and protect our lakes

By Senator Tim Nangle

Sebago Lake provides clean drinking water to over 200,000 people in southern Maine. It’s one of the cleanest lakes in the country, and one of the few sources in the nation that requires no filtration before it’s delivered to the tap. But Sebago is more than just a water supply. It’s a defining feature of our region, supporting local businesses, drawing in visitors and offering year-round recreation for thousands of Mainers.

State Senator Tim Nangle

Sebago isn’t the only important body of water in Maine. Across our state, lakes, rivers and streams serve as environmental, economic and cultural lifelines for their communities. From fishing and boating to wildlife conservation, these waters touch every part of Maine life. They’re invaluable. But at the same time, they’re vulnerable.

That’s why we have shoreland zoning laws that protect our waters from overdevelopment, erosion and pollution. These laws are critical to maintaining water quality and preserving public access, but they only work if they’re enforced. And too often, towns are left without the resources to enforce them effectively.

Last year, I sponsored a bill to strengthen Maine’s shoreland zoning enforcement laws, and I was proud to see it signed into law with bipartisan support. That legislation, LD 2101, gave towns the authority to deny or revoke building permits for properties that violate shoreland zoning rules – something they couldn’t do before, even when violations were blatant.

These were meaningful changes, and they’ve already helped shift the balance back in favor of towns trying to uphold the law and protect our shared natural resources.

However, one major challenge remains: legal costs.

Although shoreland zoning laws are established at the state level, the Maine Department of Environmental Protection has delegated enforcement responsibility to local cities and towns. Municipalities are left to carry out this work on their own and at their own expense.

Pursuing a shoreland zoning violation through the court system can cost a town hundreds of thousands of dollars. Some towns, particularly smaller ones, simply can’t afford that risk. Meanwhile, wealthy violators can drag out the process, betting the town will back down to avoid the expense.

That’s why I’m introducing a new bill this session to create a revolving legal assistance fund specifically for shoreland zoning enforcement. Here’s how it would work: If a town needs help covering legal costs to pursue a violator, it could apply to the fund for assistance. If the town wins the case, it repays the fund using the court-awarded legal fees and costs from the violator. This keeps the fund self-sustaining and ensures that help is available for the next municipality that needs it. The fund would also be non-lapsing, meaning any unspent money stays available from year to year.

This proposal builds on the momentum we created with LD 2101. It’s a practical, targeted way to support local enforcement of zoning laws and ensure no community is left powerless when someone breaks the rules.

We passed LD 2101 to empower municipalities to uphold the rules. Now it’s time to make sure they can afford to do it.

The bill is LD 1904, “An Act to Establish the Municipal Shoreline Protection Fund.” The public hearing has not been scheduled yet, but I’ll share updates as it moves through the legislative process.

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: Irreconcilable and parochial

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

If I had to do it all over again, there would be quite a bit that I’d do differently if I was back in Catholic grade school again.

Ed Pierce in fifth grade at Our Lady
of Lourdes Catholic School in
Brighton, New York in 1963.
COURTESY PHOTO  

My father had been hospitalized for a broken leg after falling off a ladder while hanging outdoor Christmas lights on our house and when a priest came to visit him, he told him about me. With my birthday falling one day after the established date for public school kindergarten, my father thought I could excel in first grade instead of waiting a year to go to kindergarten, and the priest agreed and enrolled me at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School.

From the age of 3, I was reading books that were intended for students in Grade 3 and so when my First-Grade teacher, Sister Felicitis, started lessons to learn the ABCs, I was uninterested and bored. She passed on to other teachers at the school that I was a problem student, and it created a reputation for me there that followed me from year to year.

The school itself was on three levels and the stairwells were on each end of the building. You could climb the stairs up to the third level and look down at the people coming and going from the school entrances unobserved, unless someone happened to look up.

One day when I was in third grade, my friend Patrick O’Brien and I climbed to the third level before school started. He dared me to lob a gob of spit down from over the balcony to see how fast it would travel. Unfortunately for me, I did this while a nun who taught at the school was entering the building. The nuns were from the Sisters of Saint Joseph order and wore traditional black habits and a headdress with a flat top.

My gob landed on top of her headdress with a thud, and she immediately looked up and saw me. For my wrongful action, the principal assigned me a month’s duty of raising the U.S. flag each morning at the school flagpole and lowering it after school every day. I also had to apologize to both the nun and my classmates for my thoughtless action.

In fifth grade, I was involved in another incident and my parents both had to attend a meeting with the principal. When the quarterly report cards were issued, I was given a C in math, and I knew that my mother would throw a fit seeing that grade. I never showed it to her or my father and paid my younger brother 25 cents to sign my mother’s name acknowledging that she had seen the report card.

The nun teaching our class suspected the signature was a forgery because it was done in blue ink while all the previous report card signatures were in black ink. She asked if I had forged my mother’s signature. I said no. With that, she turned me in for disciplinary action to the principal. The principal asked me repeatedly to admit that I was the one who forged my mother’s name and since I physically did not do it, I denied it every time.

During the meeting with my parents in her office on a Saturday morning, she said I had lied time and time again to her about signing the report card. She painted a bleak future for me to my parents and insisted that unless I admitted that I had signed the report card, I was in danger of being expelled.

My father took me out in the hallway and asked me to be honest and tell him the truth. He asked if I had signed the report card, and I told him I had not done that. When he asked that if I hadn’t signed my mother’s name, who did? I explained to him that I had paid my brother a quarter to sign the report card, but the principal wanted me to admit to physically doing something I hadn’t done.

We returned to the principal’s office and revealed the facts. I told the principal that she had not asked me if someone else had signed the report card and if she had, I would have admitted that. She gave me a month’s chore of sweeping the hallways after school and picking up litter on school grounds when I was done with that.

The next year I inadvertently broke a window while trying to unlatch it and even though it wasn’t my fault, I was back on flagpole duty for a week as ordered by the principal. That same year I was given a classroom job of maintaining the classroom aquarium filled with tropical fish.

One Friday before a blizzard was supposed to hit the area, I bumped the fish tank heater up what I thought was a just few degrees to try and keep the fish warm during the snowstorm. Back at school on Monday I was sickened to discover I had made a mistake, and the heater was set on high, and all the tropical fish had died.

My Catholic school experience is not something I fondly remember, but without it, I wouldn’t be who I am today. <

Andy Young: Solving a cold case reveals a new mystery

By Andy Young

Last summer my oldest child and I traveled up to Newfoundland, where we camped and hiked in Gros Morne National Park; trekked up to L’Anse aux Meadows, a UNESCO World Heritage Site where Vikings established a settlement more than a millennium ago; and explored the town of Gander, which houses the airport where most of North America’s airplanes were grounded in the days following the tragic events of Sept. 11, 2001.

Our expedition was unforgettable for all the right reasons, save for one thing: the puzzling disappearance of a recently acquired family heirloom, the Yachats, Oregon (population 1,010) cloth tote I had purchased as a souvenir of a one-day visit to the picturesque Pacific Coast village a few summers ago.

I had taken it to Newfoundland not only for use as a handy, environmentally responsible shopping bag, but also so I could take a photo of it and myself overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and send it to the friend who, in addition to being the primary reason for a memorable luncheon in Yachats, is one of the town’s 1,010 most prominent citizens. My son snapped the desired picture on a clear, sunny morning on a cliff at Cape Spear, North America’s easternmost point. Mission Accomplished!

But then, tragedy struck. When I dropped my son and his gear off in Orono at the tail end of our journey, there was no trace of the Yachats bag anywhere. We tore through his belongings and mine but came up empty. Even the reassuring thought of my lost tote being used by some ecologically conscientious Newfie was of little consolation.

The mysterious disappearance of an item that was attractive, practical and likely the only one of its kind in the state of Maine was distressing, but thanks to the passage of time and also to two special angels, each of whom went to the trouble of obtaining a brand new Yachats tote bag and sending it to me as a gift, the palpably paralyzing grief I felt began to slowly recede.

What brought the Yachats bag to mind last week was my son’s cat, who currently has permission to live in my previously animal-free residence for as long as my son does, but not a moment longer. Normally a healthy eater, Marina seemed a bit reluctant to consume her supper one night last week, and a closer inspection revealed why – a swarm of tiny food ants, the type that seem to show up at this time every year, were scurrying around her bowl of kitty food.

Clearly steps needed to be taken, so I decided to temporarily relocate the couch that was adjacent to the cat’s food dish in an attempt to discover the source of the insect convention.

Thankfully there wasn’t a swarm of ants (or any other vermin) beneath that couch, which clearly hadn’t been moved in quite some time. There were, however, some dust curls, several sheets of poster board, and … the original Yachats bag that had disappeared in Newfoundland last summer!

While unexpectedly solving this particular cold case is equal parts rewarding and delightful, I now have an even more baffling mystery on my hands: how did an inanimate object that wasn’t anywhere to be found in my son’s effects, my own luggage, or in our car when we returned from Canada last June end up reappearing in the dust beneath a couch 11 months after it had seemingly vanished forever?

I may never learn the answer to this newly discovered enigma. But it’s nice knowing I now possess what are likely the only three Yachats tote bags in the state of Maine. <

Rookie Mama -- All along the Apple Watchtower: A hostile takeover

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

Here’s one to file away in the “I just can’t make this stuff up” folder.

And boy, 13 years into this boy-mama life, that folder will soon become an entire file cabinet.

Because every time I’m confident I know my cabinet of sons and the ways of this inner circle, it’s in that moment my day quickly goes from a well-oiled “ah” to awry.

And here was a first, orchestrated by my last-born.

A recent Saturday morning began with all the makings of a rainy day with no sunshine in sight.

I’d just successfully hosted a teenage sleepover extravaganza for my oldest, and the morning that quickly followed included timely meal prep tasks, errands and so forth.

In a busy household with six kids for the moment – two of them pals – I quickly felt myself needing a moment to just take five.

Dave Brubeck would agree.

But alas, five became 20 minutes.

I’d laid down on my bed, face-first, arms out, with full intention to rest a mere moment.

As I dozed, I felt my 4-year-old climb up and snuggle next to me a bit.

And that, my friends, is about all I remember.

Because precisely 20 minutes later, my husband exclaimed from the other room, “What does this text mean?”

Curious, I turned my head to see my littlest still perched atop my back, sitting up now, and tapping at my wrist.

He looked at me, smiled that impish, sweet grin, and sweetly exclaimed, “I made your man run.”

My what now?

Then I froze.

Instinctively, I looked to my Apple Watch, where my littlest dude had somehow managed to click the “running person” icon and thus activated an outdoor run workout.

Time had elapsed; mileage had not, of course.

I was bleary-eyed, but my mind was spinning with other possibilities of what he could have accomplished in those few minutes.

And what had my husband just exclaimed about a text?

To my horror, I scrolled through various text conversations to see my kiddo had done more than just make my “man run.”

He had managed to “dislike” comments from friends and family with a thumbs-down icon and sent various emojis of taxicabs followed by autogenerated messages like “BRB” to a selection of group conversations.

I don’t even know how to do any of that from my watch.

Fortunately, the recipients of these mysterious memoranda were kindred enough spirits that I didn’t need to backtrack too much on my damage-control mission.

All it took was a “My 4-year-old took over my watch. I can’t make this stuff up.”

I sensed the understanding, sympathetic nods through their replies.

A 4-year-old’s unwitting sabotage.

But what big power the little guy wielded, for 20 little minutes.

And there’s just no 90s-kid experience I can equate to such a thing, because we all lived the analog life. Only Penny from Inspector Gadget had a smart watch.

If you know, you know.

We’re all just learning as we go and working to keep up with tech as quickly as our kiddos do.

And on this day, I learned there’s no such “you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all” approach to having a fourth little one. Because each of them is a different flavor, and each flavor certainly keeps me on my toes.

And as for today, folks, no harm done.

So, while I’m on my toes, I think I’ll dance to some Dave Brubeck and just take five.

­­– 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: The simplest thing not everyone has

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

When I was growing up, I used to receive compliments for my manners but to be honest, the credit belongs to my parents who drilled into me the basics of etiquette.

My father would describe etiquette to my younger brother and me as like traffic lights for our interactions with others and he said that courtesy was simply a way to show respect for others. My mother was a stickler for proper manners and believed that displays of improper etiquette required immediate corrections.

She was “hands-on” with her corrections of bad manners and many times the lobe of my right ear was yanked as she made a point. Her understanding of good manners also made her mandate that children should not place their elbows on the table when seated for dinner.

According to my parents, exhibiting proper manners included always being mindful of other people’s feelings, beliefs, and expectations and helped to create more positive relationships with everyone in our lives. That included teachers, grocery clerks, bus drivers, aunts and uncles, the mailman and the doctor.

I thought of this last Saturday night while I was sitting alone at a table at a Rock n’ Roll dance waiting for my wife to return from the restroom. I was scrolling through my iPhone looking at Major League Baseball scores. When she arrived back at the table, she immediately informed me that looking at my phone was bad manners and anti-social.

Here are some of my parents’ basic manners tenets:

Wait to eat until everyone is seated and served. During my U.S. Air Force Basic Training experience, if I was to arrive at a vacant table for four in the dining hall, I was required to stand at attention with my hand raised indicating how many seats were left at the table. Once all the seats were filled, you could sit down and eat your meal. To this day no matter if I’m sitting in a restaurant or at home, if I’m served first, I won’t start eating until everyone’s food is at the table.

Respect the personal space of others. My father stressed that I never stand too close to people and insisted that I always ask before touching someone. That included always asking before reaching into someone else’s refrigerator or cupboards when visiting friends or neighbors. Years ago, I had a boss at the newspaper I was working at who would come up from behind me when I was sitting at my cubicle and working on my computer. He wanted to see what I was typing and would creep up so close to me to catch a glimpse of my computer screen that I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck. It was a disregard for my personal space and the other reporters in our department to whom he did the same thing.

Being punctual means you’re never late. My mother explained to me that it shows respect for other people’s time when you are on time or early for appointments and meetings. To this very day, I try to arrive for my appointments in advance of the scheduled time not only for my own peace of mind, but also to let the person I have the appointment with know I’m there. Once I was attending a press briefing for an author who had written a popular book and the author had noticed I had arrived early and was so impressed by that, he offered me an exclusive interview after the other reporters had left.

Always tip service workers well. My father came from a family of nine kids during the Great Depression. He worked for 19 cents an hour every day after high school classes at a company that made tin cans. He understood that no matter what a person’s job or social status was, they deserved to be singled out for the exceptional service that they provide. He went out his way to thank waitresses, janitors, or garbage men with a generous tip as appreciation. My father said that leaving a tip is a polite way of saying thank you while recognizing and acknowledging the value of contributions that service workers make to our lives.

Offering to help others is a sign of courtesy. Whether it was helping an elderly woman carry a bag of groceries to her car or returning shopping carts to the proper collection area, my mother demanded that I do something useful for others when I was out in public with her. She told me when I was a paperboy that I should always bring newspapers I was delivering to a subscriber’s front steps, rather than pitching them in their driveway as I rode past their homes on my bicycle. She would often send me over to a neighbor’s house to help rake leaves for them or shovel snow from their sidewalk. Years later, I still push the shopping carts back neatly in the collection spot instead of just leaving it for someone else to push there.

The way I see it, good manners are a way of showing other people that we respect them. Sadly, it seems to be disappearing in today’s world. <

Barbara Bagshaw: Protecting Maine’s voice in Presidential Elections

By State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

Last session, the Legislature passed a law that limits the voices of small states like Maine in selecting a President.

State Rep. Barbara
Bagshaw

The National Popular Vote Interstate Compact that was approved by lawmakers by one vote, and allowed to become law without the governor’s signature, would award the state’s four electoral votes to whichever candidate garners the most popular votes nationwide, irrespective of who the majority of Mainers voted for at the ballot box.

The Electoral College is a constitutional provision that ensures that small states, like Maine, have a voice in selecting the President of the United States. Because of that provision, Maine has received attention from presidential candidates. The law attempts to circumvent the Constitution by surrendering Maine’s voice through an interstate compact.

It means that if Mainers vote for a different candidate than the candidate winning the national popular vote, state electors would be bound to vote for the popular vote winner. The votes of large states with major cities like California and New York would dominate at the expense of smaller, rural states.

The compact requires enough states to join before it is triggered. It has the potential to create national chaos in our court system, especially if there is a recount in any of the states.

I can only speculate why Governor Mills did not sign it. In her message she claimed that she had conflicted feelings about the law and saw merit in both sides. I personally believe that it is unconstitutional under Article 1, Sec. 10, Clause 3 because it enters into a state compact without Congressional approval. It will not withstand Supreme Court scrutiny if it is ever triggered.

Ironically, the law was passed to prevent President Trump from being elected because Democrats assumed he would lose the popular vote. In 2024, Trump won the popular vote and an Electoral College landslide, winning all the battleground states. It is dangerous to change the constitution for future electoral advantage by looking back at previous elections.

As your legislator I sponsored a bill to repeal the law and recently it had a public hearing. I am hopeful that there is enough bipartisan support to correct the mistake that was made and preserve Maine influence in Presidential elections. The legislature must carefully consider protecting Maine’s 4 electoral votes from theft by large, urban states.

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/

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. <

The car accident (with subliminal advertising)

By Andy Young

Monday has never been my favorite day of the week, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that a snowplow tore off most of my car’s rear bumper on one of them this past February. I hadn’t planned on that happening, but there’s a reason that motor vehicle mishaps are referred to as “accidents.”

At the moment of impact, I wasn’t feeling particularly fortunate, but in retrospect I believe that Feb. 3 was an extremely lucky day.

Why? Let me count the ways.

While the inauspicious start to the week sidelined my car temporarily, I myself was unhurt in the Monday morning misadventure. I was also fortunate from a fiscal standpoint, since like a good neighbor, the snowplow driver’s insurance company was there.

A motor vehicle accident can be a major inconvenience, but caring, decent, honest human beings who take pride in doing their jobs right can go a long way toward lessening the pain, and that’s exactly what happened in my case.

The plow operator who hit my car was first and foremost concerned about my condition following the collision, for which he took full responsibility. With a thousand other things going on in his life, in the aftermath of the accident he worked overtime to ensure I was treated right.

Next up were the professionals at the auto body repair place, who were understanding, thorough, and eager to put my car, like Humpty Dumpty, back together again. They kept me informed every step of the way and did so in a manner that was always cheerful and never Moody.

Finally, the Enterprising young woman at the car rental agency set me up with reliable and economical transportation for the three-plus weeks that my vehicle was undergoing surgery. She also made me an offer that required a quick decision.

I am not by nature a risk taker, but when I was given the option to purchase some extra insurance for my temporary ride, I did some quick math and decided to forgo the opportunity to pay $28 per day for the added coverage.

While I had my rental, a Toyota Prius with Maryland license plates, I used the most distant parking lot spots, drove the least-traveled roads available, and totally avoided parallel parking. Naturally the number of drivers who darted out of side streets without warning, stopped suddenly in front of me for no apparent reason, or changed lanes on the highway in my vicinity without signaling, began increasing at an exponential rate.

However, against all odds, after 27 days I brought the car back to the agency in the same condition it was in when I borrowed it. The sigh of relief I let out when I returned it was probably audible in both New Hampshire and New Brunswick. I had taken an uncharacteristic gamble on myself … and won!

But why do I consider an accident that sidelined my car for nearly a month lucky? Well, for starters, I’m just as healthy physically as I was before the incident. I also learned I can still, when necessary, handle inconvenience and adversity. And best of all I met Travis the snowplow driver, Ashley the car rental agent, and Ken the autobody specialist, three exceptionally kind, hard-working, innately decent people whose paths I most likely would never have crossed had it not been for that crash early on a snowy morning.

More than eight months remain in 2025, so it’s possible there are still some days ahead when I’ll get even luckier than I did on Feb. 3. But if I’m truly fortunate, I won’t get that lucky again anytime soon. <

Insight: A Flattened Treasure Hunt

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

In the 1950s Johnny Carson used to host a television game show called “Who Do You Trust?” and I was thinking about that program recently when I drove to Kittery to have some old baseball cards appraised by a prominent antiques business.

Ed Pierce had his collection of 1960 Topps baseball
cards appraised last week at an event in Kittery.
PHOTO BY ED PIERCE 

For some years now I have been working on collecting every baseball card issued in 1960 by the Topps Chewing Gum Company. I’ve been a baseball card collector since 1964 but didn’t start working on my 1960 set until about 12 years ago.

There are a total of 572 cards issued in the 1960 Topps set and several years ago I completed acquiring all the cards when I purchased a Mickey Mantle card for $350 on eBay. Mickey Mantle’s 1960 card is deemed as the most highly valuable card in the entire set although Carl Yastrzemski’s rookie card, and other Hall of Famers such as Henry Aaron, Willie Mays, and Sandy Koufax fetch a large sum too.

About a month ago I saw an ad on Facebook saying an antique business would be appraising collections and so I signed up to see how much the cards would be worth.

I keep my cards in a three-ring binder in plastic sleeves and the majority of my 1960s are in Excellent to Near Mint condition. I know this because many of these cards were purchased through a reputable card shop in Ohio and none of them arrived in less than Excellent condition. Cards are professionally graded by the sharpness of the corners, creases in the cardboard, paper loss, writing on the cards, photo centering and coloring.

When I was just starting out in baseball card collecting, I’d add cards in less-than-ideal conditions, and after a while I discovered that a card’s condition is crucial to its overall value.

Through the years, I have upgraded and replaced many cards in my sets, and such is the case with this 1960 collection.

When I showed the cards to the appraiser, his expression was priceless. He looked at each page in the binder with amazement at the condition of the common cards and told me I had done a good job in assembling the complete set.

However, when he extracted the Carl Yastrzemski and Mickey Mantle cards, he informed me that both these cards were slightly creased, detracting from the overall value of my 1960 set. I had purchased both of those cards on eBay and never noticed the tiny creases on each card at the time.

The appraiser asked me how much I thought my set was worth and I told him I thought it was probably in the range of $5,000. Last summer, I had taken the cards to a professional grader at a card show in Old Orchard Beach and he estimated it to be about $8,000 but I did think that was greatly exaggerating their value and he only glanced through the binder quickly.

This new appraiser said it was his opinion that my 1960 cards were nice, but he recommended that I have the most valuable cards in the set graded, including the Mantle, Yastrzemski, Mays, Aaron, Koufax and Willie McCovey cards.

He showed me on his iPhone that some complete 1960 baseball card sets in Excellent to Near Condition are selling for between $3,500 to $5,500 at most. He thought that if I did have four or five of the Hall of Fame player cards from the set professionally graded by a nationally recognized grading company and permanently encased in plastic slabs, that I could boost my set’s overall value.

Driving home from that appraisal, I was sort of shocked and disappointed. I had envisioned that the appraiser would be impressed and would make me a decent offer for them, and I would accept and use the money to help pay for my wife and I to take a trip to England.

Now that I’ve had a few days to think about it, and hearing one appraiser tell me my cards are worth $8,000 and another suggesting $3,500, I’m inclined to take the advice of the second appraiser. That will mean I will have to purchase new 1960 Carl Yastrzemski and Mickey Mantle cards and those will not be inexpensive.

The average going price for a 1960 Carl Yastrzemski graded card in excellent condition on eBay is $300 and a decent 1960 Mickey Mantle graded card in excellent condition is $750. It’s probably better for me to purchase these two cards graded and slabbed than take another chance on cheaper deals of ungraded cards.

And once I do acquire those Yastrzemski and Mantle cards for my set, I will still have to pay a grading fee and send off my 1960 Roberto Clemente, Koufax, Mays, Aaron or McCovey cards for assessment and hope they do not get lost in the mail or damaged in the return shipment from the grading source.

When I was a kid growing up in the 1960s, I never liked the Yankees so I would often take Mickey Mantle cards and pin them to the spokes of my bike to make a flapping noise as I pedaled along.

If I knew then what I know now, that surely wouldn’t happen. <   

The end of an era?

By Andy Young

The 100-year agreement designating the bunny as Easter’s official animal has just expired. Until recently it was assumed the continuation of the adorable cottontail’s reign as the holiday’s trademark was a mere formality.

However, determined digging by attorneys skilled in trademark law has revealed the 1925 contract included a clause allowing, after a century has gone by, a one-time opportunity for either of the involved parties to “opt out” of the agreement.

Bunny fans are concerned, and with reason. Easter’s original owners sold the holiday to a consortium of greeting card conglomerates, chocolatiers, and plush toy manufacturers in the late 1970s, and hammering out a new deal with a cartel consisting of a bunch of corporate CEOs is a lot different than negotiating with a genial pope and the Vatican.

Easter has become a multi-billion-dollar industry, and there’s no shortage of groups and/or individuals wanting a piece of it. Those trying to get Easter to re-up with the bunny have their work cut out for them. The competition is fierce, as plenty of animals are vying for what is a potential gold mine, not to mention a public relations bonanza.

“Who says bunnies are cuter than squirrels, chipmunks, or hedgehogs?” asks Avaricious Q. Farquhar, an attorney representing a variety of small animals.

American Avian Association president Harold Rapacious called bunnies “Yesterday’s news,” dismissively adding, “they’ve had their day.” The AAA represents groups advocating for both the Easter Parrot and the Easter Dove.

Adds Nestor Skroobawl, public relations director for a group touting the Easter Eagle, “When’s the last time a bunny laid any eggs, let alone the Easter kind?”

Ching-Ching Yeah, spokesperson for the Easter Panda Association declares, “The ugliest panda is infinitely more adorable than the cutest bunny.”

“What have rabbits ever done besides rob Mr. McGregor’s garden?” asks Conrad Eurograbber, head of a group hoping a lovable, drooling service animal, the Easter St. Bernard, will gallop in with a basket of Easter eggs each April and become the holiday’s future logo.

“It’s high time Easter ends their unholy alliance with these unseemly creatures!” huffs Eunice Priggish, who has campaigned for the Easter bunny’s excommunication ever since “Bunnies” became an integral part of the Playboy empire in 1960.

Attacks on the Easter Bunny aren’t limited to the Northern Hemisphere. “You call those hops?” scoffs Laughlin Downunder, spokesperson for an Australian group bidding to replace the Easter Bunny with the Easter Kangaroo. “Compared to one of our ‘roos, bunnies don’t hop; they limp!”

Individuals or groups pushing to replace the bunny include proponents of the Easter Elephant, the Easter Tiger, the Easter Flamingo, the Easter Weasel, the Easter Jellyfish, and the Easter Giraffe, among others. “Sure, we’re a longshot,” says Spiros Noncomposmentis, who represents a group trying to install an unlikely holiday animal. “But if we don’t point out the attractiveness of the Easter Jackal, who will?”

Says one industry insider: “Those rabbit people have the toughest job this side of selling pork in Saudi Arabia.”

The Easter Bunny’s spokesperson, Virtuous D. Fender, vigorously defends her client. “Rabbits in general and the Easter Bunny in particular are inherent parts of society. Who’d watch a movie called ‘Who Framed Roger Raccoon’?” she asks rhetorically. “And seriously, could Bugs Beaver have dominated Elmer Fudd and Yosemite Sam? Buck teeth aren’t everything; long ears matter, too.”

Ms. Fender admits, though, that with billions of Easter industry dollars at stake, she and her leporine clients are facing an uphill battle.

“There’s no question it’s dog-eat-dog out there,” she says of the current competition for official Easter animal status.

She’d better hope it’s not jackal-eat-bunny. <

Tim Nangle: Giving Residents a Fair Shot at Owning Their Communities

By Senator Tim Nangle

In the 1950s, my father bought a mobile home park in Danvers, Massachusetts. He didn’t do it to get rich; he did it to build a life and a community. For decades, he kept that park running with a simple philosophy: treat people fairly. He fixed things himself, unclogging toilets and crawling under trailers on cold winter days. Sometimes he worked throughout the night to wrap heat tape around frozen pipes. If a tenant was late on rent, he worked with them. He took care of his tenants, and they appreciated that. When my father passed away, my siblings and I took over running the park and we did our best to carry my father’s approach forward.

State Senator Tim Nangle

A few years ago, everything changed. We started getting unsolicited offers from private equity firms with deep pockets and little interest in the people who lived in the park. Their goal was simple — buy the park, raise rent and extract as much profit as possible.

Thankfully, Massachusetts has a strong law on its books that gives residents the right to match an outside offer and buy the park themselves. That law gave our residents a fighting chance and they took it. They organized, secured financing and made a competitive offer. Today, they own the park and it’s thriving under their ownership.

Their story could have ended very differently, though. And here in Maine, it too often does. That’s why I’ve introduced LD 1145, "An Act to Protect Residents Living in Mobile Home Parks."

Mobile home parks are some of our last truly affordable housing options in Maine. But in recent years, they’ve become a favorite target of out-of-state investors looking to make a quick profit. These firms often raise rents, enforce strict eviction policies and skimp on maintenance. And because our current laws don’t do enough to protect residents, their actions can go unchecked.

LD 1145 strengthens protections for park residents by:

● Requiring park owners to notify residents when they plan to sell.

● Giving residents 90 days to organize and make a purchase offer.

● Creating a clear right of first refusal so they can match any outside offer.

● Ensuring that if a park is being shut down or redeveloped, residents get 90 days' notice and help relocating, paid for by the park owner.

We’ve already seen signs that Mainers are ready and willing to step up. During the public hearing on this bill, Nora Gosselin from the Cooperative Development Institute shared that under Maine’s current statute, residents in nine different communities have already organized and submitted competitive purchase offers — sometimes offering more than what corporate buyers had on the table. But six of those offers were rejected. As Nora put it, “The law needs to be strengthened into a Right of First Refusal to build upon an effective model, in an environment with so many aggressive, deep-pocketed, out-of-state corporations, amid an affordable housing crisis."

LD 1145 isn’t radical. It’s fair. It’s practical. And it’s proven. This bill gives residents the chance to hold on to the homes and communities they’ve built not just for now, but for generations to come.

The bill is currently being considered by the Legislature’s Housing and Economic Development Committee. If you agree that Mainers deserve a fair shot at owning their communities, I urge you to contact the committee and your local legislators. Let them know that you support LD 1145.

You can contact all members of the Housing and Economic Development Committee by sending an email to HED@legislature.maine.gov. To find your representative, visit legislature.maine.gov/house/. <

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.