Andy Young: A fiendish wolf in friendly sheep’s clothing

By Andy Young

Like pretty much every person who wasn’t born blind, I know exactly how I look physically. I’m 6-foot-2 inches tall, with perfect posture, an athletic build, and a full head of lush, dark hair. I know this not only from memory, but also from the way I appear each night in my dreams, when I’m recording the final out of the World Series, foiling armed bank robberies, or rescuing damsels in distress from burning buildings (and subsequently sweeping them off their feet).

Andy Young

Full disclosure: I have, on several occasions, accomplished all of these Herculean feats in a single evening!

But recently my positive self-image has been shaken to its core, and what’s worse, the person responsible is someone I had previously considered a close friend.

Kevin and I have known each other since college, starting when he was the sports editor of the University of Connecticut’s student newspaper at the same time I was calling play-by-play for the school’s baseball, hockey, and soccer games on the campus radio station. His off-beat sense of humor seemed to mirror mine, as did his professed love of travel.

After graduation Kevin began a distinguished career as a newspaperman, while I continued functioning as a fulltime adolescent while nominally seeking a broadcasting job.

Some years ago the two of us took a seven-city, 10-day, freelance writing trip to some major league baseball parks together. Later we combined business with pleasure when we teamed up for a cross-country drive from Arizona to Connecticut. Kevin was unquestionably one of my closest and most trusted friends, which was why I was looking forward to the two-week trip the two of us were planning on taking to Canada’s Maritime Provinces early this summer.

After spending an evening at my home following his arrival in Maine late last month, Kevin and I headed north. The scenery in Newfoundland was as breathtaking as advertised, and the people there (and also in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick) bent over backward to make us feel welcome. We made some new friends, picking up a bit more useful wisdom along the way. Using his considerable photographic skills, Kevin snapped hundreds of pictures during our trip, capturing all the beauty and majesty of nature in the process.

But his photos revealed something else as well, which was that our whole relationship was a sham. Fraudulent. Bogus.

It turns out my close “friend,” who I’d have trusted with my life, was a total fake. Apparently, my ersatz chum had been waiting decades to undo my sense of self-worth, and when he saw an opportunity to take me down, he leaped at it.

Even worse, I wouldn’t have known of his craven doings had they not been called to my attention by an actual friend, who’d seen some photos of our trip Kevin had posted on his Facebook page.

Using what I assume is a magic, appearance-altering camera he acquired from the image-shifting department at backstabbers.com, my duplicitous “pal” had created images depicting me not as the matinee-idol handsome fellow I truly am, but as a frail, balding, doddering old geezer who resembles your aging grandfather’s wizened great-uncle.

Naturally Kevin professed his innocence when confronted with his treachery, but I told him to save his lame protestations. There’s no denying he’s responsible for those horrific photos depicting me as a haggard, shriveled old codger.

And how do I know for certain it was Kevin who used his diabolical technological know-how to alter the way others see me?

Because evidently the rat did the same thing to every mirror in my house the night he stayed there! <

Andy Young: Exploring uncharted gourmet waters

By Andy Young

It’s ironic I’ve ended up living near what’s considered one of America’s premier “foodie” cities, because as a kid I spent less time at restaurants than Abraham Lincoln passed surfing the web.

Our family never went out for dinner, aside from stopping at a Howard Johnson’s when we traveled to Montreal the year after the World’s Fair there. The closest we came to dining out was when our mother would, on rare occasions, pick up a bucket of chicken from the Drumstick Bar-B-Q on her way home from work.

The first time I remember eating in an actual dining establishment was during my senior year of high school. When the place where I worked closed for the summer, Barney, our boss, decided to reward his half-dozen high-school-aged employees with a trip to a local restaurant. Since the community where we lived was completely devoid of eateries, our dining out experience would take place in an adjacent town.

Due to my inexperience in the sort of surroundings I’d be visiting, or perhaps because I was something of a picky eater, my mom gave me a pre-night-out talk about proper restaurant etiquette. She encouraged me to have an open mind, and to try a little bit of everything. She also stressed the importance of saying “Please” and “Thank you” to the people who’d be serving us, and to Barney for his kindness.

Our destination, it turned out, was the Golden House, which on the outside looked something like a pagoda. Never mind Asian food; the closest thing I’d experienced to any ethnic cuisine was my mom’s meat-and-vegetable sauce poured over La Rosa spaghetti. Barney announced he’d do all the ordering and began by requesting a Pu Pu platter. For obvious reasons I didn’t want any part of anything with “Poo-Poo” in it, but remembering my mother’s pre-dinner instructions, I gritted my teeth and accepted the first item sent my way, something called an “egg roll.” I had always hated eggs, but there was no dog under the table to surreptitiously pass it to, so, water glass at the ready to provide a chaser, I braved a tentative nibble from the suspicious-looking golden-brown object.

It wasn’t too bad, so I took another bite. Then I devoured the whole thing, along with the remains of one the kid next to me had foolishly placed on a napkin that was within my reach. When the main dishes (several of which were aflame) arrived, I heeded my mother’s counsel, trying a little bit of everything. For openers I sampled the pork fried rice and vegetable lo mein. Then I took some moo goo gai pan. After my third helping of pepper steak, I loosened my belt a notch, then removed it entirely a few moments later, after dispatching yet another steamed dumpling. I’m not sure my mom would have approved of having her son take his belt off in public and stick it in his pocket, but by the time I did so, I was confident that my pants were in no danger of falling down. Besides, I needed to breathe. The meal concluded with a fortune cookie, although I’m still waiting for the good financial news that the paper inside it promised was right around the corner.

When it was all over, I couldn’t believe I had let 18 whole years go by without knowing of the existence of Chinese cuisine.

I’d love to go back to the Golden House sometime, assuming it’s still in existence. Now if only I can find a boss willing to pick up the tab for me and five age-alike friends! <

Andy Young: Far more than just a foodie city

By Andy Young

West Virginia, Vermont, Delaware, Wyoming and Maine are the only U.S. states that don’t have a city of at least 100,000 residents within their borders. That bit of trivia makes the naming of Maine’s Portland as (according to tripadvisor.com’s “Travelers’ Choice Awards Best of the Best” America’s 8th-best destination for food even more impressive.

I wasn’t one of those polled by tripadvisor.com, but after checking out their roster of the 10 top-rated restaurants in the Portland area, I can understand why. I’ve only heard of two of the places listed, and have eaten at just one of them, Becky’s Diner. For what it’s worth, if I’m remembering the right place, I’d give Becky four stars.

Being ranked amongst the nation’s top “foodie” cities is no small feat for a community of Portland’s size. Other metropolises in the Top 10 include New York, Boston, and New Orleans. That a place of under 70,000 residents can rank above world-renowned cities like San Francisco, Chicago and Philadelphia is nothing short of remarkable. Maine’s grandest municipality isn’t even the nation’s largest Portland; in fact, its current population (68,408, at the 2020 census) is closer to that of Portland, Texas (20,383) than it is to Portland, Oregon’s (652,503).

There’s no reason for Maine’s Portland to have a population-related inferiority complex, though. Its number of residents is greater than the combined populations of the Portlands located in Texas, Tennessee (11,486), Connecticut (9384), Indiana (6320), New York (4366), Michigan (3796), North Dakota (578), Pennsylvania (494), and Arkansas (430). No population numbers were available for the unincorporated Portlands in Colorado, Georgia, Kentucky, Ohio, Missouri and Kansas.

Sudden thought: am I the only one who’s wondering if Portland, Kansas is a fictitious place invented by some Wikipedia prankster? Sure, Kansas has plenty of land, but where would they put a port?

It’s tough determining exactly where Maine’s largest city’s population stands nationally, although it’s definitely somewhere in the top 1,000. According to Reddit.com, which cites the 2020 census as its source, Portland stands 563rd, 44 people ahead of Franklin, New Jersey, but trailing Palo Alto, California by 164 residents. However, gist@github.com has Portland 524th, 15 souls shy of Bossier City, Louisiana, but 21 more than St. Cloud, Minnesota. Both agree, though, that what people around here see as an urban megalopolis is far less populated than burgs such as Killeen, Texas; Murfreesboro, Tennessee; Avondale, Arizona; Racine, Wisconsin; Billings, Montana; and Layton, Utah, to name just a half-dozen places that can only dream of being considered for some sort of culinary-related award from organizations like tripadvisor.com’s “Travelers’ Choice Awards Best of the Best.”

There’s no need for Portlanders to feel inadequate just because the population of Maine’s largest city is a mere 10.48 percent of Portland, Oregon’s. Our Portland has nearly seven times the population of Portland, Victoria, Australia, which isn’t just that nation’s biggest Portland; it’s the largest one on the entire continent as well! South Africa’s Portland, a neighborhood located in the Mitchell’s Plain area within the city of Cape Town, has fewer than 25,000 residents, and Portland, New Zealand is home to just 483 inhabitants. That’s even fewer than New Portland, Maine, a Somerset County town of 765. And as for the two Portlands in Jamaica and the one in Ireland, well, they’re so minuscule that they don’t even list their populations.

But when it comes to all things culinary in the five American states without a city of over 100,000, Maine’s Portland stands tall. Need proof? Try finding a tripadvsior.com list of the ten best eateries in Charleston, West Virginia; Burlington, Vermont; Wilmington, Delaware; or Cheyenne, Wyoming! <

Andy Young: Finally breaking decades-old vows

By Andy Young

When I was an intellectual teenager who knew that I knew everything there was to know, a significant number of venerable individuals, albeit armed with good intentions, kept bombarding me with unneeded “help” in the form of unwanted and often long-winded advice about life.

Andy Young's three children are shown when they were
younger. The youngest has just graduated from high school.
COURTESY PHOTO

Thankfully I had the good sense back then to not rub my omniscience in the faces of all those old fossils who kept sharing their “knowledge” with me. Then as now, most people resented youthful, arrogant know-it-alls, even benevolent ones like me who were reasonably tolerant of the ignorant adults surrounding them.

But the constant pestering of those platitude-spouting windbags was why I promised myself two important things.

One was to avoid becoming one of those tiresome old duffers who’d prattle on about the importance of treasuring every day, because time passes so quickly, blah blah blah. The other was to NEVER become one of those ancient, self-important blowhards who drones on endlessly about his aches, pains, and latest health issues.

And I’m happy to report that I have kept those vows faithfully.

Until a week ago, when the youngest of my three children graduated from high school.

The day my son and his 148 impossibly youthful classmates paraded past their proud families to receive their diplomas was perfect for an outdoor graduation. Wispy white clouds dotted a clear blue sky, and a gentle, refreshing breeze kept potentially irritating flying insects at bay. Periodic cloud cover obscured the sun just enough to keep the temperature from becoming oppressive. And those conditions weren’t just perfect for a graduation; they were also ideal for becoming lost in thought, which was why I quickly and involuntarily became engrossed in a jumble of beautiful daydreams.

I relived a day not all that long ago when our oldest was grabbing hunks of his first birthday cake with his bare hands and then attempting, with occasional success, to put them into his mouth. Then my mind conjured the vision of my three children and me throwing a frisbee in the front yard, trying to catch 100 passes in a row without dropping one. Next, I was seeing their amazingly creative, multi-colored chalk drawings on the driveway, beautiful but doomed to be washed away by the next rainstorm.

There they were, perpetually occupied with (depending on the season) kicking soccer balls with their friends, gliding down the nearest available hill on whatever object(s) could serve as a sled, or playing Foursquare with the kids across the street. I swear I actually heard their high-pitched squeals of delight as they uncovered one of the eggs a mischievous rabbit had secreted in various places around the yard, or inside the house when precipitation was in the Easter Sunday forecast. I found myself reliving trips to Connecticut to see their grandmother, or to Vermont to visit with cousins who were only slightly larger than they were. All those band concerts, sleepovers, and Little League baseball games seemed like they were just last week.

Suddenly my pleasant reverie was interrupted by the sounds of Pomp and Circumstance, and the sight of 149 maroon-gowned high school graduates marching by. Where did the time go?

Apparently those windy old geezers actually knew what they were talking about. Years, it turns out, elapse unimaginably quickly. That’s why every young person reading this should fully savor every moment of every day. Take it from me: time flies!

Now that I’ve violated one of my once-sacrosanct vows, I might as well go the whole hog. My lower back is killing me. And does anyone want to hear the latest from my cardiologist? <

Andy Young: We're Number One

By Andy Young

Locally there was much joy earlier this month when the Windham High School boys’ basketball team won its first-ever Maine Class AA State Championship.

But it’s hardly the first time the town of Windham has faced stiff competition and emerged triumphant. In fact, Windham, Maine already owns a distinction which the eight other American municipalities with the same name can only wish they possessed.

Some of those envious other places are at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to vying for the title of Best Windham. For example, Windham, Iowa is just an unincorporated community that lies 11 miles west of Iowa City, midway between the villages of Frytown and Cosgrove. The United States Census doesn’t collect population data in a way that shows exactly how many people live in unincorporated villages, but in 1925, the last time such numbers were available, Iowa’s Windham had a mere 35 residents.

Oddly, two of America’s eight other Windhams lie in the same state. There’s a Windham Township, Pennsylvania in both Bradford County and Wyoming County, but it’s tough to differentiate between the two. Bradford County’s Windham Township is home to 818 souls, whereas the Wyoming County Windham Township’s population is only 737.

The only other Windhams in America that lie outside New England are Windham, New York (population 1,708) and Windham, Montana, a 267-acre, 43-person CDP (census-designated place) located in Judith Basin County. But when it comes to elevation, the other Windhams can’t compete with Montana’s, which lies 4,264 feet above sea level. New York’s Windham, with a location 1,893 feet above the ocean, stands a distant second in this category. Windham, Vermont takes home the bronze, at 1,759 feet. This particular portion of the Windham decathlon isn’t a strong event for Maine’s Windham, which at 236 feet above sea level lies just higher than the Windhams of Connecticut (233 feet) and New Hampshire (194 feet).

While New York’s Windham, which locals there refer to as “Land in the Sky” and/or “The Gem of the Catskills,” may hold the title of highest-elevated Windham east of the Mississippi, it has a less enviable distinction as well. In 1937 it was home to Camp Highland, a Nazi-sponsored summer camp for German-American boys.

When it comes to population though, Maine’s Windham rules northern New England. The 2020 census says 18,434 people live here, which is 2,617 more than reside in Windham, New Hampshire and 18,015 more than tiny Windham that Vermont contains. But alas, that same census certifies that Windham, Connecticut is home to 24,428, which makes them the top Windham in that category not only in New England, but the entire United States.

However, if size really does matter, Windham, Maine is easily number one. The Iowa and Montana Windhams are mere postage stamps, and the Wyoming County Windham Township consists of just 23.2 square miles. The other three New England Windhams aren’t much bigger; Vermont’s consists of just 26.1 square miles, New Hampshire’s has 27.78, and Connecticut’s is 27.9. The Windham Township in Bradford County, Pennsylvania is a slightly more sizable 32.29 square miles, but that’s dwarfed by Windham, New York’s area: 45.34 square miles.

However, the largest American Windham by far is Maine’s! At a massive 50.15 square miles, the Pine Tree State’s Windham is nearly 10 percent larger than the runner-up Windham, New York’s. And it would still be bigger even if the judges didn’t count the 3.59 square miles of Windham, Maine’s total area that’s water.

Most importantly though, Maine’s Windham owns one other distinction that New York’s only wishes it could claim.

Our state’s Windham has never hosted a Nazi-sponsored summer camp. <

Andy Young: A stroll, a rose, and a brownie

By Andy Young

Stephen was six months younger than I was, but he was my first-ever “best friend.” Our moms were sisters, and our families lived less than two miles apart.

The two of us played for opposing Little League baseball squads. The closest my team ever got to winning a championship came the year we both turned 12. The good guys, the Hawks, entered the final inning of the final game trailing his team, the perennially powerful Bears, by two runs. A victory would have tied us for the first half title, but with the tying runs on base Steve, a skilled pitcher, got me to make the last out on a pop-up to the first baseman.

I never forgot that soul-crushing moment. He characteristically never mentioned it again.

Another of our childhood pastimes involved writing “Chance” cards for “On the Road,” a Monopoly-like board game one of us had invented. While my brother, most of my male cousins and I competed to see who could invent the most horrific consequences (typical example: “Get run over by steamroller; lose life”), Steve took a different, less gruesome tactic. His most memorably creative cards included, “Take a stroll around the grounds,” “Smell a sweet rose,” and “Have a brownie for dessert.”

Life changed radically for us during the middle of our 8th grade year. Uncle Eddie changed jobs, meaning Steve and his five siblings were relocated from our small Connecticut hometown to far-off Pennsylvania. It might as well have been to Mars, since none of us had ever been there before, either. Our families would visit every summer, but inevitably everyone grew up, even if some of us did so more slowly than others.

As an adult Steve stood out at nearly everything he did. A highly rated chess player, he won several local Scrabble tournaments, and was a wizard at Trivial Pursuit. His skills weren’t just cognitive, either; he also excelled at softball and table tennis. And for those who measure a person’s worth or intelligence by the number of college degrees they’ve collected, consider this: Steve’s formal education ended the day he graduated from high school.

This past Thanksgiving Steve, who rarely consulted doctors, quietly confided to me that he was having some health issues. Those concerns were justified; in early December he learned he was gravely ill. The doctors gave him four weeks.

Steve always hated using the phone, which was why I was thrilled when he called to chat for nearly half an hour the Sunday after he entered hospice care. He reflected gratefully and joyfully about the fun that we’d had as kids, adding that given the life he’d experienced, he had no reason to complain about his current situation.

That interaction convinced me and my two sons to take a Friday off from work and drive five hours south to see him one last time. When we arrived Steve’s body was weak, but his spirit was dynamic. We spent an hour reminiscing about our childhood adventures, and he kindly regaled my wide-eyed boys with several stories (some heavily embellished, others wholly fictitious) about what a great guy their dad was.

I messaged Steve when we got home that night, and the next morning he responded. “Wanted to have a brownie for breakfast,” texted the man with terminal cancer, “but I guess an apple is better for me.”

Twelve hours later he died.

I’ve got one important New Year’s resolution for 2024. Sometime this coming spring, after taking a stroll around the grounds, I’m going to find a sweet rose to smell while I enjoy having a brownie for dessert. <

Andy Young: Platespotting

By Andy Young

I don’t own a fishing rod or a pair of binoculars, and I’ve never aimed a firearm at a living thing.

But I’m just as serious about stalking my chosen quarry as other outdoorsmen are about pursuing theirs. And those who share my passion know that given the hordes of visitors currently motoring through Maine, it’s prime hunting season around here.

My fascination with automobile license plates began as a small boy in Connecticut. Our family rarely crossed the state’s border; that’s why I assumed the Nutmeg State was approximately the same size as Asia. Then one day my father’s uncle and aunt came all the way from Brooklyn, New York for a visit, arriving in a car adorned with an orange license plate! Who knew such items came in any color but blue? Once I learned each of the 50 states had its own special marker I was bound and determined to see every last one of them before my Earthly days were done.

Our family traveled infrequently when we were kids, but when I was 11 years old, we took a vacation to Montreal. En route we saw countless Massachusetts plates, plenty of green Vermont tags, and a few New Hampshire “Live Free or Dies,” too. Once across the international border, we learned about exotic places called Quebec, Ontario, and New Brunswick, each of which had its own special marker as well.

Some years later I visited the license plate-spotting capital of the USA, Washington, DC. A 10-minute walk through the capital area on a weekend is all but guaranteed to yield sightings of tags from at least half of the U.S. states, and certainly all of the east coast ones. Take the same stroll on a weekday and you’ll probably see close to all 50 state plates, though you might have to get lucky to spy an Alaska or a Hawaii.

As a young adult I zig-zagged 2,800 road miles to a summer job in Butte, Montana. Along the way I couldn’t help but notice that the further west I got, the more unusual my own tags seemed to become. After Indiana I never saw another Connecticut plate, and perhaps as a result I got lots of curious stares from people as I passed them (or they passed me) on the highway. It’s unnerving having everyone look at you as though you were from outer space just because your car is registered far from wherever you happen to be traveling. I always resist the temptation to check out drivers with yellow New Mexico plates when I see them on I-295, because I’ve felt their pain.

Shortly after college my friend Jeff and I began a circuitous driving vacation that took us through Niagara Falls, Toronto, Chicago and Washington DC, among other places. On the way back he claimed to have seen every possible domestic license plate. I politely reminded him that we hadn’t yet seen one from Puerto Rico. He insisted such a marker didn’t count. Determined to finish the job right, I spent the rest of our trek searching for the elusive Puerto Rican tag, but never did spot one.

The very afternoon our ten-day odyssey concluded my mother welcomed me home, then almost immediately asked me to run an errand for her at the local drugstore, a ten-minute drive away. Parking next to an empty space, it took no time at all to pick up the prescription she had asked for.

When I returned to my car a vehicle was parked next to mine.

It was a white Pontiac with a Puerto Rico license plate! <

Andy Young: Dreaming of hosting while guesting

By Andy Young

When Maine’s schools took their annual April break last week, I decided to take an actual driving vacation, my first such junket in quite some time. But even if I had the wherewithal to go tour some famous landmarks or national parks, I’d have opted instead for doing exactly what I did: visit some good people I hadn’t seen for a while.

Taking this trip reminded me of just how lucky I am to be able to do this sort of thing. The quality of the nation’s roads, the ease with which one can obtain fuel, and clarity with which federal and state roadways are marked is something too many Americans take for granted. I for one am particularly glad our country’s interstate highway system is so efficiently laid out; were it not, directionally challenged people like me would never be able to effectively navigate their way between places hundreds of miles apart.

The seven-day, 1,317-mile whirlwind tour covered nine states, although I never did set foot in three of them. New Hampshire, New York, and Delaware were literally drive-through states on this journey.

My first visit was with someone who was a role model and father figure to me and literally thousands of others during his half-century (and counting) on the faculty at the university that eventually awarded me a diploma. I enjoy every visit there, which always ends with me being given some new bit of college-themed apparel. The only time my host ever stops smiling occurs if I attempt to take out my wallet and pay for dinner at whatever restaurant we’ve chosen. “Put that thing away!” he’ll growl, and dutifully I do.

Subsequent stops in four other Connecticut towns yielded quality time with another college friend, a couple whose sons I babysat for many moons ago, and cousins who qualify as both friends and family.

Next up: more quality family time in Schnecksville, Pennsylvania, where a day and a half passed in what seemed like an hour. Similarly, the three-hour visit I had in Reading, Pa. with a fellow writer and baseball enthusiast seemed to go by in about ten minutes. From there I drove south to two places where people who were important to me when we lived near one another decades ago confirmed that they’re still just as special today, even though they currently reside 476 miles (Lincoln University, Pa.) and 544 miles (Silver Spring, Maryland) from where I do.

Alas, all good things must end, and when Wednesday morning arrived, I realized it was time to head north. Getting home from suburban Washington, D.C. should have taken nine hours, but thanks to traffic in New Jersey and Connecticut (which I feel should be renamed “New New Jersey”) the trek took nearly 12.

As great as the trip was, I feel slightly guilty, since I didn’t pay for a darned thing the entire time I was on the road: no one would let me.

However, what I did do, was to try to convince each person I encountered to come up and visit Maine this summer. It would be a treat to have any or all of them drop by at some point in the not-too-distant future.

It’s not realistic to expect everyone I invited to come north this year, which is why the chances of my going from being “America’s Guest” to “America’s Host” are pretty slender. But if I can entice even one person to visit sometime soon it’ll give me the opportunity to do something I’ve always wanted to try: growl “Put that thing away” when my dinner guest reaches for their wallet! <

Andy Young: A picture that merits only one word

By Andy Young

Like other Americans who still value the freedom to not only think for themselves, but to express their thoughts and opinions publicly without fear of governmental reprisal, I have very strong feelings about a wide variety of issues.

This photo of garbage and litter along State Road
175 near Windsor Locks, Connecticut was taken
while Andy Young  was out for a walk recently.
PHOTO BY ANDY YOUNG

For example, I oppose the death penalty. I think it’s barbaric, plus it strikes me as incredibly hypocritical for a government to punish someone who committed murder by committing state-sponsored murder itself. Or, as I was taught a long time ago, two wrongs don’t make a right.

But I also understand why other intelligent, completely rational people can hold a different view of capital punishment than I do. People raised on “an eye for an eye” have every reason to believe that, at least in some cases, capital punishment is exactly what is called for.

I believe smoking cigarettes is a very bad idea. But I understand why others consciously choose to light up regularly. After all, tobacco products are designed to addict their users, and once hooked, smokers have powerful motivation to continue their habit.

A woman desiring the right to independently choose how she deals with an unwanted pregnancy is completely reasonable, but so are the inherent beliefs of those who see all abortions as murder. Those who encounter racism on an everyday basis are understandably concerned with it, just as some of those who’ve never experienced it genuinely don’t see it as a problem.

There are plenty of other issues I have strong feelings about, including climate change, immigration, the Second Amendment, animal rights, marijuana legalization, the Electoral College, iniquities in the justice system, social media’s influence, the Pledge of Allegiance, academic and societal elitism, critical race theory, charter schools, outsourcing of jobs, vegetarianism, and how greed is destroying professional athletics nearly as quickly as misplaced priorities are ruining youth sports.

But I also fully understand not only the rights of others to hold beliefs that are anathema to mine and the many completely legitimate rationales there are for those people to feel the way they do.

There is, however, one issue I feel exceptionally strongly about which confronts every American every day, and about which I cannot understand anyone holding any beliefs other than my own. That subject is littering.

I generally begin my day with a brisk walk since early morning exertion is a great way to get both my mind and my body jump-started.

However, I wasn’t very far into a recent stroll before I was moved to capture the unsightly image accompanying this essay.

I was walking along State Route 75 in Windsor Locks, Connecticut at the time. But this discouraging photo could have been taken in any state in the union.

Seeing garbage casually strewn along our nation’s roadways has always made my blood boil, but as years pass my anger over this scourge has turned to despair, because unlike constructing sensible governmental policies that grandstanding elected officials of all political persuasions can all agree on, the solution to littering is easy.

If everyone picked up their own trash (or better yet, refrained from discarding it haphazardly), there’d be no problem. The ratio of one person to one responsible disposer of refuse couldn’t be simpler.

Some see “A picture is worth a thousand words” as nothing more than an old cliche, but the adage’s meaning is perfectly clear: ideas are often better conveyed through an image than they are through any number of carefully chosen verbal descriptions.

Maybe most pictures are worth a thousand words, but the photo accompanying this column requires just one.

That single word is, “Why?” <

Insight: Traffic jams turn me into jelly

An accident slowed traffic to a crawl along I-84 near
Waterbury, Connecticut last weekend. COURTESY PHOTO  

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Through the years my attitude about driving long distances has changed significantly. Used to love to sit behind the steering wheel and roll down the highway for hours. Now it’s become a chore I’m not crazy about.

Last weekend my wife and I drove from Maine to Danbury, Connecticut to see our new grandchild. We left our home early Friday morning and headed down the interstate for what normally is a short trip any other time of year.

But even traveling early in the morning, traffic began to become congested around the York Toll Plaza leaving Maine and did not get much better as we crossed New Hampshire and entered Massachusetts.

Somewhere approaching Worcester in Massachusetts, an accident near our exit left two of three interstate lanes crawling along at under 5 mph. This snarl persisted for several miles and wore on my patience.

We finally navigated through that mess and proceeded to get on the Massachusetts Turnpike, another heavily traveled thoroughfare brimming with construction delays, another accident, and a multitude of black SUVs all seemingly headed in the same direction.

Having to answer the call of nature, my wife asked if we could exit right before Connecticut to find a restroom and I obliged. The rest area along that exit ramp was a popular spot for travelers featuring a McDonald’s restaurant, a gas station, and a Dunkin Donuts. 

Leaving the parking lot, I observed a car trying to get back on the highway nearly get sideswiped by a tractor trailer while a third driver went around them and almost took out a truck driver walking in the parking lot toward the McDonalds.

Getting back on the turnpike was rather tricky as there were multiple signs with arrows both labeled “Connecticut,” but I guessed correctly apparently, and we were back enroute to our destination.

Before getting on I-84 to Danbury, we had planned a stop in Middletown to see my brother, who had moved there several years ago.

Traffic on the way to Middletown was no picnic. A dump truck had broken down in the right lane approaching our exit and a line of cars as far as you could see were stuck behind that vehicle attempting to go around it.

Fortunately, I noticed that snarl and moved over into the other lane, avoiding that logjam. But to my chagrin as we passed that mess, it happened to be the interstate exit that we needed to reach Middletown.

So, I quickly had to take the very next exit and consult “Siri” on my iPhone for an easy route back to where we needed to be. I find “Siri” to be helpful, but it also consumes an enormous amount of my phone’s battery power.

We were able to find our way to Middletown and it was now approaching 1:15 p.m. so we texted my brother and asked if he’d meet us at a restaurant for lunch. My wife and I spent about an hour with him before another lengthy “Siri” consultation and re-route to get us back to the right highway we needed for Danbury.

Cruising down I-84 headed south, the 47-minute estimated travel time turned into more than two hours as a highway wreck near Waterbury put us back in crawl mode, and back to traveling under 5 mph in bumper-to-bumper traffic for miles.

Of course, along the way there were vehicles whose drivers could plainly see flashing signs reading “Accident Ahead” but decided to ignore them and speed along in the left-hand lane until out of room and then chose to cut into the right-hand lane to proceed further slowing traffic. This procession went on and on and the afternoon kept slipping away from us.

What was supposed to be a three-hour ride to Danbury was now nearing six hours, taking away the hour we spent having lunch in Middletown.

Finally clearing the accident in Waterbury, we navigated to Danbury only to find that the directions to our hotel I was using were not the greatest. Therefore, it was back to another consultation with “Siri,” and I received a notice on my iPhone of just 20 percent of battery life left.

My wife and I were relieved to find the hotel, checked in and then we were back off to see our new grandchild, and it was back into heavy rush-hour traffic to get there. I missed the highway ramp that I needed and had to pull a U-turn at the next exit and head back in the right direction. We arrived where we needed to be at 5 p.m., about eight hours after leaving Maine.

The visit was much too short, but after an hour getting lost trying to find I-84 in Connecticut for our trip back home on Sunday morning, we were happy to arrive back in Maine safely four hours later.

I’ll admit I’m not always adept at following directions and I’m not as enthused about driving long distances as I was years ago, but we ultimately got to where we needed to be, albeit after many long delays.

Navigating through traffic jams is not my cup of tea and turns my brain to jelly. <

Andy Young: The Dumbest State

By Andy Young

Writing uncomplimentary things isn’t something I enjoy, but facts are facts. Connecticut is a really dumb state. It’s literally fraught with nitwits. There. I said it. 

A recent holiday reunion brought my family and I back to the place where I was born and raised. I secured overnight accommodations there with an established national hotel chain

When we arrived after a lengthy drive, the lobby desk was being manned by a young fellow who asked if I had a reservation. When I responded I did, he asked me for my last name, which I cheerfully provided. “Ah yes, Mr. Young,” he said with a smile. “And your first name?”

When I said, “Andrew,” he furrowed his unibrow, the first indication that I probably wasn’t dealing with a Rhodes Scholar. I helpfully added, “A-N-D-R-E-W,” hoping to help hapless simpleton find the room which my tired and hungry family desperately wanted to get into.

Finally, after a few more moments of looking puzzled, the empty-headed young man’s face brightened. “Okay, Mr. Young,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve got your room. It’ll be $79 per night, for three nights.”

Whoa. I most definitely did NOT reserve a room for three nights. Returning to his computer screen, he said, “I’m sorry, sir, but you made this reservation online; you’ll have to talk directly to them about making any changes.”

When I called Hotels.com it quickly became apparent the person who answered the phone was a lamebrain from Connecticut, too. When she asked for the confirmation number of my reservation, I read it off the sheet of paper I had written it down on, only to have her inform me in an emotionless, perception-free voice they had no record of it in their system. My son suggested looking for the confirmation number online, but it turned out even the automatons in Connecticut are dumbbells, because the disembodied robot voice at the other end of the line insisted it had no record of my reservation. 

Nearly as miffed as I was hungry, I took the kids to a nearby Subway to get some sustenance, where we were waited on by a genial but simple-minded sandwich maker and an equally vapid cashier.

At our hotel’s breakfast nook the next morning I sat near two men who were speaking Spanish. I didn’t understand everything they said, but it was pretty obvious to me that these two Constitution State residents weren’t rocket scientists, either.

The morning desk man seemed pleasant enough, but since he was another glassy-eyed local I knew what I’d be dealing with. I informed him of the previous night’s mix-up, but naturally his computer couldn’t find the confirmation number I had painstakingly written down. I’d have gotten him a copy of the document confirming my reservation, but of course I couldn’t access it, since I had long since forgotten the secret password necessary to gain remote entry to my email account. 

When I mentioned a second time that I was certain I had written down the correct number for my Hampton Inn accommodations, the man at the desk unknitted his doltish brow and looked at me quizzically.

Sensing his confusion, I asked, “What? Is there another Hampton Inn around here?” 

That’s when he responded, deadpan, “Sir, this is a Holiday Inn Express.”

Hey, how was I supposed to know that the big “H” I saw on the side of the building should have been red, rather than green?

Connecticut may very well contain a lot of blockheads. But whatever the current number is, it’s at least one less than it was on the night I stayed there. <

Andy Young: On the road again, visiting everyone but the neighbors

By Andy Young

Special to The Windham Eagle

Maine is the nation’s northeastern terminus. It’s also the only one of the 50 states with a one-syllable name, and it’s got more actual coastline than any other inhabitable state. (Okay; Florida and Louisiana both have somewhat more, but who wants to live in a glorified swamp, not to mention ones that are hotbeds of yellow fever, malaria, and similar scourges?) 

And if that’s not unique enough, Maine is the only one of America’s 50 states that borders on one (and only one) other state. And since at this writing Canada is still off-limits to Americans without a vital need to be there, if Mainers want to cross a border, it’s got to be New Hampshire’s.

Thanks to a 15-month “time-out” necessitated by the ongoing (though thankfully subsiding) COVID-19 pandemic, my out-of-state travel since last February has been limited to a single seven-hour mini-excursion last July with my two sons to climb southern Vermont’s Mount Ascutney with their cousin/my niece. But since both the drive down and the return trip were made non-stop, I didn’t get to actually put my feet down onto our lone neighboring state’s soil.

Limiting travel for myself and my family was an important decision I made based on reliable information. When it comes to deciding on my actions during a worldwide pandemic, I’ll heed the advice of distinguished epidemiologists for the same reason I follow my financial advisor’s counsel on monetary matters, my lawyer’s instructions on legal affairs, and my mechanic’s suggestions when it comes to my car.  

But now that the crisis is seemingly on the wane, I’m long since fully vaccinated, and there’s no longer a need to quarantine after returning from out of state, ending my already far-too-lengthy travel sabbatical to attend a long-scheduled family memorial service in New Jersey was an easy decision. That’s why last weekend I drove approximately 800 total miles on a circuitous route to (and back from) the central portion of the Garden State, with stops en route in Massachusetts and Connecticut.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised, but at first glance the rest of the world (or at least the portion of it I saw) seemed pretty much unchanged. Significant portions of I-495, I-290, I-84, and I-95 were under construction, but that’s been the perpetual state of affairs on those roads since I got my driver’s license four and a half decades ago. Passing over the George Washington Bridge from New York to New Jersey is still a piece of cake at 7 a.m. on a sunny Sunday in late May, but re-crossing it later the same day is an exercise in frustration. My 387-mile trip home, one which MapQuest said should have required a mere six hours and 29 minutes, took two hours longer than that, and a significant amount of my squandered time was spent crawling toward the Hudson River crossing of least resistance, generally flanked by two massive 18-wheelers that blocked out whatever remaining sunlight there was.

But despite the lengthy and occasionally stressful drive, it was great seeing old friends and visiting old haunts, which is why I’m headed for Rhode Island this weekend to see my uncle. I’ll have to go through Boston, but even if traffic’s bad, I’ll bet I can get back in under eight and a half hours.

I’m truly grateful to finally have the freedom to cross the state line without quarantining upon my return. And when I come back from this trip I will, in my most recent travels, have physically set foot in New York, New Jersey, and every New England state – except Maine’s only actual neighbor! <