Insight: We rise by lifting others

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Even though we all share space on this planet, I’ve found that truly knowing what others carry around inside them is never easy.

That fact was evident for me this past weekend when I accompanied my wife Nancy to a funeral service in St. Albans, Vermont for our sister-in-law Millie Boyd. She had been married for 34 years to Nancy’s oldest brother Will, and they lived in St. Albans.

Over the years we saw Millie when we visited them on trips to Vermont, and she came across to me as a talented artist who was warm and welcoming to us. She wanted to know about us and our lives, and we were never there long enough to carry on long conversations with her about her own life.

On the drive over to Vermont, I asked Nancy how Will and Millie met and I had forgotten that they had met while struggling through issues with alcohol. Nancy told me that both Will and Millie had devoted their lives after overcoming alcohol problems to helping others, serving as sponsors, listening to people struggling as they had, and serving as their mentors.

Until we had arrived at the funeral home though, I was not aware of the full extent of Millie’s life. She was a mother of three daughters, a loving grandmother who taught her grandchildren gardening, and had completed nursing school.

During her eulogy, I heard that in 1988, she fulfilled a lifelong dream and earned a degree from Trinity College in Burlington, Vermont. The speaker said Millie was proud that she and her three daughters all attended college full-time at the same time and graduated by birth order.

I did not know that Millie enjoyed singing classical acapella music with Gigi Scriggins' Morning Glory Singers, and later, the Side Effects barbershop quartet. She had great fun performing for Cardiac Capers, a hospital benefit show, and at other venues in Vermont. I learned that Millie was also involved with The Aphasia Choir of Vermont, a community group founded by her daughter Karen McFeeters Leary, a former speech-language pathologist who is a gifted singer and songwriter. The choir is for stroke and traumatic brain injury survivors with speech difficulties so they can communicate fluently through music.

Millie also was an avid reader and in later years, she discovered a passion for watercolor painting. She belonged to numerous artists' groups, especially enjoying painting and learning with the "Tuesday morning gals." She exhibited her work in Franklin and Chittenden Counties in Vermont.

In fact, I had forgotten that on one of our trips to Vermont to see Nancy’s family, she had given us a painting completed by Nancy’s mother, who was a professional artist. The painting had been hanging on a wall in Will and Millie’s home. It shows Nancy at about the age of 14 and her mother at the lake and now is one of the centerpiece paintings in our living room in Maine.

That led me to remember that Will and Millie were frequent visitors to the nursing home in St. Albans where Nancy’s mother was cared for until her death in 2005.

But the most humbling thing that happened to me during Millie’s funeral came during the “Community Remembrance” portion of her service. 

One by one, people from all walks of life stepped forward to say how Millie had been someone who truly cared about them and had been instrumental in helping them forego dependence upon alcohol and change their lives for the better.

Each one talked about how tough and strict Millie and Will were as their sponsors and yet they felt that the couple always treated them with respect and dignity and most of all with kindness.

I was moved when a man discussed how he had “burned his life to the ground” because of alcohol and walked away from his children when they needed him. He said he saw no point in going on, but it was Millie who had convinced him that he could overcome his problems and start again.

Another speaker discussed how many lives Millie had touched and through her faith in humanity and using her own example as inspiration, had transformed hundreds of lives through her willingness to volunteer on behalf of others struggling with sobriety.

A woman who worked as the only female on a construction crew talked about how kind Millie had been to her and that she continually told her to smile.

Many other speakers mentioned that smiling was the cornerstone that Millie used to calm people’s fears of talking with her and how she felt no matter how hard a day someone might have had that a simple smile showed kindness to them.

Driving home that evening, I told Nancy that it was very humbling to hear all of those speakers talk about what Millie had done for them, how her persistence had led them to turn their lives around, and why they felt they needed to be there to express their love for her.

I carried one big question away from that entire experience that day. When my time comes, as it does for everyone, what do I expect my friends and family to say about me? <

Rookie Mama: Here’s a salute to the snowsuit re-boot

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

Fiery red leaves sound the red alarm for the clothing reality check in our home, and I want to take a moment to share my textile-themed PSA, which as you can imagine does not stand for “pants, shirts, accessories.”

Octobers are as multicolored outdoors in Maine as they are in my kiddos’ clothing drawers, because we’re wild-eyed with clothing overlapping seasons that truly must be addressed.

Our mudroom is still lined with the boys’ brand new-ish school shoes buddied up next to summer’s muddy Crocs – brightly marked signs of outdoor play all season long.

As we phase through a shoulder season that shoulders burden of many garments – Seriously, we will need more coat hooks – we must take that seasonal self-eval and determine what stays and what goes to the leaf-pile-looking mound of a donation pile stuffed tight in Chewy boxes ready for a Goodwill drop?

Full disclosure, my children really do own more than three pairs of clothing.

Their jam-packed hand-me-down dresser drawers are proof positive of being stuffed to the gills with hand-me-down attire of all sorts.

But as all four boys are creatures of habit, they love to keep a couple of outfits on repeat, so much that if we go one day without running the washer, they’re running wildly and convinced that they have no more clothes to wear.

Oh wear, oh wear, are their clothes indeed?

It really strikes a friendly reminder that perhaps we should sift through it all and pull garments not worn for a long time. This is always rough going – Pulling out forgotten clothes from the backs of closets are like pulling off a Band-aid, but unlike a Band-aid, the pain’s not forgotten quickly afterward.

I’ll gently fold away the clothes they no longer wear and quietly add to a size-marked bin in our basement so they’re ready to be once again loved, worn and torn as boy clothes go, for the next kiddo down the line.

And because ‘tis the season, it’s critical to have your little ones try one last year’s boots, winter coats and snow pants.

The littler the kid, the probably more likely it is that they’re ready to size up.

Like many other things I’ve learned in parenting, I know this because I’ve learned the hard way – the Rookie Mama way, so to speak. 

In my early mama-ing years, I’d wait for snow to fly, run down to get a kid’s pair of boots, only for them not to fit and I’d be the one booting out to the nearest store only to find winter wear no longer on shelves, nor available online in right sizes.

You know how it is; in a culture of oversaturated back-to-school shopping sales in June, it’s no surprise that by the time snow hits the fan, store shelves have already replaced winter gear with Valentine’s hearts and Easter eggs.

And Easter eggs are the only thing I ever want to hunt.

As for boots for kids, shop now for best options – this I kid you not.

Try on the winter coats, and have your kiddos do the sleeve test by reaching up high to see whether those sleeves ride up.

To each his own, but when I see too much wrist, I know it’s time to park what I’m doing and find a parka.

Kids today will never know the pure technicolor joy of our ‘90s generation’s Starter jackets, but if they are lucky enough, they may find loose change or a long-forgotten pair of matching winter gloves in an old coat pocket, the jacket color notwithstanding (But oh, how I loved the Charlotte Hornets colors.)

Lastly take a peek at any snow pants while you’re in the neighborhood of winter storage bins. 

Just like the rule of wrist for winter coats, nobody wants snow pants too short or those that ride up in other places, for that matter – Just think of the cold snow on their ankles from a snowdrift step wrongly taken.

It’s still too early for a pot of hot cocoa and peppermint sticks – or is it? – but truly the time to get a foothold on winter boots and downsizing clothes from last season is now.

So that when the cold blasts through, you’ll be the one who’s chill – But you won’t have to worry about getting cold feet.

So re-boot now while you’re in Halloween shopping mode so you aren’t spooked in the months to come.

Out with the Crocs, in with Crocktober!

­­– 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: Indigenous Columbus People’s Day

By Andy Young

Americans are guaranteed a minimum of five extended weekends every year. These include the Martin Luther King Day, Presidents Day, Memorial Day and Labor Day holidays, plus the second Monday in October’s one-day vacation from work. In fact, there can be as many as nine three-day weekends in a calendar year, since any time June 19 (Juneteenth), Nov. 11 (Veterans Day), July 4 (Independence Day), or Dec. 25 (Christmas) falls on a Monday or a Friday, it creates another government-approved three-day weekend.

This coming Monday’s day off occurs during what in much of the country is the nicest time of year. Early October in Maine brings pleasant daytime temperatures, cool, crisp evenings, spectacular foliage, slackening traffic, fewer pesky insects, and hardly any signs of the grim five-month winter that lies ahead.

But not everyone is unconditionally enthusiastic about the impending holiday.

The reproachful glance a younger colleague shot at me when I asked if he had anything special planned for Columbus Day weekend was the sort one ordinarily reserves for drug dealers wearing swastika-festooned motorcycle helmets who have just loudly broken wind in church.

“It’s Indigenous Peoples Day,” he huffed in a tone suggesting I had just proposed naming a federal holiday for Osama bin Laden. Actually though, he was right. Multiple states no longer celebrate Columbus Day. Monday is officially Indigenous Peoples Day in Alaska, Hawaii, Louisiana, Iowa, Michigan, Minnesota, New Mexico, Oregon, Vermont, Wisconsin, and Maine, and Native American Day in South Dakota.

School children of my vintage learned that Italian navigator Christopher Columbus was a determined, plucky underdog who had to go to another country (Spain) to get the funding necessary to sail across the Atlantic and discover America.

But subsequent societal changes, including the revolutionary idea that fact should be more important than folklore when it comes to teaching history, have radically changed Columbus’s image. While he may indeed have been an intrepid explorer, he was also guilty of committing and/or tolerating acts including murder, enslavement, human trafficking, and a variety of similar atrocities which shouldn’t entitle someone to have a holiday named for him.

When it comes to a debate of Christopher Columbus’s worthiness, I have no ethnicity-based bias. My lineage contains no connection to any Italians, Spaniards, or indigenous peoples. Then again, maybe it does, since no one in my family seems to know much about the ancestors who preceded us by more than four generations.

But while committing the sorts of atrocities Columbus and his barbarians did is hardly a basis for sainthood, the late 15th and early 16th centuries weren’t marked by good behavior of Caucasians who traveled to other continents seeking new opportunities. While their conduct was far from praiseworthy, it reflected Europe’s status quo at the time. Had the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria all somehow ended up in Davy Jones’s locker, it’s unlikely Amerigo Vespucci, Ferdinand Magellan, Vasco da Gama, or whichever European explorer got to North America first would have treated the natives any differently than Columbus and his crew did. They were products of their time, albeit a far less enlightened one.

Most people are resistant to change, which explains why those familiar with Columbus Day are having a hard time transitioning to a newly renamed “Day” that’s got twice as many syllables.

Given the abuse North America’s native denizens have been suffering since the initial plague of European invaders began arriving 534 years ago, I’d say it’s appropriate to change Columbus Day to Indigenous Peoples Day.

But there are limits to political correctness. Don’t hold your breath waiting for lawmakers in the Buckeye State to rename their capital city Indigenous Peoples, Ohio. <

Insight: A Trip Through Time

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

It’s funny how hearing a song can bring me back to experiences in my life from years ago and open a floodgate of memories, but that’s what happened to me last week.

A snowstorm rolls across the Texas Panhandle plains near
Amarillo in 1972. COURTESY PHOTO

I was driving my car back home from the mechanic’s shop where it had received a new state inspection sticker and was impressed at how smooth it was handling after $450 worth of repair work. I turned on the Sirius XM radio in the car and the song “You’re So Vain” by Carly Simon was playing.

Suddenly, I found myself sitting in the passenger seat of my friend Craig Podosek’s Volkswagen Beetle driving across the Panhandle of Texas on New Year’s Day in 1973 bound for another semester of college classes in New Mexico.

Craig was from New York state like I was and both of us had traveled home over the Christmas break from New Mexico to spend the holidays with our families. We had spoken by phone before Christmas Day, and he asked if I wanted to drive across the country and share expenses with him.

The two of us had become friends a year earlier when we were pledges for Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity. For three months Craig and I were part of a pledge class that put in a lot of late-night walking after being dropped off a few miles outside of town as a gag or spent time dragging a fraternity cannon to football games. The pledges met a few times every week to study the fraternity’s pledge manual prior to our initiation test.

I learned that Craig had transferred to our college after attending a community college in New York state and was studying to become an accountant. Somehow, all the pledges in our class passed the initiation test and we were inducted into the fraternity in November 1971.

Four days after Christmas in 1972, Craig arrived at my parents’ home in Rochester, New York, and we started off for college. The two of us drove the Volkswagen that first day all the way to Dayton, Ohio. We spent the night there at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base where his brother was stationed.

The next morning, we got up and drove all the way to Joplin, Missouri where we found affordable motel rooms for the night. Along the way we talked about school, interesting college classes that we had taken, friends and family, and our career plans and hopes. We also tuned in to radio stations that discussed weather conditions, trying to find the best route to take to avoid being caught in a storm.

On New Year’s Eve 1972, we pulled into the driveway of our fraternity brother Jerry Joyner in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, who was preparing a huge meal for us before his beloved Oklahoma Sooners were to play Penn State in the Sugar Bowl game. Oklahoma beat Penn State, 14-0, as the Nittany Lions played without leading rusher and future Heisman Trophy winner John Cappelletti, who had the flu.

We not only celebrated Oklahoma’s Sugar Bowl victory but also watched the ball drop on television in Times Square in New York City marking the arrival of 1973.

The next morning on New Year’s Day, Craig and I set out for New Mexico in the Volkswagen except this time we were tired and slightly hung over from all the New Year’s Eve festivities just hours before.

As we drove along I-40, most of the radio stations we were listening to kept mentioning that a massive storm was headed south into the Texas Panhandle with limited visibility and drifting snow. Both of us looked out to the north across the plains and could see the snow coming straight for us. We hoped that we could outrun the blizzard heading in our direction.

Since we knew what we were up against weather-wise, Craig suggested that we listen to some music and found a radio station from Amarillo playing popular hits. The station’s playlist coming out of commercials that day started with “Crocodile Rock” by Elton John and was followed “I Wanna Be With You” by the Raspberries and “Oh Girl” by the Ch-Lites. The fourth song, though, was brand-new and was the first time I had ever heard Carly Simon sing “You’re So Vain.” 

I turned to Craig when the song was over and told him I thought it was a hit song if I ever heard one. As it turns out, “You’re So Vain” became the top song in America for three weeks later that month and went on to capture “Song of the Year,” “Record of the Year,” and “Best Female Pop Vocal Performance” at the Grammy Awards.

Fortunately for us, the Volkswagen was great on gas, and we didn’t have to stop again for fuel in Texas. We were able to outrun the blizzard, making it all the way across the state line to Tucumcari, New Mexico before having to fill up again. We eventually arrived back at the fraternity house at our college about 5 p.m. and were relieved to have completed the trip safely.

It’s a small snapshot from my life but hearing “You’re So Vain” instantly returns me to that time 54 years ago. <

Barbara Bagshaw: Your Voice Matters – Why Showing Up at the Polls Strengthens Our Community

By State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

As your State Representative for District 106 in Windham, I have the privilege of listening to neighbors every day, at the grocery store, at local meetings, and through the messages you send. One theme comes through clearly: people care deeply about the direction of our town, our schools, our costs of living, and the future we are building together. That care only translates into results when citizens participate.

State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

Voting is one of the most direct ways we exercise self-government. It is not about any single candidate or party. It is about ensuring that the people who make decisions in Augusta and beyond hear from the full range of voices in our community. When turnout is high, elected officials of every background receive a clearer signal about what matters most to families here in Windham: property taxes, education quality, energy costs, public safety, and the everyday expenses that shape household budgets.

Maine makes it relatively straightforward to cast a ballot. You can vote early, request an absentee ballot, or go to the polls on Election Day. Confirm your registration, find your polling place, and mark your calendar. Local clerks and the Secretary of State’s office provide the practical details; taking a few minutes to check them removes last-minute uncertainty. Bring a neighbor if it helps. Talk with young people in your household about why the process exists. These small acts reinforce the habit of participation.

High participation also strengthens accountability. When more residents vote, representatives know they must answer to a broad cross-section of the district, rather than a narrow slice. That dynamic encourages careful listening and practical problem-solving over rigid ideology. It reminds everyone in public office that government derives its legitimacy from the consent of the governed—an idea as old as our founding documents and still essential today.

I have spent years in classrooms and community service. I have seen how engaged citizens improve outcomes in schools, local projects, and neighbor-to-neighbor support. The same principle applies at the ballot box. Your single vote may feel small, yet together those votes set priorities, fund programs, and shape the rules under which we all live.

Whatever your views on the issues of the day, the most important step is to make them known through the formal process our system provides. Mark the date. Plan how you will vote. Encourage others to do the same. A community that turns out in strong numbers is a community that keeps its government responsive.

It remains an honor to represent part of Windham. If you have questions about state services or need assistance navigating available resources, my office is here to help. Contact me at [email protected] or 207-310-0051. Thank you for caring about Windham and for taking the time to participate.

State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw represents part of Windham in District 106.

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. <

Andy Young: The mail bonanza that wasn’t

By Andy Young

I loved getting mail when I was young. “Mad Magazine” and “The Sporting News,” two publications I pored over at great length during my extended childhood, arrived periodically (pun intended) in the mailbox, as did the junk I’d sent for after collecting the appropriate number of box tops from whichever cereal was offering cool (and free) stuff to loyal box-top-accumulators.

These days my mail consists primarily of junk, including periodic “special offers” from, among others, insurance companies, credit card purveyors, loan providers, landscapers, exterminators, and window-replacement companies, plus ads from local supermarkets and appeals from various donation seekers, a few of whom might not be scammers looking for new suckers to bilk.

Last Wednesday afternoon the first thing I saw when I opened my mailbox was, predictably, weekly circulars from three local grocery stores. But underneath them were a postcard and three envelopes, two of which were actual letters written by actual people, with actual stamps on them! The third envelope contained a bill from Portland Water District, but that didn’t lessen my elation. I rarely get three pieces of real mail in a month, so getting three in one day was like winning the lottery!

Energized, I tossed the ads into the recycling bin and donned a pair of reading glasses so I could fully enjoy the unexpected mother lode of personal correspondence. I began with the postcard, which had a photo of Paris’s Arc de Triomphe on it. On the back was my friend Kevin’s entertaining and informative handwritten description of watching, from his observation post atop the Arc, traffic from 12 different avenues trying to merge onto (and exit from) France’s most dangerous traffic circle.

The postcard describing Europe’s foremost demolition derby training ground was merely the appetizer. Shifting my attention to the main course (the two letters), I prepared to tear one open when I noticed it wasn’t addressed to me, but to my son, who currently attends the University of Maine. Closer examination revealed something more troubling: a yellow sticker on the envelope’s lower right, which read, “RETURN TO SENDER; UNABLE TO FORWARD.” Utterly deflated, I saw it had been postmarked 18 February 2026, meaning a letter I wrote to my son which he never received had just spent the previous seven months in postal limbo.

But the disappointment was just beginning. The second letter, also intended for my son, sported a “RETURN TO SENDER” label, too. The difference: this one was postmarked 9 September 2025, so it had spent more than a year in parts unknown prior to returning to its point of origin!

The United States Postal Service probably isn’t to blame for this snafu, since both envelopes containing the returned letters were unopened, and in perfect condition. I suspect the mix-up took place in the University of Maine’s mailroom, since my son was living in a dormitory there when I sent them to him. But at least I’ll have two interesting (and now historical) documents to give him the next time he’s home.

I cannot say enough good things about the University of Maine. One of my offspring earned his degree there, and another is scheduled to obtain his in just over a year. Both have gained a great deal from their experiences in Orono, although perhaps significantly, neither ever took a course in postal studies there.

I’ve written a check to pay the Portland Water District bill. I’m not sure where I’ll mail it from but I definitely won’t drop it in a mailbox where there’s even the slightest chance the contents will be routed through the University of Maine’s mailroom. <

Insight: Oktoberfest remains a Bavarian tradition in September

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Yes, it’s true, the real authentic Oktoberfest celebration in Munich, Germany takes place every year in September.

Kegs of beer arrive at the Lowenbrau Pavilion after being
pulled there by a horse-drawn wagon during Oktoberfest
in 1978.  PHOTO BY ED PIERCE 

In 1872, municipal officials staging the annual fall festival moved it up a month to take advantage of September’s longer days and warmer weather. Therefore, a famous event celebrating October has started in September ever since and traditionally ends on the first Sunday in October.

The only reason I happen to know this is because back in 1978 while stationed in the U.S. Air Force in Germany, I joined a dozen members of my unit attending Oktoberfest. We went on a Saturday because of work duties and chartered a bus to take us back and forth to the event.

While driving down the Autobahn to get there from our duty station near Frankfurt, I read about the history of Oktoberfest and why it means so much to Germans.

It seems that on Oct. 12, 1810, Prince Ludwig I of Bavaria, the grandfather of the castle-building Bavarian King Ludwig II, married Princess Theresa in their own version of a royal wedding. The public was invited to celebrate the wedding afterward and the Munich fairgrounds were designated as the site where the wedding reception was to be held.

There was an abundance of food, music and King Maximillian I of Bavaria, the father of Prince Ludwig I, issued royal charters to six different Munich breweries to produce beer for the wedding party.

Those six breweries continue to supply beer for the Oktoberfest festivities to this day and include Augustiner, Hacker-Pschorr, Löwenbräu, Paulaner, Spaten and Hofbräu-München. Each brewery has its own house and pavilion at Oktoberfest and are packed with long tables and waitresses wearing traditional Dirndl (a traditional Alpine dress consisting of a bodice, blouse, full skirt and apron).

I observed that to become an Oktoberfest waitress, you must be strong and resilient. They are expected to carry a minimum of four heavy glass steins of beer by hand while holding the stein handles to each table and to not spill any beer along the way.

Along with finding beer houses and beer tents on the Oktoberfest grounds, visitors can also enjoy traditional oompah bands strolling the grounds playing Bavarian folk tunes and polka music using deep brass instruments and accordions and wearing lederhosen, traditional short or knee-length leather trousers worn by workers.

Food is everywhere and showcases different kinds of German sausages called wursts. Weisswurst is popular during Oktoberfest and is a mild wurst made of minced veal and sweet mustard. Then there’s Brezn, giant twisted and salted Bavarian pretzels and Hendl, which is rotisserie chicken crispy and seasoned.

I passed on eating Schweinshaxe (roasted pork knuckles) but did try the Wiener Schnitzel, a cut of veal pounded nice and thin, breaded, and pan-fried in butter. For a side dish, I had Spaetzle (small egg noodles).

Going to Oktoberfest is like attending a state fair here in America. There are rides such as the Ferris Wheel and Oktoberfest-themed merry-go-rounds.

My German neighbors in Frankfurt told me that Oktoberfest truly is the heart and soul of Munich and exemplifies the Bavarian way of life devoted to home and hospitality. It is intended to have something for everyone who attends to enjoy and experience.

Every year there is a procession in Munich at the start of Oktoberfest with staff, vendors, brass bands and beer wagons hauling thousands of kegs from breweries to the fairgrounds. The procession is traditionally led by a Bavarian girl dressed in a black and yellow monk’s habit and known as the “Münchner Kindl," or Munich child. This procession is known as the Entry of the Oktoberfest Innkeepers.

Following the procession, the official opening of Oktoberfest takes place at exactly noon. The Mayor of Munich taps the first keg of beer and announces the Bavarian phrase "O'zapft is!" (It is Tapped!). 

No matter where you may be from, something you will hear a lot about during Oktoberfest is “Gemütlichkeit.” That’s a uniquely Bavarian feeling of warmth, welcome, and belonging and it’s something that those who host Oktoberfest want to pass on to all who visit.

Of course that’s not always the case. Just two years after I attended the 1978 Oktoberfest, a far-right terrorist attack using an improvised explosive device detonated at the main Oktoberfest entrance in Munich in 1980, killing 13 (including the bomber) and wounding more than 200 people.

There have been other occasions when the annual festival was called off. It was not held in 1813 as Napoleon was waging war across Europe and for a cholera epidemic in 1854. The Prussian-Austrian War in 1866 halted the festival as did another cholera outbreak in 1873. From 1914 to 1918, no Oktoberfest was held because of World War I. In 1923, a financial crisis in Germany closed the event. From 1939 to 1948, the festival was scrapped thanks to World War II and in 2020 and 2021, the COVID-19 epidemic shut things down.

Unlike in America where marketing agencies try to cash in on the Oktoberfest name offering everything from car sales events to fast food sweepstakes, German citizens remain proud of the legacy of Oktoberfest and do not overly commercialize it. <

Tim Nangle: Helping Maine families stay warm as cooler weather arrives

By Senator Tim Nangle

Cooler mornings remind us that another Maine winter is approaching. For many of us, that means thinking about how to fit the next heating oil delivery into the household budget. Heating oil prices are climbing, and I feel that pinch, too.

State Senator Tim Nangle

The war in Iran is disrupting global oil supplies and driving up heating costs here in Maine. According to the Maine Department of Energy Resources, a Sept. 14 survey put the statewide average at $5.77 per gallon. When groceries, housing and other necessities already cost so much, filling the tank can be a difficult expense to manage.

After spending most of my career in public safety, I know that keeping people safe starts with making sure their basic needs are met. A warm home is one of those needs. Nobody should have to choose between buying heating fuel, refilling a prescription, or putting food on the table.

That is why my colleagues and I worked this year to help Mainers manage energy costs. In the supplemental budget, we invested in electricity assistance for households with low incomes. We also authorized up to $1.5 million from Maine’s “Rainy Day” fund for emergency heating assistance during declared emergencies lasting more than 10 days. This gives Maine another way to provide emergency heating assistance when federal funding is delayed, as it was during the federal government shutdown last fall.

We also passed the Energy Fairness Act, which requires the Maine Public Utilities Commission to consider affordability for residential customers when making decisions. It directs a comprehensive review of electric delivery rates to identify ways to contain costs, reduce unpredictable swings in bills and improve transparency. Mainers deserve to understand what we are paying for and to have our household budgets considered when regulators make decisions that affect us.

These steps will not completely ease the strain of a costly winter, but they reflect a responsibility I take seriously: making it more affordable for people to live here.

As we head into the cooler months, I also want to share resources that may help.

The Home Energy Assistance Program, known as HEAP, helps eligible homeowners and renters pay part of their heating costs. Applications for the 2026-2027 season are open, and I encourage you to apply early. Renters may qualify, even if heat is included in their rent. In Cumberland County, call The Opportunity Alliance at 207-553-5900 to schedule a phone appointment. You can also find the online application by visiting mainehousing.org/HEAP.

For households with an extremely low fuel supply the Energy Crisis Intervention Program may provide emergency assistance. The program opens Nov. 1. If you are running low, call The Opportunity Alliance at 207-553-5900, explain your situation and ask what help is available. Learn more at opportunityalliance.org/ecip.

Also, the town or city you live in has a General Assistance program that may help pay for heating fuel and utilities if you cannot meet your basic needs. Contact your municipal office to apply. This is another place to turn if you need help before seasonal emergency assistance opens. 

If you are unsure where to start, dial 211 or text your ZIP code to 898-211. A specialist can help identify heating assistance and other local resources.

When applying for HEAP, ask about other programs like electricity assistance, weatherization and heating system repairs, too. Depending on eligibility, these programs may help with other energy expenses and make your home more energy efficient.

I know these bills add up and asking for help isn’t always easy. We have more work to do to make energy affordable, but support is available now. If you need help finding the right program or navigating an application, contact me at [email protected] or 207-287-1515. My office is here to help you find what you need to stay warm in the months ahead.

State Senator Tim Nangle represents District 26 including Windham, Raymond, Casco, Frye Island, and part of Westbrook.

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. <

Andy Young: Making a contribution

By Andy Young

“Time is money,” Ben Franklin wrote in “Advice to a Young Tradesman,” an essay he penned in 1748. I’ve always thought that made a lot of sense, which was why 10 years ago, I decided to make my home television-free.

It’s a choice I’ve never regretted. The thousands (or maybe tens of thousands) of hours I’ve spent doing something other than sitting inertly in front of a video screen have been exceptionally well spent.

One of the many fringe benefits of having no TV is being spared the irritation of the ceaseless (and generally senseless) stream of politically themed hogwash that floods the airwaves during an election year. However, a recent spate of phone calls and text messages originating from area codes I’m unfamiliar with indicate that the lack of a video screen is no longer effective insurance against getting bombarded with campaign ads.

Resourceful political operatives have found new ways to inundate our consciousness with all kinds of propaganda. The text messages and phone calls I’ve gotten in just the past week verify that even for those who don’t do TV or social media, there’s no escaping incessant politically based electronic invasions, the bulk of which are an insult to our collective intelligence.

The upside to the recent spate of junk text messages and robocalls I’ve been receiving is that I’m clearly in high demand, given the frequency with which heavy hitters from both of America’s major political parties are lavishing their attention on me. However, given the tone of their correspondence, it seems these people are less interested in getting my vote this November than they are in obtaining access to my wallet and/or bank account.

Representatives of both candidates for Maine’s U.S. Senate seat have confided in me that they’d really appreciate my fiscal support, although I suspect every adult in Maine is receiving similar appeals.

But it’s not just Maine politicians and their hired guns who are vying for my affection, or more specifically my checkbook.

Somebody from area code 771 messaged me that a historic 13-star flag has been reserved in my name, and they will send it to me for a tax-deductible gift of $35 (or more, if I’d prefer).

The speaker of the United States House of Representatives texted me with, “You’re the key to our success.” I’m not sure why he thinks that, since he represents Louisiana’s 4th congressional district, and I’m not eligible to vote there.

I’ve also heard from the vice-president, several senators, and multiple high-visibility panhandlers from both parties, all of whom use a variety of come-ons to deliver the same basic message: “Give us your money, because if you don’t the bad guys will win, and you, the nation, and the world are doomed.” 

Given the still-rising cost of healthcare, groceries, energy, and just about every other necessity these days, I won’t be contributing money to anyone running for elective office this year. That’s partly because I’m not in a position to, but also because whatever I could afford to give would be dwarfed by the already obscene contributions both Democrats and Republicans are getting from corporations, lobbyists, and other special interest groups already financing the ceaseless attack ads every American who’s not a hermit living off the power grid will be getting swamped with between now and Nov. 3.

But if this army of partisan scroungers (both human and robotic) will take my advice, I’ll give them something of equal or greater value.

Stop pestering people like me for donations. Continuously attempting to shake us down is wasting everyone’s valuable time.

And as Ben Franklin sagely pointed out, time is money. <

Insight: Strength through Truth

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Before being reassigned from The Pentagon to a new duty assignment in the U.S. Air Force in 1981, I received word that I would be attending the Defense Information School at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Lawrence, Indiana.

Ed Pierce's class of military journalists gather for a photo
prior to graduation from the Defense Information
School at Fort Benjamin Harrison in Indiana in 1981.
COURTESY PHOTO

It was a Department of Defense training site for enlisted military journalists from the U.S. Army, U.S. Navy, U.S. Air Force, U.S. Marine Corps, DoD civilians and the U.S Coast Guard. Never having been to Indiana before, I drove there in late August and upon arrival, I was assigned a room in the barracks and found out where DINFOS, the acronym for the Defense Information School, could be found nearby.

I quickly made friends in the barracks with three other U.S. Air Force airmen who were in my DINFOS class. Tim Wyatt and Chan Peter were both studying print journalism like me, and Rick Kerns was going to become a broadcast journalist. Tim was from Texas, Chan was from New York and Rick was from Virginia.

Because I had my own transportation, the four of us would make the short drive to Indianapolis to go to the movies, go out for dinner or sometimes just to get away and explore rural Indiana. After two or three road trips to the countryside, I came away convinced that Indiana farmers worked some kind of magic to grow pigs as large as they did. Some seemed as large as Volkswagen Beetles from the highway.

During the first DINFOS class, the instructor asked us all to write a 1,000-word essay about a television show and what we liked or disliked about it. The purpose was to identify the top writers in the group and have them serve as editors for four mock-up class newspapers.

After thinking about it, I chose to write my essay about the TV show “Dynasty,” not because it was my personal favorite, but because I could focus on the conflict between the show’s characters and the complex story plots. After reviewing all the essays from the class, four of us were singled out as editors and the remainder of the class were assigned to four separate teams under the direction of the editors. The teams were balanced out between experienced and novice writers, and I was directed to lead the first team as an editor.

Each weekday as military print journalists, we received training in how to conduct interviews, write articles and headlines and photo captions. DINFOS also provided us with lessons in how to design newspaper pages. Military broadcast journalists had separate DINFOS training for radio and television production.

Some training sessions were combined between print and broadcast journalists when certain topics overlapped, such as journalistic ethics or involving media relations.

Over the next two and a half months, we had extensive training in reporting about military exercises and deployments, fatal military accidents, and military protocol. We practiced gathering details and turning that information into news stories.

As print journalists, each of us had to complete an assignment for the afternoon daily newspaper “The Indianapolis News.” My assignment was to cover a speech on Veteran’s Day in 1981 made by Herbert Allison, 99, one of the last surviving veterans in Indiana of the Spanish-American War. It posed a significant challenge for me. 

As Mr. Allison was helped up to the podium to speak, torrential rain began to fall and his microphone failed. The speech was called off as the crowd gathered for the occasion ran to their cars. Soaking wet from being in the audience, I followed Mr. Allison to a tent nearby and asked someone from the Indiana Veterans Home if I could interview him for the newspaper.

They gave me a quizzical look and introduced me to him. I asked him what he had planned to say during his speech and he leaned in close to me and whispered, “I hope you all have a good day. Have a good supper.”

For the newspaper article, I focused on Mr. Allison’s military service in 1898, and his subsequent life working for a dairy and plugged in his quote at the end of the story. It was published with my byline the next afternoon.

The following week, my DINFOS team wrote enough articles to fill a four-page mock newspaper. Our top story covered a scoreless tie in a flag football game between two Army units assigned to Fort Benjamin Harrison. The most difficult part of this training for me was not being able to write articles for our mock newspaper. As an editor, my work was to edit articles produced by other military journalists, write the headlines and to design the newspaper.

On the next to last day of our training, all the teams attended a review of the mock newspapers by the DINFOS instructors. Our team’s newspaper received low marks for topic selection but was praised for accuracy and overall layout.

Two days before Thanksgiving, we graduated from DINFOS as military journalists, took one last group photo, said our goodbyes and exchanged contact information. I was headed to my new duty station in Arizona after a month off at home on leave.

At DINFOS, I learned that among military journalists, the pen is indeed mightier than the sword. <

Andy Young: Seventy-six very long years

By Andy Young

A study on centenarians conducted by the Chobanian & Avedisian School of Medicine at Boston University revealed there were 89,739 Americans aged 100 years or older in 2021. If they all lived in the same community, it would be America’s 400th-largest city, bigger than Danbury, Connecticut; Ogden, Utah; and Bloomington, Minnesota, but not quite as large as Santa Fe, New Mexico.

However, America’s total population when that study was released was 336,997,624, meaning a miniscule 0.027 percent of Americans, or about one out of every 5000, will live 10 decades or more. The chances of seeing 100 candles atop one’s birthday cake are slender, but they’re even longer for certain people.

Like, for example, those residing on death row.

Francis Clifford Smith was three months shy of his 102nd birthday when he died this past June. He had been convicted of killing a security guard during a botched robbery in 1949 and was subsequently sentenced to death. The state of Connecticut set an actual execution date for Smith eight times. On each occasion he got a reprieve, although the last one came a mere two hours before he had been scheduled to be strapped into the electric chair.

At the time of his death, Smith was living at the secure nursing home to which he had been paroled. All told, he spent more than 76 years of his 37,187-day life incarcerated. That’s a very long time, particularly if he didn’t commit the crime he was convicted of, which seems likely to have been the case.

Frank Smith was hardly a model citizen. He was sent to reform school before he turned 12. Later, while doing time at a youth reformatory, he escaped and assaulted a guard in the process. That earned him a four-year prison term. When he got out, he toiled as a numbers runner for some racketeers involved in illegal gambling.

On July 23, 1949, two men broke into the Indian Harbor Yacht Club in Greenwich, where they were surprised by Grover Hart, the night watchman. One or both robbers shot the 68-year-old, but before he died Hart told the police one of the burglars was wearing a bandanna, a bit of attire Smith was known to favor. He and his accused accomplice, George Lowden, were arrested for the crime, but Lowden subsequently made a deal, pleading guilty to second-degree murder and saying his partner did the shooting. Smith was convicted and sentenced to death.

Smith steadfastly maintained his innocence, and several post-trial developments suggested he was telling the truth. Lowden refused to testify at Smith’s trial, and three years after the conviction, a Connecticut-born inmate serving time in an Alabama prison for armed robbery confessed that he had been Mr. Lowden’s accomplice and was the actual triggerman.

The State Police Major who had interrogated Smith after he was arrested became convinced of his innocence, but Smith’s appeals were all denied. He never got another trial and was never exonerated, living out his remaining 76 years in confinement, eating meals that cost Connecticut taxpayers approximately $3 per day. He was haunted by dreams of dying in the electric chair. 

“It cooks you,” he told interviewers on more than one occasion.

Connecticut no longer has a death penalty. Nor, for that matter, does Maine, but 27 states still do. Proponents of capital punishment accurately point out that state-sponsored executions eliminate the possibility of violent criminals reoffending, but those opposed to permanently dispatching convicted murderers have what many would consider a more compelling argument: there’s no way of unkilling someone who’s been put to death for a crime they didn’t commit. <

Insight: ‘The Not Knowing’

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

That Tuesday morning started like any other day for me. It was a day off and I had called the previous week and finalized arrangements to bring my 1996 Pontiac Firebird to the dealership in Cocoa, Florida for service.

I had booked an appointment for 8:30 a.m. to minimize my time in the dealership’s waiting area. I needed an oil change and wanted the mechanics to complete the 50,000-mile maintenance checkup.

At the time, I was the only customer sitting in the waiting area and because it was so early, I wasn’t interested in purchasing a snack from the vending machine or looking at the stack of Car and Driver magazines piled up next to the chair I was sitting on. The service technician asked if I wanted to watch television, I said yes and he turned it on to Good Morning America and took my keys to the shop for the mechanic assigned to my car.

I was half-heartedly paying attention to GMA hosts Charlie Gibson and Diane Sawyer when it happened. And the events of that day are something I will never forget as long as I live.

As I sat and watched the dealership’s television, America was under attack as hijacked jets crashed into the World Trade Center towers in New York City killing thousands. I immediately thought about my late father and how as a sophomore in high school he was listening to the radio on a Sunday afternoon in early December 1941 and had learned about the attack on Pearl Harbor leading to America’s entry into World War II.

One by one, I was joined in the dealership’s waiting area by the auto sales manager, several mechanics, another customer and the service technician. When it started to sink in what had happened, I looked around and saw faces of astonishment that terrorists would devise a plan of hijacking and crashing airplanes to kill innocent Americans.

Soon the waiting area was standing room only as most of the dealership’s employees were crowded in there with me watching the live coverage. I looked away from the TV screen briefly to see if any of my family had called me and I suddenly looked up when a newscaster reported that another plane had crashed into The Pentagon in Washington, D.C.

Having been stationed at The Pentagon in the U.S Air Force from 1979 to 1981, I sympathized with those who worked there and what they were going through and was profoundly saddened by the lives lost in that attack.

I sat and watched at the dealership when each of the World Trade Center Towers fell and ended the lives of so many victims. By then my Firebird was ready, I paid the bill and drove home, listening to the car radio.

My emotions were those of sorrow and anger. I couldn’t believe what had just happened to the nation that I had worn the uniform of at home and overseas and had pledged to defend. I wanted those responsible for the tragedy caught and punished for their crimes.

Back in my apartment, I heard about Flight 93 which had been hijacked and was headed for another Washington, D.C. target when passengers fought the terrorists and forcibly crashed the plane in a Pennsylvania field.

As time passed that morning and on into the afternoon, I called my mother to check in and let her know I knew about the events that day.

She asked me if I knew anyone still working at The Pentagon and I told her that after 20 years, I probably didn’t but I was devastated about the people who died there in the attack.

When I hung up with her that afternoon, the world for all of us had changed. We were at war, lives had been lost and many others were about to be.

I believe we all had some sense of personal safety removed from us that morning. Those who went to work at the World Trade Center in New York City did not know what was about to unfold that fateful day, and neither did the flight crews, passengers, airport workers, people at The Pentagon or news reporters across America. 

What I do know is that countless phone calls were made that day to family members and friends expressing their love for one another.

None of us knows exactly how much time that we are given in life and it certainly all could end in an instant. It could come for us on the way to the grocery store, on a hike in the woods or simply sitting by the window reading.

The “not knowing” is certainly part of what makes life difficult and the events of 9-11 reinforced for me the stark reality that we are all subject to death coming for us at any time.

Yet, if there is anything positive for Americans to have emerged from that terrible day, we all learned we are not alone and we worked together to rebuild our future.

We also learned that family and friends and expressions of love matter. And Americans overcame the tragedies of 9-11 and survived, just as the nation will overcome future threats and challenges. <

Rookie Mama – Keeping it real with all the fall vibes

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end” – Semisonic

And just like that, we’re sprinting headfirst into autumnal transition; a whirl of reds and golds, soccer balls and crockpots.

Truthfully, the swap from summer sun to fall fun has quickly become one my favorite times of year. It marks the return of scheduled structure – We need those early bedtimes so we can take a beat – but autumn also presents a bit of a settling down and hibernation’s subtle beginning despite the frenzied swing of back-to-school things with a pumpkin-spiced dash of anticipation.

Sure, we pack up camp for the season; we bid farewell to pool noodle battles in the lake, to dueling banjo style fireworks battles across the banks of the beaches.

We whisper goodbyes to Christmas in Julys – rocking Noel in 80-degree-temps never felt right with me anyway – so we can prepare for the real Yuletide season that’s now sooner ahead of us and more distant behind us.

Fall is the shoulder season upon which I rest my head; whereas spring is a mad dash – less pumpkin-spiced and more espresso shots-times-twelve – of preparation for all things garden, waking up camp, putting all the final touches on carefully laid road trip plans of summer, doing all the school things before it’s a wrap, and spring sports.

The ultimate wake-up call, indeed.

It’s no secret that I much prefer the soccer mama style of fall in the crisp air under my husband’s warm “Class of 2000” fleece blanket, rather than the slight cringe of watching my high-school-aged baby play lacrosse of spring, a contact sport heavy on hitting–and being hit– with poles. I cheer proudly at all the games, but there’s no relax in LAX – It’s not for the faint of heart, friends.

The air turns a bit in an indescribable way at the end of August, with the slightest of cool coasting among the deciduous leaves as they prepare their swan song.

Our boys giddily hang the autumn leaf garlands across the hutch and windows in our home – I’d bought them on Michael’s clearance years before the babes were born.

We begin to creatively dream about Halloween costumes and play our favorite Monster Mash radio remix.

And in between, we crock on with yummy slow cooker roasts and stews and cozy up with Halloween-themed movie favorites rented from our public library. 

Truth be told, the anticipation of seasonal traditions to come often eases the goodbye to a season that is ending.

Our family had a fantastic summer with memories made as we splashed our best cannonballs and traveled more adventurously than we had before – After all, with all kiddos having long been potty-trained, there was nothing that could stop us.

But we’ll bottle up the giggles and ice cream cones, and outdoor movie nights among the singing crickets for now.

Sure, back to school routine is an adjustment.

But we look forward to those reds, those golds, those one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple Monster Mash tunes.

To slowing a bit down as we gather our harvest and spend a day making sauce from tomato abundance, or blanch beans and prepare for winter’s meals ahead – after all, growing our own produce is one of the best money-saving techniques for our large family.

There’s plenty to look forward to, as we set that mild hibernation into motion and put our gardens to bed.

Because before you know it, that dash of pumpkin spice will quickly become dashing through the snow.

And that’s the dashing season that marks my very favorite and anticipated of all.

So, until then, get your kids to hang your Michael’s-clearance-fall garlands, cue up “Casper,” fire up that slow cooker, and crock and roll.

Falleluia.

­­– 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: Cheryl and Joe

By Andy Young

When late summer arrives each year, I inevitably think of Cheryl and Joe.

Many years ago, coincidence plunked Cheryl down in a seat next to mine at an informal end-of-semester get-together of a dozen or so University of Connecticut resident assistants at a local Chinese restaurant. Although we hadn’t met previously, as a typical (shallow, immature, and utterly self-absorbed) 22-year-old male, the first thing I noticed was her eye-catching good looks.

But it quickly became evident there was more to Cheryl than just an attractive outer shell. Her thoughtful and thought-provoking contributions to the ongoing conversation(s) made it clear she was a good listener with a sly sense of humor. More tellingly though, was her understated genuineness. Anyone can grin by turning up both sides of their mouth, but Cheryl could smile with just her eyes.

I later learned she had been valedictorian of her high school class, though she herself never mentioned it. Truly quality people rarely talk about their accomplishments, regardless of how impressive or numerous they may be. The best way to learn about extraordinary individuals is to hear others sing their praises, or better yet, interact with them.

Nearly everyone who attended that evening’s affair graduated a week later, but I didn’t. I was still at UConn two years later when I met Joe through a mutual friend who was also named Joe, a bit of serendipity which made it easier to remember both their names.

My initial reaction to the new (to me) Joe was the same as everyone else’s was the first time they met him: I instantly liked the guy. He was quick-witted, imaginative, outgoing and generous, but most of all he was fun! Joe was one of those rare individuals who could light up a room just by showing up. But unlike many other natural extroverts, Joe radiated an inclusiveness that I later figured out was part of his DNA.

Even though he could have been the center of attention in just about any situation, it never took him long to shift the flattering spotlight onto someone else who was nearby. Joe not only helped others enjoy themselves and their surroundings, he also had the knack of making people realize that they mattered, and who doesn’t appreciate having that acknowledged every so often?

I graduated before Joe, which wasn’t overly impressive, given that my college career had begun when he was a ninth grader.

Decades flew by, but I never stopped looking forward to someday renewing acquaintances with Cheryl and/or Joe. I knew for certain each was going to be a huge impact-maker. In the interim both remained frozen in my mind looking like they did when I’d last seen them: as always-smiling, upbeat, super-energetic 21-year-old spreaders of goodness. 

But on the second Tuesday in September 25 years ago, Cheryl Monyak and Joe Lenihan each reported as usual to work at New York City’s World Trade Center.

Neither one ever came home.

A full quarter-century after the terrible events of Sept. 11, 2001, I’m still struggling to understand the rationale behind concluding the lives of Cheryl, Joe, and far too many others that day. I suppose it would be nice to be forever remembered as gracious, humble, energetic, kind, attractive and intelligent, but would anyone willingly trade another potential 40 or so additional years of life on Earth just to attain that eternally lofty status?

But beyond that, I still cannot fathom how a person of any religion, race or creed could even for a moment think of slaughtering thousands of random innocents on a sunny September Tuesday would ever improve anyone’s lot in life. <

Insight: A Genuine Leader

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

There was no shortage of heroes to emulate when I arrived for duty in the U.S. Air Force at The Pentagon in January 1980.

Ed Pierce, left, is congratulated on his promotion to the rank
of sergeant in the U.S. Air Force by his unit commander,
Col. Gerald Bronnenberg at The Pentagon in 1980.  

While being given a tour of the building and floors where I would be working, I passed by the office of retired General of the Army Omar Bradley, who was the first-ever chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. I also got to meet the U.S. Secretary of Defense at the time Harold Brown, and four-star General Lew Allen, the U.S. Air Force Chief of Staff who went on to lead NASA’s investigation into the Space Shuttle Challenger explosion in 1986.

But one leader stood out above all the rest for me when I served at The Pentagon. That would be Col. Gerald E. Bronnenberg, the commander of my unit, the 2044th Communications Group.

I had never met anyone quite like him before. He embodied leadership like nobody I had served under before. It was evident that he cared about everyone who served under his command and he went out of his way to lead by example.

Staff members of our unit worked three shifts around the clock and at any given time of day or night, Colonel Bronnenberg would show up with food or free tickets to Washington Redskins football games, Baltimore Orioles baseball games or Washington Capitals hockey games. He knew everyone’s name in a unit of more than 400 personnel, but not only did he remember their names, he also would know their spouse’s names and the names of their children.

During meetings, Bronnenberg asked tough questions and expected thorough answers. He purposely established unit policies to create a sense of teamwork and accomplishment.

No idea was too far-fetched for him, and he would sit at his desk and listen patiently while being pitched with potential volunteer activities that the 2044th Communications Group could undertake to serve the community. One of those ideas was to film a television promotional spot encouraging Air Force members to volunteer for United Way events.

Bronnenberg was there when the spot was filmed and offered feedback when he was shown how it turned out. He even suggested that we use music from Lionel Richie’s song “Still” during a segment about volunteering to assist the blind.

He personally met with each new member of the unit when they first reported for duty and outlined his expectations for them. During my meeting with him, he asked what I like the most about writing and what I thought about my new unit.

The next day I was summoned to his office, and Colonel Bronnenberg told me that he wanted me to be the unit’s new Public Affairs representative and my mission was to promote the achievements and activities of the 2044th Communications Group.

That was a huge challenge for me as an E-3 Airman First Class. I had to be creative yet tactful, persistent and knowledgeable. I had to interface with Air Force officers and enlisted personnel and to remain positive about my duties all the time.

The colonel also wanted me to create events and initiatives that instilled pride in younger airmen and would give them a broad perspective of what it meant to be a part of our unit. To demonstrate unit commitment, I set up a “Stripe and Bar” exchange in unit headquarters, where Air Force members would find used rank insignia at no charge rather than having to buy them brand-new when they were promoted.

We also started a monthly luncheon for unit members and guests that included a sit-down meal and a guest speaker of interest. I was able to bring in Ernest Green as a speaker during Black History Month. He was the Assistant Secretary of the U.S. Labor Department under President Jimmy Carter but also had been one of the “Little Rock Nine,” a group of black students who integrated Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas following the U.S. Supreme Court’s “Brown versus Board of Education” case ordering desegregation of American schools.

Another guest speaker was Chief Master Sergeant of the Air Force Jim McCoy. To ask him to participate, I walked to his office and introduced myself. He agreed to speak only if he could purchase lunch that day for every airman who attended the event.

I learned in January 1981 that Colonel Bronnenberg had nominated me for Pentagon Airman of the Year for 1980 and he helped me prepare for questions I would be asked by the committee choosing the award recipient. When asked for my opinion of women serving as fighter pilots, I answered that they should be allowed to do that because I thought it was the right thing to do from a gender equality standpoint. I was later told my answer is what separated me from others being interviewed that day.

A few days before the presidential inauguration, I was presented with The Pentagon’s “Airman of the Year” award by one of Colonel Bronnenberg’s friends, Medal of Honor winner and retired General Jimmy Doolittle.

Much of my Air Force success was the result of Col. Bronnenberg’s trust in me. When I think about great leaders, his name is always at the top of my list.

Andy Young: When cleaning the breadbox, waste not, want not

By Andy Young

When I grew up my siblings and I were given two bits of motivation regarding the importance of finishing everything on our dinner plate. The first was that there’d be no dessert for anyone unable or unwilling to finish their beets, cabbage, or Brussels sprouts. The other: the intimation that failing to eat every morsel of food would somehow lead to some innocent child in China, India or Africa expiring due to starvation, and how would we like having that on our conscience?

Recently I decided to clean out the breadbox in my kitchen, a chore I faithfully perform, whether it needs it or not, every four years or so. Under all the crumbs, old twist ties, and an envelope of wax bean seeds were a variety of random papers which had inexplicably found their way to the breadbox’s bottom, including some old take-out menus, the warranty from the microwave I purchased ten years ago, and a cellophane-like paper with the words “Sushi Nori” printed on the front and “Best before July 21, 2022” on the back.

Upon closer inspection, that cellophane was actually a slender package of roasted seaweed sheets which are used for constructing one’s own sushi rolls. I myself have never built a sushi roll, but apparently one of my children did, or at least had planned on trying to do so prior to moving out several years ago.

Assuming sushi wrapping is itself edible, I ripped off a postage-stamp-sized piece of a green sheet and tentatively began nibbling at it. It took some time, but with a sense of purpose and determination I managed to swallow it, even though it tasted like a seaweedy wad of paper.

At that point my “waste not, want not” DNA involuntarily kicked in. Not wishing to feel guilt over causing a starving child on another continent to expire due to my cavalier attitude about food, I dutifully folded up the remaining 55 square inches of the sheet, stuck it between my teeth, and resolutely began chomping.

Consuming a 4-year-old sushi wrap is harder than it sounds. For a while it seemed I had literally bitten off more than I could chew, but despite thoughts of headlines reading ‘Local Man Succumbs to Organic Seaweed,” I steadfastly kept munching. Finally, after several tense moments I was able to choke down the entire vile green mass.

My ordeal wasn’t over, though. Hurrying to the bathroom for an aftertaste-eliminating drink of water, what I saw reflected in the mirror was a mouth that would have embarrassed even the most dental-hygiene-averse tobacco-chewing hillbilly.

It looked like I’d been subsisting solely on spinach, parsley and kale for the previous decade. Also, due to the surprising adhesive qualities of expired seaweed, the looming chore of restoring my smile seemed like a Herculean task that would require a Brillo pad and/or a sandblaster.

However, since I wanted to retain the enamel on my remaining teeth, I spent the next half-hour vigorously employing an industrial-strength toothbrush and several yards of dental floss. When I finished the brush looked like it had been used to clean a toilet rather than the inside of a person’s mouth.

But one “waste not, want not” problem remained: what to do with the remaining sheets of 4-year-old Sushi Nori?

Thankfully, my subsequent research indicated that seaweed isn’t just biodegradable; it also makes excellent fertilizer. I buried those three sheets in my compost pile near the spot where I plan on interring the bean seeds next spring. With luck, something will come up that I can send to an undernourished child in China, India, or Africa. <

Insight: The Reverse Bucket List

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

A few years ago, I gave some thought to the idea of creating a bucket list of tasks for me left to do, accomplish and experience before checking out of the earthly plane of existence.

But limited financial resources and the demands of everyday life, such as paying the mortgage, the cost of supplying our home with necessities such as heat and electricity, along with rising expenses for just about everything, sort of made creating a bucket list for my golden retirement years nothing more than a pipe dream.

Recently I saw a magazine article offering advice that instead of writing a list of things or goals you hope to achieve in the future, it suggested compiling a “reverse bucket list” which could serve as a practical reminder of what you've already accomplished in life. The article mentions examining your life to this point and asking yourself, "What are the things I'm grateful for?" and "What are the boxes that I've already checked off during my time on Earth?"

The point of the magazine article is that taking stock of what I've done so far in life can assist in reminding me what I'm capable of. It says that creating a “reverse bucket list” can be a mechanism to boost personal satisfaction by listing things I have already accomplished and may have overcome in the past.

While I may never travel to visit the Great Wall of China, play in baseball’s World Series, ride across Europe on the Orient Express, or go for a hike in Patagonia, my life has been meaningful and filled with experiences, accomplishments and overcoming obstacles that I wouldn’t trade for anything.

Here’s a small sample of what I would include on my own Reverse Bucket List:

In September 1971, I attended a gathering of freshman students at New Mexico Highlands University, and the speaker that day told us to look around at the audience and said the fact was that less than half of these freshmen students would still be there four years later at graduation ceremonies. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was one of those casualties. Transferring to another college after getting married and facing the realities of rent, utility bills, and health insurance took its toll and academics got pushed aside for a while. I did eventually return to college, but I was in my 30s and my priorities had changed. I was determined to finish college and increase my earning potential. So, I would place obtaining a Bachelor of Arts degree in journalism from the University of New Mexico some 17 years after I started college among my greatest achievements.

During my military service, I laid the groundwork for much of my professional success. At the age of 29, I was interviewing newsmakers and leading a 40-page weekly newspaper, supervising reporters and coverage, designing pages, writing headlines and photo captions. It was invaluable experience that continues to serve me to this very day. Along the way, I was honored as the first-ever recipient to win consecutive “Tactical Air Command Journalist of the Year” honors in 1983 and 1984. I also received the Air Force Commendation Medal for my service at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. So, I would add my time in the U.S. Air Force to my list of personal accomplishments.

I have been blessed to have had three of the best dogs ever during my lifetime. Sundance was part German Shepherd and Hunter was part Pembroke Welsh Corgi. They each had wonderful personalities that endeared them to our family. The current dog, Fancy, is part lab and other parts unknown. She is devotedly loyal and persistent in wanting to go for walks or to swipe the toilet paper and rip it the shreds if someone inadvertently leaves the bathroom door open. So, I must include being the human associated with three great dogs on my list of awesome experiences. 

As I went through life, I wondered what it would be like if I ever received a devastating health diagnosis. Sure enough, I had my answer in 1998 when at the age of 45, I was informed by a surgeon that I had a rare form of cancer. Six months of chemotherapy and several surgeries later, I eventually emerged cancer-free and was able to resume my life. But that battle changed me and things I had prioritized no longer mattered. So, I’d say beating and overcoming a bout with cancer would be a must on my list of deserving achievements.

Lastly, my list of accomplishments would not be complete without mentioning marrying my wife, Nancy. When she came into my life, life changed radically for me. I became a stepfather to three wonderful young men. I took vacations to Vermont, San Francisco and North Carolina. I became both a homeowner and a grandparent. I got to attend a baseball game at Camden Yards in Baltimore. I learned to cook and how to manage monthly household expenses. I also am grateful for marrying the kindest, funniest and best partner to go through life with. So having a great marriage is on the list of my accomplishments too.

My “Reverse Bucket List” certainly does overflow. <