Insight: Strength through Truth

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andy Young: Seventy-six very long years

By Andy Young

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

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

Like, for example, those residing on death row.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Insight: ‘The Not Knowing’

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rookie Mama – Keeping it real with all the fall vibes

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ultimate wake-up call, indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sure, back to school routine is an adjustment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Falleluia.

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

Andy Young: Cheryl and Joe

By Andy Young

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither one ever came home.

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

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

Insight: A Genuine Leader

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Andy Young

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Insight: The Reverse Bucket List

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My “Reverse Bucket List” certainly does overflow. <

Tim Nangle: Keeping our promise to students

By Senator Tim Nangle

Back-to-school season is here. Families are checking supply lists, arranging transportation and getting ready for the return of familiar routines. Teachers and staff are preparing classrooms, buses and cafeterias. Students are looking toward the first day with a mix of excitement, anticipation and nerves.

State Senator Tim Nangle

This season also comes with real pressures. Families are stretching household budgets to cover clothes, supplies and other expenses. School districts are working to recruit staff and meet rising costs for transportation, special education and everyday operations. Municipal leaders are trying to support strong schools without placing an unsustainable burden on property taxpayers.

During the 132nd Legislature, we took important steps to help our schools meet those challenges while keeping our commitment to Maine communities.

Importantly, we maintained the state’s share of funding for K-12 public education at 55 percent. That commitment matters. When the state pays its share and meets its obligations, communities do not have to rely as heavily on local property taxes to fund their schools.

As a former Windham town councilor, I have seen how decisions made in Augusta affect municipal budgets. When the state falls short on education funding, the responsibility lands on towns, school districts and local property taxpayers. Maintaining the 55-percent commitment at the state level helps reduce that pressure while also giving schools greater stability as they plan for the year ahead.

We also made the first major changes to Maine’s school funding formula in roughly 20 years. The updated formula better reflects differences among Maine communities, provides greater support to many rural areas and reduces the expected property tax burden for many Mainers. For RSU 14, which serves Windham and Raymond, estimates based on FY 2027 data show the updated formula increasing the state’s contribution by approximately $184,000 in the next school year. That means additional state support for our local schools, as they work to provide every student with a strong education.

Supporting our schools also means supporting the people who make them work. We approved a phased increase in Maine’s minimum teacher salary, which will reach $50,000 by the fall of 2029. This approach gives districts time to prepare while helping Maine recruit and retain talented educators. Teachers should be able to build a life in the same communities where they have dedicated their careers to helping young people build theirs.

We also worked to make the school day safer. The budget includes $5.9 million to install additional safety features on school buses across Maine. As Senate chair of the Transportation Committee, I was proud to help pass this bill through our committee. We also strengthened statewide coordination and emergency planning through the Maine School Safety Center. We know that a safe school day begins before students walk through the doors.

Our work did not stop at high school graduation. We protected access to early college programs, which are particularly important for rural and underserved students. We also made Maine’s Free Community College Program permanent for students who graduate from a Maine high school. These programs help students earn credentials, reduce debt and prepare for the jobs Maine communities need.

As another school year begins, I want to thank the teachers, education technicians, bus drivers, food service workers, custodians, administrators, parents and volunteers who help Maine students succeed. Most of all, I wish every student a safe, rewarding and successful year.

Our responsibility as lawmakers is to make sure the state’s commitment to them lasts well beyond the first bell.

As always, if you have questions, concerns or ideas for how state government can work better for you, please don’t hesitate to reach out. You can contact me directly at [email protected] or call my Senate office at 207-287-1515.

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

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

Andy Young: The dirty little secret

By Andy Young

Classes at the school where I’m employed start this coming Monday.

When I was growing up certain events reliably took place at the same time every year, and one of them was school always starting the Wednesday after Labor Day. Back then the idea of attending classes in August made no more sense than water skiing in February.

During my youth only the nerdiest, geekiest, and dorkiest of boys would ever even hint they were looking forward to the start of school in September. I’m not sure if this was also true of females, since I never was one myself. Prior to high school all I knew about girls my age was that none of them played Little League Baseball, street basketball, or backyard tackle football, which meant our paths never crossed during summer.

It didn’t occur to me until years later that the reason no girls participated in those activities was because they weren’t allowed to. Had the adults running youth baseball in our town been a little more enlightened, it’s likely Beth Medvecky and Meg Smith would have been standouts. In fact, had girls been allowed to participate, some of the less athletically gifted 9-year-old boys, a group that included me, might never have been selected for a Little League team in the first place.

The elementary school crowd I ran with was all male, and in that milieu the more you professed to hate school, the cooler you were. I was amongst the most vocal education-disparagers. That made sense, since the one thing I truly excelled at back then was amusing and/or distracting my classmates by making weird faces, blurting out wisecracks, or engaging in similar infantile antics while a selfless, dedicated, incredibly patient adult with a teaching degree was simultaneously trying to prepare all of us to ultimately become well-adjusted, intelligent, productive citizens.

My ceaseless attempts at comedy weren’t always appreciated by teachers, so like the swallows returning to Capistrano and Punxsutawney Phil checking for his shadow every February 2, early in November every year my mother would be summoned for conferences with teachers who’d accurately describe her oldest son as “underachieving,” “immature,” “a disruptive influence,” and often all three of those things. My siblings were model students, so clearly bad parenting wasn’t responsible for my academic and behavioral shortcomings.

But during all those years I had a dirty little secret: midway through each August I was actually looking forward to going back to school! I would never have admitted it, but that’s where everyone else was going to be. What other options were there? Besides, there wasn’t any upside to being class clown at home. The audience there was smaller, and far less appreciative of my juvenile buffoonery.

Ironically (and against all odds), I’m about to begin my 25th year as a public school teacher. I’ve spent the past week setting up my classroom and preparing lesson plans, all the while bemoaning, along with like-minded colleagues, the looming and tragic end of our all-too-brief summer vacation. Of course, none of us would ever voice such complaints to longshoremen, nurses, police officers, plumbers, hairdressers, electricians, daycare providers, welders, firefighters, accountants, engineers, cashiers, construction workers, secretaries, office clerks, or any number of other people whose jobs require them to literally and/or figuratively punch a time clock for all but two weeks a year.

But here’s the ultimate irony: all these decades later I’m still harboring the same dirty little secret. I’m actually looking forward to classes starting!

But please don’t tell my colleagues. I’d hate to have them think that I’m a nerd, a geek, or a dork. <

Insight: Strong at Heart, Strong in Spirit

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Bob Lansky was the personification of health for me when I was 10 years old. He was into fitness before it became trendy and believed in passing on his passion for healthy living to everyone he knew.

Ed Pierce still has the Willie Mays baseball
card that Coach Bob Lansky gave to him 
during summer camp in 1964.
COURTESY PHOTO

Lansky taught physical education in public schools in Brighton, New York where I grew up and was a high school cross country and JV wrestling coach. He loved being outdoors and was known for frequently citing “Lanskyisms” which were colorful expressions to fit nearly every scenario regarding athletics.

I first met him when my parents signed me up to participate in summer camp activities on the grounds of Brookside School in our Evans Farm neighborhood. As the camp director, Lansky filled our camp schedule with relay races, kickball, basketball and volleyball games, badminton and tether ball.

He was always the first to arrive each day and the last to leave, constantly preaching about the benefits of drinking milk or eating carrots as a snack instead of potato chips.

Coach Lansky, as he preferred to be called, insisted that we also try some new activities that tested our athletic ability such as archery, crab soccer, bouncing on the trampoline, or horseshoes.

When I balked at climbing ropes to the gym ceiling on a day at camp when it was raining, Lansky chided me by saying “strong like bull or weak like cream puff” and it motivated me to at least try the activity.

I learned from another camper that Lansky never missed an episode of “The Jack LaLanne Show” on television. LaLanne was a fitness guru and nutrition advocate who preached healthy living habits to Americans.

LaLanne was someone that Coach Lansky quoted frequently to his students and campers.

“So many older people, they just sit around all day long and they don't get any exercise,” Lansky once told us during a camp gathering. “Jack LaLanne says their muscles atrophy, and they lose their strength, their energy and vitality by inactivity. That’s why any sort of exercise is important. Mindset matters.”

One summer afternoon in 1964, he pulled me aside after a softball game and asked me how I learned to keep the scorebook. I told him that I played Little League baseball and when I wasn’t playing, our coach would ask me to track that information for him.

The next morning, I arrived at camp to find that Lansky had something for me in his shirt pocket. It was a brand-new baseball card of his favorite player, outfielder Willie Mays of the San Francisco Giants. He gave the card to me and bragged that he had met Willie Mays after a game at the Polo Grounds in the 1950s in New York City.

He said that keeping the scorebook was a special talent and asked if I could look at the box scores in the daily newspaper before coming to camp every morning and tell him how Willie Mays had done during the Giants’ game the night before. The more I read those box scores every day in the newspaper, the more fascinated I became with the baseball statistics on the back of baseball cards.

If I neglected to show up with the daily stats for Willie Mays, Coach Lansky would bark at me with "Lanskyisms" like “Make preparation your separation" or “If it is to be, it’s up to me.” I didn’t fully grasp what those phrases meant at the time, but I sure do now.

During each camp session, Lansky would also have a dance and would offer instructions to the campers about dance moves. I can still recall him playing 45 rpm records repeatedly of Manfred Mann’s “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” and “Rag Doll” by the Four Seasons while he taught us various dance steps.

“Dancing ain’t natural but it makes the bones feel alive,” Lansky told us. “Cutting a rug is good work for the ticker.”

Each summer when camp ended, Coach Lansky made it a point to have a party and would give us all blue ribbons for participation. He also handed out awards for teamwork, effort, kindness and individual sports achievements. In 1964, I received a small trophy as “Most Improved Free Throw Shooter” and in 1965, Lansky singled me out for being the “Most Dependable Camper” award for bringing him the daily results of both Willie Mays and third baseman Jim Ray Hart of the Giants.

Now I’ve reached the point in my life where I can look back and reflect on the people who have been influential in helping me to become the person that I am today and Coach Lansky is certainly on that list.

His quirky expressions still register in my brain when unique situations come up, and he could see something inside me when I couldn’t even realize it. Somehow, Coach Lansky sensed that I would go on to become a sportswriter and a journalist and he wanted me to practice reading box scores to glean details about games.

At the close of summer camp each year, Coach Lansky gathered campers in a large circle outdoors and had us join hands, reach to the sky and proclaim, “Strong at Heart, Strong in Spirit.”

He’s gone now but I won’t forget him. <

Andy Young: Eagerly anticipating the holiday weekend

By Andy Young

Nothing is more uplifting than sharing time with friends and family. That’s why I’m really looking forward to the impending holiday weekend this coming Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, the 22nd through the 24th. I’ve got a lot to celebrate, as do many other people.

This weekend I plan on taking time to fully appreciate the good health I’ve been blessed with recently. That’s an all-too-frequently-overlooked asset. Many people (including me, I’m afraid) don’t appropriately acknowledge that gift for what it’s worth until we’re deprived of it, even if only temporarily.

But there’s also lots more to savor. I just spent three weeks on the road, traveling from places ranging from Nova Scotia and New Brunswick to the Blue Ridge Mountains to several pristine Carolina beaches, reconnecting along the way with people I hadn’t seen in far too long. Everywhere I went I was treated like royalty by family, old friends, new friends, and total strangers I’ll probably never lay eyes on again.

I drove 2,884 miles by myself. During that time, I not only got to control what (if anything) was on the radio, I also took the opportunity to clearly and rationally process several issues that required thoughtful reflection. And I did all that while inside a humidity-free car where the temperature was always 25 to 30 degrees cooler than it was outside.

I had company for the other 1,500-ish miles of driving, but my delightful, patient companions were, are, and likely always will be a pleasure and a privilege to share time and space with.

During the trip I not only walked along the floor of the Atlantic Ocean, I also got to drive my car across it as well. I combed a South Carolina beach looking for flawless shells, and later, in western North Carolina, hiked while a couple of thousand feet above sea level. I explored towns and cities I’d read about but hadn’t previously visited and also learned that a clean environment is just as important to southerners as it is to New Englanders. (See photos).

I also learned it’s still possible to get from Point A to Point B over unfamiliar roads without a GPS, even if it did, on one occasion, require getting over-the-phone, step-by-step directions (in live time) from a 6-foot-4 adult I hadn’t seen since he was a 7-year-old kid playing with his trucks in a backyard dirt pile. Without his verbal instructions I’d have probably ended up in Newark, New Jersey instead of Newark, Delaware, where I enjoyed a long overdue reunion with his uber-cool parents and their extended family.

I may have been GPS-less, but I’m still thankful for technology. Without it I wouldn’t have been able to chat with friends hundreds of miles away as I traveled. And in case any state troopers in Pennsylvania, Virginia, New York, New Jersey, Maryland, West Virginia, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, or either of the Carolinas are reading this, you have my word: those phone conversations were all done hands-free.

Mostly.

After all that traveling, I plan on spending this coming holiday weekend at home celebrating the well-maintained roads and courteous drivers who allowed me to return safely to Maine. I’ll also consciously appreciate my good health, my good friends, my great neighbors and the random strangers who continue to shower me with kindnesses for no reason at all. I’ll also remind myself that I enjoy my job, and that it’s an important one.

The calendar says Thanksgiving falls on November’s fourth Thursday each year. But for me (and with the right attitude most people reading this), Thanksgiving weekend should be every weekend. <

Insight: Phony as a $2 bill

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

My father was known to describe something he thought was untrustworthy or fake as “phony as a $2 bill.”

Contrary to a long standing misconception of many, the $2
bill is still in use in America and still a part of the nation's
cash denomination system. COURTESY PHOTO   

I’m not sure how this old expression came about originally but although I haven’t seen one in person for a while, I can assure everyone that $2 bills still exist and remain part of America’s cash denominations.

Featuring a depiction of Thomas Jefferson on the front and a painting of the Declaration of Independence on the back, the $2 bill has been printed by the U.S. Treasury for the past 160 years yet are a rarity in wallets for many.

According to the Federal Reserve last year there were 1.8 billion $2 bills in circulation, the highest volume of $2 bills ever in the past 20 years. Because of that, Federal Reserve officials say they will not ask the Treasury Department’s Bureau of Engraving and Printing to print any $2 bills this year.

It’s not the first time that’s happened. In 2013, 2017, 2018, 2020, and 2023, no new $2 bills were printed. Between 307 million and 416 million $2 bills were printed in 2025 so there’s no shortage of that denomination in circulation this year.

The current design of the $2 bill was created in 1928 and was printed by the U.S. Treasury until 1966. Production was discontinued for 10 years through 1976 when it resumed for the bill sometimes called a “Tommy.” The Treasury attributed fewer people using the $2 bill as the reason for not resuming use of the denomination for a decade.

Since that 10-year span when no new $2 bills were issued, the perception of many Americans is that the U.S. no longer prints $2 bills or that existing $2 bills are collector’s items to hoard or stash away.

To boost interest in America’s Bicentennial in 1976, Treasury officials thought resuming production of the $2 bill would increase its use. However, many thought the redesigned bill was a special printing for the Bicentennial and stashed their new $2 bills away as collectors’ items in safe deposit boxes and dresser drawers hoping they would possibly increase in value.

Therefore, low usage is the real reason that $2 bills are the denomination with the fewest total amount in circulation. As decreasing numbers of $2 bills are used in transactions, the less the paper bills wear out and the need for the government to print new “Tommys” has declined.

Because $2 bills are saved as novelties rather than for spending, it also has led to its uncommon and mythical status in today’s culture.

The scarcity of $2 bills contributes to misinformation that the bills are now longer being produced and creates difficulty for anyone trying to spend them. Many vending machines do not accept $2 bills, and some businesses or merchants are unsure if they can be taken for payment or are authentic. I’ve yet to find an ATM that dispenses $2 bills if requested.

Bankers say many $2 bills are removed from circulation by those who view them as being scarce and more valuable than common $1, $5, $10 and $20 bills. But $2 bills are available every day at most banks across the nation yet are usually not handed out unless requested by customers.

To stay ahead of counterfeiters, starting in 1996, the Federal Reserve initiated redesign of paper currency bills and it’s an ongoing program. A newly redesigned $100 bill was introduced in 1996, followed by a new $50 bill in 1997, a $20 bill in 1998, a $10 bill and $5 bills in 2000. The program has become a regular schedule for introduction of redesigned bills with 2026 being a year when a new redesigned $10 bill will go into circulation coinciding with America’s 250th anniversary.

But a redesign for the $2 bill has never been proposed and probably never will.

According to the Federal Reserve, “The United States government redesigns Federal Reserve notes primarily for security reasons: to stay ahead of counterfeiting threats and keep counterfeiting levels low. Because the $2 note is infrequently counterfeited, the government has no plans to redesign this note.” 

If a question ever is asked on Jeopardy about who appeared on the original $2 bill back in 1862, the answer is Alexander Hamilton. He was replaced by Jefferson in 1869.

The reverse side of the $2 bill also has an interesting history.

From 1862 to 1869, a seal on the back indicated the currency was legal tender. From 1869 to 1928, a vignette of the U.S. Capitol building was used. Starting in 1928 and running through 1966 when production halted, Jefferson’s home of Monticello in Virginia appeared on the back side of the bill.

When the $2 bill was reissued in 1976, the reverse side had John Trumbull’s painting called “The Declaration of Independence.” The original is a 12 by 18-foot work finished in 1817 that has hung in the U.S. Capitol Rotunda since 1826 and depicts the presentation of the draft of the Declaration of Independence to Congress.

When I worked for my Uncle Ray as a teenager at a marina in the Thousand Islands, he once told me that “$2 bills or love aren’t rare, we just don't choose to share them enough.” <

Rookie Mama – Don’t let your fridge get too full-blown; Lessons learned from Home Alone

By Michelle Cote
The Rookie Mama

“I hope you’re all drinking milk; I want to get rid of it!”
­­–  Kevin McCallister’s mother, Home Alone

For all intents and purposes, Kate McCallister’s character – a role expertly played by the late, great Catherine O’Hara – doesn’t have the best rap as far as movie mama characters go.

Mama McCallister did, after all, leave her youngest son behind – twice – on separate harried family ventures, in films that yet remarkably make for phenomenal Christmas movies in each their own right.

You haven’t seen an airport montage spectacle until it’s been to the ditty of “Run, Run, Rudolph,” and John Candy playing polka holiday tunes in a rental van is stagecraft unmatched.

Clearly, I’m giving away my age – The two OG Home Alone films mark the holiday films of my generation – 80s neon on the brink of 90s life.

I will love them forever (the movies, not the 80s), although I do shake my head in disbelief more and more each year – Really, she forgot her youngest child?

How would this happen in any era, from the boomer days to Y2Ks, to time before and since?

I get the frenzy that comes with big family territory, but I digress.

Of all the classic lines associated with the first film – and there are many in Christmas movie canon – my favorite is an easily missed throwaway line.

The brief remark about drinking milk resonates because it’s such a subtle, unmistakable mama thing to say, along with all classic lines about picking up shoes, eating your broccoli, reminding kids they don’t live in a barn.

The McCallisters are heading out on vacation – Even they don’t want food to spoil, abundant wealth notwithstanding.

Your own mama and hers before likely echoed similar sentiments about avoiding food waste.

And therein lies the point of my column – The importance of being earnest in the great refrigerator cleanout, and to be cognizant of what we purchase in the first place.

What’s in your refrigerator that needs scrapping?

You’d be surprised at how many sneaky condiment bottles or salsa jars and the like may have expired months – perhaps years! – ago.

No shame if this is true, because although your refrigerator is running, so are you, and who’s got time to find the teeny black print conveniently hidden underneath these jars?

Run, Run, Rudolph.

When the Paddington movies were released, our kids went on a short-lived marmalade kick.

The too-sweet citrus fascination died down before the jar emptied, and so in the refrigerator it sat and sat some more, until it was at long last relegated to the green bin.

The intentional clean-out task becomes all the more relevant when our family is preparing for a vacation, which was the recent case.

A week prior to go-time, I blurted it out, ‘I hope you’re all drinking milk; I want to get rid of it.’

We were intentionally rifling through our fresh food to eat what we could before we took off for a stretch.

This promptly led to our checking labels on absolutely everything – it’s the slow-to-perish-ables that get ya, when we’re often so focused squarely on the avocado-type items that we know will decompose faster than the speed of a Little Nero’s pizza delivery at the McCallisters’ front door.

I was shocked – favorite spreads, leftover cake icing, gourmet spiced mustards – tucked neatly into their own place were all but expired.

On the flip side, our refrigerator is much cleaner now, with actual space between the carefully Jenga-block-stacked assembly of fresh foods.

A fresh start with a minimalist carte blanche, almost beckoning for garden harvest goods to come (speaking of blanching).

This was a reminder to not overstock that which can’t be preserved long term, because those expiration dates come quickly, like a child’s first 18 years at home.

We love a good marinade variety, but not enough to risk having some go to waste before we can slather it all up and enjoy its deliciousness. 

I realize we’ll need to tackle our first aid and medicine next for expired Tylenol.

So check your fridge contents and make a clean sweep of whatever cans and jars galore just didn’t make the deadline.

We’re doing the same, and it’s a reminder to meal plan more intentionally and meaningfully for future dishes as responsibly as we can muster in a run, run, Rudolph kind of world.

If you can freeze something that would otherwise go to waste, have at it – Your food-conscious ancestors would nod approval in unison.

Check those expiration dates, pick up your shoes, and drink all that milk.

And when your kiddos become curious about marmalade, buy the travel-size only.

­­– 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: Have the eyes had it?

By Andy Young

I had really good vision when I was younger. Which really doesn’t mean much, since “when I was younger” could literally refer to any moment of my life prior to this one.

When we got our annual eye test in elementary school, I was one of those show-offs who’d read the tiniest figures on the eyechart’s bottom (including the copyright date), even after the nurse told me I’d already passed the test by accurately reciting the chart’s top six lines.

But as is the case with various other body parts, with the passage of time my vision has undergone some changes. After a routine examination about a dozen years ago, a moderately concerned-looking eye doctor informed me I had a small cataract in each eye. My response was, “Okay. Uhhhh … what’s a cataract?”

He patiently explained cataracts aren’t uncommon in people as they age but left unchecked, they can cloud or blur a person’s vision, cause colors to look less vivid, and make seeing at night difficult. He added, however, that there wasn’t a need to take any action at that time.

“Well, when should I do something about them?” I asked. “When your vision starts getting worse,” he replied.

During each of the next 10 years, which passed by in what seemed like a mere decade, I dutifully submitted to an eye exam, the results of which were the same: I still had cataracts, they were still small, and I hadn’t noticed any changes in my vision.

Actually, I was secretly harboring the knowledge that when driving after dark in the rain on roads I wasn’t familiar with I was an accident waiting to happen, a potential menace to society. However, subsequent anecdotal peer research revealed that nobody is good at driving in those conditions, so I continued to opt against surgery.

But last year my cataracts had gotten bigger, so I was sent to an ophthalmologist, who told me that since I had detected blurred vision, it was time for surgery.

Except … despite my ever-increasing squinting I hadn’t detected any blurred or cloudy vision, nor any fading colors. When I mentioned that the ophthalmologist did some neat verbal backpedaling, listing several reasons why surgery wouldn’t be necessary after all.

Has anyone besides me noticed how similar the words “east” and “west” look on highway signs when one tries to read them while traveling at speeds above 50 mph?

Approaching the end of northbound I-287 in New Jersey this past Sunday, I saw a large sign advising those wishing to connect with I-684 and I-84 East (as I did) to take I-87 North. Since I may be America’s last GPS-less motorist, I inwardly congratulated myself for having noticed it. Doing as instructed, I eschewed I-87 South and the Marion Cuomo (formerly Tappan Zee) Bridge, even though in the past I had taken that very span to connect with I-84.

Has anyone besides me noticed how similar the words “north” and “south” look on highway signs when one tries to read them while traveling at speeds above 50 mph?

Thankfully I realized my error before getting to Montreal, so my vision-related faux pas only added 30 extra miles to the trip.

It’s about time the government does something about this obvious safety hazard and that’s why I’m asking my congresswoman and senators to introduce legislation that will change the words “North” and “South” on all state and federal highway signs to “Up” and “Down.”

But just in case they’re too busy running for re-election to act on this vital issue, I’ll see if I can remember where I put that ophthalmologist’s phone number. <

Insight: Practical lessons for budding journalists

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

I recently saw a post on Linked In where a first-year journalism student from Nigeria posted an interesting question.

Ed Pierce covered this fire at a three-story
apartment building in Biddeford in 2018
which killed an elderly resident.
PHOTO BY ED PIERCE 

He asked, “What’s one lesson you learned in your first year as a journalist that school didn’t teach you?”

For me that list was lengthy, but I answered his question by focusing on a mobile home fire I was asked to report on in the 1980s. I had just arrived for work at a newspaper that published twice a week in a small city of about 8,000 in New Mexico.

As I just sat down with a cup of coffee at my desk, the editor came running into the newsroom, looked around and saw I was the only reporter there. He told me he had just heard a call on the scanner for firefighters to respond to a mobile home on fire just two streets away from the newspaper office.

The editor instructed me to grab my 35mm camera and my notepad and run to the fire scene.

Upon my arrival there, a noticed that a crew of firefighters was already using a fire hose to try and extinguish flames shooting out from the overhang of a carport with a pickup truck parked underneath it. A tree next to the carport was also on fire and I could see flames and black smoke bursting out from a window in front of the mobile home.

Luckily for me, I had placed a new roll of 35mm film in my Minolta camera the night before, so I was ready to begin taking photographs as soon as I arrived on scene.

I walked slowly up the driveway, stepping over firehoses that the crews had laid down after connecting to a fire hydrant across the street. Although it was mid-morning, the dense smoke was making it hard for me to see just a few feet in front of me, But I continued to look through the camera lens and snap photos as firefighters did their best to extinguish the blaze and limit damage.

There did not appear to be anyone at home at the fire scene and I heard more sirens from additional fire trucks as I advanced to a point about halfway up the driveway.

All I could hear were the sirens, shouts of the firefighters, the sound of the water from the fire hose hitting the carport and an odd snapping and sizzling sound somewhere near me as a thick wall of smoke encapsulated my position in the driveway.

Just then I heard a fireman say to me in a loud and direct way,. “Don’t take another step if you value your life.”

I looked down at the ground and saw a live electric line leading to the house that had been burned through by the fire moving back and forth in the driveway and emitting sparks.

To this day, I do not know who that fireman was, but he saved me from being electrocuted and taught me an important lesson as a young journalist. I stopped in my tracks and cautiously backed out of the driveway, fortunate to be alive.

The lesson I learned that day and have carried with me for the rest of my career in journalism is to always ask public safety personnel for permission to enter fire sites or crime scenes.

Here’s another lesson I learned much later in my career. At a fire scene, never park directly behind a fire truck. Once in New Hampshire I heard a fire call on the scanner and knew I could get there in three minutes in my car by taking a shortcut of a few back streets to the scene.

Arriving a few doors down from the fire, I pulled up behind the first fire truck to get there. I got out and was instructed by the fire captain that I could take photos by standing across the road where it was safe.

In the meantime, four more fire engines arrived behind my car and a crew from the last one began laying an eight-inch fire hose up the middle of the street and connected it to a fire hydrant.

I was able to obtain some fantastic photos for the next day’s newspaper of the fire and interviewed an occupant of the house and some of his neighbors as the fire was extinguished. I was ready to get back to the office, upload my photos and write the story.

My car was blocked not only by the fire trucks parked behind me, but I was told by a policeman that I could not pull a U-turn and drive over the fire hose running up the street. I was stuck there for another 45 minutes until the fire trucks departed and the fire hose was rolled up and taken away.

It was another valuable lesson learned, even though I had been a journalist for many years by then. When going to the scene of a fire, always park a good distance away in the event you need to leave quickly.

As a new journalist, you should always strive for accuracy and fairness in everything you write but basic safety and common sense are equally as important. <

Andy Young: On the road again, again

By Andy Young

I am currently on the horns of a dilemma.

For a long time, I’ve pledged to use part of my summer vacation to visit friends and family who have, at one time or another, traveled a significant distance to spend time with me and my family here in America’s northeastern-most state.

Year after year I’ve promised these extraordinary folks I’m going to return the favor, and when I make that vow I honestly mean it.

But here’s my problem: these truly special individuals, all of whom have impacted my life in numerous positive ways, live in places like Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Virginia, Delaware, and the Carolinas.

There’s one additional factor to be considered. Like most people, I don’t want to be judged harshly by others. But there’s no better way to appear foolish than to be traveling somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line during the summer in a car adorned with Maine license plates.

“Why in God’s name,” average strangers would think, “would anyone voluntarily leave Nirvana?”

Southern Mainers know we’ve got a good thing going. Sure, our dark, cold winters last a tad longer than the dreariest season does in other parts of the country. But winter here hasn’t really been all that arduous recently. Annual snowfall levels for the past decade or so have been pretty modest. We prefer to keep that secret to ourselves, though. We’re happy letting the rest of the country think Maine is East Alaska. Perpetuating that myth helps keep the riffraff out.

Well, some of it, anyway.

Maine is Heaven on Earth in the summertime. No place else in America combines consistently clear, sunny days with cool, relaxing evenings. There are mountains to hike, beaches to comb, wide varieties of cuisine to explore, clean air to breathe, clean water to drink, and little to no traffic.

Except on weekends between Memorial Day and mid-October. And every day between mid-June and Labor Day.

So how does an allegedly rational Mainer justify spending early August where I am now, in steamy, muggy, stiflingly hot South Carolina?

It’s simple. I’m not on vacation. I’m on a fact-finding junket preparing to better educate the students who’ll be entering my classroom next month.

What important facts have I gleaned so far? Well, for starters:

The Hometown Farmer’s Market in Tamaqua, Pennsylvania is not to be missed. It’s held year-round, rain or shine, but only on Wednesdays. Insider’s tip: get there early. It’ll take at least two hours to do it right, and parking gets tricky as the day goes on.

The Shoeless Joe Jackson Museum in downtown Greenville, South Carolina is located in the small house where the baseball legend actually lived. But it’s only open through Aug. 30, and only on Saturdays between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m.

The Potomac River that flows through Washington D.C. also serves as the border between Maryland and West Virginia. But the state line isn’t in the river’s middle; Maryland owns the entire waterway. 

West Virginia begins on the south/west shore.

While it may seem counterintuitive, the quickest way to drive from eastern Pennsylvania to Asheville, North Carolina involves going through Tennessee.

It’s possible to drive 605 miles in a single day while subsisting solely on carrots, apples and trail mix.

But the biggest thing I’ve learned so far: making eye contact with another person driving a car with Maine license plates south of the Mason-Dixon Line and/or west of the Hudson River during the summer produces an instant, genuinely appreciative smile from all involved parties.

Let everyone else think we’re crazy.

Maybe that’ll help keep the rest of the riffraff out. <