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. <

Insight: Overruling any objections

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

One of my favorite movies is “To Kill A Mockingbird,” and in that film attorney Atticus Finch proclaims, “A court is only as sound as its jury, and a jury is only as sound as the people who make it up.” Judge for yourself, but throughout February, I have been summoned as a potential juror.

Most of my exposure to the legal system comes from watching cases tried on television, such as the Johnny Depp v. Amber Heard media circus or most notably, the O.J. Simpson murder trial in the 1990s.

I previously served on two juries when I lived in Florida. The first time the parties went through the jury selection process, and I was seated in the group, but within minutes of starting the trial, the judge dismissed the jury as the parties had reached a settlement.

The second time was totally different. It took most of the morning to find jurors acceptable to both attorneys involved in the case. By noon a jury was seated, and I was among them. The judge had the courtroom break for lunch and the trial resumed with testimony for the remainder of the afternoon and into the following day.

The case was rather interesting to me. A Haitian immigrant who spoke very little English finished work as a stonemason for a contractor late in the afternoon of the Friday before Memorial Day. Before leaving, the contractor paid him a month’s salary of about $8,000 in cash in a brown paper bag he placed in the truck’s center console. He got in his pickup truck and started to drive home when another Haitian immigrant at the work site flagged the stonemason down and asked if he could give him a ride home.

During one of the hottest and most humid times of the year in Florida, the air conditioner in the pickup truck did not work and so the stonemason and his co-worker rolled the windows down to have some fresh air come into the truck. As they arrived at the co-worker’s home, he asked the stonemason to wait for a moment as he went inside for something. He reemerged with a four-pack of Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers, although it was missing two bottles. He said it was a gift for his kindness in giving him a ride home.

Taking off again, it was now dark outside, and the stonemason noticed flashing lights up ahead on the highway. It was a police DWI roadblock. He was pulled over and an officer noticed the unopened Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers on the passenger seat. He instructed the stonemason to step out of the truck and gave him a field sobriety test.

The Haitian immigrant passed all field sobriety testing, but as he didn’t reply to some of the questions the officer asked because he didn’t understand much English and the officer didn’t speak his language, Creole, the officer detained him and requested another police car and officers to take him to the police station for blood testing for intoxication.

Once at the police station, blood was drawn from the Haitian. Since results would not be available from the lab for several days, he was booked for DWI and transported to the county jail. His pickup truck was towed to the county impound yard. It was Memorial Day Weekend, and the Haitian waited in the jail the remainder of Friday evening, Saturday, Sunday and through Monday as it was Memorial Day, just to obtain an attorney.

When the results of the blood test confirmed no alcohol in his system, the attorney for the state dropped charges filed against him and he was freed from jail. At the impound yard, he reclaimed his truck only after his attorney paid the $750 towing and storage fees. And to his surprise, the brown paper bag of cash was missing.

He sued the city and the police department for $50,000 for false imprisonment, false arrest, his expense of having to hire an attorney, the loss of a month’s salary from the missing bag of cash, and the suffering and humiliation from spending four days in the slammer.

All of this had taken place three years before this trial that I was a juror for. We listened to all the testimony and adjourned to the jury room for our deliberation. To us, it was clear who had made a mistake. We reached a verdict for the plaintiff but before we could announce our decision, the judge dismissed the case.

It seems that the plaintiff’s attorney had made some sort of technical error when filling out the paperwork for the case and this was brought to the judge’s attention during the jury’s deliberations. The judge visited us in the jury room before we left and said he had no choice but to dismiss this case and that the plaintiff’s attorney said he was going to file the case for trial again, even if it took another three years to get on the court docket.

Now I am on the precipice again of doing my civic duty and serving as a potential juror. Paying homage to Atticus Finch, I’m hoping I can remain of sound mind until then. <

Rookie Mama: The discount snack haul of fame

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

I’ve rekindled that old lost love for our local surplus and salvage store.

Alas, it’s the store filled with many, many, rotating and delightfully haphazard overstock items that replace themselves so quickly, inevitably one may regrettably think, ‘I should have bought it…’

Mainers, you know the jingle.

But my relationship with our town’s local discount shop had been an oscillating one.

And not just because you can buy oscillating fans next to the carpets next to the dog leashes next to the snow pants in said warehouse space.

I have had a years-long aversion for shopping inside stores, namely stores with erratic inventory that require any sort of rifling through of goods.

I became a mama precisely around the dawn of curbside grocery pick-up, a sort of kismet convenience so appreciated that couldn’t have come at a better time, and so I’ve been spoiled in that regard.

Just like that, no more had I the patience nor time for browsing aisles, scouring deals, feeling stifled by the marketing of clutter-some items I just didn’t need.

Online grocery shopping with the painless advantage of pickup without leaving the vehicle is an undeniable luxury – one that keeps me on budget and no longer requires me to lug two shopping carts down all the aisles as I excuse myself to every single shopper ever because I’m taking up all the lanes, only to end each excursion with a double-down Tetris round as I meticulously pack every item back into the cart, then again into the vehicle.

In those days, I ended each grocery shopping run like a flushed, wild-haired Supermarket Sweep contestant, and who had time for that?

No, sir; I’ll keep my curbside pickup just fine.

But back to our local salvage store.

For years, I was less and less enticed to stop in and shop because of its unpredictable merchandise, although I couldn’t help but acknowledge the prices were right, and always had been, no matter the product.

I have family and friends who love their local discount store for this very reason.

Oh what fun for the knitters of my family to browse the skeins upon skeins of yarn galore.

What a glorious feeling for friends who score the name-brand clothing deals. They are the patient ones, and they deserve all the bargains.

Until recently, I only perused this store strictly day after Christmas, because it was a near guarantee I’d find significantly marked down holiday wrapping paper well ahead of budget and next Noel season.

But as of late, fellow mama friends have nudged me along with encouraging assurance that I could score fantastic bargains on school snack hauls – Now that’s a hard one to pass up.

And what hauls I’ve since made off with, indeed.

My family and I recently embarked on a road trip that necessitated road snacks, and I found treats a’plenty at the salvage store for a deal.

Some of the snacks were bigger hits than others; some had mixed reviews, but all cost very little.

So, why are salvage store prices so low anyway?

Often products are nearing their expiration date, dented, damaged, or overstocked.

My favorite finds have been snacks or other food items that may include a promotion for a limited time offer of a movie or other deal that has since expired, but the food item at hand is still perfectly fine.

Items publicizing expired promotional ads such as these won’t be found on traditional retail shelves, so are re-sold for a fraction to the salvage shop.

Food items ranging from dented cans of tomato sauce to frozen foods still safe for consumption but marked beyond a stamped date are also often included in these finds.

As well, company product roll-outs that don’t quite catch on as hoped and produced en masse are often found – I’m looking at you, Hostess SnoBall-flavored coffee pods.

High hopes for sure, but no go.

I can’t stress enough that shopping salvage stores truly requires patience.

I’ve visited mine before with all the intentions of a fabulous snack haul only to return home dismayed with shopping bags empty.

But most recently on a particular shopping trip, I lucked out and walked down a random aisle – a road less traveled, you might say – and was face to face with rows upon rows of name-brand boots.

Garden boots.

I needed garden boots to replace my eleven-year-old beloved purple wellies that had spent more than their fair share deeply embedded in garden muck as my kids and I ran amok.

So beloved were the boots that cracks had formed in various areas, and I’d every intention of duct taping the cracks this year to squeeze out one more garden summer in their faded purple beauty.

And here I was, facing gorgeous replacement boots, a higher-end brand in a dusty rose color, just my size, dreamily comfortable, for an incredible fraction of the cost.

Perhaps the company merely had overshot their expected sales and so sold their overstock to this warehouse.

The world may never know.

But in that moment, these boots were not only made for walkin,’ but made for me.

That’s the satisfaction of shopping salvage in a moment just right.

Had I waited another day, I may have missed the opportunity altogether, and stubbornly spent one more summer in fancy duct-taped glamorous wellies.

So shop salvage with pride.

If you don’t find the knitting skeins you seek, there’s probably a dented stewed tomato can or two waiting for you.

And if you’re very lucky, you can score a fantastic snack haul for your kiddos and super fancy footwear to boot.

And that’s spinning no yarn.

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

Andy Young: An abs soul loot game changer

By Andy Young

No one, least of all me, can afford to stagnate professionally. That’s why, in an effort to improve myself technologically, I recently decided to try out an “app” (I think that’s what it’s called) which, according to its creator, can sharpen up anyone’s writing, or at least the spelling part of it. Has it helped? You be the judge.

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Here in mane (wear our state animal is the mousse), nun of my previous N gauge mints with pro grams that purr ooze my spelling have been grate. Inn fact, most have provided no ade what sew ever. But to be fare, in the passed I’ve off tin felt blew when matt teary ills that were sup post too uh cyst me never maid any differ rinse. I new nun of those things maid buy technologists were worth N knee thing. In fact, nearly awl of them were waists of thyme and F fort.

I wondered if I had scene the last of my good daze as an edge you cater. I was all ways inn a fowl mood, feeling spiritually baron. Their were times I gist wanted to drop out of site, flea the staid of main, and hit the rode for sum place wear I could S cape the pane of all the sole-crushing tech knowledge gee, fig you ring it wood be good for what ales me. I kneaded a brake, gist to bear my sole (oar, if I whir feeling week, flecks my mussels) in some out door low cay shun wear eye could breathe sum fresh heir. If aye were aloud two, I wood put on a pear of old genes, fined a would den chair, and pro seed two go smell sum flours, swim out to a choral reef, wok in a reign foe rest, sit amongst the reads in a swamp, ore maybe reel axe beneath sum fur and/ore beach trees.

Of coarse, I’d half to tell the prince sip pull at my school, a former banned liter, before I hit the rode, not only to say high, but too let him no wear I was head did, in case he kneaded me. I don’t think he’d mined, butt cents he’s a fare and cay ring person, I’m sure he’d have tolled me knot to overdue things. And weather or knot hour principle mint it, aye bet he wood say I’d be mist bye the wrest of the staph. He’d also wont to make sir tin that I eight rite. I mien, eye sup hose I could all ways gist take an our ore two too visit a soup per mark it sew I could bye myself a thick juice E stake, butt I probably all sew ought to inn jest some hell thee foods, like maybe sum bran serial, a pare, or sum carats, just sew I don’t get the flew.

Eye gist proof red this; there’s knot won sin gull miss steak.

This A Eye is a maze zing! Y eye weighted sew long to try it, I’ll never no. <