Sarah Anderson: Maine’s rural residents face big risks from postal delays

By Sarah Anderson
Special to The Windham Eagle

For over 250 years, Americans have relied on the United States Postal Service for timely processing of their mail, no matter the conditions. After we dropped it in a box or gave it to a letter carrier, we could count on our mail being postmarked on that date so that our bills and tax returns aren’t late and our election ballots are counted.

Sarah Anderson

Unfortunately, this trust is now increasingly risky – since we can no longer rely on USPS to postmark mail on the day it’s collected.

As part of former Postmaster General Louis DeJoy’s broader cost-cutting and restructuring plan, the Postal Service has stopped its practice of picking up mail at the end of every day from all post offices. This means your ballot or bill payments could sit there until the following morning or even longer before being postmarked at a huge processing center.

This gap between mail collection and postmarking is particularly concerning for rural residents, for two main reasons.

First, the decision to eliminate evening collections applies only to post offices located more than 50 miles from a regional processing center. This raises strong concerns about whether a federal agency with an obligation to provide universal service to all Americans is actively discriminating against rural communities.

Second, rural residents rely especially heavily on our public Postal Service for voting and paying bills. During the 2024 general election, USPS delivered more than 99 million ballots to and from voters. The mail-in option makes voting much easier for rural residents who live long distances from their polling place.

Half of rural county polling sites serve an area larger than 62 square miles, while half of urban polling sites serve an area of less than two square miles. Voting by mail is particularly important for seniors, who are more likely to have mobility issues that make it difficult to cast their ballots in person. Americans age 65 or older make up about 20 percent of all rural residents, compared to just 16 percent of urban residents.

Older Americans are also more likely to drop a check in the mail rather than paying bills online. According to a USPS survey, 18 percent of households headed by someone 55 or older paid their bills by mail, compared to just 7 percent of those aged 18 to 34.

A key reason many rural residents use USPS for bill-paying: the digital divide. An Institute for Policy Studies analysis of the 15 most rural states found that only one (North Dakota) had a broadband access rate higher than the national average in 2024. More than 20 percent of the population lacked broadband access in seven of these states (Alaska, West Virginia, Montana, Alabama, Mississippi, Wyoming, and Iowa).

The decision to downgrade postal service standards and eliminate evening collections increases the risk of disenfranchising voters and raising costs for families already struggling to pay their bills.

These problems are particularly serious as the nation heads into a tense election season. To maintain public trust, USPS should restore same-day postmarking and do whatever it takes to protect voting rights for all Americans, whether they live in the most remote mountain village or the largest city.

Our democracy depends on a strong public Postal Service.

Sarah Anderson is the Director of the Global Economy Program at the Institute for Policy Studies, a multi-issue research and education center founded in Washington, DC, in 1963. This op-ed was distributed by OtherWords.org. <

Insight: Lettuce stick together

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

A while back I spent some time reflecting about how much old friends have contributed to my life. As I maneuver through the daily pitfalls, defining moments and notable achievements that I’ve experienced over the years, I consider myself fortunate to still have meaningful relationships with friends who have known me since I was young.

Three of Ed Pierce's high school classmates from 1971 have
fun during a reunion gathering several years ago. From left
are Tim Pietrzykowski, Jim Pennell, and Jerry Wells.
COURTESY PHOTO

It hasn’t always been that way.

After high school and college, I moved back and forth across the country and spent two years overseas for a military assignment. I got married, earned a college degree, and established a career in journalism that continues to this day. I didn’t know it, but something was missing from my life.

During the summer of 2000, a phone call changed all of that and reintroduced some of the most significant friends I’ve ever had to my world.

I was sitting alone in my apartment in Florida watching “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” when the phone rang and on the other end was a voice straight out of the past. 

He said his name was Bob Fay and that my high school classmates had been looking for me for some time. He was working with a committee planning our 30th class reunion and he had tracked me down to invite me to that event. Apparently, my whereabouts had been placed on an “unknown” list by the reunion committee led by Janet McGraw Howland, and he was able to locate me and obtain my phone number.

That singular event changed my life. Prior to then, I thought class reunions were for others to show off how successful they had become in life or demonstrate that opinions some classmates held of them needed to be changed since graduation. Was I ever wrong.

I attended the 30th class reunion in 2001 and had a blast, reconnecting with friends I had known since we were in junior high classes together. Some classmates had changed very little and looked pretty much the same as the last time I was with them 30 years earlier. Others had overcome serious illnesses, divorces, layoffs or had moved out of state but eventually had returned to our hometown.

Despite not having seen any classmates for three decades or having gone to any previous reunions, I immediately felt accepted and part of the group. In many instances, it was like I picked up where I had left off with many friends such as Nick Vecchioli, Carol Messina and Amy Camardo Andersen.

In conversations with reunion participants, I enjoyed hearing about their lives, their families and their careers and that experience rekindled feelings of closeness with friends for me that was different from anything else I have ever known.

As it turned out, some classmates sought me out to discuss what it was like to work for a newspaper or to serve overseas in the military. I spent a lot of time at one reunion sharing stories about my career with my classmates Toby Clark and Sue Case.

For some reunion participants like my friends John Rosati, Jim Alexander or Todd Clemens, it was the final time I would see them as fate intervened and they died tragically or for one reason or another, they were unable to attend future reunion events. A few classmates continue to live in our hometown but have never attended a reunion, while others fly in from great distances such as Rob Branch and his wife Judith who live in England to not miss an opportunity to see and visit with old friends.

Since the 30th reunion, I have attended reunions marking our 35th, 40th, 45th and 50th graduation anniversary milestones. Several years ago, our class stopped having formal class reunions but instead hosted a Thursday night gathering at a bar followed by a picnic at a local park the next day. We did this for the 52nd and 54th class anniversaries and will do so again in August to mark our 55th class milestone.

For our 50th reunion, I had brought along with me a special gift for some of my friends. I hadn’t seen one classmate and close friend Mike Wilson since high school and found an old football card featuring our high school’s football coach Paul McKee when he played for the Washington Redskins in the 1940s. I bought it specifically to give to Mike but when I learned that he had died not long before the 50th reunion, in his honor, I purchased and gave the coach’s football card to every member of the Class of 1971 who played on football team attending the event that night.

Last summer, by chance I found an old high school basketball playoff program at a rummage sale that featured a roster of players from my high school from 1969. On that roster was the name of my classmate, Jim Quetschenbach, who had befriended me back in junior high in 1966.

I purchased the program for him and discovered he was going to attend the reunion picnic. The look on his face and his appreciation when I presented it to him was something that I will not forget.

Through the years, our class has lost many beloved classmates who have attended the reunions and each time that happens, I am profoundly saddened. Yet it also encourages me to see spouses of those we have lost to attend in their place. And it’s fun to see some classmates who have never attended a reunion event before to decide to drop by a reunion event to catch up with their friends.

One thing has remained constant for me through all of this. The joy I get in seeing familiar faces and hanging out with lifelong friends is undeniable. <

Tim Nangle: Town budgets shape our communities and you have a voice

By Senator Tim Nangle

Every spring, towns across Maine begin the process of deciding how local tax dollars will be spent in the year ahead. In many communities, that process ends with an annual town meeting or a vote by the town council on the municipal budget. It may not get the same attention as state or national politics, but these decisions have a real impact on our communities.

State Senator Tim Nangle

Local budgets determine the funding for services that shape our daily lives, like maintaining roads and bridges, supporting local schools, keeping our fire and police departments equipped, operating libraries and parks and recreation programs and ensuring towns can respond when emergencies arise.

Our local budgets also have a big impact on property taxes, which is one of the top concerns I hear from Mainers right now. Property tax relief is something I will continue to advocate for in Augusta. While the State has some role to play in helping municipalities reduce the property tax burden – such as fully funding our share of K-12 public education and dedicating a portion of revenues to towns and city services – a great deal of our property tax bills is shaped by decisions made at the local level. Paying attention to your town’s budget process is one of the best ways to understand where dollars are going and have a voice in your community’s priorities.

Because these choices matter so much, it’s important for residents to stay engaged in the local budget process. Town meetings, budget hearings and council sessions give community members a chance to learn how funds are being allocated and why certain priorities are being proposed. They also give residents the opportunity to ask questions, offer ideas and share perspectives that might otherwise go unheard.

In Windham, that process is already underway. Town Manager Robert Burns presented his proposed budget for fiscal year 2027 to the Town Council in February. The proposal totals about $34 million in municipal expenses, a slight decrease of about 0.7 percent from last year. Under the proposal, about 35.4 percent of local revenues go toward the municipal budget, while 60.3 percent supports RSU 14 schools and 4.3 percent goes to Cumberland County.

Town officials have been working on the budget since December. Department heads reviewed their operating costs, looked ahead to future needs and identified equipment that may need replacement. Those requests were compiled by the finance department and reviewed by the town manager before the proposal was presented to the council.

Over the next few months, Windham residents will have several opportunities to engage in finalizing the budget. Revisions to the proposed budget are expected by April 14. A public hearing and warrant approval are scheduled for April 28, and the final budget will ultimately be considered by residents at the annual town meeting on June 13.

One of the strengths of local government in Maine is how easy it is to get involved and make your voice heard. Unlike the federal government, where decision-making can sometimes feel distant, local officials are neighbors and fellow community members. Whether you attend a town meeting, speak during public comment or simply reach out to a councilor, your voice can make a real difference.

At the end of the day, local budgets reflect our shared priorities and the kind of communities we want to build together. When residents take part in that process, they help make sure those decisions truly reflect the voices of the people who call these towns home.

For the latest, follow me on Facebook at facebook.com/SenatorTimNangle, sign up for my e-newsletter at mainesenate.org, or contact me directly at [email protected]. You can also call the Senate Majority Office at 207-287-1515.

The opinions in this column are those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of The Windham Eagle newspaper ownership or its staff. <

Andy Young: A radical (and long overdue) proposal

By Andy Young

For as long as I can remember Americans have complained about their too-lengthy, arduous work week, yet no one’s ever done anything about it.

Bellyaching about one’s job when others are unemployed produces nothing besides increased resentment. However, implementing reforms that will increase profits, productivity, and worker satisfaction is clearly a goal worth pursuing.

Everyone loves three-day weekends, but permanently altering America’s work week to four 10-hour days would, in all likelihood, make too many already-entitled people even lazier.

But how about permanently eliminating a particular weekday workday from existence?

The Gregorian calendar was created in 1582 by some remarkably astute individuals. They somehow calculated exactly how long it took Earth to revolve around the sun, how to synchronize months with seasons, and why adding an extra day every fourth year would prevent February heat waves and mid-August blizzards from plaguing the Northern Hemisphere by the time the 46th century rolled around.

But as brilliant as those mathematicians were they weren’t able to think outside the confines of their late-16th century box. That’s why, nearly half a millennium later, the time has come to convert to the six-day week.

Adopting a calendar consisting of 60 weeks and five days wouldn’t cause the planet to spin off its axis. A day would still consist of 24 hours. Standard years would still contain 365 days, with every fourth one getting 366. All 12 months would retain their current complement of days. The end result would be more (but shorter) work weeks that would yield more productive and fewer stressed citizens.

The new calendar would contain 120 Saturdays and Sundays (up from the current 104), but there’d be a decrease of less than a dozen workdays annually, since there’d be no Monday holidays under the revitalized system of marking time. Christmas and New Year’s Day would be celebrated annually on Dec. 25 and Jan. 1, respectively, but all the other national holidays would all be observed on Saturdays, which would already be a day off from work for most of the population.

Rejuvenated, more productive workers and their delighted employers wouldn’t be the only ones benefitting from this revamped system. Priests, pastors, imams and rabbis would all get an additional eight formal days of worship per year to inspire and/or add to their flocks.

But which day should get axed to streamline the calendar? Saturdays and Sunday are obvious keepers. Eliminating Fridays would force the closing of numerous TGI Friday’s restaurants, and another wave of unemployment is the last thing America needs. Everyone whines about Monday mornings, but eliminating the calendar’s least popular day would merely pass the title of most-detested 24-hour-block-of-time to Tuesday by default.

Returning to work Monday will always be difficult, but by Tuesday people have accepted that the weekend is over. On Thursday afternoon there’s light at the end of the tunnel, since Fridays have always been (and will always be) gateway to the weekend.

There’s only one logical candidate for downsizing. By lunchtime Wednesday working Americans know the week is half over, but when the lengthy afternoon concludes it seems like the next day should be Friday. Thursday’s conclusion signals to the logical mind that the work week should be over, but it inevitably never is. People trudge home, exhausted, only to learn they’re due back at work the next day. And it’s all because of Wednesday!

Let’s stop complaining about the length of the current work week and do something about it. It’s time to adopt the 60-week and five-day calendar, and to send Wednesdays the way of manual typewriters, rotary phones, fax machines, and dinosaurs. <

Insight: Venerating Vintage Vibes

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Looking back on my time on Planet Earth, I grew up in a time when technology was advancing rapidly but from a cultural and social perspective, life moved at a much slower pace than it does today.

A rotary telephone from around 1962.
COURTESY PHOTO 

These days, it seems every time I turn around, some new technology is revolutionizing my existence and affecting everything from the food I eat to the way I receive news and information.

I suppose it has been that way for generations and will always be a fact of life for mankind. While there are probably still some remote tribes existing deep in the Amazon jungle or nomadic hunter-gatherer groups living in the interior rainforests of Borneo who have never listened to the radio or tasted chicken wings dipped in Ranch salad dressing, my generation that was born in the 1950s seemed to clash constantly with cultural norms of my Depression-era parents.

My father would tell me about how as a student he would walk seven miles one way in the snow to attend school each day. The school district didn’t have school buses in the 1930s and his family didn’t own a car. His family was poor and every supper that they ate was homemade, unlike today’s Door Dash fast food delivery or Hello Fresh heat-and-eat meals.

I would make fun of my father’s baggy trousers and slicked “a little dab'll do ya” Brylcreem hair, but he would laugh at the hair length of John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr.

As much as I detested listening to my parents’ Perry Como, Peggy Lee, The Andrews Sisters and Perez Prado records, my parents didn’t care for my older sister’s 45s from The Coasters, Lloyd Price, and Elvis Presley and they loathed my collection of The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and Strawberry Alarm Clock. I recall my father telling me upon hearing “Crimson and Clover” by Tommy James and the Shondells that it resembled fingernails scraping on a chalkboard.

The roles are now reversed for me as I tell stories about what it was like for me way back when and here’s a few that seem outlandish 60 years on.

After classes got out for the summer having finished sixth grade in 1965, I went every morning to a typing class at the high school and learned how to type using paper on a manual typewriter. To pass the class, you needed to type at a minimum of 40 words per minute and maintain a 90 percent accuracy rate.

When our family moved to a newly built home in 1959, our telephone service was a party line with at least four neighbors that my parents didn’t know. For those who don’t know, a party line was shared telephone service. That meant at any given time, if you picked up the telephone receiver to make a call and you heard a conversation going on, someone else was using the shared line and you weren’t able to place your call.

If this happened when my mother was trying to call someone, being the snoop that she was, she would hold her hand over the microphone in the receiver and then listen in to someone else’s conservation. It was a major source of developing gossip for her.

And the lone telephone in our household was a black rotary phone on a small table in the hallway by the foot of the stairs to the second floor. It had a short cord, so all phone calls were made while standing. Again, for those who aren’t aware what a rotary phone is, the telephone dial had cut-out holes in which you put your fingers through and rotated the plastic wheel for each digit dialed. When we first moved, the town where we lived was still using BA as a phone number prefix, followed by four digits. Sometime in 1960, the phone company created a three-digit area code for long-distance dialing and phased out the letter prefix, switching to a seven-digit all-numeric phone number.

Smoking was tolerated everywhere including at workplaces, in hospitals, at restaurants, in elevators, on Greyhound buses and on commercial airplane trips. So were cigarette vending machines which were even in restaurant restrooms.

In the 1980s, my wife and I were frequent guests at the homes of friends who were sponsoring parties selling something. Party hosts would provide a space and invite their friends to attend as companies would demonstrate cookware sets, lingerie, women’s perfumes and men’s colognes and Tupperware. In case you have never heard of Tupperware, it was a popular type of plastic food storage items.

Based upon the percentage of the products sold that night, the party hosts would receive a product or item to keep or purchase at a deeply discounted price. My wife and I hosted an art party in which guests could order paintings and artwork which could be enhanced through elaborate frames. We were able to keep one painting and received a customized frame for it and I still have it on a wall in my home today 40 years later.

One final shocking revelation. I continue to use a paper grocery list each week when I go shopping. Old habits are hard to break. <

Barbara Bagshaw: When billing abuse happens in healthcare, patients and taxpayers pay the price

By State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

The investigation into Gateway Community Services has rightly drawn attention across Maine. State audits found repeated overpayments from MaineCare including billing for services that were allegedly not provided or not covered by Medicaid. After years of review, the state suspended payments following findings that more than $1 million in overpayments occurred during the most recent audit period alone.

State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

The full facts are still coming out. But one thing is already clear: when billing abuse happens in healthcare, patients and taxpayers pay the price.

Improper billing, whether charging for services not delivered, upcoding, or bending reimbursement rules, pulls money away from the people these programs are meant to serve. In Maine, where healthcare resources are already stretched thin, that means fewer dollars for children, seniors, people with disabilities, and families who rely on MaineCare. When abuse goes unchecked, it shows up as tighter program rules, fewer providers able to participate, and higher costs for everyone else.

The Gateway case matters not just because of what may have gone wrong, but because it shows how long problems can persist before oversight catches up. Slow and fragmented enforcement allows questionable billing to continue for years. By the time action is taken, public dollars are gone and patients may face sudden disruptions in care.

But this is not just a Maine problem, and it is not limited to one provider or part of the healthcare system.

Across the country, healthcare payment systems have become more complex, and more consolidated. Medicaid and Medicare now operate in a marketplace dominated by large insurance corporations that often own health plans, provider groups, pharmacy benefit managers (PBMs) and care management companies under one roof. These vertically integrated systems also work closely with group purchasing organizations (GPOs) that influence pricing and contracting throughout the supply chain.

When the same corporate entities control coverage decisions, provider networks, drug formularies, reimbursement rules, and pharmacy payment flows, accountability breaks down.

PBMs, for example, play a central role in deciding which medicines are covered and how much providers and pharmacies are paid, yet they operate with limited transparency. Vertical integration allows insurers to route payments internally, shift costs across subsidiaries, and profit from complex pricing arrangements that are difficult for regulators and patients to see or challenge. These practices may be legal, but they often drive spending higher without improving care.

Healthcare financing has evolved faster than oversight. Billing rules, risk adjustment models, and rebate structures have grown increasingly technical, while audits remain slow and enforcement is divided across agencies. That gap allows costs to rise quietly, not because care is better, but because the system rewards complexity and consolidation over efficiency and value.

Every dollar lost to improper billing or payment manipulation eventually shows up elsewhere: higher premiums, tighter state budgets, and more pressure on Maine families and taxpayers.

That is why insurance reform must be part of any serious effort to make healthcare more affordable. Vertical integration gives insurers unprecedented control over how healthcare dollars move through the system, but too little responsibility for keeping costs down. Federal oversight must catch up by strengthening transparency around PBMs and GPOs, modernizing audits, and examining how consolidation affects prices, access, and patient outcomes.

Accountability should apply across the board. Providers who inflate claims should face consequences. But insurers and intermediaries that use ownership structures and opaque payment systems to drive up costs without delivering better care should face the same scrutiny.

The Gateway case is a local example with a national lesson. A healthcare system built on complex reimbursement and vertical integration cannot rely on outdated oversight tools. Without insurance reform, rising healthcare costs will remain baked into the system.

Insurance reform is not about pointing fingers. It is about restoring clear lines of responsibility so that healthcare dollars are spent on care, not absorbed by a payment system that profits from its own complexity.

Mainers expect public dollars to be used carefully and honestly. Patients deserve affordable care. And our healthcare system should work for the people it was meant to serve, not for the middle layers that make it harder and more expensive to navigate.

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: Preparing for company

By Andy Young

An old friend is scheduled to arrive for a lengthy visit this weekend. I can hardly wait.

How do I adequately describe our relationship? We’ve been close for a long time and have shared some truly great experiences. Some of my most vivid memories occurred when they were visiting, whether it was just the two of us, or if others were involved as well. That inclusiveness is just one of many assets this particular good pal brings to the table. I honestly can’t recall even one occasion when we were the only ones who mattered. Every recollection I have of our time together involves sharing our genuine enjoyment with others.

Having this friend around is, at least for me, a real game changer. I feel reborn each year when they reliably stop by, always at around this time. Both my attitude and demeanor change for the better upon their arrival.

Ours is an enduring relationship, one chock full of contradictions. In some ways it’s utterly predictable. For example, I know this visit is going to be an extended one; it’s been that way for as long as I can remember. My friend is a creature of habit, arriving every year at around this time, albeit with precious little fanfare. But however busy I may be, the welcome reappearance at my door of this old chum is reason enough for me to drop everything, since I know from experience they’ll be staying for a while.

My grandfather had a saying about company that overstayed their welcome. “Some guests are like fish,” he’d remark, before adding, “because after three days they start to stink.” I think Grandpa might have thought differently if he knew this particular visitor though. In fact, given my friend’s age, it wouldn’t surprise me if he and my long-departed granddad crossed paths at some point in the distant past.

Despite its length, our long-standing relationship isn’t perfect. My friend can be temperamental; we’ll experience both hot and cold days, and while the vast majority of the time we’ll spend together will likely be pleasant, there’ll be some discomfort during their visit as well. My friend’s seemingly random mood swings can make entire days dark, and on those occasions there’s no escaping their ire.

But here’s the thing about mercurial types like this particular companion: while they can occasionally flood those around them with their wrath, their assets are so enjoyable that they make their imperfections seem almost trivial by comparison. When my friend has one of their many sunny days, everyone has a sunny day.

One more quirk about this guest: every year, right about the time we’ve gotten used to one another and every day is totally comfortable, they’ll up and leave, disappearing without giving any more warning than they’d provided prior to their arrival three months earlier. But as disappointing as that always is, I take solace from knowing for certain this mysterious transient will return again in just nine short months.

The special relationship between me and this unique acquaintance has endured despite the cold, dreary days we inevitably encounter at the start of their visit, not to mention occasions when the heat and humidity rise, both literally and figuratively, during the latter part of their stay.

My grandfather’s quip about the unpleasant odor of visitors who overstay their welcome is undoubtedly true of some guests. But I’ll always welcome the friend that arrives every year at this time, even knowing they’ll quietly depart around June 21st, and that I’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Sorry Grandpa, but in my mind Spring will never stink. <

Insight: Somebunny requires chocolate

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Just in case you haven’t noticed by now, Easter Sunday is just weeks away and Easter candy is disappearing from store shelves.

As a kid growing up in the 1950s, Easter for me was a bonus day for jellybeans, chocolate, and decorated eggs resting within a large basket containing cellophane green grass. For a 5-year-old on Easter Sunday in 1959, the holiday meant a day of church and dinner with relatives, but not before diving in first to sample what sugary delights that the Easter Bunny had brought me overnight.

Back then, Easter candy was rivaled only by Christmas candy found in stockings hung by the fireplace, a Whitman’s Sampler box of chocolates or a small box of conversation hearts for Valentine’s Day.

But for Easter fans like I was, the anticipation of racing downstairs to find a 2-foot solid chocolate Peter Rabbit bunny in my basket was incredible. My parents would make sure our family’s Easter baskets included a large chocolate bunny, a smaller hollow milk chocolate bunny, plenty of jellybeans, large and small malted milk robin’s eggs, a carton of yellow marshmallow Peeps, several decorated hardboiled eggs, a few chocolate gold coins and perhaps one or two buttercream eggs.

This was something I looked forward to year after year.

On the Friday or Saturday night before Easter, our family would drive to visit our cousins, Roger and Marsha, and they would have a Paas Easter egg decorating kit available to share for coloring and decorating eggs.

These were the days long before pink, orange or blue cellophane grass was sold as Easter basket grass. Cadbury creme eggs, now an Easter favorite across America, were not introduced until 1971. There were no separate bags of licorice-flavored jellybeans available and brown, red, purple, green or blue marshmallow Peeps had yet to be sold.

Sour Patch Kids Grow Up Eggs had yet to be invented. Brach’s did not release candy shelled marshmallow Easter eggs until 1963. Starburst was years away from creating chewy jellybeans. Reese’s would take at least four more decades to unveil peanut butter Easter eggs. Rice Krispies treats were made at home during the winter and not purchased at the store shaped like bunnies.

These days candy companies will market just about anything if company executives think it will yield a profit. Hence you have repurposed bags of fun-size Snickers, Three Musketeers, Jolly Ranchers and Butterfingers left over from Halloween being sold as “Easter” treats. Same thing goes for the crazy looking white- and green-colored candy corn and I say some things are better left for October than at Easter.

Some new Easter candies may catch on with the public and have a future.

While shopping for groceries last weekend, I spotted Oreo crème-filled Easter eggs, Twix-stuffed Easter eggs, and Tootsie Roll Eggs. However, I quickly bypassed bags of Twizzler, Airheads, and Laffy Taffy in brightly colored Easter packaging.

I usually dreaded the preparation on Easter Sunday for church. It meant that my father would drag his shoeshine kit out of his closet and ask me to bring him my dress shoes to polish. My mother would iron a starchy white shirt for me to wear with my brown suit and clip-on necktie. It was the only day I ever saw both my mother and my sister wear a hat and as the weather around that time of year was changing from winter to spring and we could usually arrive at the church service without wearing an overcoat.

Dressing up was nothing new for me. I attended a Catholic school, and we had to wear a uniform every day that included a shirt and tie. But at the Easter dinner gathering, it was unusual to see all the members of my family dressed up to the nines for the occasion. After dinner we weren’t allowed to change and had to be extra careful not to get grass stains or mud on our fancy clothes during the annual Easter egg hunt.

For me, I was happy when it was all over and we could return home. There I would find comfort in not having to eat another slice of ham with pineapple glazing or make special mention to my Aunt Bernice about how great her peach custard pie was.

Best of all, I could gnaw away for days at my solid chocolate Easter bunny until it was gone. Every other year or so, the Easter Bunny would substitute a small white chocolate bunny in my basket instead of a milk chocolate one. The difference never really mattered as I liked both kinds. But it did to my younger brother, who never cared for white chocolate. I could usually trade him some mellocreme eggs for his white chocolate bunny, but I would have to eat it before my mother caught on to what was happening.

As of today, there are just 23 days left until Easter Sunday. Easter for me has always unofficially marked the end of winter and the arrival of spring.

In my opinion, kids growing up these days have way too many Easter candy options and it’s a much more commercialized holiday.

Easter eggs these days just aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. <

Rookie Mama: Forward, March -- In like a lion, roaring through that slump

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

February vacation traditionally marks the penultimate chapter to welcoming spring thaw. Giddy with anticipation, we wait. Our family stands in readiness for our garden seed delivery from our favorite farm, dreaming about organizing and sorting the little white-and-green labeled packets that bring sheer Christmas-morning-style joy as we prepare for another season growing greens.

This vacation also offers the opportunity for a pre-spring cleaning of sorts; we’ve developed a joyful tradition of rifling through gift cards collecting dust and using them as a frugal living spending spree-palooza of sorts.

On other February break days, we explore Maine’s outdoors, magnificent to behold as we traverse frozen lakes and take in spectacular snow-covered views, enjoying the powder fresh sledding and other winter sports afforded to us just by living here and stepping out.

More frugal living benefits for the win.

Lastly, we fill in the blank days using passes to museums and other family-friendly places afforded to us by our library, which offers all rich gifts far beyond the bookshelves – true wealth indeed.

To have such a break.

Oh, February.

It once again reigned supreme, keeping for us the sweet staycation standard of deep breaths, frugal fun, and mini day trips.

But my husband and I also had to prepare for what comes next – The month that cuts a different tune.

March is the famously singular month of kids’ academic years with no breaks, no long weekends.

March – More like Slump – notably brings with it a traditionally exhaustive, endless stretch in school in which cold and flu still persist despite the slow hints of spring.

Teachers begin to burn out, students begin to check out.

And not out like a lamb.

Talk about March madness.

We’ve got the erratic weather; we’ve got the student midterms brewing and final projects looming.

That fatigue is no lie, nor are this month’s impacts on mental health for many.

We can’t change this slump of a challenging month.

But what families can do in this break-less month is gather in the small joys.

Let the sun find your face. Touch the earth and feel the changing air.

Pick a tiny micro-bouquet of early spring blooms and dandelions.

Smell the earthy scent of outdoor air – hints of spring.

Bake something that even smells like spring – muffins or goods with lemon poppy seed or some sort of citrus.

Enjoy a slow, warm breakfast.

Read by an open window.

Go on a walk and listen for birdsong.

Celebrate small wins.

Savor a warm drink.

These teeny acts of gratitude can help you find hope during times that are dreary in a world uncertain.

For my family, we make a big deal of a holiday that’s well worth celebrating if not a Federal day off – St. Patrick’s day.

We make the brightly colored decorations, watch Irish movies, and polish off the evening with a corned beef brisket.

We’re not Irish, but we do this just because.

We continue our new-ish tradition of celebrating half birthdays – a silly, entertaining tradition that really serves no other purpose than to have an excuse to bake a cake.

Just because.

Most of all, we start our seeds at last – Remember those packets I mentioned for which we giddily wait by the mailbox? – I love the hope that seed starting brings, and my kiddos love the excuse to stick their hands in the dirt of our indoor potting bench.

Soiled hands.

Just because.

The best way to get through March is to do just that – March on through.

Create your own joys with gratitude to reduce that slump.

And trust me on the dandelion bouquets. They’ll complement your sparkling St. Patrick’s décor beautifully.

­­– 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: Playing the Numbers

By Andy Young

As someone committed to providing 600 weekly words for this eminent publication, I’ve often wondered: is that possible to accomplish with precisely 20 paragraphs consisting of exactly 30 words apiece?

This little task, such as it is, seems simple enough. Just construct three consecutive, simple semi-relevant sentences, and then, voila! You’ve got yourself a thirty-word paragraph, just like this one.

String 20 such paragraphs together and you have achieved success. They don’t all have to consist of three ten-word sentences, though. That’s a tall order, even for a sane person.

But how would someone go about doing something like this in the middle of March? It’s an awfully long and dreary month, and one pretty much devoid of any inspiration.

Saint Patrick allegedly chased all the snakes out of Ireland. Maybe he stopped off in Maine, too, since we’re short of slithering reptiles, and thankfully no poisonous ones reside here.

Julius Caesar died on the Ides of March. That’s why whenever I see a group of toga-wearing Romans headed my way, I always cross over to the street’s other side.

Lots of famous men were born in March like Elton John, Jon Bon Jovi, Shaquille O’Neal, Chuck Norris, Spike Lee and Warren Beatty. They will all celebrate birthdays this month.

A whole lot of famous women were March babies too, like Lady Gaga, Reese Witherspoon, Queen Latifah, Celine Dion, and Mariah Carey, all of whom are younger than I am.

Albert Einstein was born in March. So were Alexander Graham Bell, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dr. Seuss, and Mr. Rogers. But they don’t celebrate their birthdays anymore, because they’re all dead.

March is the only month that can be used as a verb. May can be used as an auxiliary verb. But really; who knows (or cares) about auxiliary verbs, anyway?

August (when the accent is placed on the second syllable) is an adjective. But so what? January thaw, April showers, May flowers, June wedding; any month can be an adjective!

March 14 is Pi Day, which is quite the big deal to math nerds worldwide. It’s also my daughter’s birthday, which I think is more important. Sorry, math nerds worldwide!

I love apple pie, peach pie, blueberry pie, pumpkin pie, and key lime pie. I hate getting political, but people who dislike pie are un-American. And Canadian pie-haters are un-Canadian.

Apples are nature’s toothbrush, although they should be washed thoroughly before they’re ingested. Did you know that March 11 is National Johnny Appleseed Day? Too bad that was on Wednesday.

Here’s another good thing about the current month: Adolf Hitler wasn’t born during March. Neither, for that matter, were Joseph Stalin, Pol Pot, Idi Amin, Genghis Khan or Charles Manson.

So how about a little love for March? Sure, it’s still a cold, dreary, and seemingly endless month which doesn’t contain a single legal holiday, but at least it’s villain-free.

Uh oh. This just in: Osama bin Laden, the madman who masterminded the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, was born on March 10, 1957. Oops!

Strawberries contain more vitamin C per serving than oranges, and so do Kiwifruits. Sure, this has nothing at all to do with March. But then, who said it had to?

Spring starts next Friday! Now that’s something worth celebrating! But in the Southern Hemisphere winter is only three months away. What a bummer for Aussies and New Zealanders (AKA Kiwis).

Maybe I should pause here to count. Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen, eighteen, nineteen, plus this one. There’s our answer: writing 20 consecutive 30-word paragraphs isn’t just possible; it’s easy! <

Insight: Turnbuckles and Punchlines

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Since I was small, professional wrestling has always interested me, not for the violence, but for the sideshow antics in promoting it.

Standing 6-foot-9 and weighing 300 pounds, former
football player Ernie Ladd dominated professional
wrestling in the 1960s and early 1970s..
COURTESY  PHOTO  

The memories I have of sitting on the floor in front of the television set watching “The King” Ernie Ladd compete on Saturday afternoons linger. Standing 6-foot-9 and weighing 300 pounds, Ladd first came to my attention through his football card when he played tackle for the San Diego Chargers of the old American Football League.

As his football career ended, he eventually made the move to pro wrestling in 1969 and earned quite a few championship belts before Ladd convinced promoters to turn him into a heel who was known for provoking anger among fans and his opponents through his swagger and arrogant statements during televised interviews. He loved creating derogatory nicknames for opponents or accusing them of committing crimes.

On the mat, Ladd was fierce and massive and paved the way for the success of future tall wrestling superstars like Andre the Giant, Big John Studd and King Kong Bundy.

As I moved across the country to attend college, I’d occasionally check out Saturday afternoon pro wrestling airing locally. Just 5-foot-9 and weighing 239 pounds, Ricky Romero was the popular local champion of the early 1970s in Albuquerque, New Mexico, defeating ring legends Terry Funk and Fritz Von Erich to win titles. A decade later after his retirement from wrestling, I met Romero when he appeared at a car dealership for an event to raise money for Easter Seals.

When I served in the U.S. Air Force in Arizona in the 1980s, wrestling promoters would drop off free tickets to WWF matches and tapings in Phoenix. I can recall one heavily promoted card that featured Hulk Hogan, “Rowdy” Roddy Piper, André the Giant, The Iron Sheik, Paul “Mr. Wonderful” Orndoff, Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka, Brutus “Beefcake” Barber, Mr. Fuji, Ricky Steamboat and Sgt. Slaughter all appearing at the Veterans Memorial Coliseum.

It was the decade when colorful wrestlers like George “The Animal” Steele would captivate audiences by ripping the ring turnbuckles to shreds and then eating the stuffing inside. Randy “Macho Man” Savage would feud with opponents who tried to poach his girlfriend “Miss Elizabeth” and Jake “The Snake” Roberts would carry a python around his next while entering the ring for a match. Ted “The Million Dollar Man” DiBiase claimed to be a fabulous and wealthy wrestler. He wore a gold-studded, dollar-sign-covered suit and later a custom-made, diamond-encrusted, self-awarded “Million Dollar Championship" belt.

Outside the ring, an array of humorous characters enhanced the bizarre made-for-cable television plotlines and outlandish schemes. There was Bobby "The Brain" Heenan, a despised manager of outlaw wrestlers who was known for turning heroes into heels, announcer “Mean Gene” Okerlund who played along with the antics of wrestlers while interviewing them before matches, and Jimmy Hart, a boisterous wrestling manager known as “The Mouth of the South.” Hart managed a stable of oddball wrestling characters in the 1980s and 1990s including Andy Kaufman, The Honk Tonk Man, Greg “The Hammer” Valentine, Jerry “The King” Lawler, Dino Bravo and the Nasty Boys.

By the mid-1990s I had relocated to Florida and found it to be a hotbed for professional wrestling gimmicks. WCW was an enormous draw there and if Ric “The Nature Boy” Flair was on the card, it was guaranteed to be a sell-out crowd. While trying to compete for fan attention against Vince McMahon’s WWF, the WCW roster included stars such as Sting, Lex Luger, The Fabulous Freebirds, Dusty Rhodes, Vader, “Ravishing” Rick Rude, and the Steiner Brothers. Other WCW superstars were Rey Mysterio, Chris Jericho, Goldberg and Diamond Dallas Page.

Professional wrestling fans of that era were diverse and rowdy crowds made up of teenage boys, young adults and mostly men, but by the early 2000s, women attended matches too, swooning over a new generation of superstars drawing national attention. Names such as “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, Shawn Michaels, Kurt Angle, Chris Benoit, Brock Lesnar, Rob Van Dam and The Undertaker dominated pro wrestling broadcasts of that time. They were followed by a lineup of even newer champions like John Cena, Batista, Roman Reigns, A.J. Styles, and Ric Flair’s own daughter, Charlotte Flair.

These days I can’t remember the last time I sat and watched a professional wrestling telecast such as “Smackdown” or “WWE Raw” but I’m sure the audience is still there and still buying tickets to events across America. Professional wrestling will never go away, and it remains a mainstay on television schedules.

The outcomes may be predetermined and scripted for television ratings, but the sheer physicality of the sport cannot be denied as a 350-pound human jumping in the air and landing on an opponent has got to be painful.

Many years ago, I interviewed wrestler Mick Foley when he was promoting his new book. I asked him how many times he had been hit with a folding chair during his career.

“Over the head or over the back,” he replied. I told him it didn’t matter. “Metal or wooden folding chair,” he replied. Take your pick, I told him.

“More than 10,000 times,” Foley said.

That had to have hurt.

Andy Young: The curse of springing forward

By Andy Young

Like most employed Americans, I eagerly look forward to weekends. There are 52 of them every year, and not only do I savor each one individually, I treasure them all collectively as well. Most people I know feel the same way I do, unless they have a terrible attitude about life. It takes a lot of effort to consciously disenjoy any weekend day.

However, this coming Sunday is going to be 4.2 percent shorter than a standard day, and that presents a problem.

A big problem.

Two hours after midnight on Sunday, March 8, an annual event will throw a monkey wrench into the carefully orchestrated lives of millions of decent people like me, solid citizens who don’t deserve to be unjustly inconvenienced. Every American living outside of Arizona, Hawaii, and the five offshore territories that don’t do Daylight Saving Time will be compelled to “spring forward” and set their clocks ahead at that hour, effectively vaporizing the previously-scheduled 60 minutes between 2 and 3 a.m. this Sunday morning.

That knowledge has me awash in anxiety, ready to explode from the excruciating, soul-crushing pressure of knowing there won’t be adequate time for me to accomplish what I need to that day.

I shouldn’t use this newspaper to go on personal rants, but where else can I register my justifiable displeasure about the looming 47-hour weekend? I’ve tried Primal Scream Therapy but doing it in print hasn’t worked out.

My usual Sunday is perfectly choreographed. I start with some stretching exercises, then water the plants, have a drink myself, and then go out for a breakfast date with a fellow early riser whose Sunday schedule is just as busy as mine is. After I come home, I’ll change the sheets and towels, do a load of laundry, and log onto the New York Times website to do the Wordle puzzle. Then I’ll dry the clean laundry, contact my three children, and take a brisk nature walk, stopping to chat with any friendly person I encounter along the way. After that, I will shop for groceries, sweep the floors, vacuum the rugs, make the week’s lunches, call a friend or family member long distance, and perhaps write a day-brightening letter or postcard to someone I haven’t seen in a while. It’s an ambitious schedule but nothing I can’t handle. I’ve lived through hundreds of similar Sundays in the past and generally complete everything on my to-do list without any undue stress.

But how am I supposed to accomplish everything that needs doing in just 23 hours?

Skipping the stretching is a possibility, but that would put me at risk of pulling a muscle, which would have major negative repercussions that could drag on for weeks. I could drink only half my usual amount of water, but that might render me dehydrated by mid-day. Putting off changing the sheets and towels would result in less than a full load of laundry and running the washing machine when it’s less than full is ecologically irresponsible. I could call just two of my three kids, but which one should I leave out? I suppose I could shorten my nature walk and/or ignore everyone I see on the trail, but who wants to be known as an aloof, grouchy old snob who thinks he’s better than everyone else hiking through the woods on a Sunday?

Mature adults shouldn’t panic over something like this, but I’ll admit I’m a wreck. I’m going to have to re-design my entire day and have no idea where to begin.

The only thing that’s certain: I’m going to have to reschedule this Sunday’s 2:30 a.m. breakfast date. <