Insight: Looking back on an indelible friendship

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

It’s been mentioned that if you embrace the unfamiliar it can often lead to unexpected friendships.

I first met Ray Clifford in September 1971 as a freshman attending New Mexico Highlands University. I was about to turn 18 and he was five years older and 23, having served as a military policeman on a patrol boat on the Mekong River during the Vietnam War.

Ray Clifford, back row fifth from right, and Ed Pierce,
front row fourth from right, were members of the same
college fraternity in 1971. COURTESY PHOTO  

Clifford was 6 feet tall and weighed 240 pounds while I was 5 feet 6 and 130 pounds. I was in school to earn a degree and launch a career, while he was there for beer, parties, women, good times and certainly not academics.

My tuition was paid for by student loans and his was covered courtesy of the GI Bill from his service in the U.S. military. I was from Rochester, New York and he was from Breezy Point, New York on Long Island.

Somehow, both of us ended up in the same fraternity pledge class and were living in the same fraternity house off campus. After getting to know Ray Clifford for a few weeks, I determined that something was unusual about him, especially when he requested a room to live in the basement.

His ambition was to become a police officer or detective in New York City, but I sensed that his temperament wasn’t a great fit for that. He was quick to anger and often exhibited poor judgement. He drove recklessly when borrowing another fraternity member’s car and he would carry a bottle of peach schnapps in his coat to take sips in class when the professor wasn’t looking.

It just didn’t seem like he was all there at times, and I can cite examples of his questionable actions.

Once when I was carrying a laundry basket down the cellar stairs filled with dirty clothes to wash, I stopped just inside the door to turn on the light and see where I was going. Immediately after turning on the light, it went out and someone grabbed me from behind around the neck and held a butcher knife to my throat saying, “What are you going to do now?” I realized it was Ray Clifford right away because of the tone of his sing-song voice and I asked to be released, telling him I watched "Kung Fu" on television every week. He laughed and told me that I should be more careful when entering darkened rooms in the future.

During our fraternity pledge weekend where we were supposed to leave the area for 48 hours and not be found, the entire pledge class traveled more than 100 miles away to a remote cabin.

Not long after arriving, Clifford went outside to smoke and those of us inside the cabin heard a gunshot. He came running in saying he had brought a pistol and fired it indiscriminately, but a bullet had ricocheted off a fencepost and somehow hit a cow standing nearby in a field. He was scared and wouldn’t let us notify the farmer so we spent the next two days fearful that the police would arrive and arrest us all for murdering a heffer.

As the first semester exams neared and before everyone departed to go home for the holidays, the fraternity held a huge dance. Clifford made what he called “Breezy Bash,” a concoction of fruit punch and generous amounts of alcohol mixed in. While people were dancing, I observed him add six bottles of Everclear (pure alcohol) to the “Breezy Bash” and I’m sure it produced quite a few hangovers for anyone who drank it.

He shared his first semester grade report with me while we were flying home for Christmas. In Economics, he had received a “C,” but in American National Government, Psychology, English 101, and Earth Science, he received an “F.”

Before the school year ended, he was involved in a fight and melee that spring while sticking up for a fellow fraternity brother who had been called a racial slur and then punched at the Student Union Building on campus.

Many members of our fraternity and college administrators were surprised though when Ray Clifford did not return that fall for his sophomore year.

Years passed and I eventually served in the U.S. Air Force, got married, earned my college degree and began a career in journalism writing for newspapers.

In 2010, I was watching a baseball game on television in early May at our home in Florida when the phone rang. I answered it and was shocked to learn it was Ray Clifford on the other end.

He said a fellow fraternity member had given him my number. He told me that he had obtained degrees from both Saint Francis University and Florida International University and had never married. He had worked as a court officer for the State of New York and was now retired and living in New Smyrna Beach, Florida about 80 miles from me.

I told him about my newspaper career and my wife and family, and before we said goodbye, he said to me, “We sure had some crazy times in college, didn’t we?’

Years later I found out that he had died at the age of 65 in 2013.

It’s my contention that no friendship we ever make is purely by accident. <

Andy Young: Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

By Andy Young

For the past decade or so one of the best things about getting my day started at 4 a.m. has been listening to the kitchen clock at that hour. Its ticking, along with the hum of the refrigerator, forms a soft, sweet and familiar symphony. Once the day starts in earnest, these quiet yet pleasing sounds get relegated into the background, drowned out by running tap water, pouring cereal, opening and closing doors, and other less subtle audible reverberations. But by then they’ve done their job.

I’ve been thinking about those quiet but pleasing early-morning vibrations lately, the ones which have allowed me to begin each day bathing in what has become my early a.m. “comfort zone.” I first learned to savor solitude, albeit in small doses, sometime in my early thirties, and as years and then decades passed, that sweet early-morning near-silence morphed into a guilty pleasure that ultimately became equal parts necessary and habitual. On those rare occasions when the ticks and humming were absent, I consciously missed them. But while I still deeply appreciate my daily dose of reassuring near-silence, too much of anything, even a good thing, is never beneficial.

The reason for all this introspection is two events that took place this past weekend. On Saturday I drove 230 miles south to drop off my daughter at the college she’ll be attending this fall. Getting home that night after darkness had fallen, I slept soundly and quickly, then woke the next morning in time to take my younger son 140 miles north to the school he’ll be going to for the foreseeable future, the one his older brother already attends. All three young Youngs have been blessed with good roommates, and each is pursuing areas of study that truly intrigue them. But they probably won’t be back around here until Thanksgiving, which means major changes not only for them, but for their suddenly empty nesting dad.

Many of the life adjustments I’ll make in the coming weeks and months seem on the surface to be fortuitous ones. My grocery bill is going to drop precipitously. I’ll be doing fewer loads of laundry, which means using less water. I’ll be turning on fewer electrical appliances, and also turning off fewer lights which have been absent-mindedly left on by others. There’ll be less vacuuming to do. The bathroom won’t need cleaning quite as often. There’ll be fewer meals to prepare, and thus fewer dishes to wash.

I’m cognizant that the primary object of parenting is to prepare one’s children to successfully navigate the world on their own, and I’m reasonably certain that all three of my offspring are well on their way to being able to do just that. Readying their brood to leave the nest is what parents are supposed to do. But who prepares parents to return to a once-bustling but suddenly empty nest?

My kids are doing fine, my expenses are shrinking, my day-to-day chores are less onerous than they once were, and for the foreseeable future I can shower with the bathroom door open if I feel like it. So why is the early morning ticking and humming I’ve found so comforting in the past suddenly sounding so shrill and irritating? And why is the face I see in the mirror first thing in the morning looking so melancholy?

There is, I suspect, a very thin border between the solitude and privacy I crave and the isolation and loneliness I dread.

The challenge lying ahead for me and other first-time empty-nesters is locating that line, but then doing whatever is necessary to avoid crossing it. <

Insight: A simpler life

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

Nearly 53 years ago, I stepped onto a Greyhound bus for a three-hour ride to college after flying across the country from Rochester, New York to Albuquerque, New Mexico. As I settled in the front of the bus for the last leg of my trip, I noticed a tall, gangly looking red-haired young man in the back of the bus who was talking loudly in a pronounced Southern drawl and telling his life story to anyone within earshot.

Woodson 'Woody' Taylor was the first
person Ed Pierce met on his first day
of college in 1971. He died in January
at the age of 70. COURTESY PHOTO 

My first impression was that this fellow was extremely nervous and trying to make new friends and I couldn’t believe some of the personal details that he was sharing with complete strangers. He discussed growing up in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, his family and where he was headed, which happened to be the same college that I was traveling to. In what I considered to be a totally naïve and gullible thing to say, he mentioned that his parents didn’t want him to carry cash but instead had given him $1,000 for his trip in traveler’s checks.

This guy talked nonstop during the entire bus ride and when we finally arrived at our destination, two older students from the college met us at the bus stop to take us to our dormitory on campus. I learned that my fellow bus rider’s name was Woodson “Woody” Taylor, and he was the son of a prominent family from Louisiana. When we got to the college, the resident advisor on duty that evening had Woody’s reservation for a dorm room, but somehow mine was not found.

One of those students who met me at the bus stop belonged to a fraternity and he suggested that I spend the night at the frat house and sort out the dorm room mix-up the next morning. I agreed and said goodbye to Woody, who in a way for me, was sort of like meeting Gomer Pyle in person.

I ended up as a pledge for the fraternity and Woody, who was in one of my freshman history classes, mentioned to me that he had pledged another fraternity. As the school year wore on, I saw Woody one day outside the college library, and he told me that the other fraternity had kicked him out for being “different.” I asked him to join our fraternity and eventually he became a fellow member like I was, and he also moved in to our fraternity house.

One night I got back to the fraternity house late at night after going out to a movie and I found Woody sitting alone in the dining room writing on a pad of paper. I asked him what he was doing, and he told me he was jotting down every single place he had spent the night in his lifetime so he wouldn’t forget them. Another time I found him writing down counties in America that he had visited. I found his interests to be eccentric, but they weren’t bothering anyone, so it didn’t matter.

Plenty of students at the college laughed at Woody’s southern accent or made fun of him but I never did. He went to church every Sunday and was interested in Japanese culture and those activities kept him busy. I transferred to a larger university a few years later and lost touch with him.

I saw Woody once in the late 1980s when I was a reporter for a daily newspaper and was covering an event at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. He was volunteering his time helping students from Japan become accustomed to American life at the university. He was single, heavily involved with the Episcopal Church, and had gained a lot of weight.

Through the years, I left New Mexico and went on to work for several newspapers in Florida. Woody had called me a few times to stay in touch and wanted me to come back to New Mexico to visit but my work schedule was hectic and that never happened.

When Facebook was created, Woody reached out in 2010 and we re-established our friendship. He had moved from Santa Fe, New Mexico to Denver, Colorado and his parents had died. He belonged to several Japanese clubs and had traveled to Japan numerous times. Many of his Facebook posts were of colorful birds with names I had never heard of before and he posted thousands of them, one a day for more than 10 years.

A few years ago, his Facebook posts became more desperate as he struggled to pay rent and his health declined. He was unable to receive Social Security for some reason and was accepting donations from a “Go Fund Me” to keep the lights on. Before Christmas last year, I saw a post that he was going into a nursing facility and no longer had a cell phone.

When I hadn’t seen anything from him for months, I visited his page and discovered that Woody had died in January. It was a tragic ending for such a simple, kind and caring individual. I’ll certainly always think of him as that naïve kid on that Greyhound bus in 1971 and am glad to have called him my friend.

Andy Young: Whatever the level, it's baseball season

By Andy Young

One of the most irritating trends ever to infect adolescents was the infuriating habit of, while walking away, haughtily dismissing someone older with a backhanded wave and a single word: “Whatever.” (Historical note: on occasion this phrase consisted of two words, as in, “What ever!”) I recall it being pervasive during the 1990’s, and maybe the first few years of the 21st century, but whenever it was, the sheer impudence of this brazenly contemptuous act made my blood boil.

That particular habit didn’t exist during my childhood, since addressing any adult in such a disrespectful manner back then would have had quick and dire consequences. As a parent myself I was fortunate that this scornful, one-word phrase went out of fashion before my own children reached their teens. But I observed it all too often during my early years of teaching at a local high school, and on those occasions when some young person directed it at me or one of my colleagues my blood pressure would jump to…well, whatever blood pressure reading is off the high end of the charts.

Fortunately there’s no reason for stratospheric blood pressure readings at this time of year, since a new season has begun. I refer, of course, to baseball season. Which is, for those of us who grew up with the game, a reliable blood pressure lowerer. Like many people of my generation, I’ve been fascinated with the national pastime since the first time some adult I looked up to brought it to my attention, even though I was probably shorter than one of Willie Mays’s Louisville Sluggers at the time.

College baseball’s season has been underway for over a month now for teams representing Maine institutions of higher learning including UMaine-Orono, UMaine-Farmington, USM, Husson University, and St. Joseph’s, Colby, Bates, Bowdoin, and Thomas Colleges.

Local high school baseball teams are eager to start their seasons as well, and after some indoor practices (and outdoor scrimmages, when weather permits), the games that count will begin this week. This spring’s contests will be particularly intense and meaningful for high school seniors, since for most of them these are the last organized baseball games in which they’ll ever play.

But while some players’ careers are nearing their conclusion, others are just beginning. Youth baseball is gearing up as well, with play slated to start late this month. I’m particularly looking forward to Little League baseball; it’s where my own involvement with the game began more than five decades ago. I still umpire at that level from time to time and enjoy being a small part of something that will, for some lucky young people, be the beginning of their own lifetime love affair with the game.

And for those who enjoy seeing the pros, the Portland Sea Dogs open their home season on Friday, April 8. Youth, high school and collegiate games can all be enjoyable, but the fact is the level of play on display from the aspiring major leaguers at Hadlock Field is light years ahead of even the most skilled collegians.

Unfortunately, there won’t be any Major League Baseball this year. The billionaires who own the 32 MLB baseball teams have, in an effort to maximize their already-excessive profits, locked out their youthful, handsomely paid athletic chattel. And since neither the powerful Major League Baseball Players Association nor the owners appear willing to compromise, there isn’t going to be a 2022 season.

Oops.

Wait a minute.

I’ve just been informed that the labor impasse has been resolved, and that there’s going to be Major League Baseball this summer after all.

Oh.

Whatever. <

Insight: Possible pre-requisites for matriculation

By Ed Pierce

Managing Editor

Right now, many students in Maine and across the nation are preparing to head back to school and some of them are wondering what classes they will be signing up for this fall. 

Back in my final year of college at the University of New Mexico, I had already wrapped up the requirements for both my major (journalism) and my minor (history), so I had my choice of five three-hour elective courses to complete my studies and earn my Bachelor of Arts degree.

In looking over the list of available courses and discussing it with my friends and family, I was faced with a tough decision. I could either load up on fun and easy classes or try to learn something meaningful and make it worth the cost of my tuition. I decided to choose courses that offered me opportunities to relate to my daily life and upcoming professional career in journalism.

My schedule included an internship in the newsroom of the Albuquerque Journal newspaper starting at 3 p.m. every day, so my college classes needed to be mostly in the mornings. I enrolled for Spanish, Introduction to Astronomy, Film Appreciation, History of Native Americans, and American Constitutional Law.

I figured that each one of these courses would be challenging, but each one also would give me some basic knowledge to use going forward as a newspaper reporter. 

The Spanish class came very early on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 7 a.m. The Spanish instructor was the daughter of an American diplomat and had lived in Panama growing up. She was patient and funny and frequently would include singing in her lessons. Just imagine a room of adults swaying and harmonizing to “La Cucaracha” early in the morning and you’ll get the picture. Whatever she did, it worked because almost four decades later, I can still remember basic Spanish words and what they mean.

Astronomy was a large class of about 300 students and was held at 9 a.m. on Tuesdays and Thursdays in a large science lecture hall. It included a large theater-sized projection screen for our professor to show us slides of stars and galaxies that he was talking about during each session. From that class, I carried away a rudimentary understanding of astronomical terms such as what is a quasar, where to find the Big Dipper in the night sky, and that one of Jupiter’s moons, Ganymede. is the largest moon in our solar system, has its own magnetic field, and is bigger in size than the planet Mercury.

In Film Appreciation class, we watched and discussed some all-time classic movies, many of which I had never seen before. We learned about film directors, film genres and techniques used by filmmakers to tell their stories. As a huge fan of Westerns, I recall watching “Shane” for the first time in that class and being enthralled with the cinematic landscape of frontier Wyoming that director George Stevens and cinematographer Loyal Griggs depicted in that film. It’s a great story too, especially the showdown between good guy Alan Ladd and the menacing villain of the movie, Jack Palance.

The History of Native Americans class turned out to be one of my favorite courses I ever had in college. The professor was eccentric and dressed in an unusual fashion. (Think German lederhosen outfits if you know what those look like.) But he was a masterful teacher and I learned so much about Native American culture and tribes that it left me wanting to know more about the original inhabitants of the North American continent.

I learned about ancient burial mounds, inspiring Native American leaders such as Sequoyah, Tecumseh, and Black Hawk, and elaborate systems of government such as the Iroquois Confederacy.

In American Constitutional Law, I gained understanding of the structure and functioning of the U.S. government, what a tort is, and studied famous U.S. Supreme Court decisions. To this day, I can tell you why “Miranda warnings” are required to be given by police officers during an interrogation, or that in the 1963 landmark case, Gideon vs. Wainwright, the court ruled that all defendants have the right to an attorney and must be provided one by the state if they are unable to afford legal counsel.

Each of these elective courses served to broaden my education and helped me to better understand the world I live in. If I had to do it all over again and was back in college and faced with a decision about what to take, I would probably follow the same path and enroll for those same elective courses once more.

In my opinion, the purpose of education is not merely to accumulate useless facts and knowledge that you may never use again, it’s really all about growing as an individual and learning to think critically to make informed decisions later in life.

Wouldn’t the world be a much better place if everybody had some valuable insight about the subject or subjects that they tend to spout off about? <