Andy Young: Only total wimps can’t handle seasonal change

By Andy Young

Genuine Mainers embrace each change of season. Those who don’t invariably hail from places far from New England, like Texas, Florida, or Massachusetts.

The pleasure I derive from experiencing winter morph into spring is nearly equal to the joy I get from fantasizing about the event during the six months that precedes its actual arrival. I begin looking forward to spring’s annual return sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving of the previous year, depending on how early the first snow arrives. I’m not ashamed to admit that I savor every moment of that sweet anticipation. The satisfaction I get from putting my winter gloves in the closet, disassembling the roof rake, and consigning the snow shovels to the shed is indescribable.

Every change of season requires making certain specific adjustments.

For example, moving from spring into summer requires quick recalibration, because around here there are no more than six weeks’ worth of spring-like weather separating Maine’s extended winter from our increasingly-early-arriving summer. Fortunately, the modifications necessary for this particular change of season are minimal, and generally pleasant.

The biggest challenge that the onset of summer presents is for parents of young children. Putting youthful offspring to bed at 8 p.m. during winter is a piece of cake, but the task becomes a tougher sell in late June, when it’s still light outside at that hour.

Similarly, shifting from summer to fall requires relatively little adjustment. Sweatshirts that had the summer off return to my sartorial rotation, while the cargo shorts that I’d been wearing all summer get relegated to the back of the drawer. Before placing them there, though, I say a silent prayer that they’ll still fit when I awaken them from their hibernation the following spring.

Changing from autumn to winter mode is more labor-intensive. Stowing rakes, lawn mowers, bikes and sneakers and replacing them with wool hats, snow shovels, Bean boots and a reassembled roof rake is just the beginning. Adding three extra blankets to my bed is also a must, as is remembering to add another layer or two of clothing before I venture outside. It’s also important to stretch out last year’s winter gloves, assuming I can remember where I stashed them the previous April. Or, for total wimps, where they stashed them the previous May. 

I’m perfectly happy when the air temperature is 55 degrees, 65 degrees, or any number of degrees between 55 and 65. I’m also capable of enjoying myself when the temperature climbs as high as 75, provided there’s a light breeze, or the sun has ducked behind some clouds.

However, on the 340 or so days each year when the temperature outside is not ideal, I’ll take “too cold” over “too hot” in a heartbeat. Even when Maine is at its chilliest, a few extra layers of clothing above the waist and an additional pair of socks are more than enough to compensate. But when the temperature climbs into the 90s, as is the case at least half the year in every state in the nation south of New Hampshire, no amount of wardrobe adjustment can provide relief from the perpetually oppressive heat and humidity. I’ve lived several summers south of the Mason-Dixon line; the mildest of them was far more physically and mentally draining than Maine’s coldest, snowiest winter ever was.

Recently a so-called “friend” opined that I myself am a total wimp when it comes to weather, but nothing could be further from the truth. I anticipate enjoying every day this spring and summer to the fullest.

Unless of course the temperature falls below 55 degrees or rises above 65. <

Tim Nangle: A closer look at school safety and teacher pay in the state budget

By Senator Tim Nangle

As the Legislature wrapped up our work for the session, one of the final things we passed was a supplemental budget that makes a number of targeted investments in areas where we’re seeing real pressure on families across the state.

State Senator Tim Nangle

It’s a budget that does a lot to support stronger communities – from housing to health care to economic stability – but it also makes important investments in our schools, particularly when it comes to student safety and teacher pay.

This session, school transportation safety has been a major focus. That attention followed a series of tragic incidents, including the deaths of 12-year-old Brayden Callahan in Rockland and 5-year-old Simon Gonzalez in Standish, both involving school buses. As Senate chair of the Transportation Committee, I worked with colleagues on both sides of the aisle to take a closer look at where our current approach was falling short and what changes could make a meaningful difference.

In response, the Transportation Committee advanced a set of policy changes aimed at reducing those risks. These include requiring school buses to be equipped with crossing arms, ensuring buses remain stopped until doors are fully closed and establishing a permanent commission to continue reviewing school transportation safety.

Those proposals received bipartisan support and moved forward quickly. Everyone understood the urgency. What became clear during that process, though, is that policy changes alone don’t automatically translate into safer conditions on the ground.

Many of these safety improvements require equipment upgrades. Without additional funding, those upgrades would be phased in over time as districts replace buses – meaning uneven implementation across the state and a longer timeline to see results.

The supplemental budget addresses that issue by including $5.9 million in one-time funding to more quickly install safety enhancements on school buses statewide, such as crossing arms and anti-pinch door sensors. This approach also helps ensure local property taxpayers aren’t left to cover the full cost of these upgrades on their own.

Safe transportation is one part of the equation, but what happens inside the classroom matters just as much. The budget also includes changes aimed at strengthening the education workforce.

Legislation from my colleague, State Senator Teresa Pierce, to raise the minimum teacher salary was incorporated into the budget. Right now, Maine’s minimum teacher salary is $40,000, a level that has been in place since 2022. At a time when many districts are facing hiring and retention challenges, particularly in rural areas, compensation is a key part of the conversation. I have a family member who is a teacher, so I see firsthand the level of work, preparation and commitment that goes into the job every day.

The budget adopts a phased increase to that minimum salary, raising it to $45,000 in 2027 and then continuing with incremental increases in the following years until it reaches $50,000. The goal is to make teaching a more competitive career option and to help schools recruit and retain staff.

Taken together, these investments reflect the fact that the strength of our schools depends on both the systems we put in place and the people who make them work.  

Ensuring students can get to school safely is one part of that. Making sure there are qualified educators in the classroom is another. Both require not just the policy but the resources to follow through. This budget represents a step in the right direction.

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. <

Insight: In a Golden Gate of Mind

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Back when we were first married, my wife Nancy and I would take an annual summer vacation to some place that we had never been before.

Nancy and Ed Pierce got to tour the old Alcatraz Federal
Penitentiary while visiting San Francisco in 2007.
COURTESY PHOTO 

We would spend one weekend each spring figuring out where we wanted to go, the week we could go, how much it would cost and what we wanted to do while we were there on vacation. Since she was a teacher and off during the summer months, the days we could travel depended upon when I could get off from my job at the daily newspaper where I worked.

One year we both agreed that San Francisco, California might be a great place to visit. Nancy wanted to tour the former Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary, made famous in the Burt Lancaster film “Birdman of Alcatraz,” and she wanted to go to a store in San Francisco that specialized in “Shabby chic,” a style of interior design using furniture and furnishings selected for their appearance of age and signs of wear and tear resulting in a soft pastel-colored cottage-like look.

I had hoped to see Fisherman’s Wharf, the Golden Gate Bridge, Chinatown, and maybe take a tour of Ghirardelli’s Chocolate Factory if there was sufficient time available during our trip.

We made our airline reservations and booked a hotel on Bush Street in San Francisco which was conveniently located near places we wanted to see and public transportation.

On our way to the hotel by taxi from the airport, we both noticed how big the city was and its unique architecture and high-rise buildings. Once we were settled into our room, we walked around outside and noticed a bronze historical plaque near our hotel indicating that famous American author Robert Louis Stevenson once lived in an apartment next to the hotel. 
 
The next morning, we set off exploring and walked around the city’s financial district and took photos of the famous Transamerica Pyramid Building. Then we took a bus to the Waterfront area, toured Fisherman’s Wharf and had lunch at In-N-Out Burger. For me, In-N-Out remains the best burger I have ever eaten, and though it’s been many years since the trip, I still remember how good that was.

Early the next day we rode on a cable car to a waterfront location where we could see Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge. We inquired about getting tickets to tour Alcatraz, but we were told they had been sold out for months. Instead, we boarded a tour boat that sailed out into San Francisco Bay. It circled around Alcatraz Island as the tour boat operator pointed out the sights and then we traveled underneath the Golden Gate Bridge before returning to Pier 39 at the waterfront and an incredible sight there. At the end of the pier, within the view of tourists taking photos, thousands of seals sunned themselves on the pier’s planks.

That night we walked to a nearby steakhouse called John's Grill. We did not have a reservation, but they welcomed us there and informed us that the restaurant had been around since 1908. Our waitress said the restaurant had been a setting in the book “The Maltese Falcon” by writer Dashiell Hammett, who frequently dined there in the 1920s.

On the third day, we visited Chinatown and North Beach. Later we shopped at the Shabby chic store and took a sightseeing guided trip through town in a 1940s open-air car called “Mr. Toad’s Tours.” During that excursion, we saw the home where the movie “Mrs. Doubtfire” was filmed, and watched cars traverse Lombard Street known as the “crookedest street in the world.” 

Day Four saw us back at Fisherman’s Wharf trying to see if we could somehow find tickets for a tour of the former Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary. We went to the tour’s ticket window, and they said tickets could only be purchased for tours starting in three weeks. But as we walked away, another tourist said we should try and see if a nearby booth had tickets available.

We were in luck, but there was a catch. To receive two tickets to tour Alcatraz that afternoon, we had to attend a company’s timeshare presentation that lasted for two hours. I didn’t want to do it, but so Nancy could fulfill her dream of visiting Alcatraz, I reluctantly agreed to it. After saying no to a sales pitch at least eight different times, the company handed over the tickets, and we immediately got in line for the Alcatraz tour.

A boat took us to the island, and we walked through the entire site. The prison cells were tiny inside, and the prison bars were rusty and old. Many seagulls inhabited the outside grounds, and the National Park Service tour guides painted a very grim depiction for us of prison life on Alcatraz Island before the prison closed in 1963. We also heard how in 1969, Native American tribes had occupied Alcatraz for 19 months.

Before flying out of San Francisco on our final day there, we took one last walk around the city and took photos of the Oakland Bay Bridge.

Nancy agrees with me that our “City by the Bay” adventure was truly unforgettable. <

Insight: Commemorating Cisplatin Cocktails

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Speaking as someone who has firsthand experience in surviving cancer treatment, I offer the following helpful hints should you, a friend or a family member be subjected to learning that the physician’s diagnosis is cancer.

Nobody ever expects to hear that news but if you are diagnosed these days, know that you are not alone and that many others have gone through that same traumatic experience and overcome it. My own experience taught me that there are many ways to be supportive while also inspiring others to do the same for those dealing with one of the toughest health battles they will ever face.

I recall being told by my doctor following exploratory surgery in 1998 that he had good news and bad news for me. I asked for the bad news first and he informed me that I had been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, and he had told my family that I had 90 days to live. If that was the “bad” news, I asked him what the “good news” could be and he explained that he had sent my results to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota and doctors there disagreed, saying with chemotherapy and possibly more surgery, I would be fine.

After that scare, I resolved to follow the doctor’s treatment program and place my well-being in his hands.

In my parent’s days, being diagnosed with cancer was a death sentence and sent families scurrying to the funeral home for pre-arrangements. But I learned that surgical advancements over the years, improved technology and more powerful chemotherapy drugs for many types of cancers give us much better survival chances in the 21st century. 

My insurance plan obtained through work paid for my chemotherapy, but there was a hitch. I needed to receive it as a hospital in-patient, so I would be admitted for five days, Mondays through Fridays, and then discharged for the next nine days to recover at home before starting the process all over again. My cisplatin chemotherapy was so strong it would take at least six full days before I started feeling able to get out bed again and dreading my return to the hospital for another treatment in a few days.

If there was a positive aspect to my chemotherapy, all my hair eventually fell out during treatments, so I saved on haircuts. It stopped beard growth too, so I didn’t have to shave. The negative side effects for me were that I couldn’t eat and lost 71 pounds, falling from 171 to 100 in 35 days. I also felt nauseous the entire time I was awake. No matter what I tried to eat, it tasted metallic, sort of like ball-point pen ink.

My advice to caregivers for those in chemotherapy is to be patient during meals. Eating something is better than not at all, even if it’s a vanilla milkshake.

Out of everyone I worked with and my inner circle of friends and family, I learned that only a few were willing to visit me during my hospital stays or drop by to see me at home. I’m not sure if they thought I was contagious and they could catch cancer by visiting me, but I’d like to think it was that it was painful for them to see me lying in bed in bad shape. At first, I had many phone calls from friends and family from around the country, but as time went on, those calls became fewer as life went on as I sat on the sidelines.

I encourage those newly diagnosed with cancer and their families and friends to look upon cancer treatment as if it’s merely an inconvenience. People with cancer are the same as before their diagnosis and crave the time they spend with you.

Also, it’s important to not go off the deep end when interacting with those receiving cancer treatment. My mother had a friend who belonged to a church knitting club, and she talked the group into making me woolen caps to wear during the extreme heat and humidity of summer in Florida.

Another fellow who volunteered to drive me to my oncology appointments thought he knew exactly what would make me feel better. He would stop at Walmart before picking me up and buy a 25-cent can of root beer soda pop for me to drink on the way to the appointment. Each time he did that always ended with the same result. The carbonation in the beverage got to me and it inevitably would either come out my nose after a sip or expelled by mouth ala Mount St. Helens.

Expect to ride a roller coaster of emotions. I never experienced stronger emotions than during my cancer treatment and at times I was overwhelmed, worried, anxious, angry, and profoundly sad. Many other times I was filled with gratitude for simple gestures or offers to help me or thankful for those who offered me hope or brought me cheeseburgers or took me outside to breathe fresh air when I was in the hospital.

The real key to overcoming cancer in my opinion is faith, clinging to optimism for the future and living your life as normally as possible. <

Andy Young: A long-overdue admisión

By Andy Young

At 5 feet 2 inches tall I towered over my diminutive sixth grade Spanish teacher. Señora Kay may have lacked physical stature, but she wasn’t short on bravery or patience, two necessities for middle school foreign language instructors. Several 12-year-old boys in our class, including me, were far more interested in entertaining our friends than we were in listening to some ancient woman, one probably ten years younger than I am now, teach us about verb tenses.

Señora Kay could see potential in every child, even those of us who worked hard to disguise whatever latent ability we might possess. She never lost her cool, although every so often she’d keep a particularly infantile student after class. Those one-on-one chats were always long on encouragement and devoid of anger and/or disappointment. I knew this because I was a frequent post-class invitee.

Why she put up with me I’ll never know. Not only was I absorbing nothing, my childish behavior was undoubtedly sabotaging her efforts to teach Spanish to those kids who were actually interested in learning some. One day when I had been exceptionally disruptive, she asked me to stay after class. Smiling beatifically, Señora Kay let me know how disappointed she was, because she knew I was capable of much more than I was showing. Then she asked me why I was putting so little effort into the class.

I never considered disrespecting the señora. Smart-mouthing any adult, particularly a teacher, was not an option during my childhood. But even a youthful Philistine like me could sense the inherent decency in my incredibly kind Spanish teacher, so rather than being oppositional, I decided to level with her.

Patiently, I explained, “My parents speak English. So do my grandparents, my cousins, and all my friends. Everybody on our street speaks English, and so do my baseball coaches, the doctor, the mailman, and everyone at the grocery store. No offense, Señora, but I am NEVER going to need Spanish.”

A lesser person would have thrown up her hands in frustration, but not this quietly determined 4-foot-10-inch teacher. Smiling knowingly, all she said was, “You never know, Señor Young.”

Ironically, some years later I joined the Peace Corps, and was assigned to a Spanish-speaking country. A bigger person would have contacted Señora Kay right away and admitted she’d been right, but then as now, no one ever accused me of being a big person. I actually picked up some basic Spanish during my brief time in Central America, and four decades later I retain a tiny bit of it.

Thankfully. 

After last week’s faculty meeting, I lingered a bit to chat with a colleague from another department. It was time well spent but by the time I discovered I’d locked my car and house keys inside my classroom, it seemed everyone had gone home. Desperately searching the all-but-deserted building, I finally spotted a custodian. However, when I asked if she could unlock my door, she apologetically said, “Sorry, I no speak English.”

Fortunately, I was somehow able to reply: “Yo no puedo entrar en mi cuarto. ¿Tienes un llave?” Moments later I had my keys. I returned to give my new friend Nora, who kindly told me I spoke Spanish with no accent, a sincere “gracias.”

Unfortunately, my middle school Spanish teacher died a long time ago. But if there’s an afterlife and she can see what’s going on down here, well, Señora Kay, you were right and I was wrong. Learning Spanish really is important.

Or better yet, Señora Kay, tenías razón y yo estaba equivocado. Aprender español es realmente importante. <

Rookie Mama: Y’all bready for this? One sourdough starter to rule them all

By Michele Cote
The Rookie Mama

Sourdough – I just can’t get enough.

I spent my 2020 pandemic lockdown times growing baby bump boy number four, followed by his subsequent birth.

Because stretching my kid tribe to a quartet occupied a fair amount of brain space during the events of shelter-in-place, I never gave a second thought to the other kind of growing and stretching trend sweeping the nation – Starting sourdough.

I mentally added it to a ‘someday’ list, guffawed in a sort of ‘who-am-I-kidding’ way, and shelved that inkling far back to the recesses of my brain behind the far more pressing issues of BinaxNOW boxes and N95s and curbside grocery pickups.

With a new mouth to feed in the assembly of boys, the prospect of additionally feeding a container twice daily atop my kitchen counter already strewn with puzzles and virtual-learning-worksheets was not a tempting one.

So I digress.

Here we are, a few years later.

We’ve been showing our literal faces again for a couple of years but I’d never returned to that sourdough consideration.

Until a few months ago, when my husband found an adult education workshop all about said topic.

How to make it, how to feed it, how to bake with it.

We didn’t hesitate and signed up quickly.

As it turns out, people love their sourdough classes – We didn’t make the dough cut last time this class was offered so were sure to nab a spot immediately this time around.

Ladies and gentlemen, start your sourdough engines.

The evening class turned out to be a sensational hands-on learning experience taught by a fantastic and forgiving chef.

The small group of participants tucked in the small high school home economics classroom ranged across varying ages, and all eager learners.

Everyone partook in various steps of baking, prepping, proofing – who knew ‘proofing’ wasn’t a term resorted to writers only? – measuring (math: therein lies my weakness, I’ve no shame saying so), kneading, and delighting in the floury messes. 

We were kids in King Arthur’s court – King Arthur brand flour, that is.

Tiny bubbles in my sourdough, not my wine.

And for my husband and me, this was truly a special date night out.

For a moment, we were keeping an eye on the baking time, not bedtime.

For a moment, we were immersed in making our own messy dishes together, not reminding kiddos to wash their own.

We were learning a unique, new skill; making core memories and coffee cakes.

And sourdough is a philosophy I can get behind, because it carries on.

Like joy, it grows – as long as you feed it a bit.

Since that floury, fun class on the special date night, we’ve continued the experiments in the home.

Our weekends are filled with sourdough waffles, pancakes, and bagels.

We even made chocolate chip Irish soda bread for St. Patrick’s Day.

We adapt as we go – not every recipe was a hit out of the park – and we improve.

Like life.

Grow and learn and grow some more. 

Staying fed.

Even my math skills are more refined, like a bag of all-purpose.

All this added from-scratch baking in lieu of store-bought has been a warm welcome to our wallets, too.

Baking delicious breads and breakfast foods has truly been a delight, and as it turns out – Sourdough’s not even difficult.

Nor is it any sort of mystery.

It’s a simple 1:1:1 ratio (starter, flour, water) – the sort of mathematics I can totally get behind.

It’s a leavening experience, if you will, and we’re tipping the food scales in the favor of joy during uncertain times.

I can’t measure the delight in grams, but I guarantee it’s worth considering, worthy of more credit than a pandemic trend of yore.

So get out there and pick up your King Arthur brand, or at least get your start with a sourdough class.

It’s worth the investment in yourself.

The coffee cakes alone are worth it.

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

Insight: The meaning of opaque is unclear

By Ed Pierce

Managing Editor

If you’ve ever watched reruns of the television show “Inside the Actor’s Studio,” you know that its host, James Lipton, would close out the interviews of his famous guests by invoking modified questions used by French journalist Bernard Pivot on an old French TV talk show.

Ed Pierce's granddaughter Summer
turned 1 on March 4.
PHOTO BY ED PIERCE

Lipton would ask each actor or actress appearing before acting students each week the following set of questions. What is your favorite word? What is your least favorite word? What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? What turns you off? What is your favorite curse word? What sound or noise do you love? What sound or noise do you hate? What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? What profession would you not like to attempt? If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Since neither Lipton, who died at the age of 93 in 2020 nor Pivot, who passed at 89 in 2024 are still around, I suppose I will never be asked those questions by those interviewers. 

But for the purpose of completing this week’s newspaper column, here are my answers to those creative inquiries:

What is your favorite word? I think it would be effervescent. When I was in third grade, a classmate introduced me to a product called “Fizzies” which were similar to Alka Seltzer tablets used by my father and when dropped into a glass of water would turn the water into a fizzy soda-pop type of beverage for kids.

What is your least favorite word? I shudder to say the word is pus. No matter if it’s made up of white, yellow, or greenish-brown fluid accumulating at an infection site, I hope to never see that substance again in any circumstance.

What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally? My answer would be something to do, something to love, something to look forward to.

What turns you off? Chronic complainers or controlling individuals.

What is your favorite curse word? lkxxdsjxxxnbvdfnbldfn!!!!

What sound or noise do you love? The oboe in Ravel’s Bolero or birds chirping in the early morning.

What sound or noise do you hate? My neighbor’s noisy truck muffler.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Private investigator in Hawaii for the Robin Masters estate.

What profession would you not like to attempt? Politician. None of them place the people they serve first and foremost, which is why we elect them to office in the first place. 

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? Well done, sir.

And to create an even deeper look at me for our readers, I have also borrowed some questions from the Late Show with Stephen Colbert’s “Questionert” that he asks some of his celebrity guests and my answers are listed below.

What is the Best Sandwich? In my opinion, nothing tops a Reuben with corned beef, Swiss cheese, sauerkraut, and Thousand Island dressing on rye bread, grilled until the bread is crispy and the cheese is melted.

What’s one thing you own that you really should throw out? Boxes in the basement containing clippings of newspaper stories that I have written going all the way back to 1975.

What is the scariest animal? Hornets. I once was stung 44 times all over my body when I lifted some old lumber off a pile that I was going to cut up for kindling for the fireplace. Hornets had established a hive under there and I wasn’t aware of it.

Have you ever asked someone for their autograph? Yes, when I interviewed David Bowie, I asked him to sign my reporter’s notepad, and he politely told me that he never did that. But ballplayers Tito Landrum and Cal Ripken Jr. both autographed baseballs for me though. Actor Lou Diamond Phillips did sign a movie poster for me that mysteriously disappeared during a move across the country.

What do you think happens when we die? I was raised a Catholic and was taught the heaven and hell scenario, but I’d like to think we just drift away to a resort in the Caribbean somewhere and spend time with beloved family, friends and pets who have gone before us.

Favorite action movie? “Skyfall. No James Bond film will ever top that one for me.”

Favorite smell? “The top of my 1-year-old granddaughter Summer’s head.”

Least favorite smell? Fried parsnips. I vividly can recall that odor from when my mother grilled them when I was a child. It will be too soon if I ever smell that again and just thinking about it evokes memories of being ill and vomiting after eating that.

Most used app on your phone? Definitely YouTube. I watch “Brian Entin Investigates” on my smartphone every night before going to sleep to see if Nancy Guthrie has been found yet and why she was taken.

You get one song to listen to for the rest of your life: what is it? “Love Is All Around” by The Troggs. It was my favorite song as a 13-year-old when it first came out in 1967 and remains memorable for me even today.

Describe the rest of your life in five words: Love, Scrabble, Nancy, Family, Baseball. <

Andy Young: Raking it in

By Andy Young

The poker games my friend Tony and our free-wheeling college buddies took part in sometimes involved an initial ante as high as a quarter. I preferred playing for lower stakes, but then as now it was tough finding people wanting to spend an entire evening playing nickel-limit five-card draw.

But times change I thought nostalgically the other night, when I found myself sitting around a card table with Tony and five others, including a boyhood friend, the athletic director at my old high school, Baseball Hall of Famer Rollie Fingers, and two other individuals I confess I didn’t recognize.

The game was seven-card stud, and aside from two jokers, nothing was wild. This was no-frills poker: everyone got two cards down and one up on the initial deal; after that there’d be bidding between each successive round.

After the initial distribution everyone at the table had two “hole cards” plus one face up in front of them that was somewhere in between Tony’s ace and my deuce. Tony opened with a quarter; everyone matched him.

On the next round the dealer flipped up another ace for Tony, eliciting a grin from him and grimaces from everyone else. I had a two and a six showing, but despite that, I pushed fifty cents into the center of the table, entitling me to another card.

When the dealer turned over a joker for Tony on the next round, the pained facial expressions around the table transformed into audible groans. Four players folded. I didn’t, although I knew the deuce, trey, and six I had in front of me wasn’t going to scare anyone off.

After the three remaining players were dealt their final face-up card (a jack for Tony, a queen for Rollie, and a second three for me), Tony pushed his entire pile of chips into the center of the table and declared, “All in!” At that point I uncharacteristically but boldly suggested a ten-dollar limit on bids. This was partly common sense, but also because I didn’t have enough money to cover Tony’s towering stack of chips.

Ordinarily changing the rules in midstream is a poker no-no, but thankfully the other players, irritated by Tony’s smug expression and undeserved good fortune, were with me. After the rule was changed by acclamation, I seized a crowbar, opened my wallet, reluctantly extracted a $10 bill, and placed it in the middle of the table.

After the final card was dealt face down, Tony plunked down another 10-spot. Smiling broadly as he stroked his trademark handlebar mustache, Rollie did the same. Then, after several moments of counting and praying, I pushed a $5 bill, 15 quarters, eight dimes, eight nickels, and five pennies to the center of the table.

Looking slightly less confident than he had moments earlier, Tony showed his cards. Three aces were all he had. Grinning broadly, Rollie revealed a five-card straight, nine through King. Then everyone who’d wondered why I’d stayed in with a pair of threes, a two, and a six watched as I turned over the pair of deuces I had in the hole. That tiny little full house won me the largest pot of the night.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I have no idea what these nocturnal illusions signify; I just dream ‘em. But even if I could discern some deeper meaning in these overnight fantasies, I wouldn’t have time to do so right now.

I’m too busy trying to spend all that imaginary cash I just won from Tony, Rollie, and those four other losers. <

Insight: First Impressions

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

As a journalist, over the years I’ve learned that first impressions are like a pair of sunglasses in that they probably hide too much when meeting someone for the first time.

Coach Joe Drum works on a puzzle at his home
in Florida. He turned 90 last week.
COURTESY PHOTO

After decades of interviewing politicians, athletes, coaches, business owners, physicians, scientists, event promoters and just about anybody who is going to be the subject of a newspaper article, I’ve tried to understand what it is these people are trying to convey to the public through the image they want me to see.

I’ve tried to pick up their nonverbal communication or body language and overlook physical features, clothing, hairstyle and voice or accent and peer behind the initial impression some of these individuals have made upon me. Because I’ve been interviewing people since 1975, I’d like to think I’ve learned to downplay physical features and seek out someone’s compassion, humility or good humor to present a well-rounded depiction of a subject in an article I write.

Just starting out in my career I would try to lead an interaction with an interview subject, but I quickly discovered that to make an accurate assessment of somebody, you want to bring out their true nature. People needed to trust me to be authentic or else they would attempt to hoodwink me into reporting inaccurate information.

What I found was that if an interview subject felt defensive or threatened, it wasn’t a natural interaction. I was never very good at “Mike Wallace ambush style journalism” and so by keeping my word when someone wanted to go “off the record” in an interview or to not ask questions meant to intimidate or embarrass someone, it led to better information to use in an article.

In covering high school football, on many occasions I would have to interview a football coach for a team that lost a game by 40 more points. My first question would always be “can you single out a player for me on your team who played their heart out tonight?” or “despite the final score, what did your team do right in this game?” Doing that left these coaches with a caring first impression of me and opened the door to some great interviews down the road.

My father would always tell me when meeting someone that I didn’t know, to stand up straight, look someone in the eye and shake their hand firmly. Not everyone I’ve interviewed was taught to do that though.

I once interviewed a college basketball coach during a tryout camp for unsigned college players at a junior college one summer and the way that he shook hands was to lightly touch his fingers against mine. He never looked at me directly in the eye throughout my interview with him and I’m sorry to say he didn’t leave a very good first impression with me.

On the other hand, I thought that actor Alan Arbus was someone I had known for my entire life. During an interview, Arbus spent a lot of time answering my questions about his psychiatrist role as Dr. Sidney Freedman on the television series M*A*S*H despite being on a promotional tour for the film “From the Hip” in 1987.

I surmised that Arbus had been on previous promotional tours for projects and his openness and sense of humor was a way of coping with being asked the same questions by the media repeatedly. Since I had only interviewed actors a few times before though, Arbus made a strong first impression and I vividly recall that interview to this very day.

When I was in seventh grade in 1965, my town’s high school basketball team reached the sectional semifinals and the following year I became a basketball fan for life as that team reached the sectional championship game.

Sixty years later, I was fortunate to have dinner with some members of that 1965 team and their coach, Joe Drum, in my hometown of Henrietta, New York. I had never met Coach Drum before, and in the lobby of the restaurant that the team was at that night, we were introduced and struck up a memorable conversation about basketball that I didn’t want to end.

I learned that Coach Drum, who now lives in Florida, was also a star basketball player for my high school and graduated the year I was born. He is an amazing man who just turned 90 although he remains physically strong and healthy and is one of the most charismatic individuals I’ve ever met.

The players on his 1965 basketball team idolize Coach Drum and it’s evident that his inspirational personality and positivity impacts everyone with whom he’s associated.

I only spent about six hours of time with Coach Drum at several events that weekend but feel like he is a genuine friend. My initial impression of meeting him proved to be right on the money.

From what I’ve gathered during my years in journalism and in life, I believe that the key to creating a great first impression is to show others that you think they are important. A positive first impression can help build positive momentum in creating a good relationship and that’s half the battle, no matter what the situation may be.

Andy Young: Young Americans need a history lesson

By Andy Young

I’m not sure how old I was when I learned that April showers bring May flowers.

I’m reasonably certain, however, that the first time someone asked me, “What do May flowers bring?” was when I was in the first or second grade. That question was no doubt printed in the “Weekly Reader” our teacher thrust in front of us periodically, probably once a week, given the publication’s title.

The amusing yet subtly informative answer to the “May flowers” brain teaser was of course, that Mayflowers brought Pilgrims. What made this outwardly weak riddle’s answer nominally humorous was the presumption that those reading it knew what the Mayflower was.

However, today that lame line might be even less funny than it used to be. That’s because, sadly, not many current seven-year-olds know the Mayflower was the ship that brought 102 passengers and 30 crew members seeking separation from the Church of England across the Atlantic Ocean in 1620. That means they’re also ignorant of the fact that once those brave, God-fearing people arrived here, they immediately befriended everyone they encountered. They subsequently farmed numerous crops successfully, ultimately sharing their bounteous harvest with Chief Squanto and his tribe at the first Thanksgiving, a community feast where Indians brought the corn and generous Pilgrims supplied everything else.

Later on descendants of those Pilgrims built up the underutilized land, manufactured many new things, and gladly shared all they produced fairly and equitably with future generations of North America’s native peoples. They did this in spite of the backward and occasionally savage ways of the Indians. Fortunately, those with Pilgrim lineage, with the help of other selfless Caucasians, were able to civilize their scantily clad, uncultured neighbors by teaching them to speak English, eradicating any and all vestiges of their primordial, bestial antecedents, and, most importantly, converting them to Christianity.

For educators like me and others who notice such things, the lack of knowledge regarding American history among our nation’s youngest citizens is alarming. The arrival of the fourth month of the year, and with it the memory of the “What do May flowers bring?” conundrum, is what brings my attention to what I see as an existential threat to our country’s culture.

By the time we were 7 years old, elementary schoolers of my vintage knew about George Washington refusing to lie about chopping down the cherry tree, Abraham Lincoln writing and delivering the Gettysburg Address solely because he knew how evil the institution of slavery was, and the brave General George Armstrong Custer meeting his heroic end at the hands of a band of bloodthirsty primitives who ambushed him and his courageous men at Little Big Horn.

Today’s kids have, I’m afraid, no clue about any of that. Maybe it’s the ongoing aftereffects of the Covid pandemic. Then again, it could be the shortening of attention spans triggered by the ubiquity and availability of hand-held electronic devices in America today. It’s also possible that because so much information (not all of which is true) is so easily accessible, the nation has been inundated by a tidal wave of societal incuriosity, leading to the ongoing surge of cultural ignorance.

The truth is it doesn’t matter who or what is responsible for the alarming decline in historical literacy. America has got a problem, and the sooner it gets acknowledged, the sooner it’ll get dealt with appropriately.

It’s a shame how few kids understand American history the way my generation did back when we were elementary schoolers. If things don’t improve soon, it won’t be long before no one will remember to celebrate Labor Day on the 4th of July. <