Insight: Is this the party to whom I am speaking?

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Four years ago on Nov. 9, 2021, I was sitting at my kitchen table eating alone and wondering how events were about to transform my life.

Robert 'Bob' Boyd was an example of
courage and inspiration for Ed Pierce
and could imitate the voice of Kermit
the Frog. COURTESY PHOTO     

Just 17 years earlier, I had no idea that someone I had met recently for the first time while on a vacation trip would have such a profound effect upon me and how that person became an example of courage and inspiration for me.

Robert Stanley Boyd grew up in Winooski, Vermont and was five years older than me. I had married Bob’s youngest sister Nancy in June 2005, and I had not met him in person before flying to Vermont for a weeklong trip to my wife’s hometown that fall.

Entering the mudroom to the home in Essex Junction, Vermont where Bob lived with his wife, Jacinthe, Nancy pointed out a mountain of shoes stacked up there as wearing shoes was not permitted in their spotlessly clean home.

Despite never having met Bob before, he gave me a gigantic bear hug and rattled off a dozen or more corny jokes, followed by the silliest of laughs. We became close, and I found it fascinating that the lost art of sarcasm dwelled within Bob Boyd. He played the guitar during church services and knew all the words to the same songs from the 1960s that I did.

In fact, from the first time that I met him and each subsequent trip to his home thereafter, a music channel playing classic hits from the 1960s was always playing on his television.

He complained about everything from high taxes to the price of mandarin oranges and made sure people heard him. When large trucks started something called “engine braking” in front of his home while nearing his town, he argued before the town council to forbid such a terrible practice there. During our next visit, he proudly showed us a sign about a quarter of a mile away from his house that prohibited “engine braking” on that street.

Bob delighted in telling me stories about when my stepsons were young and how he gave their mom some time off and took the three boys out for lunch at McDonalds. With a twinkle in his eye, he talked about how the youngest, Danny, kept shoving straws into his cup until he had put more than 200 in there. While his brothers thought it was ridiculous, Bob played along with Danny and said if he wanted to do that, he should be able to.

Something I had in common with Bob was that we had both served in the U.S. Air Force. We had long discussions about military life and how Bob had joined the Air Guard instead of becoming a Marine like his two brothers.

I also thought is funny that each time Bob called to wish us a happy birthday or to say hello he would do so using a voice and snort sounding like Lily Tomlin as Ernestine the Telephone Operator from Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In.

In turn, each time we called him, and I got to wish Bob a happy birthday, I would always ask him how old he was on this birthday and then tell him he didn’t look a day older than he was yesterday. He would always chuckle and say to me “at least I’m retired,” even though he would have part-time gigs working for a funeral home or giving directions to tourists while manning the information booth at the Burlington, Vermont airport.

On one of our visits to Vermont about 2015, Bob told us that he was sick of snow and cold and was buying a home in Ocean Isle Beach, North Carolina where he could go fishing all year long. He loved it there and even flew Nancy down to visit him and Jacinthe one winter when she was on winter break from teaching her first-grade class in Maine.

About 2019, Nancy said she could sense some urgency in Bob’s voice each time he called and asked us to come and visit. We were soon to find out why.

Bob had been diagnosed with a brain tumor, and he underwent surgeries and treatment. His health declined and it was only a matter of time. That November day in 2021, Nancy was visiting Bob for perhaps the final time. Over Christmas week in 2021, I broke down and cried when I couldn’t find a Veterans Administration official to help Bob enter hospice care. I felt helpless as someone I truly loved was in such great pain.

Then on the morning of Jan. 2, 2022, we received notification that Bob had been admitted to a nearby hospice facility but had passed away.

This coming holiday season marks four years since Bob has left us and although he’s gone in many ways, I can still hear his voice or remember some of those stupid corny jokes he would tell. Or recall his silly impression of Kermit the Frog singing “Rainbow Connection.”

Every day I look at a photo of Bob on my dresser and imagine he’s out there somewhere laughing at something I’ve done. In that sense, he’s never left. <

Tim Nangle: The quiet public health service that saves Mainers every day

By State Senator Tim Nangle

When you think about essential public health services, you might picture an ambulance, a local clinic or a hospital emergency room. But behind the scenes, one of Maine’s most effective and cost-saving health services is the one you’ll never see unless you need it — the Northern New England Poison Center (NNEPC).

State Senator Tim Nangle

Based in Portland, the NNEPC operates 24 hours a day, seven days a week, connecting Mainers with specially trained nurses, pharmacists and board-certified toxicologists who can offer expert medical guidance within moments of a potential poisoning or overdose. Whether it’s a toddler who accidentally ingested household cleaner, an older adult who double-dosed a prescription medication or a hospital emergency department that needs toxicology consultation, the NNEPC provides immediate, lifesaving expertise.

According to the NNEPC Annual Report for 2024–2025, the Poison Center managed 13,814 Maine cases, including 11,546 human exposures and 606 animal exposures. Nearly one in four calls came directly from health care providers seeking advice on severe or complex cases. Maine’s hospitals, pharmacists and first responders rely on the center for expert toxicology support every day.

Children under six made up 36% of non-hospital cases, and an incredible 93% of those were treated safely at home with guidance from poison specialists, avoiding unnecessary and costly emergency room visits.

During a visit to the center this fall, I saw firsthand how a single phone call can make the difference between panic and peace of mind, or even life and death. As a former paramedic, I relied on the Poison Center many times for expert advice in the field, and I’ve seen how that guidance can change outcomes for patients in crisis. Every call is answered by professionals who not only treat emergencies but help prevent them, educating the public and medical community alike.

The results are clear: for every dollar invested in poison control services, the system saves at least $13 in other health care costs by preventing unnecessary ER visits and reducing hospital stays.

Earlier this year, I introduced LD 689, “An Act to Support the Northern New England Poison Center,” to ensure Maine continues to fund this critical public health service. The bill passed with unanimous, bipartisan support, providing $50,000 in each of the next two fiscal years to help strengthen the center’s operations and ensure Mainers can always reach a toxicology expert when they need one.

At the public hearing on LD 689, medical professionals and emergency responders offered powerful testimony about the value of this work.

Joe Kellner, CEO of LifeFlight of Maine and a Windham resident, shared how closely their air ambulance service works with the center. In his testimony, he reminded us of what’s at stake:

“When contemplating the merits of funding a critical program, it is important to evaluate what would happen should funding NOT occur. In this case, it is very direct — without the Center, at best, treatment outcomes are suboptimal and at worst, people die.”

LifeFlight transports over 3,000 patients annually across Maine, many of whom receive improved care thanks to the expert support of the NNEPC. This partnership between our air medical service and the Poison Center underscores how tightly integrated and essential this system is to Maine’s health care network.

Dr. Mark Neavyn, Medical Director of the NNEPC, told the committee that Maine’s state funding for poison control is “less than half that provided by New Hampshire, a state with a similar population, and less than Vermont’s, which has half our population.”

Smart investments in public health strengthen the entire system. When the Poison Center has the resources to support front-line medical staff, it helps every hospital, ambulance crew and emergency room do their jobs more effectively and keeps Mainers safer.

If you ever face a poisoning emergency or have a question, help is only a phone call away. Mainers can reach the Northern New England Poison Center any time by dialing 1-800-222-1222, texting POISON to 85511 or visiting nnepc.org for live chat support.

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 Tim.Nangle@legislature.maine.gov. You can also call the Senate Majority Office at 207-287-1515.

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

Andy Young: Ironically, it’s Halloween

By Andy Young

I’ve never understood why some people profess to actually like being terrified. Being scared by something frightening isn’t any more enjoyable than being frightened by something scary.

Another thing I don’t get: people who claim to like terrifying cinema. Not only do these odd folks attend horror movies fully intending to be scared stiff, they’re actually eager to pay for the privilege!

I don’t see the logic in tossing my hard-earned money at something that’s likely to induce hair-raising nightmares for weeks (or perhaps years) after the fact. I just don’t understand why some people like having their figurative pants scared off. And even if they truly do enjoy such activity, there’s no need to pay for it. If I want to be frightened, I’ll look into a mirror 45 seconds after waking up in the morning, since that gruesome sight comes free of charge.

I think people who claim to enjoy being scared are attention-seekers who are faking their love of the macabre. They say they love being terrified? Fine. Let them imagine walking down some dark, deserted city street late some evening. Hearing footsteps and glancing behind them, they perceive they’re being followed by two 6-foot-10-inch, 350-pound satchel-toting behemoths with swastikas tattooed on their faces and blood dripping from their hands. The alleged horror-flick-lover starts walking more briskly, but the two goons step up their pace as well. Their previously indecipherable murmurings get louder, too. They begin laughing maniacally and chanting “You’re gonna die,” and /or, “Satan, we obey thee.”

Turning down an alley and beginning to run, the pursued individual comes to a dead end. Cornered, their back to the wall, they watch as the uglier of the thugs pulls a chainsaw out of his bag and, flashing an evil leer, starts it up.

I don’t understand people who say they enjoy that sort of thing.

Halloween is without question the most ironic date on the calendar. Most rational people don’t like being scared, yet here’s this widely anticipated day that’s devoted entirely to the worship of ghouls, goblins, and ghoublins (the byproducts of decades worth of ghoul-goblin intermarriage).

It’s been decades since I’ve gone trick-or-treating. That’s partly because not one of my remaining teeth is a sweet one and also because I no longer look even remotely adorable in any traditional Halloween costume. But Oct. 31 is, as previously established, the year’s most ironic day. Therefore, those who insist on dressing up should do so in an appropriately ironic guise, like that of a cheerful grouch, a generous miser, or a slender glutton.

Imaginative trick-or-treaters could really run with the ironic theme. The possibilities are endless. They could dress up as blind optometrists, junk-food-eating dieticians, or as a fireman whose house has burned to the ground. Or why not disguise themselves as sociopathic social workers, vegetarian butchers, or politicians who can’t lie? Other costume possibilities: an airsick pilot, an animal-hating veterinarian, or a chain-smoking health care provider. It would take some impressive padding to create a 300-pound jockey costume, although that particular get-up could be made convincing if the dresser-upper in question could gain access to a swaybacked horse.

Halloween festivities can be exhausting, but thankfully for revelers who don’t live in Arizona, Hawaii, or any of the other U.S. territories that don’t do Daylight Saving Time, this Sunday morning is when clocks get turned back. The resulting 49-hour weekend should provide sufficient time for even the hardiest partiers to catch up on their sleep and wake up relaxed.

Unless their shuteye has been interrupted by nightmares involving 350-pound chain-saw-lugging ghoublins pursuing them down dead-end alleys. <

Barbara Bagshaw: A Government That Forgets Who It Works For

By State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

Our state is at a crossroads. I’ve spent my time in Augusta standing up for your rights, our Constitution, and the principle that government exists to serve the people –not the other way around.

State Rep. Barbara Bagshaw

Right now, the majority party controls the governorship, the House, and the Senate. With that level of power comes responsibility, yet what we’re seeing instead is unchecked spending and misplaced priorities. Too often, policies seem to favor those here unlawfully over Maine’s hard-working citizens who struggle daily to make ends meet.

At the same time, lawmakers recently voted to remove the cap on how much municipalities can raise property taxes each year. For years, increases were limited to the rate of inflation. Now, local governments can raise taxes without limit – and many are doing just that. Property taxpayers should brace themselves; this could easily become an annual trend unless voters demand change at the ballot box.

I come from a family of “Kennedy Democrats.” My parents and I still share many of the same values – fiscal responsibility, fairness, and belief in opportunity for all. But what we see in Augusta today bears little resemblance to that tradition. The current leadership has drifted far from the principles that once united Mainers across party lines.

Government is meant to be a vehicle driven by the people. Somewhere along the way, many in Augusta have forgotten that. They work for us, not the other way around.

Recently, I attended a local school board meeting that reminded me how far off course we’ve drifted in education. It has become clear that too many school policies are written to protect institutions rather than students and parents. Legal advisors seem to hold more sway than families or educators. Even the Education Commissioner has acknowledged that “academics will have to take the back seat.” Unfortunately, Maine’s declining test scores confirm it.

We need to get back to the basics – reading, writing, math, and science – and prepare our children to think critically and contribute meaningfully to society. Social and emotional programs can play a role, but not at the expense of fundamental learning. The federal government has even warned Maine that it must refocus on academics – yet little has changed.

In the Legislature, I sponsored LD 252, a bill to withdraw Maine from the National Popular Vote Compact. This agreement, narrowly approved by the House in a prior session, would tie Maine’s Electoral College votes to the national popular vote – effectively allowing large urban areas like New York or Los Angeles to determine Maine’s voice in presidential elections.

Beyond the fairness issue, the Constitution is clear: Article I, Section 10 prohibits states from entering into interstate compacts without congressional consent. I believe this compact violates that clause. My bill to withdraw passed the House twice but failed in the Senate – by a single vote each time. That’s how close we came to restoring Maine’s independent voice.

Elections have consequences. I encourage everyone to research the candidates on the ballot this fall – not just in state races, but local ones as well. We need leaders who remember that they are elected to represent the people, not to advance an ideology.

The challenges ahead are real, but so is the opportunity to steer Maine back toward accountability, balance, and respect for the values that built this state.

It is an honor to represent part of Windham in the Legislature. If there is any way that I can be of assistance, please contact me at barbara.bagshaw@legislature.maine.gov. My office phone number is 207-287-1440. You can find me on Facebook. To receive regular updates, sign up for my e-newsletter at https://mainehousegop.org/

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: Tilting at Windmills

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Like Don Quixote, I believe in tilting at windmills because sometimes persistence does indeed pay off.

Bill Smith played for the Portland Trail
Blazers in the NBA for two seasons
after a stellar college career at Syracuse
University. COURTESY PHOTO

A few days after Christmas in 1966, my father suggested that I get out of the house and do something fun instead of sitting around watching television. I had just turned 13 and was in the eighth grade at Carlton Webster Junior High School in Henrietta, New York when I decided to walk to Rush-Henrietta High School and attend the championship game of a varsity basketball Christmas tournament.

I stepped through the door of the gym and then stopped dead in my tracks. I could not believe that right in front of me on the basketball floor warming up for the game that night was the tallest human being I had ever seen in person. His name was Bill Smith, he was 6-foot-11-inches in height, and as I was about to observe, a very talented basketball player. He scored 35 points in that game and just a few months later, Bill led our high school to its first-ever berth in the New York Section V Basketball Championship Game.

Although Rush-Henrietta lost that game, I came away with a deep sense of pride for my school and town, and it kindled a lifetime love of basketball in me. As I got into high school, I continued to follow Bill Smith’s career. He went to Syracuse University and became one of only three players in Syracuse history to average more than 20 points a game in his career there. The Portland Trail Blazers of the National Basketball Association drafted him in 1971, and he became the team’s starting center, competing against some of the NBA’s finest big men including Wilt Chamberlain and Kareem Abdul Jabbar.

Just when his professional basketball career was taking off, Smith sustained a devasting knee injury. Medical technology back then was not as sophisticated as it is today and after just two NBA seasons, Smith was out of basketball and onto a different career and a new life as a husband and a father.

Through the years in my journalism career, I often thought about what a great player Bill Smith was and how fortunate I was to see him play in high school.

Then in 2000, the Section V Basketball Hall of Fame was created, and I eagerly awaited Bill being recognized with that honor. But it never happened. I watched as a few Rush-Henrietta players were inducted into the Hall of Fame and wondered when it would be Bill’s turn. In 2007, I nominated my own Rush-Henrietta coach, Gene Monje, for the honor, and he was inducted a year later.

I sat back and waited as the years went by and was disappointed that this honor was never presented to Bill Smith. The final straw for me came when his name was not on the list of inductees in 2021. It motivated me to correct that oversight so I tracked Bill down at his home in Oregon and asked if I could write a nomination for him.

He agreed to that but told me others had tried previously and suggested that it might be a lost cause. Unfazed, I pressed on, gathered data and facts, and sent in the nomination paperwork in June 2023. That fall the new induction class for the Hall of Fame was announced and once again, Bill’s name was absent. I sent an email to the director of the Section V Basketball Hall of Fame Selection Committee, and he informed me that Bill’s nomination was submitted six months after the committee had made its choices for the 2023 induction class. He agreed to hold Bill’s nomination paperwork for the next cycle, which falls every two years.

In the meantime, I encouraged Bill to remain confident and positive, hoping that 2025 was his year. We became good friends through this, and Bill was appreciative of my efforts in trying to obtain this honor for him. I told him I believed that many members of the selection committee were unaware of his basketball accomplishments because they hadn’t yet been born when he played and never saw him play like I did.

I didn’t have to be so persistent in Bill Smith’s case, but it was the right thing for me to do.

On Dec. 22, 2024, I received a phone call from the director of the selection committee, telling me that Bill Smith would be inducted on Nov. 1, 2025 into the Section V Basketball Hall of Fame’s Class of 2025. I called Bill immediately once I learned the good news and he told me it was one of the best Christmas presents that he has ever received.

Next weekend I will fly to Rochester, New York and join Bill, his wife Mary, and some of his high school teammates at his induction ceremony at the Rochester Institute of Technology’s Inn and Conference Center.

For all those individuals out there right now tilting at windmills, my advice is to keep it up, eventually things might work out, no matter what the cause is you are pursuing.

In the end, redemption is truly about righting a wrong, and in that pursuit, it's really all about trying. <

Andy Young: That foreboding feeling

By Andy Young

There are different degrees of adversity which human beings have to deal with from time to time. Stubbing a toe or hitting one’s thumb with a hammer are, in the grand scheme of things, mild mishaps that most rational people can deal with. However, the severity of the aftermath can vary, given the circumstances. For example, a small hammer hitting an exposed thumb is a temporary annoyance, but an inconveniently located foot getting pounded by a careless sledgehammer-wielder is a calamity.

Losing one’s phone or wallet can seem like the end of the world in the moment, although those sorts of things tend to work themselves out eventually. The same goes for certain physical setbacks, like sprained or fractured limbs. But some bits of ill fortune have lasting consequences, like domestic violence, divorce, natural disasters, or chronic and/or terminal diseases.

When something unfortunate happens to me, the first thing I do is honestly ask myself if I deserved it. For example, let’s say an important appliance stops working for no apparent reason. If I’ve been unfair to someone, not alerted the cashier at the grocery store when she gave me more change than I was entitled to, or teased someone because they’re a New York Jets fan, well then, I had it coming.

However, if I genuinely cannot come up with a single reason why misfortune has befallen me, I begin quivering with anticipation, because I firmly believe that: A) over time, the breaks even up, and B) sooner or later karma, both the good and the bad variety, eventually impacts people judiciously. If I’ve been unlucky and there’s no justification for it, I know for certain that something good is coming my way.

An instance of this happened not long ago. My furnace had stopped working, which was four digits to the left of the decimal point worth of bad news. But I truly couldn’t remember doing anything to deserve it, and lo and behold, a week later I got a call from the new bookkeeper for someone I had done business with, wondering why I hadn’t cashed the substantial check they had sent three years earlier. The answer, of course, was I had never gotten it, so after double-checking their records and apologizing profusely, they sent me $3,000.

A similar example: my car got a flat tire at a time that was extraordinarily inconvenient. (Which begs the question: is there ever a convenient time to get a flat tire?) On that occasion I again searched my memory for reasons I might have merited misfortune but found none. Shortly thereafter, a local grocery store sent me a $50 gift certificate for some silly contest I had long since forgotten entering.

I haven’t had much bad luck lately; in fact, the opposite has been true. Just last week I found a dime in the parking lot at school, and two quarters at the gas station when I was filling up my car. Then the next morning the New York Rangers wristband I thought I had lost weeks ago tumbled out of a clean shirt I was putting on. Why wristbands feel the need to hide inside larger articles of clothing while they spin in the dryer is anyone’s guess, but the fact is they do so far too frequently for it to be coincidence.

The only problem with this spate of recent good fortune: I’ve meticulously combed my memory but haven’t come up with a single reason I deserve all of this good luck. And, as mentioned previously, in my experience the breaks ultimately always even up.

Uh oh. <

Insight: Reminiscing about home

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Finding home for me is much more than the advice Dorothy received in “The Wizard of Oz” film of closing her eyes, tapping her heels together three times and thinking to herself “There’s No Place like Home.”

Ed Pierce stands by his boyhood home in
Brighton, New York in September. He lived
in that house from 1958 to 1966.
PHOTO BY NANCY PIERCE  

A few weeks ago, my wife Nancy and I drove to Henrietta, New York where members of my high school class were gathering for a picnic and reminiscing about the old days. I was back in the place where I grew up almost six decades ago and for some of my classmates, it remains home as they never left.

For me, although a great deal has changed there, it’s essentially the same place. We stopped and took photos outside our family’s old residence in Brighton, New York where I learned to ride a two-wheel bicycle in the driveway and where a neighbor’s boxer dog crashed through a glass storm door trying to get at one of our dachshunds in the mud room connecting our kitchen and the garage when I was 7.

As we drove away, Nancy had me stop and she selected a book from a Little Free Library on what used to be the corner property of the people who owned that boxer dog.

Back in 1966, we moved from the home on that street to a brand-new house in the next town over because my father didn’t like driving in the snow in the winter for four miles to get to his job as a mechanical engineer. Our new house was less than a mile and a half away from his job and so I wanted to take a drive there and show Nancy where he worked. But unfortunately, the building where he worked had been torn down years ago and now a U.S. Post Office is there.

In checking into our hotel, neither of the desk clerks were aware that at one time the property the hotel was on was a large landing strip for Cessna and other small aircraft. In fact, Hylan Drive is named for the man who owned the airfield back when I was a child.

Later during our visit to the area, we were driving after dinner to see my Aunt Barbara a few towns away from our hotel and I showed Nancy a building by the bridge in Fairport, New York where my mother’s friend opened an Italian restaurant called The Cottage. It had fabulous food, and it was the first restaurant I ever ate at that served Eggplant Parmesan and I liked it. The place closed early in the 1970s and I don’t know what’s in there now.

Across the road from there was the old gas station that my cousin Pete operated in the early 1960s. He eventually opened his own car repair business in East Rochester and now his son runs the business.

We passed the location where I would ride my bike with my brother as a major shopping center called Pittsford Plaza was under construction in 1963. It’s still there and next to a small brick building in the parking lot where my parents would visit their bank on Friday nights is a huge Barnes and Noble bookstore.

Landmarks are the same. I spotted the old smokestack of the long-closed Iola sanitarium where my mother would threaten to drop me off if I continued to argue with her. That’s only a short way from the Rochester airport, and my backyard where I was playing after school in 1962 and I heard a large “Boom” only to watch on the 6 o’clock news that an airplane had crashed there while landing.

On that Saturday afternoon, we stopped by the Catholic school that I attended from first grade to seventh grade. It’s still a Catholic school but has a different name. The east side of the school is now a playground, but students had none of that when I went there in the 1960s.

Before leaving we drove to Sea Breeze by Lake Ontario and visited a restaurant called Don’s Original. When I was a kid, it was Don & Bob’s but now both of those men are gone yet the building looks just as it did when my mother went there as a small child in the 1920s. The food was to die for and tasted just like it did in 1977 when I stopped there while in the U.S. Air Force on my way to my new duty station in Germany.

Nancy and I left early on Sunday morning and we made good time traveling back, first on the New York State Thruway to Albany, then over to Springfield and Worcester, Massachusetts and through Portsmouth, New Hampshire and back to our house in Maine.

Despite being nostalgic for the places I lived long ago and knowing that many of the people I knew back then are no longer around, I came to realize that home for me is not dredging up some vivid memories of my past existence, the things I did way back when, or how much things have changed at locations I used to know decades ago.

The plain and simple truth is that home for me is what I have taken with me, not what I have left behind. <